Garth Nix - Newt’s Emerald

“It just seems to me,” she said in a small voice, “I could go looking for the Emerald in London. Someone could have sent that cloud-catcher to steal it, you know, and then they’d have to try and sell it somewhere. I thought I could go early to Great-aunt Ermintrude, I was going next month anyway, for my coming-out …”

“Oh, London,” said Edmund, in a relieved tone. “That’s different.”

“No harm in Newt going to London,” added Stephen. “Most sensible. Might even discover something.”

“Lot of steam donkeys in London,” muttered Robert. “Experimental Railway. The Hordern Press. That exacavatin’ circulator thing . . .”

“All the places you mentioned are very far away,” said Truthful doubtfully. “Are you sure you should be going?”

All three young men laughed, caught up in the dream of adventure.

“Must do something,” declared Edmund.

“Hear him, hear him,” joined in the brothers.

“Should have a toast,” said Robert, struggling to his feet.

Truthful interposed herself between him and the punch bowl.

“A toast with coffee!” she said. “It will be here directly!”

“Can’t toast with coffee,” grumbled Robert, but he shambled back and fell into his chair.

Truthful looked anxiously at the door and wondered why the coffee was taking so long. She had to distract her cousins somehow. If only she’d thought to ask Jukes to take the punch bowl away!

“I shall miss you very much you know,” said Truthful. “You are so much more to me than mere cousins. I shall always think of you as brothers!”

“Of course,” said Stephen, as if Truthful had just stated the most commonplace fact.

“Might as well be our sister,” exclaimed Edmund. “Still see you in my . . . what’s it called, memory-thing . . . like a window . . .”

“Mind’s eye?” suggested Truthful.

“That’s the article! See you in my mind’s eye in a pair of Stephen’s old breeches, your pig-tail done up navy-fashion by Hetherington, with your front tooth missing, both front teeth, and the freckles, oh lore, remember the freckles—”

“Don’t look like that now though,” interrupted Stephen. Even in his current rum-addled state he perceived that some of this fraternal honesty was damaging Truthful’s pride. “But having thought of you as a sister since we were in short pants … might as well be a sister. I mean our sister.”

“Going to marry a Marquis at least,” said Stephen.

“Who?” asked Truthful.

“You,” said Stephen. “Top of the tree for Newt.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Truthful, laughing. “I have no desire to marry a Marquis. Or anyone! Particularly not now.”

“Thought you were looking forward to being presented and all that,” said Edmund. “Surprised. Bored by it all myself. Almacks very dull. Balls very dull. Frightful crushes. Some of those girls were positively terrifying. And their mothers! Take Lady Godalming for example—”

“I was looking forward to coming out,” said Truthful, interrupting a flow of what looked to be a compromising anecdote. “But it is of no consequence now. Finding the Emerald is all that matters.”

“Or a reasonable substitute,” said Edmund. He fumbled at the fob pocket of his waistcoat and produced his watch. “Good God, it’s late! We must be off at once.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Truthful. “You must have some coffee first. And surely none of you will go without saying farewell to your mother!”

“Farewell?” asked Edmund. “Going to see her now! Gave us strict instructions to be back by two!”

“Won’t leave on our . . . our quest till tomorrow,” said Stephen. “Or the day after.”

“We’ll have to tell Father,” said Edmund thoughtfully. “He won’t be happy, but …”

“There’s simply nothing else to be done,” growled Stephen, in a fair imitation of his father’s voice, uttering one of that worthy’s frequent maxims.

They all laughed at this, Truthful’s silvery peals sounding over the top of the deeper laughter of the young men. She was to remember that moment of laughter all her life, and the way it echoed out into the clear Spring morning, for it heralded the beginning of her own adventures.

Truthful left for London the next day, accompanied by Agatha, an ancient groom called Tom, and a young footman called Smith. The Admiral still lay out of his senses most of the time, but he swam into consciousness every now and again, long enough to understand that Truthful was going early to his Aunt Ermintrude, and he approved.

Agatha had not approved, of course, but she came around after several hours of coaxing from Truthful. “Lunnon” was not a good place, she said, but a breeding ground for wickedness and a veritable stage for the display of all kinds of vice and depravity. Truthful countered this with the fact that they would be part of the household of Lady Ermintrude Badgery, who was, she felt sure, an absolute model of propriety. Agatha gave a strange half-smile, half-scowl when Truthful said this, but uttered no further protest.

It did not occur to Truthful that she could have merely ordered Agatha to accompany her to London or leave her service. The maid had been with her since she was ten, and had to some degree achieved a kind of grumpy superiority over her mistress.

But Truthful’s coaxing did the trick. Agatha was at her side as the young lady looked out the window of her father’s rather ancient and distinctly unmodish post-chaise-and-four, holding the strap as the conveyance rattled and lurched its way along the London road.

At first, the novelty of travelling without her father sustained Truthful, but that was soon replaced by a weariness brought on by the discomfort, and the total lack of conversation from Agatha, who sat silently next to her, doubtless brooding on the evil city that lay ahead.

After several hours travel, Truthful’s weariness gave way to a troubled sleep, filled with dreams of the Admiral’s feverish stare and his virulent accusations. His voice seemed to fill Truthful’s head with shouts of anger, growing louder and louder until she suddenly woke and realised there was shouting, but they were shouts of alarm, not of anger.

For a muzzy second she wondered where she was. Then even as Truthful realised she was in the carriage, the vehicle tilted over at an alarming angle. There was a resounding crack as something broke behind them. Truthful was flung to the floor, Agatha fell against her, and then they were both hurled against the door as the coach came to an abrupt halt and rolled over onto its side, accompanied by the panicked neighing of the horses and the shouts of footman and groom.

Truthful lay stunned for a moment, then pulled herself out from underneath a semi-conscious Agatha, and climbed up the now vertical bench, using the leather hand-straps to good advantage. She struggled with the door for a moment, then flung it open like a hatch, and popped her head out, only to have her hair blow back in her face in a most disorderly way, her bonnet having slid to the back of her head. Below her, Agatha raised herself up on one elbow and hissed “Lunnon!”

But Truthful saw they were still in the country and many miles from London. Their own coach had been run off the road and into a ditch adjoining a large pasture, and was the subject of much attention from half a dozen curious cows. A little further on, a mail coach was also turned over in the ditch on the other side of the road, and people were climbing out of it (or picking themselves off the road) and shaking their fists and swearing at an old gentleman in a disreputable driving coat. The coachman, Truthful thought, and clearly the man responsible for the accident.

At that moment, Smith the footman saw Truthful perched precariously half out of the carriage door and hurried over.

“Are you all right, milady?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, thank you, Smith,” replied Truthful calmly. “But what has happened to Tom?”

“I’m here milady,” said a voice from the front of the coach, followed by the emergence of the angry groom. “If we don’t have two of the horses lame at least, if not worse, it’ll be a surprise, and thank heaven they’re not the Admiral’s own! There just wasn’t anything I could do, milady. I do beg your pardon.”

“Don’t worry, Tom,” said Truthful. “I can see what must have happened. The road is far too narrow here, and on a bend too! I thought the mail coaches were driven more carefully than the common stage, but I see that is not the case!”

“Well, for the most part they are, milady,” said Smith. “But I reckon it weren’t one of the regular coachmen at the reigns. That old gager there probably paid them off in gin to let him ply the whip. I saw him at the last change a-buying them blue ruin or somesuch.”

“Paid them off in gin!” exclaimed Truthful, much shocked. “I am sure that is distinctly against the law, and clearly very dangerous to all concerned. I shall have a word to say to that fellow.”

She started to climb further out the door, but got stuck till Smith climbed up and lifted her out and handed her down to Tom, much as they had done when she was a small child, for both were old family retainers.

She had just got firmly on the ground, and was in the process of dealing with her bonnet and recalcitrant hair, when the old “coachman” hurried over, crying out: “How-de-do! I do beg your pardon, ma’am. A most unfortunate miscalculation. No-one hurt, I trust?”

“That no-one has been hurt is due more to good fortune than anything else,” said Truthful sternly. “I intend to report you to the relevant Authorities at the next town. Bribing mail coachmen to let you drive and crashing a mail coach into another conveyance is surely a most serious crime.”

“Oh, the authorities know all about me,” said the old man cheerfully. “Besides, I am the authorities in these parts. You could report me to me, I suppose. No? I would prefer it if you allow me to assist you on your way, and make some slight amends for the trouble I’ve caused. Who do I have the honour to address?”

“I am Lady Truthful Newington,” said Truthful, rather taken aback by the man’s cheerfulness and obvious good breeding, even though he wore strange clothes and had the trace of some peculiar accent. “My father is Admiral the Viscount Newington. And you, sir?”

“Charmed,” replied the old man. “I’m Otterbrook, don’t you know.”

“Oh,” said Truthful. “It is an honour to meet you, my lord Marquis.”

She had read about Lord Otterbrook, the fourth Marquis of Poole. He was known as the “colonial peer”. A rank outsider for the title, he had been a remittance man in the Americas, the Orient and finally the colony of New South Wales, succeeding to the title only when the main line of the family managed to get themselves killed in various land and naval battles and hunting accidents. It was said the last Marquis had died of apoplexy at the thought that his eccentric cousin would inherit after all. Particularly as his successor was merely an indifferent diviner, rather than possessing any of the more socially acceptable magics of glamour or persuasion.

“What seems to be the damage, hmmm?” enquired the Marquis, pacing around the carriage to look at the underside. “Ah, a broken axle. And your leaders lamed? I shall have to convey you myself, Lady Truthful. My curricle should be along shortly.”

Truthful felt a blush rising across her neck at his words. Here was someone old enough to be her grandfather, trying to compromise her reputation before she even arrived in London!

“Oh no, that won’t do, will it,” added Lord Otterbrook suddenly, seeing her colour. “Forgot. Respectability and all that. Couldn’t fit your maid anyway. Bye the bye, where is your maid? Or respectable aunt, or whatever. Must have one tucked away somewhere, what?”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Truthful. “My maid. She’s still inside. Agatha! Are you all right?”

There was a deathly silence for a moment, then Agatha’s voice came grumbling out the open door.

“I might be better if we weren’t a-going to Lunnon — and perhaps we ain’t.”

“Quick, Tom, Smith — help Agatha out. Oh, I am sorry, Agatha!”

She turned around just in time to see the glint of yellow metal, and the two men pocketing something. They ducked their heads guiltily at her, and climbed back into the carriage to assist Agatha.

“Just a little ointment for their hurts, physical and spiritual,” said Lord Otterbrook, chuckling. “Gold works wonders for anything short of broken bones. Even broken bones, sometimes. I have decided that I shall send a post-chaise back from Maidstone for you, though it may take some little while.”