Cold Stone and Ivy (7 page)

“Very unholy!” echoed Rosie.

Pomfrey moaned again and disappeared out the door and down the hall of Hollbrook House.

“Honestly, boys, that poor man.”

“He loves us, Remy. You know it.” Bender took a final drag on the cigarette, dropped it to the carpet, and crushed it under his shoe. “Williams wants us in this morning.”

Christien sighed and reached for his waistcoat.

“Where’s Lewie?”

Bender shrugged, dug about in his pocket for another cigarette. “Probably ducked off to gay
Paree
with his little Marie.”

“She ain’t really French, is she?” asked Rosie. “I mean, she sounds like a Mick to me.”

“She
is
a Mick, idiot,” said Bender. “But she’s pretty, mind. Almost as pretty as Remy’s jewels . . .”

And he picked up the locket, dangled it from his stubby fingers.

“Ooh, Remy’s locket,” grinned Rosie. “Does it cuckoo in French?”

“Did you take it to your Club last night, Remy?”

“I did indeed,” said Christien, and he snatched the locket from Bender’s hand, slipped it over his head. “They are a strange and passionate lot. I’m not certain I belong.”

Bender raised his pale brows. “Not nearly strange or passionate enough, Remy?”

“Not by far,” said Christien as his fingers began work on the knot of a necktie. “We’re not scheduled for exams until tomorrow. Why does Williams want us now?”

“He’s got a clinic at Bedlam,” said Bender. “Another one of the patients got knocked up.”

“Oh God,” groaned Christien. “I hate those.”

“You don’t hate the clinics, Remy,” said Henry. “You hate Bedlam. What d’you say? Madness runs in the family?”

“Bedlam reminds you of your brother, don’t it, Remy?” And Rosie began to make faces like those seen in Bethlem Lunatic Hospital. “The Mad,
Mad
Lord of Lasingstoke . . .”

Christien ignored them, turned to study his appearance in the mirror, smoothed the lines of the waistcoat and necktie. The locket hung, silent and sweet, across his chest.

“You reading the papers, Remy?” Bender’s grin grew wide, pale eyes glittering and sharp. “The arm? Giving ’em all a bloody fright, it is.”

“A bloody fright,” echoed Rosie. “The papers is saying it’s medical students playing pranks. We’s a serious lot, ain’t we, Dr. Bender?”

“We certainly are, Dr. Pickett. We most certainly are.”

“You are idiots, both of you,” said Christien, but he smiled. It was impossible to stay angry with the boys. “Right, let’s go. I don’t want to keep Williams waiting.”

“In Bedlam, Remy. St. Mary’s Bloody Bedlam!”

“Lunatics, Remy. More bloody lunatics than you can shake a stick at.”

“We can say hallo to your brother, we can!”

With that, Christien snatched a town coat and left the room with two of the nefarious Bondie Boys at his heels.

THE MORNING FOG
had lifted, and the sun peered out from above the low clouds. Ivy had found her mother in a tree-covered terrace on the south side of the Hall. The garden was lush but dying, roses folding into dark hips, poppies going to seed. The ivy was growing red with frost. It was beautiful and sad and a fitting place for her mother, she thought. A stone angel in a forgotten cemetery.

She gave her mum a little kiss and headed out under a massive arch.

At the very heart of Lasingstoke was a cobbled courtyard, bounded on all sides by stone walls. First, Second, and Third, all built at different times but now connected to make the Hall. Small, dark windows peered out like eyes in sandstone faces. From a far corner, two stacks towered above the roofs and smoke billowed up and onto the grounds. She could imagine the size of the boilers it would take to run a house such as this. They had to be huge and likely very old. Black iron posts dotted the court and she wondered if they were for tethering horses. These “French Warmbloods” would surely be fearsome creatures to warrant such fittings.

From the courtyard she could see it all—the Hall and its windows, archways, towers, and rooflines. There was no greenery to be seen from the centre of the court, only stone. Cobbled stone, hewn stone, walls and masonry, and she wrapped her arms around her ribs, feeling cold fingers run up her spine.

She was surrounded by old, cold stone.

The only thing remotely living was the large stable. The doors were open and, remembering Lottie’s high praise, she crossed the courtyard and slipped inside.

The maid girl had been right. The stables were finer than most London homes, with oak floors, cherry wainscoting, and upper walls brilliantly whitewashed. Leaded windows allowed the precious English sunlight to pour into every stall, and the smell of pine, hay, and leather filled the air. These were lucky horses, Ivy thought. Most people did not live this way.

She could hear voices down a long corridor, so she followed, finally approaching a trio of men around a dappled grey horse. She recognized Castlewaite immediately. He was at the horse’s head, holding its lead rope, and she could hear the soft whirring of his eyepiece as he focused on first the horse, then the men. She felt a rush of warmth at the sight of him and marvelled at the thought.

A second man was inspecting the iron shoes of the beast. He had fair hair and wore a rough linen shirt, tweed waistcoat, and baggy trousers tucked into riding boots. Shabby, she thought, but likely work clothes. A farrier perhaps, or one of those newly fashionable horse doctors.
Veterinarians,
she remembered. All the rage in London.

The third man was tall and lanky, with sleek black hair and a stubbled chin. He was also clad in waistcoat and riding boots, but he stood proudly, cut a finer figure. Her heart skipped a beat as she tried to recall the painting in the stairwell, that of the seventh Baron. There were dogs lying around the floor—the very ones who had greeted her the night before. They raised their heads and wagged at her approach.

“Miss Ivy!” Castlewaite grinned as the gentlemen noticed her. “Ah trust you had sweet dreams last night?”

“Vivid and dark, but those are my favourite kind.” She smiled and thrust out her hand. “Good morning, sirs.”

Hands on hips, the tall man turned and ran an appraising eye over her figure. His eyes were bluest blue, and he looked like Christien, save for the hard lines at his forehead and mouth.

“Skirts have no place in a stable,” he growled.

“Wonderful. I hate skirts. Perhaps I could wear breeches?” He scowled at her, and she felt proud that she had caused it. “Should we petition the baron?”

The tall man stepped toward her. “You should petition the baron before you do anything at all, miss. This is, after all, his estate.”

She stepped toward him in the same manner. “I would be delighted to do so, sir, but my mother, brother, and I have been here for half a day, and I have yet to make his acquaintance. He seems a rather recalcitrant host.”

The horseman grinned, his eyes dancing between her and the man, and she thought absent-mindedly that he had a rather pleasant face for a farrier.

The tall man narrowed his eyes. “His Lordship is busy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Apparently so.”

“What is your name, skirt?”

“Ivy Savage, sir.”

“Oh God. The novelist.”

“She signed VINCE’s copper bottom last night, she did,” offered Castlewaite. “You made ’im right ’appy, miss. ’E’s quite a fan.”

“What skill to entertain a robot,” said the man.

Ivy felt her cheeks grow hot but she was determined to master it. She raised her chin.

“A sideline, sir. My primary occupation is the care of my mother and brother and soon-to-be husband.”

“Congratulations are in order, then.”

“It is called a pleasantry in polite circles.”

The farrier laughed aloud, and the tall man threw him a scowl. When he turned back to her, he placed a hand over his heart and bent low to the ground in the most formal of bows.

“Congratulations, to you, Miss Ivy Savage, novelist and fiancée of poor Christien Jeremie St. John de Lacey. May God bless you all the days of your married lives.” He paused, ran his eyes along her form once again. “With a tongue like that, I fear your husband will need all the help he can get.”

She raised her chin, uncertain how to respond, but the man brushed past her in the direction she had entered.

“You know what to do, Laury?” he called over his shoulder.

“Aye,” the horseman called back. “I do.”

“You
pick the mares this time. Three at most. Don’t let him loose in the field like last time. It drives down the price.”

“I know.”

“Let me know when it’s done. I have buyers ready.”

“I will.”

“And keep the skirts out of the stable.”

And with that, the man disappeared out the doors, and Ivy released a long-held breath. Her hands had curled into fists quite of their own accord.

She swung around to the remaining pair.

“Oh, isn’t he a terrible, horrible, mean-spirited man!”

Castlewaite smiled his gap-toothed smile and rubbed the horse’s head. “Aw now, miss. ’E’s not tha’ bad.”

“She has a point.” The horseman dusted his hands on his trousers. “They call him the Scourge of Lasingstoke in the village.”

“Is he always so rude?”

“No,” said Castlewaite.

“Yes,” said the horseman.

“I can certainly see why Christien prefers to stay in London. Fleas and potatoes and sheep and broken sweepers and broken pens and icy rooms and Cookie and, and now
him . . .”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I would still be in London if it hadn’t been for that bloody heart.”

“Heart?” asked the horseman.

“It’s a long story.”

“But ye’re good at stories, miss,” said Castlewaite, and he winked at her before passing the lead rope into the younger man’s hands. “Ah’m off to m’boilers then. Good day to ye, Miss Ivy.”

Ivy watched his thin frame shuffle between the stalls, disappearing out of the stable entirely and leaving the two of them alone with the horses and the dogs.

The horseman stood quietly, running his hand along the horse’s grey neck. The dogs looked up at him; those that had tails wagged them. There were at least six, not one of them smaller than a calf, and she found herself growing cold once again.

“Is your mother prepared for Lonsdale, Miss Savage?” he asked after a moment.

“Oh, Lonsdale,” she sighed. “The sanitarium north of nowhere.”

“That would be the one, yes.”

“I believe my mother is as well-prepared as she can be for Lonsdale. It’s me who’s having the difficulty.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,
I’m
sorry,” she said. “It has been a difficult journey, I am very tired, and I don’t know how to hold my tongue at the best of times.”

“You’ll fit in well here, then.”

She smiled sadly. “I’m not sure what they can do for my mother at Lonsdale.”

He said nothing, merely stroked the grey dappled neck.

“I don’t think I want her to go. I mean they can care for her, surely. But they can’t cure her. And they certainly can’t love her. And that’s important to me, silly as that sounds. She may be dead to everyone else but still, she needs to be loved. All people need to be loved by someone in their life, don’t you think?”

He looked at the dogs. They wagged.

“My father doesn’t really know what to do with her. He loves her so much, but there’s no one inside. She’s as dead as the girls in Whitechapel. He may as well be loving a ghost.”

Her chin had begun to quiver, so she steeled it, looked around the stable.

“I yearn for the day when she’ll look up at me and smile in the way she used to, or laugh or sing or enjoy a cup of tea or read one of my stories, but if I’m honest with myself, I don’t believe she ever will. But I can’t give up on her, can I? I can’t give up hope. I can’t just run off to Paris and go to school and leave her to fend without me. She would surely die then, and so would my tad and after a while, so would I. So, I’m trapped in an empty house in Stepney, watching the world go by with no way out, until Christien . . .”

Her knees were shaking now but she was stronger than her knees.

“He’s so patient and perfect but if I marry him, I
will
be leaving her, won’t I? Whether it’s at home or at Lonsdale or throwing ‘elegant parties’ at Hollbrook, I will have to leave her and I know, I just know, that without me, she’ll die and after all she’s been through, all those little black coffins . . .”

Her throat was tightening but she was more stubborn than her throat.

“Well, that would just be wrong. That would mean defeat and a Savage can never admit defeat.”

Her heart was aching but she was more proud than her heart.

“It’s not that bad, really. I may never go to Paris, or study in a proper school or be a criminologist or solve crimes or wear breeches or drink claret, but I will always write and as long as I can write, I feel alive. I may never be able to write my own story, but I know I will do my damnedest to finish hers.”