Garth Nix - Newt’s Emerald

“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.”

“Why?” asked Truthful. “What’s happened? Is your mother—”

“No, no, Mother’s doing very well,” said Stephen. He looked across at Parkins, who was intent on sorting threads. “Now, at least. The truth is . . .”

He faltered, lowered his voice and leaned in close.

“The truth is, we were all rather foxed that day, and when we got home, Father took us to task for it, and what with one thing and another, it came out what we intended to do. Mother fainted away, and well . . . we had to promise not to do what we said we would. I’m very sorry, Truthful. We drew lots as to who should come and tell you.”

“Oh, I am glad,” said Truthful. “I did wonder if it was terribly sensible of you all, and Robert still to finish at Harrow, but you were so eager . . .”

“Pot valiant,” said Stephen. “I’ll be wary of Hetherington’s punch from now on, I assure you!”

Truthful laughed.

“Have you called upon my father since I left? Doctor Doyle sends me notes, but they are very brief and he will use Latin, so it is difficult for me to tell Father’s true condition.”

“I have not,” said Stephen. “But Mother did visit last Sunday. He is no longer feverish, it seems, but still confined to bed. He did not repeat his accusation against us, but I doubt he would to Mother, in any case.”

Truthful lowered her head, momentarily cast down by the thought of her father still ill, and the vile calumny that had got abroad about her cousins and the Emerald.

“Don’t fret, Truthful,” said Stephen. “No one of any consequence believes we had anything to do with the theft of the Emerald.”

Truthful drew in a deep breath and nodded. If Stephen could carry on as if he didn’t care about the slander, so could she.

“I am so glad you’re here,” she said. “Do you make a long stay in London? There is to be a ball tonight at Lady Mournbeck’s, to have a friend there would be—”

“No, no!” cried Stephen. “I am not lingering in the metropolis, and certainly not attending any balls. In fact, I must be on my way. Cripley’s have found a third edition of The Red Annals for me. I’ll pick that up and then I have a lecture to attend. I’m dining with Prestwick after that — my old tutor you know — I’ll rack up with him tonight, and home tomorrow.”

“Oh, Stephen,” sighed Truthful. “It’s only one ball.”

“One too many,” said Stephen. “About the Emerald, Truthful. I’ve thought on the matter and it occurs to me we might have all been on the wrong track. A storm-sprite couldn’t have picked it up. That maid of yours, Agatha—”

“Yes, she stole it,” interrupted Truthful. “For her employer, Lady Amelia Plathenden. She was almost certainly placed with me for just such an opportunity, even though it took years.”

Stephen whistled.

“Plathenden, hey? I’ve heard of her. Her husband was executed in ’92 or ’93, hostis humani generis.”

“Enemy . . . something,” guessed Truthful.

“Enemy of humanity,” said Stephen. “About as bad a malignant sorcerer as you can get. A veritable necromancer, by all accounts.”

“How do you know these things, Stephen?” asked Truthful.

“I read,” replied Stephen, putting a finger to the side of his nose. “Application. A retentive mind. Things strange to you, Newt, though I suppose—“

He was interrupted in mid-speech by the sudden appearance of Major Harnett, who erupted into the room with Dworkin holding on to his elbow in a vain effort to restrain him without appearing to do so.

“Lady Truthful!” barked Harnett. “I haven’t got time to be waiting for your chit-chat to be finished. We have important matters to discuss.”

“Who is this fellow?” asked Stephen. He stepped forward, his hands bunching into fists. “How dare you break in on my cousin like this, sir!”

“Your cousin?” asked Harnett. He looked Stephen up and down with disdain, paying particular attention to his moustache. “Don’t tell me this is the original Frenchman!”

“Frenchman?” asked Stephen. “I’m as English as anyone, damn your eyes!”

“Major Harnett! Stephen!” said Truthful angrily. “This is not some ale-house where you can belabour each other. Have some consideration for my great-aunt, even if you have none for me!”

The two men glowered at each other. Dworkin released Harnett’s coat sleeve and stepped back. Parkins looked back down to her threads, surreptitiously slipping the silver scissors she’d taken up back into place in the basket.

“Stephen Newington-Lacy,” said Stephen, after a moment, inclining his head in what could be judicially accepted as a bow.

Harnett hesitated for a moment, then returned it.

“Major Charles Harnett,” he said briefly. “Acting under the orders of General Leye. Here on official business.”

“Ah,” said Stephen. “The Emerald.”

“Does everybody know about it?” exploded Harnett. “Lady Truthful, I had hoped that you might display some discretion—”

“Stephen was there when it disappear . . . when it was stolen,” interjected Truthful. Her cheeks were white with anger. “If you are indeed here on official business I suggest you get on with it.”

“Ah,” said Harnett. “One of those cousins. The ones that offered to help.”

“Yes,” said Truthful. “Kindly and politely offered to help.”

Stephen glanced at Truthful and then at Harnett. They were both staring angrily at each other. He might as well not even be in the room.

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I was just going anyway. Have to catch Cripley before he shuts up shop.”

“I’m sorry, Stephen,” said Truthful. She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you for coming to see me and explaining about . . . well, explaining. Do give my best to your parents and Edmund and Robert.”

“I will,” promised Stephen. He bowed again very correctly to Harnett. “Sir.”

Harnett had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I apologise for my unseemly behavior, Mister Newington-Lacy,” he said. “The theft of Lady Truthful’s Emerald has become a matter of state and it . . . ahem . . . weighs heavily on my mind.”

“I am sure it does,” said Stephen, with the swiftest of sideways glances to Truthful. “Be careful, Newt.”

“Newt?” exclaimed Harnett.

Truthful ignored him.

“Show Mister Newington-Lacy out, please Dworkin,” she said. “Parkins, you may go too.”

There was a moment when Truthful thought she might not be obeyed. But Dworkin looked at Parkins, and though no visible signal was passed, he bowed and opened the door for Stephen. Parkins gathered up her skirts and departed in their wake, pausing only to curtsey on the way.