Waistcoats & Weaponry
Page 46
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Felix narrowed his eyes and looked away, clearly uncomfortable.
Guilt washed over Sophronia. She snapped back her hand as if burned and sat up.
In silence she began to lay out breakfast on the bench opposite. When she woke Soap, he had a small smile on his face.
They ate out of the picnic baskets. Soap had filched mainly meat pies, a smart decision as they were self-contained and nicely filling. There were jars of barley water to drink, the only thing he’d found quickly transportable. No one liked it—who did?—but it was better than nothing. The stores were generous but weren’t going to sustain them forever. When they arrived at Oxford station an hour or so later, it was with considerable relief.
Unfortunately, the station was crowded with morning business. The unexpected private train was shunted off to the last platform. As they pulled in, window still open, they heard a station call boarding for the Deft Twelve Star bound for Glasgow.
Sidheag nosed out the door, excited, but they were too late. Four platforms over, the train in question pulled out before they could even come up with a plan to sneak off their own train. Sophronia grabbed her friend and yanked her inside just as Monique jumped down from the engineering cab.
Monique, as ever, was dressed to the height of current fashion, her carriage gown one of tiered lavender taffeta with black satin ribbon edging around the bottom of the wide, full bell. It was exactly suited to the climate and the conditions of winter travel. Her blonde hair was perfectly done and she looked beautiful. She must have had very little sleep herself. It didn’t show, which Sophronia found highly annoying. Monique was probably accustomed to being up all night, living among vampires.
The handsome man from the aetherographic receiver joined her. He signaled at someone down at the end of the vacant platform, and a human porter pushed through the gate and hurried toward them. Money changed hands and the porter scurried off again.
“No mechanicals,” said Sophronia, squinting into the distant crowd in the station proper.
“There’s track down for them,” responded Sidheag.
“Yes, but not a one is running.”
Felix nosed in. “Pardon, ladies, if I might have a look?”
They allowed him space. He slid in next to Sophronia, warm and sweet smelling. Figgy pudding, she thought again.
“That is odd,” he corroborated, but offered no other explanation.
Minutes later the human porter returned, carrying two cups of tea and a copy of the Oxford Whistler. Monique and her companion, secure in their solitary state on the platform, made their way to a long bench under an overhang and sat with the paper and the tea. Their discussion seemed civilized, but despite Sophronia’s ear trumpet and Dimity’s lip-reading ability, they could not make out the topic.
Sophronia said, “Soap, now that I think on it, does Monique know you by sight?”
Soap replied, “Nope. Not one for fraternizing with sooties, that snotty Miss Uppity.”
“Perhaps if you climbed out the off side and nabbed one of those big brooms? If they don’t have mechanicals working to clean, they’ll be hurting for human staff.”
Soap followed her reasoning exactly. “Platform sweeper? Good notion. I can brush on past them; with my skin and these duds, no one would know me from the scenery.”
He climbed out the window on the far side of the coach, lowered himself down to the track, and dashed off.
Felix seemed troubled.
“What is it, Lord Mersey?” asked Dimity.
“I just realized how little I notice my household staff and the human servants all around me.”
Dimity grinned. “Scary, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Very. I think I shall impress upon Father the necessity of raising their wages.”
Sophronia tipped her head at him. “You think loyalty can be bought?”
“Don’t you?”
Sophronia thought about her friends; money had never yet been exchanged between them. It made her feel sorry for Felix.
“Sovereign, sovereigns, or seduction,” said Sidheag calmly, before Sophronia could stop her.
Dimity nodded in agreement. “It’s our second lesson after the school motto: Ut acerbus terminus.”
Felix looked confused. “What does it mean?”
“‘To the bitter end,’” said Sophronia.
“Not that. I do speak Latin, thank you very much. I’m not a complete imbecile. I mean to ask, what does ‘sovereign, sovereigns, or seduction’ mean?”
“The three possible ways to turn a man to a cause,” explained Dimity.
“What cause?” Felix was unsettled. His eyes on Sophronia.
“I see Soap,” said Sophronia, wondering if Felix was afraid she could turn him away from a Pickleman future. I’m trying, she thought. Is it working? Self-consciously she shifted so the whole length of her side was pressed against him. His breath hitched in a most gratifying manner.
They watched as Soap appeared at the edge of the platform near the front of the train and jumped up. He’d found a big broom and pushed it about, his cap pulled down over his eyes, whistling softly, until he was right behind Monique’s bench. He slowed and did a bit of extra sweeping.
“Don’t do overmuch,” hissed Sophronia, her nose pressed to the glass in worry. “Monique will notice. Move off now, move off!”
Monique, occupied with tea, argument, and newspaper, nevertheless shifted and gave Soap a sharp look just as the tall, lanky sootie obeyed Sophronia’s silent order and moved on down the platform.
Guilt washed over Sophronia. She snapped back her hand as if burned and sat up.
In silence she began to lay out breakfast on the bench opposite. When she woke Soap, he had a small smile on his face.
They ate out of the picnic baskets. Soap had filched mainly meat pies, a smart decision as they were self-contained and nicely filling. There were jars of barley water to drink, the only thing he’d found quickly transportable. No one liked it—who did?—but it was better than nothing. The stores were generous but weren’t going to sustain them forever. When they arrived at Oxford station an hour or so later, it was with considerable relief.
Unfortunately, the station was crowded with morning business. The unexpected private train was shunted off to the last platform. As they pulled in, window still open, they heard a station call boarding for the Deft Twelve Star bound for Glasgow.
Sidheag nosed out the door, excited, but they were too late. Four platforms over, the train in question pulled out before they could even come up with a plan to sneak off their own train. Sophronia grabbed her friend and yanked her inside just as Monique jumped down from the engineering cab.
Monique, as ever, was dressed to the height of current fashion, her carriage gown one of tiered lavender taffeta with black satin ribbon edging around the bottom of the wide, full bell. It was exactly suited to the climate and the conditions of winter travel. Her blonde hair was perfectly done and she looked beautiful. She must have had very little sleep herself. It didn’t show, which Sophronia found highly annoying. Monique was probably accustomed to being up all night, living among vampires.
The handsome man from the aetherographic receiver joined her. He signaled at someone down at the end of the vacant platform, and a human porter pushed through the gate and hurried toward them. Money changed hands and the porter scurried off again.
“No mechanicals,” said Sophronia, squinting into the distant crowd in the station proper.
“There’s track down for them,” responded Sidheag.
“Yes, but not a one is running.”
Felix nosed in. “Pardon, ladies, if I might have a look?”
They allowed him space. He slid in next to Sophronia, warm and sweet smelling. Figgy pudding, she thought again.
“That is odd,” he corroborated, but offered no other explanation.
Minutes later the human porter returned, carrying two cups of tea and a copy of the Oxford Whistler. Monique and her companion, secure in their solitary state on the platform, made their way to a long bench under an overhang and sat with the paper and the tea. Their discussion seemed civilized, but despite Sophronia’s ear trumpet and Dimity’s lip-reading ability, they could not make out the topic.
Sophronia said, “Soap, now that I think on it, does Monique know you by sight?”
Soap replied, “Nope. Not one for fraternizing with sooties, that snotty Miss Uppity.”
“Perhaps if you climbed out the off side and nabbed one of those big brooms? If they don’t have mechanicals working to clean, they’ll be hurting for human staff.”
Soap followed her reasoning exactly. “Platform sweeper? Good notion. I can brush on past them; with my skin and these duds, no one would know me from the scenery.”
He climbed out the window on the far side of the coach, lowered himself down to the track, and dashed off.
Felix seemed troubled.
“What is it, Lord Mersey?” asked Dimity.
“I just realized how little I notice my household staff and the human servants all around me.”
Dimity grinned. “Scary, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Very. I think I shall impress upon Father the necessity of raising their wages.”
Sophronia tipped her head at him. “You think loyalty can be bought?”
“Don’t you?”
Sophronia thought about her friends; money had never yet been exchanged between them. It made her feel sorry for Felix.
“Sovereign, sovereigns, or seduction,” said Sidheag calmly, before Sophronia could stop her.
Dimity nodded in agreement. “It’s our second lesson after the school motto: Ut acerbus terminus.”
Felix looked confused. “What does it mean?”
“‘To the bitter end,’” said Sophronia.
“Not that. I do speak Latin, thank you very much. I’m not a complete imbecile. I mean to ask, what does ‘sovereign, sovereigns, or seduction’ mean?”
“The three possible ways to turn a man to a cause,” explained Dimity.
“What cause?” Felix was unsettled. His eyes on Sophronia.
“I see Soap,” said Sophronia, wondering if Felix was afraid she could turn him away from a Pickleman future. I’m trying, she thought. Is it working? Self-consciously she shifted so the whole length of her side was pressed against him. His breath hitched in a most gratifying manner.
They watched as Soap appeared at the edge of the platform near the front of the train and jumped up. He’d found a big broom and pushed it about, his cap pulled down over his eyes, whistling softly, until he was right behind Monique’s bench. He slowed and did a bit of extra sweeping.
“Don’t do overmuch,” hissed Sophronia, her nose pressed to the glass in worry. “Monique will notice. Move off now, move off!”
Monique, occupied with tea, argument, and newspaper, nevertheless shifted and gave Soap a sharp look just as the tall, lanky sootie obeyed Sophronia’s silent order and moved on down the platform.
