Clop, clop, clip. On such a night as this, you could hear a carriage coming long before it appeared -- first there'd be a lamp bobbing in the fog, then a black horse, and finally the carriage itself. If it were a bonnet-shaped hansom, there'd be a cabman riding in his dickey seat. And although in the fog you couldn't see it, you knew he was squinting, looking for landmarks in the bloody murk, letting his horse pick the way.
Folk around Shillingworth Magna have a saying: "Easier to stop a bullet than a Fogg." They usually followed it up with a wink and a nudge, "Less painful too."
Rebecca sighed. Phileas had definitely inherited that Fogg trait from his father. After Boniface had made a decision, he'd been a juggernaut, implacable and irreversible, more than willing to knock down and roll over anyone in his path.
Or shoot them, if he had to.
Matilda rounded a corner where wisps of mist congregated beneath a flickering gaslight. On the hansom's bench Phileas's slack body slid slowly across the squabs toward Rebecca. Likely he'd fainted again. She put a hand on his shoulder to brace him up. Since his graceless collapse to the warehouse floor, Phil's awareness had been in and out. More out than in, Rebecca rather thought, but still enough in his right mind to order Leo to take them home instead of hospital -- if one could call that a sane, right-minded decision. Certainly a bull-headed one.
Behind Phil's back, Leo had questioned the order with a raised eyebrow but she'd nodded concurrence. Doctor Stewart lived in No. 10 if there were need, and she'd wanted away from there. Fast. Just minutes before she'd thought to see Phileas dragged into Hell. She still shivered, and not from the cold. Her eyes made another quick circuit of their environs. But the fog hugged so close there was nothing to see.
When they'd stumbled out of the warehouse, Phileas had leaned on her for a cane; but after she'd let go to look for Leo, he'd sagged to his hands and knees in the mud. Leo had already been bound for them and rattled up in record time when she'd tweeted the "fetch us out." "Heard yer whiz'len' a while back, Miss Fogg, crazy as a cuckoo in a robin's nest. Figured I'd best come." His yellow-toothed smile had been a most welcome sight.
But Rebecca didn't like Phil's on-going weakness. She gently shook his shoulder. "Phileas? Phil? I'm going to tell Leo to turn about and go to St. Thomas's." Even if that meant passing close to the warehouse again, not a prospect she cared for.
Eyebrows puckered together into a frown line, long lashes fluttered on white cheeks and Phileas opened his eyes. Reaching for the strap with a narrow hand, he pulled himself upright. "Rebecca, we've been through this. I don't need a hospital. I need a brandy. We're going home." Obstinate Fogg … but his voice sounded stronger. She returned to her steady scan of the night.
From the corner of her eye she saw Phileas massage his forehead with a mud-encrusted glove, but then no doubt felt the grate of soil and stopped to look at what coated his fingers. The aristocratic nose twitched. From the gloves, his eyes traveled down to his legs and straightening one of those out, he assessed the damage to his trousers, which was considerable. With curled lip and a great show of disgust he began to pick at the soil caked thereon. A tiny smile in her direction invited her to laugh at his burlesque. #Yet another ensemble destined for the dustbin,# Rebecca thought, amused despite herself. Sometimes she suspected Phileas enjoyed destroying his clothes. Or at least didn't care half as much as he often pretended.
The muddy gloves were smearing on more dirt than they removed. Phil stopped his picking and began to pull the fine leather off his hands, one filthy finger at a time, declaring as he did so, "Bernard is simply going to have prostrations." He turned the gloves about under the lantern. "I have been on probation this year, you know, after I lost his indigo jacket in the West Indies. He forgave me for that, but then I bought the Castilian brown riding togs in Missouri. That set him off. He was gracious enough to admit that was done in the heat of the moment, but I've destroyed #three# -- no, now it's four -- of his ensembles this year." Phileas slapped the gloves against the splashboard a few times. They remained caked with mud. "He required me to get down on my knees and swear to defend this black thing with my life before he'd even let me try it on. Now I'm sure he'll cut me out of his list." With a melodramatic flourish, Phileas tossed the ruined gloves past Rebecca and into the fog. "One should always obey one's tailor, don't you think, Rebecca?" Really, Phil made a lovely fop when he put his mind to it.
The gloves arced through Rebecca's field of observation. "Couturiers can be such bullies. Do what I do. Buy an ensemble from his chief competitor."
"Ah, the political solution. Of course. Excellent advice, Rebecca. I shall order my next from Lucien. That should put Bernard off his form." Despite his silly prattle, Phileas's voice had taken on a soft hollowness that suggested his reserves had been drained to the dregs. Likely he spoke only to reassure her.
Rebecca turned her scrutiny from the night to Phileas. He looked awful. All the panther grace had fled. Bruised circles made his eyes huge, and dark stubble on his jaw painted in hollows. If he'd been cadaverous this morning, tonight he was skeletal, as though that thing at the warehouse -- whatever it'd been and she was sure Jules would have a suitable scientific theory -- had sucked away the aqua vitae.
Boniface, toward the end, after Erasmus died and Phileas left the Service, had taken on that same emptied look. For months, he'd come home late from Whitehall and lay in bed, eyes closed, the wrinkles sharp on his forehead, not touching, silent. He hadn't even argued with Rebecca. Not a good sign for a man whose greatest joy had been intelligent discourse. On any normal day Rebecca and Boniface would have locked horns at least twice – if nothing else presented, about her ambition to become an agent and the proper sauce for the mutton. She hadn't been able to bear watching him in such pain and her with no balm.
Sometimes Phileas reminded Rebecca so much of his father.
With a tender finger she stroked Phileas's whiskers. A cold cheek pressed back an answering caress, and his eyes looked sideways at her. "I'm well. Don't vex yourself, cousin." Wretchedly bad liar. Her hand wanted to continue stroking his face, to feel the life of him, but he'd take that ill. She dropped the willful appendage and straightened quickly to sit as a proper lady, albeit a trousered one. Once again duty called. She'd best resume a lookout.
No one walked the footways. Several minutes ago they'd passed two drays bound for the docks. Now they were alone as they approached Southwark Bridge. The vapour, if possible, had grown thicker, no doubt hiding a million dead Londoners who awaited such fog-bound nights to walk with the living. So thick it felt like sea spray on her face, it formed faces and twined wraiths that seemed to pace Leo's black horse.
Phileas picked up her train of thought. He had a disturbing habit of doing that. "That was Lazarus, you know, in the warehouse. He wants me, wants my body. He tried to take it last year, after Doctor Draquot's infernal machine forced him out of yours."
"You're so sure it was him?"
"Yes. Yes, I am." Phileas glanced back to where Leo sat then leaned toward Rebecca and whispered. "Some sort of bond between slayer and slain, I should think. But he can't seem to touch me. He wants me, but something bars him." His lips pulled into a thin smile. "My saintly life, no doubt."
"No doubt." Her arm looped his and pulled him close. "Why don't you try to sleep a little? I'll keep watch." The rattle of the wheels changed to reverberations as the carriage started over Southwark Bridge.
Eyes closed, his head resting in a corner of the carriage, Fogg made an honest effort to sleep. It failed miserably. His heart still beat in staccato and his body wanted to bolt upright at every untoward sound. He did so once or twice but then Rebecca removed one of her gloves and slipped her hand into his. His thumb stroked the back of it, caressing the delicate bones under the skin. Even in the coldest weather Rebecca always had warm hands.
Lazarus's reappearance had changed things. Fogg couldn't leave now, not with that evil ghost coursing London nights looking for victims. In the morning, Fogg would pay the Baron a call and fetch back Passepartout. Von Bresslau's mission would wait, death could always wait. Likely von Bismarck would hold another dress review soon; Prussians were damned fond of such things. And if not, Fogg would create a suitable venue of his own. He was good at that. Fogg had always been good at the game of death. That's why he'd left it.
And Passepartout should come back where Fogg could protect him. Harbin's new project could kick its heels for a bit. As the carriage descended the north side of Southwark bridge and Fogg began to doze off, he thought, # … and I better post Edwards new instructions right away for those letters. Best laid plans and all that … he'll understand.#
Those with a heart to hate and the dark inner eye could have observed the demons that thronged the whirring wheels of the hansom and cavorted in drunken delirium above the oblivious driver. Revenge brews a heady wine, and Phig poured out a full-bodied, vigorous hate, a veritable port wine of antipathy, fit, Lazarus was sure, for the Devil's own palate. What a shame Phig wasted it on despising himself.
The entity known in life to the gentlefolk of England as Sir Reginald Peter Mosford, the Third, and to a select few as Lazarus, followed the hansom at a safe distance, careful not to be seen. He had no control over this wayward, flickering manifestation. One minute he was flowing liquid, the next a shimmering light. And there seemed no rhyme or reason to what he could affect or when he would materialize. It had been too soon a return. But he could torment Phig. Send him more visions and dreams, perhaps drive him mad.
And to bring that about, here was an excellent tool for his hand, pretty little Rebecca Fogg, Boniface's plaything. Fancied herself an agent now, did she? She'd make it easy to torture Phig. He adored her, wanted her with every fiber of his being. Always had, even if he'd never admitted it to a soul … or a demon.
#Ahh, Miss Fogg, how delightful to find you well,# Lazarus silently saluted Phig's cousin. #I so much enjoyed our last meeting.# Although "enjoyed" seemed far too genteel a word. "Relished" might be closer. He'd savored Rebecca Fogg's succulent body, using her own fingers to nibble at the soft breasts and the sweet bloom of woman between her legs. He'd feasted, but there had been so much and only the one night. He'd welcome another taste, just a lick as it were.
Between droplets of mist, around bricks and under cobbles Lazarus lazed along behind the carriage, occasionally cuffing a lesser phantom aside, awaiting opportunity.
Mariah's hands shook violently, both from fright and the unseemly exertion of running. The brass key she held tapped the escutcheon plate around the lock instead of going in the keyhole. Mariah looked anxiously over her shoulder again but there was only a dark alley full of squirmy, shifting fog. It reminded her much of Gran's tales of brownies and faeries. And after what she'd just seen on Regent's Street …
Proper domestics oughtn't be out after dark, so the Evers didn't burn a light over the servants' entrance. Mariah couldn't really see what she was doing with the key, but with a final desperate stab she got it into the lock and seconds later stood inside the empty kitchen, panting hard, her back against a closed and re-locked door.
"Never again, Lord," she prayed in a whisper. "Henry Bingle can get himself another lass. I'm never going to leave my Bessie and sneak out again." She'd heard of the horrors that filled London's streets in the nighttime. Now she'd seen the blood and death for herself. "Never, ever again."
Quite to her surprise, she began to sob.
Choking back soft bubbling sounds, she quickly unlaced and pulled off her shoes. It wouldn't do to wake Cook or Mrs. Malone, the Evers' housekeeper. Housemaids were far too easy to replace. Mariah paused to slip the key back on its hook then hurried across the chill tiles of the kitchen floor in stocking feet. Carefully stepping over the creakiest treads, Mariah crept up the servants' stair.
Her and Bessie's bedroom was the first on the right, overlooking the Fogg's townhouse. The two servants had spent many a late evening watching the Foggs, but now with Miss Fogg gone, the Mister would doubtless return to the country. Or take his balloon and fly 'round the world. Or drink himself into the grave.
Mr. Fogg never seemed to do anything by halves.
Just after Mr. Fogg's brother had died, the parties next door had lasted for weeks. Bessie and Mariah had seen ladies, if you could call them that, strolling past the windows clad only in Mr. Fogg's camises -- and Mr. Fogg chasing them dressed in even less.
Back then Mrs. Evers had begged their master to relocate. Mr. Evers had averred no "professional gambler" would ever force him from his home, and paid Mr. Fogg a call to demand proper decorum be observed at No. 7. But Mr. Evers had come back quickly and very pale; and the next time Mrs. Evers had broached the subject of moving, he'd told her to, "Hold your peace, Katherine."
All that had been before Miss Fogg had moved in and rescued her cousin from hellfire and damnation. Mr. Fogg didn't hold his wild parties any more. More's the pity. Their neighbour had turned respectable. But Bessie said Mr. Fogg still gambled every night. Their own Mistress had held her peace so well, she'd given birth to a baby boy this spring. Not long after Bessie had moved from pantry to nursery.
Without untoward noise Mariah opened and closed the bedroom door and undressed in the dark, arranging her uniform carefully on the chair to air out and be ready for morning. She didn't try to sort out a nightdress from the chest. The room was as dark and cold as Satan's heart; and after the way they'd parted, Mariah figured she'd best not wake up Bessie.
Unfortunately, when Mariah slipped naked into bed, Bessie's snoring ended in a sudden snort.
Bessie's round body stayed firmly turned away from Mariah, but after a long moment Bessie finally asked the wall. "Well, what did Henry say? I suppose he proposed?" Her lisping, little girl voice – so startling in such a large woman -- didn't carry far in the dark room.
Mariah burst into tears again. "Oh, please, darling, don't scold. Forgive me for running off." Shivering between the icy sheets on her side of the bed, Mariah dared to snuggle closer to Bessie's warmth. "I can't bear it. Please."
Bessie shrank away from Mariah and might have left the bed if she'd been on the outside. "I don't see why I should. That Henry can have you for all I care. You're not worth any more trouble."
"I didn't see Henry! I swear I didn't. I didn't even get past Regent Street!"
Bessie said, "I don't believe you," but Mariah saw the dim white circle of Bessie's face appear in the blackness between her and the wall and the bed ropes shifted as Bessie rolled toward her just a little.
Mariah swallowed. She didn't want to remember this. "There wah-was a carriage accident-t-t." Her teeth chattered, making it hard to talk. "He looked a haunt, Bessie. Mr. Fogg did, as scary as ghost. He looked up at me and his eyes just blazed. He had – he knelt in the street with Miss Fogg in his arms and the blood dripping off his hands, and the carriage burning behind him like the gate to Hell. Those eyes." Mariah stirred against Bessie's bulk. "He looked like death's henchman, Bessie. Like murder just busting to come for me. So's I ran, I ran home fast as I could, and tried, I'm trying …" Mariah' voice trailed off. Mr. Fogg's blazing eyes, the blood on the street, the screaming horse. It was more than a body could remember and stay sane. Mariah's body shook uncontrollably.
Bessie had rolled over. She pulled Mariah close and whispered a soft, soothing litany. "There, love. There, there. Don't cry. Just let me hold you. Do you have a kiss for us, dear? Come now, give us a kiss."
Mariah's mouth tried to give Bessie a kiss, her teeth coming together -- click-click-click. She felt Bessie's soft hand slide over her bare hip, then across her belly. She focused on it. She wouldn't remember Mr. Fogg or the burning carriage or poor Miss Fogg's limp body. She didn't have to anymore now that Bessie loved her again. Mariah moaned as Bessie's experienced fingers slipped between her legs and began to wiggle about in there. Bessie whispered in Mariah's ear, "Let me help you forget."
Their lips came together. So did their tongues.