Boneseeker Page 8
Priscilla smiles provocatively. “Prove it.”
I swallow. Time must’ve halted; for this is the longest dance I’ve ever endured.
Irritation prickles.
My eyes finally tick down to regard her sky-blue ones, upturned and unfortunately hopeful. “I’m afraid I love the country. And it’s the nature of my job to get dirty. I am often gone for long periods of time on expeditions. Which would affect the odds of a load of children.”
“It only takes once.” She stares. No trace of a blush. She means business.
She shrugs and smiles when it’s clear I’m not scandalized nor tantalized by her forwardness.
“Oh, the traveling doesn’t bother me. It would just make for sweeter homecomings.”
I hear a bawdy laugh and I wrench my eyes away from her earnest gaze, scanning the dance hall. They flash over the myriad of colors and gowns and faces and finally, I see her. My heartbeat bombards my ribcage. My hands are sweating. While they are in Priscilla’s hands.
This is not normal. Not for me, anyway.
I am dumbstruck. Arabella is so lovely I can scarcely breathe. She stands, hesitating at the top of the stairs, undoubtedly searching the crowd for familiar faces.
My mind races back in time to my childhood and my parent’s parties.
Bella could never, ever tolerate crowds. I would often find her perched in a tree, party-dress and all, or playing fetch with our dogs in the garden.
She was better than Holmes, however, who would beg off each and every social function to which he was invited. If the gathering did not include science, crime or deduction—there was no amount of father’s cajoling that would convince him.
I track her as she weaves in and out, finally appearing, hovering on the dance floor’s edge. Arabella had worn trousers, in secret, for as long as I could recall.
But tonight. Tonight, is an Arabella even I have never been able to conjure in my wildest imagination.
The ivory silk dress is pulled tight around her tiny waist, and a green velveteen sash hangs to the side. A tassel drops provocatively at the bottom of the V in her décolletage. Her auburn hair flows around her shoulders in waves, unadorned.
Priscilla is talking. I can’t make out the words.
Mercifully, the music stops. I almost forget manners and Priscilla’s presence; I dip my head and quickly murmur, “Thank you.”
She grabs my arm, demanding my attention. “Another dance tonight?”
“Most likely. It was delightful.”
I walk in a straight line for Bella; my vision narrows as if I’m staring out a spyglass, and she is the horizon.
She’s leaning against the wall, clutching a glass to her chest. Her eyes are pinched in distress, as if she’s enduring a flogging.
Before, she was talking animatedly to father, about work, no doubt. But now that he’s gone, she looks terrified and out of place once again. Her eyes jump like the staccato beats of the music behind me.
I reach her, and smile. Her eyes immediately quiet. Because of my presence?
Am I being arrogant? Or hopeful…
She extends her hand, which is covered in an elegant, ivory glove which reaches to her elbow.
I take it, grateful she can’t detect the sweat.
“Lovely gloves.”
She shrugs. “You know, the black stains on my fingers—they won’t come off.”
We share a very loud laugh and for a moment, we are the only people in the room.
Next to us a woman and her husband glare at our lack of decorum.
“I’m so very glad you’re here, but I must admit I am shocked.” I lean in so she may hear me above the band.
“I didn’t wish to come. But knew if I want to be considered permanently for the expedition team, I must learn to do what is politely expected.”
I notice the light sheen on her chest and her discomfort is my own; I yearn to alleviate her awkwardness.
I step closer. Closer than society allows. “Dance with me.”
My mind explodes with forbidden images. My mouth and body on hers. My hands tracing the line of her legs.
I’m close enough to feel her breath. Her blue eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect, pink O.
She shakes her head. “Please, Henry. I don’t dance. I can’t. Your father and mine, they tried to teach me, tried for hours on end, actually.”
I smile. “Why don’t I remember this?”
“Loads happened while you were away at boarding school. Please, I’ll embarrass myself. I’m trying to keep my dignity.”
“I will teach you.”
“I can’t be taught. I’m an orangutan in high heels.”
I laugh so loud, my father shoots me a death-by-dismemberment look from across the room. He eyeballs his cane, whose insides conceal a short sword.
I try not to laugh harder.
Arabella presses her lips together, but a small sound slips out.
“I didn’t know your father’s wife was here.”
“Yes.” I turn to stare at them, now on the dance floor. ”Miss Violet Hunter. I mean Watson.”
“Does it bother you? That he remarried after Mary, I mean, your mother passed?”
I shake my head, considering. “No, he’s happier. She’s actually quite wonderful.”
“I know. She has always been so kind to me.” Arabella looks wistful. “Such attention, for your father to dance with his wife so many times. Defying convention in his older years, is he?”
“As if he ever obeyed convention. As if either of our fathers is even capable of it.”
I turn to face her, and wait, unmoving till she meets my gaze. For a moment, all fades to nothing.
The crowd, the music, my purpose here.
Yearning clenches my chest. She resurrects the feelings of an awkward man-child.
New women, new travels have not managed to loosen her grip. I find the distance I so carefully created ripping away, edging me ever closer with every bat of those eyelashes and I swallow as the banished feelings return.
She doesn’t break the stare. “Henry…”
A tap on my shoulder breaks the trance. Dr. Stygian.
“Sir.”
He gives a curt nod, his eyes full of suspicion. “Watson. You and Miss Holmes should turn in early and prepare for departure. We will see you tomorrow on the steamship. Seven sharp.”
I nod. And fight the urge to break his jaw.
I push the images of his advances from my mind.
“Henry?” I hear Priscilla’s call from across the room.
Something flares in Arabella’s eyes.
“Blast. I promised her another dance. I’m sorry. I will see you tomorrow morning. I’ll stop by your room to see if you need help with your steamer trunk.”
Her expression is unreadable. “Have a wonderful evening.”
I return to the gaggle of skirts and Priscilla’s face is puckered as if she’s just tasted a lemon. “Who is she?”
“Arabella Holmes. She is one of the scientists.”
“She doesn’t look like any scientist I’ve ever seen.”
“You met her the other day, in the lab.”
“That looks nothing like the girl I met. Will she be going on your expedition?” She scowls.
I nod, and can’t stop the grin. “Yes, she will.”
Chapter Nine
Behaviors Most Inappropriate
Mutter Ballroom
Henry
I give my pocket watch a surreptitious glance. Almost midnight. Five dances with Priscilla and my father was grinning like the bloody Cheshire Cat.
Arabella vacated the premises as soon as was socially acceptable. I watched her deny no less than seven requests to dance. I grin, wondering if their interest would wane once she opened her mouth. Men aren’t used to the weaker vessels spouting physics equations and talking about corpses as if it’s polite dinner conversation.
It took every shred of self-
restraint I had not to follow as I watched that lovely ivory dress ghost out the door and into the night.
“Priscilla, I must be on my way. Our expedition leaves early in the morning, and I have much to prepare.”
Father steps beside me, Violet on his arm. She gives me a clandestine wink.
“Perhaps we might all meet, somewhere up the Hudson. Surely you’ll get a day off now and then,” father says helpfully.
“Oh, yes. That would be grand!” Pricilla claps her hands and turns to look at Dr. Earnest for approval.
I shoot father a look I hope conveys the string of profanities bursting to escape my mouth.
He smiles. Even. Wider.
Priscilla is back to staring at me, doe-eyes awaiting a response.
“I-I will see what I can do. I’m new; I don’t want to take any liberties.” My grin is so sheepish I may bleat at any moment.
“Oh, Henry. We’ll see you get a few days off anyway,” Dr. Earnest chimes in helpfully, sealing my fate.
I tip my hat. “Good evening. Violet, Priscilla. Father—I will see you tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait, son.”
I tilt my head and grimace when only he can see, and head out into the darkness.
The streets are quiet and misty. I arrive at my door and stop, staring up at the cottage. Anxiety squeezes my chest and I resist the compulsion to pace. I am not at all tired. My head is bursting with questions.
I continue on, staring at Arabella’s cottage. All the lights are dark. She’s either asleep…or out.
Intuition sparks in my chest and I continue down the street.
My footfalls echo, slapping on the damp sidewalks. I squint as the foggy air wets my face.
Questions pop in and out of my consciousness, each more perplexing than the one before.
Neanderthals or Nephilim?
Priscilla and paternal approval or…Arabella?
What has Stygian to do with the sausage plant?
When I think of life with Priscilla, I see a Sunday-best suit, buttoned to the collar, starched and proper.
And when I picture a life with Arabella, my mind conjures a half-buttoned shirt, sweat, dirt and adventure.
Nothing ordinary. That girl is anything but ordinary.
“You forgot lust,” I whisper. I take a deep breath and walk toward the park, which is situated on the opposite side of her dwelling.
“This is madness. Sheer madness. Highly inappropriate.”
I stop dead.
Alongside the building stands a copse of trees and a small lawn. I was right. A solitary woman flits back and forth in the night.
Arabella bends down, picks up a ball and proceeds to hurl it across the lawn. She’s still in her ivory ball gown, the green sash swinging madly with her every move.
Newton yips and barrels with glee across the lawn. He leaps, snatching the ball in his jaws and then bounds back to her feet, waggling all over.
“She’s mad. In her dress, at this hour. It’s not safe.”
I instantly search the streets, looking for danger.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. Suddenly her ivory form crumples to the cement stairs of a monument, her face buried in her hands.
The dog wiggles its way between her bent arms and its pink tongue licks her face.
Her hands slowly drag down the length of her face, which is crumpled with pain.
Her white gloved fingers lace into the dog’s fur. She hugs him, squeezing her eyes closed.
I feel awkward, like I’m a voyeur on an emotional exchange I have no business watching.
Her face rises as if hearing my thought, and our eyes lock.
She weakly lifts her gloved hand in greeting.
I walk swiftly to her side and sit down beside her on the steps. I notice her parasol beside her.
A parasol?
It’s nighttime? I add it to my list of Arabella-questions with no answers.
“Arabella…” My tone chastises. I cannot help it.
She stares straight forward. Her words sounding rehearsed. “I know. It isn’t safe. I’m still in my dress. And ladies don’t play with dogs in the dark.”
I imagine she’s heard this and so much more about her improper behavior.
“Yes.” I stare at the side of her face, but she won’t meet my eyes.
Suddenly her head swivels and her eyes narrow.
“Calling on a lady at midnight is highly out of decorum, Henry Watson.”
I smile. “I know. I—just wanted to be sure you were alright. At least you weren’t crying.”
“I don’t cry.”
“What do you mean, you don’t cry?” But I do a quick search of my childhood memories.
A litany of images of a tiny Bella, and then an older, shapelier Bella.
Arabella angry, Arabella joyous. I have no recollection of ever seeing her weep.
“I. Don’t think I can.”
“Why? That’s not natural.”
“Oh, I’m fully aware. It…wasn’t encouraged in my household.”
I try to picture Holmes comforting a screaming child, and end up with chills.
This is very close. Very personal. She never lets me in this far.
All our lives, our conversations danced around her pain. It seemed saying it outright might destroy her. I feel privileged—she’s lifting the curtain—which will drop on my head with the slightest wrong word.
I don’t know if I should say it.
I scrutinize her face. Her bottom lip is trembling, like the prelude to tears. But her blue eyes are dry and are tight, as if she is in pain.
I take the leap. “What would happen when you cried?” I’m holding my breath.
Arabella’s eyes widen at my forwardness, her mouth works, but no sounds come forth.
“I’m so sorry, you don’t have to answer. I’m quite sure this isn’t helping.”
Her fingers wrap about my elbow and she carefully lays her head against my arm. Her musky perfume intoxicates me. At complete odds to Priscilla’s flowery one.
Steady, man.
She stares ahead. “He would get angry. And so I learned other ways to deal with sadness. We got along best—”
“When he is teaching you.” I finish her sentence. “Sharing his obsessions.”
Her red head pops up, her dark eyes alarmed. “Please don’t misunderstand. He does love me. I know that. He just doesn’t show love the way other people do.”
I nod. “Yes, I imagine that’s so.”
“If I called for him right now—he would appear as quickly as he was humanly able.”
“I believe that, too.”
She stares at the dog and her lips press together.
Her voice is low, “I have inherited his mind, but also his inability to…relate to others. To humans, anyway.”
I cock my head. Bella is a natural with any animal. I picture the nine-year-old version, standing in the backyard, walking toward a snarling mongrel. My mother’s vehement warning’s flying from the porch. In moments, the dog was curled in her lap like a harmless pup.
I keep silent, unsure how to respond to this. I…always understood her. She was not the stern, cold exterior that she portrayed to the world.
She clears her throat. “I just. I am having trouble leaving him.” She ruffles Newton’s fur.
“Father will take him; watch over him till we return.” I smile with pleasure as I think of Newton’s drool all over his spotless waistcoat
I cannot wait to see his face.
“Really? Henry that would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”
I stare at her hand, the way it caresses the dog’s fur and ask a rhetorical question.
“I remember your attachment to animals. So that continued after I left for school?”
“Oh, yes. Newton came with me from England. Dogs are another of my hobbies. I have three at home.” Her eyes blaze with what I recognize as Holmesian obsession.
I smile, relieved at the shift in her expression. “Of course.”
She snatches the bowler from my head, and flings it into the air. “What? What’re you doing?”
It catches the breeze, and sails up into the dark sky, landing twenty feet away.
“Shh. Watch.” She shakes the dog, getting his attention. “Newton. Find. Hat.”
Newton cocks his furry head for a split-second and bounds across the grass. His teeth barely touch the brim. He heads back toward us, tail wagging and drops it into Arabella’s lap.
“Good boy. Good dog,” she croons. She smiles proudly. “He has a vocabulary.”
My eyes narrow. “Really? Whatever do you mean?”
She shrugs. “I’ve worked with him for five years. He knows sit, stay, come, find…and more interesting commands.”
“Such as?”
“Growl.”
A vehement growl rips from his throat.
Newton’s hackles rise and his gums retract, exposing gleaming white fangs. His growl intensifies, and I instinctually shift away.
“Desist.”
He stops instantly. Tail wagging and tongue lolling once more.
“I’m astounded.”
“There’s more. B-i-t-e.”
“B—” Arabella’s hand shoots to cover my mouth. “Do not say it. I don’t know if he will respond to someone else’s command, but he might.”
“Fascinating. What else can he do?”
Stones shuffle at the end of the little park. Our heads whip in tandem in the direction of the sound.
Footsteps retreat. The dog growls, low in his throat, and his hair shoots up in a furry line from his neck to his tail.
A tall, caped figure darts behind the building.
The dog lunges, barking madly and I lunge for his collar, restraining him.
“We should go investigate.” Arabella grasps her parasol and stands. I quickly grab her hand, before she darts off.
“I don’t have a weapon. It’s late. Remember the expedition.”
Her eyes flick from my face to the spot the figure vacated and she sighs. “It’s cat and mouse. I follow him, he follows me.”
“You don’t know it was Stygian.”
“Most likely not him, one of his lackeys, perhaps.”