Garth Nix - Newt’s Emerald

But she was too weary to fight about it for the moment. She let General Leye take her arm and escort her out to a waiting carriage and hand her up into its dark interior, the curtains being drawn close. It felt very much like going into exile, she thought, though obviously not as extreme as the one Emperor Napoleon had suffered, being sorcerously forced into the Rock of Gibraltar.

If her Emerald was strong enough to remove a prisoner buried half a mile deep in solid granite, what else could it do?

Lady Badgery had clearly been warned to expect her, for even though it was still not yet eight o’clock in the morning, Dworkin was waiting outside the front door. As soon as he saw the coach arrive, he hurried down the front steps.

“Master De Vienne! You are anxiously awaited.”

“Thank you, Dworkin,” croaked Truthful. She stepped down from the coach and ran up the front steps, keeping her head down, the disreputable broad-brimmed hat shielding her face. Presuming the glamour was holding, this would aid in the impression of a penitent young man returning from some ill-advised expedition. “I am sorry to put everyone out.”

“Her ladyship said that you would probably wish to retire immediately,” said Dworkin, keeping pace a few steps behind her. “However, if she might have some brief conversation first?”

“Of course,” said Truthful. “I will go to her ladyship at once.”

Lady Badgery was, for once, not in bed. She was pacing around in her blue saloon, with a fez on head and a very strange robe made up of many small white furs over her shoulders. As Parkins opened the door to admit Truthful, she let out a shriek and rushed over to embrace her great-niece.

“My dear! You’re safe!”

Parkins edged out and shut the door behind her. Lady Badgery took Truthful’s hands and drew her over so they could both sit next to each other on an elegant sofa covered in blue silk shot with gold.

“Where did you get that awful hat? And that cloak?”

“Captain Boling of the Lyonesse gave them to me,” said Truthful, taking both items off with some relief. “I’m afraid your glamour was dissipated by the sea, aunt. General Leye ensorcelled it again for me.”

“Hmmm,” said Lady Badgery, staring intently at Truthful’s upper lip and then away and back again, gauging the efficacy of the glamour. “An elegant sorcerer, Ned. Very fine work. But tell me everything! How did you come to be at sea? And what has happened to the handsome Major Harnett?”

Truthful looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap.

“Major Harnett was with me. But he was very discomposed to discover I was a girl and he didn’t know it,” she said, with a gulp. “And I think embarrassed beyond bearing when he was unable to rescue me, and my small efforts . . . in any case, I doubt I will see him again. He and General Leye don’t want my help to find the Emerald anymore. Apparently it has become a matter of state!”

“I see,” said Lady Badgery, who did indeed see, far more than Truthful was actually saying. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what has occurred. Then you can have a bath and a rest and we can comfortably consider what — if anything — is to be done.”

Truthful told her. At least she told her what had happened, not going into any detail about how she felt. Partly because she wasn’t sure how she felt, apart from being extremely aggrieved that Harnett hadn’t bothered to talk to her, and obviously thought she had done something very wrong in assuming her disguise.

But she did feel somewhat better after describing the events of the previous night and day. Lady Badgery laughed at much of it, and was suitably impressed with Truthful’s cleverness in making the sea anchor and causing the Undine to broach to and be caught.

“You are a real heroine,” she said finally. “Now you must bathe, and rest. Put the chevalier to rest too, I think. You must be all Lady Truthful Newington for the ball tonight.”

“Ball? What ball?” asked Truthful.

“Why Lady Mournbeck’s of course!” exclaimed Lady Badgery. “Had you forgotten? Madame Lapointe has sent over your new dress, the ivory silk.”

“I can’t think of balls and gowns now,” fretted Truthful.

“Truthful!” exclaimed Lady Badgery. “It is a very important ball. Cecilie Mournbeck, besides being one of my friends, is an acknowledged leader of the ton. Everyone will be there, and there will be many people eager to meet or renew their acquaintance with you. Most of them eligible young men, I have to say.”

“I don’t care about eligible young men,” snapped Truthful.

Lady Badgery’s imposing eyebrows arched up to become almost triangular.

“But you do care about one possibly ineligible young man?” she asked gently.

“No,” said Truthful. “Not at all. None! I must go and take my bath!”

She sprang up and left the room hurriedly. Lady Badgery smiled and once more took up the copy of the Peerage she had laid under a cushion, to study the alarmingly short entry on the Harnetts. At least they were in there, she comforted herself. The head of the house was only a baronet, to be sure, and it was curious that his second son, a Major, had the Christian name James rather than Charles . . .

Lady Badgery frowned and rang her bell. Dworkin entered and bowed in his impassive manner, his face showing no emotion as his employer instructed him to make enquiries about a Major Harnett, Charles or possibly James or some combination of the two, of Ruswarp in Yorkshire, formerly of the 95^th Rifles. If possible, Lady Badgery wished to ascertain his lodging and anything that could be discovered about his friends, his family and most importantly of all, his wealth.

By the time Truthful had carefully put away her ensorcelled moustache, soaked in her lemon verbena-scented bath, slept for an hour, and dressed in a charming walking dress of green crape with puffed sleeves embellished with silver knot-ribbons, she felt much better. After a light luncheon she felt almost completely normal and certainly more able to contemplate Lady Mournbeck’s grand ball.

But Truthful had no sooner begun to practice her waltz steps — though she was well aware she could not actually waltz in public until after her presentation — when Dworkin knocked on the door of the small parlour Lady Badgery had given to Truthful to use as her own. After knocking, he uttered one of his distinctive coughs, a sound somewhat like a discontented badger.

“Enter!”

Dworkin stepped inside and stood at attention, the presence of a calling card on the silver salver he held indicating that he was about to announce a visitor. In his own time, the matter clearly not to be rushed.

“Yes, Dworkin?”

“Two gentleman callers, milady,” intoned Dworkin. He proffered the salver. “Your cousin, Stephen Newington-Lacy.”

Truthful looked at the card on the salver. What was Stephen doing here, she wondered? She had supposed him to already be on his way to Istanbul or wherever it was he had mentioned. But her thoughts moved rapidly on from Stephen to the possibility of who the other caller might be.

“And the other gentleman?” she asked, her heart speeding up. She felt suddenly breathless, and had to keep her lips firmly fastened to not let out an unladylike gasp.

“The military gentleman who came with the chevalier the other . . . ahem . . . evening,” said Dworkin. “No card. Major Harnett.”

Truthful bit her lip. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to see Harnett or not. He had been so cold, so ungrateful! But perhaps he had come to apologise . . . or maybe even to enlist her help again. There might be something she could do that he could not. The Emerald was hers, after all, at least until it was recovered and handed over to the Crown, to be safely stored away in the Tower of London.

“I will see Mr Newington-Lacy now,” she said. “Please ask Major Harnett to wait.”

“Yes, milady,” said Dworkin. “I will show Mr Newington-Lacy into the Blue saloon.”

Truthful opened her mouth to protest that Stephen could perfectly well visit her in her own parlour, but didn’t speak. Dworkin wouldn’t listen anyway, she knew. She picked up her silk-embroidered reticule and went after him, knowing full well that by the time she got to the Blue saloon there would be a maid tidying the big sewing box, to preserve Dworkin’s antique notions of sensibility, and doubtless a footman in the corner with a tray offering morning refreshments as well.

She was only slightly wrong. Instead of a maid, Parkins was sorting the sewing box. She stood and curtseyed as Truthful came on, not even attempting to disguise a knowing smile. However, there was no footman.

Stephen was ushered in a few minutes later. He was dressed for riding, in sober attire that would have earned the Admiral’s approbation, though the cut of his coat and his highly-polished but not absolutely brilliant top boots would mark him as a country gentleman to any knowledgeable observer in the metropolis. His moustache did him no favours either, having signally failed to show the luxurious growth he no doubt desired. It looked rather forlorn, sparser even than the fake moustache Truthful wore when she was being the Chevalier.

Truthful ran to him and he took her hands with a smile, giving her fingers a casual kiss in about as loving a fashion as he would greet a favourite hound.

“Stephen, I am so pleased to see you!” exclaimed Truthful. “I had thought you must already be at sea, or on the Continent!”

“Ah,” said Stephen. He looked considerably abashed. “That’s why I’ve come to town. Had to talk to you about that.”