Home From The Sea: The Elemental Masters, Book Seven (7 page)

Nan shrugged. “I supposed we’d become teachers here,” she replied. “I would make a wretched secretary, a worse shopgirl, and even though I would enjoy it a very great deal, Memsa’b would faint if I went on the stage.”

Memsa’b rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

Neville made a derisive chortle. “Show us your legs, ducky!” he barked, and Nan reddened. Lord Alderscroft put a hand over his mouth to hide the fact that he was trying not to laugh.

“Besides,” Sarah interjected hastily. “Memsa’b is probably going to need us in
her
work, so we should stay near at hand.”

“In that case… the White Lodge occasionally comes across situations where someone of psychical talents is required, rather than magical. Would you consider working on my behalf from time to time?” his lordship asked, when he had gotten control of himself.

“If it’s all right with Memsa’b,” Nan replied, when a glance at Memsa’b elicited a little nod from her mentor. “We certainly owe you a great deal, sir, and I would like to discharge that debt.”

“I have no objections, my lord,” Memsa’b said, as her husband also nodded. “I have every confidence that Nan and Sarah can handle themselves in virtually any situation.” The mentor smiled slightly. “In fact, I am given to understand that Nan has become quite proficient with an African knife not unlike the Gurka kukri.”

As Lord Alderscroft’s eyebrows rose, Nan could not resist adding, “Two, actually. The other is more like the Khanjar dagger. Curved blades and straight blades require two sorts of handling. My ability to wield that mystical sword that affects otherworldly creatures seems to have translated rather neatly into the ability to use very physical weapons made of steel.”

“I see,” Lord Alderscroft said, after a long pause. “Well. In that case, I shall not hesitate to rely on you. Cold iron is often extremely efficacious against the blacker evils, and I can supply some very special weapons that are even more efficacious.”

Sahib frowned, and coughed a little.

“Of course,” Lord Alderscroft continued hastily, “I would not send you into a situation I knew was dangerous without being part of a larger group. Ideally with Gupta or another of your martial friends. Or mine. Probably both.”

“Naturally,” Memsa’b said, smoothly. “But this is very nebulous, and we have quite a lovely fruit tart to finish our meal, and I would rather hear what your plans are for the summer, my lord. Can we expect you here for part of it, at least?”

“You would have difficulty getting rid of me,” Alderscroft chuckled. “The heat in London is likely to be unbearable. The only thing good about summer in London is that at least the wretched pea-soup fogs are gone. And since you’ll have two more sets of hands about, I wondered if you would let me take the school to the seaside for a treat? Only a week or so; Blackpool, perhaps.”

“Oh really, Alderscroft, that is
far
too generous of you—” Memsa’b began to protest. Alderscroft appealed to Sahib, as the girls listened. Eventually Memsa’b gave in, only because he promised to make it an educational visit as well. “Even though I know very well that you’ll somehow turn an ‘educational’ experience into one that involves taking them all to some cake-strewn tea, or handing out candy-floss and bull’s-eyes,” she grumbled.

Alderscroft did not even bother to try to protest his innocence. Nan recalled quite vividly the delightful time he’d provided on the last “educational” excursion he’d led the school on. They’d taken an entire car on the train to Hampton Court Palace, had romped in the great maze until they were tired, got told horrific tales of the hauntings in the Tudor part of the palace by their guides, and took over a tea-shop where they were encouraged to order anything they liked. They’d come home stuffed with cream-buns and treacle-tarts, with no appetite whatsoever for dinner. Thankfully there hadn’t been any all-night stomachaches from the overindulgence, or Memsa’b would never have agreed to a repeat performance.

Though it was a wonder some of the more sensitive children hadn’t gotten nightmares from the stories of Anne Boleyn strolling about with her head under her arm.

When the final course was cleared away, the usual turn of affairs in polite society was for the men to repair to a billiard or smoking room to indulge in port and cigars, but this was hardly the usual sort of household. The gentlemen sat downwind of the ladies—although only Alderscroft and his companion reached for cigars—in a parlor arranged so that a draft carried their smoke up the chimney. “We have a draft in this dratted room,” Memsa’b had complained good-naturedly on discovering it, “We might as well make it useful.” Port or lager were offered to the gentlemen, sherry or tea to the ladies. Alderscroft’s companion finally introduced himself, shyly, to Nan and Sarah, who hadn’t caught his name.

“Beg pardon, but I’m rather certain I was so busy interrogatin’ poor Mrs. Harton that we never got around to exchangin’ names,” he said apologetically. “I’m Evan Dumbarton. Only a mister, I fear, if you were hopin’ for more blue blood.”

Nan chuckled, Sarah laughed aloud. “I assure you, we met more descendants of Nubian kings and pharaohs in Africa and Egypt than I care to think about. A mere lord doesn’t impress us any more,” Sarah said impudently. “You’d have to be a prince to do that.”

To Nan’s relief, Evan Dumbarton took that as the joke it was and laughed. “Good-oh. I was just rather eagerly consultin’ Mrs. Harton as we seem to have spawned a bit of a mediumistic creature in one of my younger sisters, rather than a magician. Don’t want her to come to any harm, and fortunately, the lady knows of another lady close by that’ll likely be willing to…” He seemed to be searching for the appropriate phrase.

Nan offered him one. “Give private lessons?” she prompted.

“Exactly so.” Dumbarton nodded. “Now… I’m given to understand you two are talented in that direction too?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “I’d take it—the family’d take it—as a kindness if we could bring Meg up to London now and again, and she could… well…” He ran a nervous finger around his collar. “Ah…”

“Oh please, call a spade a spade, and not a pointed digging implement,” Sarah chided.

“Well, she seems to have gotten the notion that she should waft around the old barn in white draperies and trail through the fields like Ophelia, barefoot and mutterin’ poetry,” he replied, reddening. “She never used to be like that. I’m hopin’ this old gel that Mrs. Harton knows will put her right, but if she don’t… I’d like her to see that, well,
normal
gels like you, who put their hair up proper and wear dresses that ain’t made from old sheets have got the same talents.”

Birds and girls erupted into laughter, which very much relieved him, although he was still blushing furiously. Memsa’b glanced at them curiously, Nan mouthed the word “sister” at her, and Memsa’b raised her eyebrows in understanding and went back to the conversation with the other men.

“I’ll wager she got all of that nonsense from reading bad novels. I swear, those horrid gothic romances drive me insane,” Nan said. “The people who write them have not the faintest notion of what they’re talking about, and make up the most absurd idiocy out of whole cloth. How many haunts do you have at your—‘old barn’?”

“Don’t know for certain, but at least a few,” Evan admitted. “All harmless. We’re a singularly inoffensive family. Never murdered any grooms because they got too friendly with the daughters of the house, never drove off gypsies with bloodthirsty dogs, never took advantage of peasant wenches, stayed polite to both sides of the Wars of the Roses
and
the Civil War.” He shrugged. “Near as I can tell, none of the family shades holds a grudge.”

“I suspect,” Sarah said carefully, “That may be the problem. A young lady of romantic nature, stuck in the country, suddenly discovering herself to be mediumistic, rather expects to become the channel for spirits wanting revenge or redemption. To find they only want to share tea with her would be something of a letdown, and in her place, I suspect I might begin trailing about in white weeds, looking for something more interesting to talk to.”

“Huh.” Evan got a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, in that case… I should think persuadin’ Mater and Pater to let her come up to London a season early and stay with me might be a good cure for that.”

Memsa’b must have been listening with half an ear. “Only after Adriana McDrew gives her basic lessoning,” she said, interjecting herself into the conversation. “London is no place for a wide open medium. But after that, yes, I believe an early London season in the company of her brother would do her a great deal of good.” Her eyes twinkled. “Though you might have cause to regret that when young suitors come calling.”

“That won’t happen ’till she gives up the weedy wanderin’,” he said with confidence. “None of my fellers are interested in someone that looks like she might take a notion to go drown herself. Once she starts wearing pretty gowns again—well, then I’ll dig out an aunt. I’ve got hordes of ’em in London, an’ they’ll all jump at the notion of goin’ out to balls again.”

Memsa’b laughed, and beckoned a little, and all three of them joined the other conversation. Alderscroft prompted Sahib to enlarge on what he and Memsa’b had been doing while the girls were gone. Evan listened in fascination; the business of Elemental Magicians was common conversation with him, but the business of psychics, mediums and other purely mental talents was all new. Nan and Sarah were pleased enough to catch up on the news.

Sahib waxed long and eloquent on the subject of the charlatans that were occupying Conan Doyle, the author, while Alderscroft shook his head. “Well, it’s a pity to see such a first-class mind taken in by even children, but would we really
want
him to be aware of our business? I’ve done my level best to keep him cleared away from any hint of the Council and the White Lodge.”

Sahib pursed his lips, and frowned. “Hmm. You have a point, my lord,” he said reluctantly. “The danger being that he
is
a first class mind, and worse, he is a writer. Writers simply cannot leave things as secrets, I’ve found. One way or another, the secret works its way into their work, and disguise it as fiction though they may, you find people who shouldn’t come near the stuff trying to dabble in either magic or the occult and failing, or worse, they succeed, and we’re the ones to clean up when the mayhem breaks out.”

“It was bad enough when Dickens got a whiff,” Alderscroft
agreed. “Thank God Kipling saw sense in India. But that poor soul in the colonies? What was his name?”

“Poe, I believe you are referring to,” Memsa’b offered.

“Yes, that was it. Poe. Poor fellow went quite off his head eventually.”

“Oh,” said Evan, looking wise. “It can always be much worse than that.”

“Eh?” Alderscroft gave him a curious look.

“When someone with one or another marginal talent tries to be an
author.
” Evan shuddered. “Oh, the horrors! I read one, and tried to gouge my eyes out with a pen. Never saw such spelling and grammar in my life. The King’s English wasn’t murdered, it was drawn, quartered, hung, disemboweled, and burnt, only to be resurrected and done in again in the
next chapter
!”

Nan thought she had never laughed so hard in her life.

T
HE
wretched constable was
snooping.

It had been another perfect day, until he intruded into it. Mari was putting up washing, enjoying the fresh wind off the sea, when she saw him stalking toward the cottage from the distant road. He looked very uncomfortable and awkward; she guessed shrewdly that he was more used to tramping about on city streets than trying to make his way across a sheep-field.

This annoyed her no end. It had been a
lovely
day up until that moment, with a salt-tinged wind with just a hint of bite to it making the clothing flap like flags. She loved days like this, with the contrast of a cold wind at her back and the warm sun on her face, with the wind sending her skirts billowing out like the sails on a coracle. The only thing better was a hot day and low tide, and wading out in the shallows collecting shellfish. And here he was, ruining it, just by his unwelcome presence.

She watched him without watching him, feeling a nasty satisfaction in how labored his steps were. He took long enough about it that she had plenty of time to think about how she was going to deal with him, and the first thing that came into her mind was that
she was
not
going to give him an excuse to go into the cottage. If he’d been in any of the other fishermen’s homes in Clogwyn, and she had no doubt that he had with his snooping ways, he would immediately notice how much nicer it was inside their place. He would certainly notice how much nicer it was than Violet Cottage. Then there would be questions about the improvements, and where they’d gotten the money… or worse, no questions at all, and assumptions about smuggling or worse.

Which meant that she’d better be prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon outside, because he was going to have to force down the door before she would let him in. At least the weather was good, and it would be no hardship to be outside. She had no doubt whatsoever that she could outlast him. He would not want to walk back to the village in the dark.