The Ladies and the Gentlemen

By M. K. Hobson

He's a man without a name. She's a sort-of-goddess. And they're about to find out that even not-honeymoons can be dangerous.

Newly wed (but not exactly married), Emily Edwards is eager to begin her new life with the man-formerly-known-as-Dreadnought Stanton. They've left the perils of New York City far behind and are returning to California on a m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Demimonde
• Release date: Apr 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781938860058

Book preview

The Ladies and the Gentlemen

by M. K. Hobson

The Ladies and the Gentlemen is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by M.K. Hobson

All Rights Reserved

Ebook Edition

ISBN: 978-1-938860-05-8

www.demimonde.com

The Veneficas Americana Series

by M. K. Hobson

—1876—

The Native Star (Novel)

Terms of Engagement (Short Story)

The Hidden Goddess (Novel)

The Ladies and the Gentlemen (Novella)

—1910—

The Warlock’s Curse (Novel)

The Unsteady Earth (Novel/Coming in 2015)

Acknowledgments

I could not have completed The Ladies and the Gentlemen without the help of Simone Cooper, David W. Goldman, David D. Levine, Sara Mueller, Katherine Nyborg, and Felicity Shoulders. I’m honored to have such talented writers as friends.

Prologue

Just Desserts

AUGUST 18, 1876

Warm summer rain from the gulf, smelling of humid white sand and sawgrass, peppered the patinated bronze roof of the Institute’s railcar and streamed down the leaded glass panes. Emily and her not-husband were in bed, among rumpled sheets, eating meringue. Or rather he was eating meringue, and she was watching him with growing astonishment.

The astonishment was not because he was eating meringue on a railcar, for while it was an outlandish dish to expect to receive on such a conveyance, this was no ordinary railcar. It was a plush private railcar stuffed with demonstrative sorcery intended to impress and mystify gullible guests.

The meringue in question was produced by a magical cabinet in the galley that could sorcel up any dish, no matter how exotic, in any quantity. Over the past fortnight, as they’d lazily cobwebbed the Eastern seaboard on their honeymoon trip, her not-husband had done his best to test the cabinet’s abilities. He’d ordered a baffling panoply of odd delicacies, mostly sweets: jellies and aspics and mousses and poufs. Today, apparently, he fancied meringue. And not just any meringue, but a very particular meringue delivered straight from Delmonico’s in New York City.

When he was a boy, he had explained, his family had often dined at the storied restaurant to create the public illusion of familial harmony for his father’s starched-shirt Republican cronies. His only fond memory of those dinners seemed to be of a dessert called a Marshall Ney—an extravagant confection comprised of molded tiers of meringue shells, vanilla custard, and marzipan.

Many years later, when it had become public knowledge that the dessert was a boyhood favorite of Dreadnought Stanton—the newly-installed Sophos of the powerful Stanton Institute in New York City—the management at Delmonico’s had hastily revised the old standby, renamed it Meringue à la Stanton, and raised the price by a dollar. It wasn’t all that much of a revision, really (chocolate custard replaced vanilla and some sugared cherries were thrown in for good measure) and the dessert had been lambasted by the press (with The New York Times archly observing how apt it was to honor the nation’s preeminent credomancer with a dessert that was hollow, insubstantial, and full of air) but nevertheless, her not-husband seemed to wholeheartedly approve.

"I never got to eat it even once when I actually was Dreadnought Stanton, he noted. So now I intend to make up for lost time."

Emily, though, having watched him eat three whole plates, was deeply concerned.

You’re going to get fat as an Astor eating like that, she observed. I will have to get you an extra large yachting cap and some suspenders.

"Well, it is part of the contract I signed with the Institute that I try not to look like myself anymore," he said, offering her a spoonful, which she refused. She’d politely sampled several bites from the previous plates, but had found the intense sweetness positively nauseating.

Have you considered growing a tidy little goatee instead?

An Astor wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a goatee, he said, as if this was a discussion he’d had with one or more Astors on several separate occasions.

I think you’re just looking for an excuse to eat three plates of dessert, she said. We’re going to live in California to get as far away from your old self as possible, isn’t that enough?

He grunted, but did not comment. This had become his customary response whenever she mentioned California. She could tell that he was still trying to reconcile himself to the notion of living there. She knew he found her home state somewhat provincial (he had used the term backwater more than twice) but apparently it had been another requirement of the contract he’d signed with the Institute. They’d sent him to California to get him out of the way in the first place; back to California, it had been decided, he would go.

I swear, I’d like to read this contract sometime, Emily muttered. Every time I turn around there’s another clause you haven’t told me about. Do you leave your slippers by the side of the bed for me to trip over because it’s a clause in your contract?

No, I do that because, like any other civilized human being, I like having my slippers where I can get to them. He scraped the plate clean and set it on the bedside table. It would vanish when they weren’t looking, as the other dishes had, swept away by invisible hands. The same invisible hands made the bed (which likely presented a challenge to the invisible hands, for the pair of them hadn’t vacated it very often, maintaining it as their base of operations for every activity imaginable, including, but certainly not limited to, eating Meringue à la Stanton) and kept the gleaming polished surfaces free from what would otherwise be a monstrous accumulation of dust and engine soot from their extended peregrinations. It was all done silently, automatically, and without any human intervention. If they wished, they could go the entire trip without seeing another human being, which, for newlyweds, was certainly an ideal arrangement. It was also an ideal arrangement for them, even though they weren’t actually newlyweds, having realized once their honeymoon trip was underway that becoming weds in any legal sense was impossible, given that he’d sold the name he’d been born with to the Stanton Institute—in addition to granting the Institute perpetual rights to continue publicizing the (always-fictional) exploits of the (now-fictional) Sophos.

Together, they’d settled on a new name for him—William Edwards—but much as he was having difficulty reconciling himself to the idea of living in California, she was having difficulty reconciling herself to his new name.

I mean, when it comes right down to it, I simply can’t call you Will, or even William, she said, randomly reopening the conversation they’d been having for the past fortnight—a conversation which never ended, just washed in and out like the tide. It just doesn’t feel … right.

Oh, for pity’s sake. He rolled his eyes. You said the last name didn’t feel ‘right,’ either. I’m beginning to think you’re somewhat particular. He glanced over at the side table, probably to see if there was a random clot of cream he’d missed. But true to form, the plate had already vanished. Anyway, you’re the one who chose the name William. You said it suited me because I’m a man of great will. Or perhaps because you’re fonder of Wordsworth than you care to admit. Something like that.

"I am not at all fond of Wordsworth, Emily blazed, offended at the suggestion. And while, yes, you are a man of great will, I have come to realize that you have … other qualities. She reddened beneath his lurid smirk. And if you insist on leering at me like that, I’ll start calling you ‘Willy’ and then you’ll be sorry!"

I just don’t understand why it bothers you so much, her not-husband said, as he went—horrifyingly—to retrieve yet another dish of dessert. She watched as he performed the familiar actions to activate the galley cabinet—speaking the name of what it was he wished to eat, then snapping his fingers three times. He flopped back down in the bed beside her and drew his knees up before him, attacking the confection with the same relish with which he’d dived into the other three. You’ve done a fine job calling me ‘dear,’ why not just stick with that?

How about when I’m mad at you? she said. A large part of her concern derived from her expectation of this eventuality.

‘Dear’ works just as well when you’re mad at someone, he said. Better, even.

Emily sighed. And when I have to introduce you? ‘This is my not-husband, Dear’?

You will introduce me as your husband, Mr. William Edwards, just as we agreed. He spoke with extravagant patience. What business is it of anyone else’s if we’re not actually married? I would venture to guess that most social situations will not require the presentation of a certificate.

It’s just … hard to know who you are without your name, Emily said. Even though I didn’t much like your name before, it was your name. Now it’s not. And making up a new one is just so … presumptuous. It was hard to find the right words for exactly what she was feeling, and she idly searched for better ones as she stared out the windows at the rear of the railcar, which opened onto an observation platform. A smallish crow, one of hundreds that squabbled for fish around the inland bays they’d passed, had chosen that moment to light on the platform’s ornate railing, and was peering in at them quizzically (its attention apparently focused on the meringue). Inspired, Emily jabbed an illustrative finger at the bird. It’s like suddenly deciding to call that crow a ‘slogdawdle.’

"Slogdawdle? He wrinkled his nose. Who in their right mind would call a sleek, nimble avian creature like that a slogdawdle?"

You are missing my point—

Especially one that so obviously possesses good taste, he continued, saluting the bird with his spoon.

Except that has nothing to—

"Now, a tortoise stuck in a tar pit … that you might call a slogdawdle, he allowed. The word itself evokes something ponderously slow, something laboriously stuck. A giant tree-sloth bound with rubber ropes soaked in spirit gum—"

It’s a crow! she cried, exasperated. That’s what it is, that’s what it’s called, and you just can’t call it anything else! She paused, shaking her head at him in astonishment. Honestly! How you can bring rubber ropes and spirit gum into a conversation plain defies imagination!

If it’s the new name that’s throwing you off, don’t call it anything at all, he shrugged. Negation is a perfectly valid method of definition. Call it a not-crow. Just like you’ve been calling me your not-husband all during our not-honeymoon. He paused, admiring the gloss on a sugared cherry, turning it over on his spoon before devouring it. Just call me ‘Not.’

She knit her brow