Read Online Cold Stone and Ivy by H. Leighton Dickson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: H. Leighton Dickson
Tags: Steampunk
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questions mounted.
“And why remove her womb, Mum?” she asked. “That’s strange, isn’t it, and therefore, a very good clue.”
Catherine Savage blinked but naturally said nothing.
“Maybe he’s a collector, or a scientist of some sort. You know, like how some men like to stuff dead birds or pin butterflies to cork. Maybe he works for collectors or scientists and needs to find new parts to keep his kids in taffy.” She made a face as she swung higher and higher. “Maybe she was pregnant . . . Ooh, that would be bad, wouldn’t it, Mum? She was a working girl, after all. Dr. Williams says it happens all the time. He helps them with that, though we’re not supposed to say. Hmm, I’ll need to ask him when we’re back in London.”
And so she sat on the swing and went back and forth, going over the article in the Guardian until Lottie called them in for dinner.
THE SUN WAS setting over the waters of Wharcombe Bay, and the smell of fish was strong on the wind. There were trollers rising and falling with the waves, and sea birds swooped low over the docks.
At the end of the road was the fishmonger’s shop. It was small and boarded with clapping, with barrels and benches lining the stoop. Gaslight beamed from the lone window, and the chimney curled with smoke. The shouting inside the thin walls had been going on for almost an hour. He dearly wished he could go in and put an end to it, but there were children, and he had principles.
Besides, while the wind was biting, there was no frost.
The wailing was growing unbearable when the door swung open and a man staggered out, a bottle in one hand, an iron poker in the other.
“Yor turn, next, Dot!” the man roared, and he struck the poker against the frame. It left splinters the size of a thumb, “You keep your gob shut or it’s yor turn for sure!”
The door slammed shut and bolts slid home.
“Piss on ’em,” the man grumbled. “Piss on ’em all.”
And he turned toward the docks and the cold waters of Wharcombe Bay, striking the poker on the ground as he walked.
Sebastien de Lacey released a long breath, watching as it frosted into a cloud in front of his face. He looked behind him. The boy with the large sad eyes was there, leaning against the wall of the shanty. His cheeks had sunken in, his lips as grey as the bay. The boy nodded.
De Lacey pulled the clockwork pistol from his belt, checked all three chambers for bullets, and followed the man toward the docks.
SEPTEMBER 15, 1888
Dear Tad,
I am happy to admit that our situation in Lancashire is beginning to improve and I am beginning to believe that both Davis and I will settle in nicely. I have met both Rupert the Scourge—a miserable man who apparently is Christien’s uncle, and the Mad Lord himself, who does not seem as mad as he is made out to be. However, I have only spoken with him once, and then our conversation was impeded by my weeping so I could be sorely mistaken.
We take Mum to Lonsdale Abbey tomorrow. I am still dreading it, although I know I cannot be both Christien’s wife and Mum’s caretaker. I do hope this Dr. Frankow is as kind as he is talented. Mum has been loved all her life. I fear that somehow, she will know that she has been abandoned and will fail to thrive under his care. That would be something I could not bear.
Regarding the woman found in Spitalfields, you might check with Dr. Williams on the possibility that she was pregnant. It’s just a thought. He runs many clinics and his research in obstetrics and gynaecology might prove helpful.
It is very late and I must be off to bed for it will be an early start tomorrow. Lonsdale is a good two-hour coach, and our appointment is for quarter of ten. Please give my regards to Mr. Beals and Ginny if you see them. I will give Mum a kiss from you.
Your girl,
Ivy
LOTTIE HAD FOUND her a new fountain pen and Ivy laid it down on the desk, waiting for the ink to dry. It was late, but she was unsettled, and she
“And why remove her womb, Mum?” she asked. “That’s strange, isn’t it, and therefore, a very good clue.”
Catherine Savage blinked but naturally said nothing.
“Maybe he’s a collector, or a scientist of some sort. You know, like how some men like to stuff dead birds or pin butterflies to cork. Maybe he works for collectors or scientists and needs to find new parts to keep his kids in taffy.” She made a face as she swung higher and higher. “Maybe she was pregnant . . . Ooh, that would be bad, wouldn’t it, Mum? She was a working girl, after all. Dr. Williams says it happens all the time. He helps them with that, though we’re not supposed to say. Hmm, I’ll need to ask him when we’re back in London.”
And so she sat on the swing and went back and forth, going over the article in the Guardian until Lottie called them in for dinner.
THE SUN WAS setting over the waters of Wharcombe Bay, and the smell of fish was strong on the wind. There were trollers rising and falling with the waves, and sea birds swooped low over the docks.
At the end of the road was the fishmonger’s shop. It was small and boarded with clapping, with barrels and benches lining the stoop. Gaslight beamed from the lone window, and the chimney curled with smoke. The shouting inside the thin walls had been going on for almost an hour. He dearly wished he could go in and put an end to it, but there were children, and he had principles.
Besides, while the wind was biting, there was no frost.
The wailing was growing unbearable when the door swung open and a man staggered out, a bottle in one hand, an iron poker in the other.
“Yor turn, next, Dot!” the man roared, and he struck the poker against the frame. It left splinters the size of a thumb, “You keep your gob shut or it’s yor turn for sure!”
The door slammed shut and bolts slid home.
“Piss on ’em,” the man grumbled. “Piss on ’em all.”
And he turned toward the docks and the cold waters of Wharcombe Bay, striking the poker on the ground as he walked.
Sebastien de Lacey released a long breath, watching as it frosted into a cloud in front of his face. He looked behind him. The boy with the large sad eyes was there, leaning against the wall of the shanty. His cheeks had sunken in, his lips as grey as the bay. The boy nodded.
De Lacey pulled the clockwork pistol from his belt, checked all three chambers for bullets, and followed the man toward the docks.
SEPTEMBER 15, 1888
Dear Tad,
I am happy to admit that our situation in Lancashire is beginning to improve and I am beginning to believe that both Davis and I will settle in nicely. I have met both Rupert the Scourge—a miserable man who apparently is Christien’s uncle, and the Mad Lord himself, who does not seem as mad as he is made out to be. However, I have only spoken with him once, and then our conversation was impeded by my weeping so I could be sorely mistaken.
We take Mum to Lonsdale Abbey tomorrow. I am still dreading it, although I know I cannot be both Christien’s wife and Mum’s caretaker. I do hope this Dr. Frankow is as kind as he is talented. Mum has been loved all her life. I fear that somehow, she will know that she has been abandoned and will fail to thrive under his care. That would be something I could not bear.
Regarding the woman found in Spitalfields, you might check with Dr. Williams on the possibility that she was pregnant. It’s just a thought. He runs many clinics and his research in obstetrics and gynaecology might prove helpful.
It is very late and I must be off to bed for it will be an early start tomorrow. Lonsdale is a good two-hour coach, and our appointment is for quarter of ten. Please give my regards to Mr. Beals and Ginny if you see them. I will give Mum a kiss from you.
Your girl,
Ivy
LOTTIE HAD FOUND her a new fountain pen and Ivy laid it down on the desk, waiting for the ink to dry. It was late, but she was unsettled, and she
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