The King of the Book: The Thrilling Adventures of the Most Dangerous Woman in Europe, #2

By Brenda W. Clough

Marian Halcombe Camlet has just given birth to her first son, so it's not a good time for crisis. But her older stepson has run away from his abusive boarding school. And a fortune in diamonds and pearls, destined for Queen Victoria, has been stolen through the Camlet publication offices. Juggling maternity and parenting within the strict confines of Victorian womanhood, Marian attacks with all her customary vehemence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda W. Clough
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781611389425

Brenda W. Clough

Brenda W. Clough is the first female Asian-American SF writer, first appearing in print in 1984. Her novella ‘May Be Some Time’ was a finalist for both the Hugo and the Nebula awards and became the novel Revise the World. Her latest time travel trilogy is Edge to Center, available at Book View Café. Marian Halcombe, a series of eleven neo-Victorian thrillers appeared in 2021.  Her complete bibliography is up on her web page, brendaclough.net

Book preview

Book 1

From the journal of Micah Brickley Camlet, age 11 yrs.

DO NOT READ!

DEATH TO TRESPASSERS!

Sandett House

25 August 1861

My dearest son,

Just a note to inform you that Miss Marian has been safely delivered. You now have a younger half-brother! He is to be christened William Walter Halcombe Camlet. As you may imagine we are all most joyful here. Miss Marian is blooming and sends you her best love.

I hope your first week at boarding school goes well, and that you are learning your way about St. Botolph’s. I enclose a note from Lottie (in code! How clever of the two of you – I am utterly thwarted and baffled!) and a plum cake. Do not eat it all at once, I beg!

Believe me always,

Affectionately yours,

Papa

I paste in this note which I have just received from my father Mr. Theophilus Camlet. I am now in the plainest and most mortal danger. Just like David Copperfield (I have finished his story just this day, having sat up all night reading) I have been supplanted by a son by my parent’s new wife! I daresay Papa will die any day. I had intended to share this cake out among my mates, but I dare not put Jervey, Culford and Porch into danger. It’s probably poisoned. At great sacrifice I ate it all myself, and am now desperately ill. In spite of this had to spend an hour cleaning Mulready Major’s boots. I expect to die shortly. When this is found among my effects, please give this journal to my sister, Miss Charlotte V. Camlet, at Sandett House in Hampstead, north of London. She surely shares my peril!

Things I hate about school no. 14: Sharing a bed with Culford. I have had my own bed since I was born. He hogs all the covers, and smells bad.

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27 August

Began Oliver Twist. Could it be that the cake was not poisoned after all? Mrs. B gave me a horrid dose of bitters, which she brews herself out of poisonous herbs and berries, eye of newt optional, when the moon is on the wane. I’m almost sorry to report it set me right up. Because I did not share, Culford and Jervey took me out behind the coal shed and pounded me. I now have a bloody nose and a black eye. Matron said boys will be boys. I showed her the tooth which is still loose from last week, but she says it’s a milk tooth and will fall out sometime anyway.

Here is the note from Lottie, which I have now decoded:

Hallo, Mickey.

What? They let you read novels at boarding school? Of course I won’t rat to Papa! How has he led us to believe that children may not read fiction published after 1800? We are condemned to peruse Macaulay’s History of England! Tell me all about David Copperfield, instantly!

XXOO Lottie

Thank goodness we agreed to communicate in our private code. It’s better for my sister to discover now, early in life, that the best of men may be deluded and that even my father (whose intelligence is otherwise very tolerable) may be blinded by affection and led astray.

Things I hate about school no.15: There was a layer of grease on the tea today. Soap was not used when washing the crockery. Drank it anyway.

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28 August

Mr. Holly, the mathematics master, says that if I do not apply myself he shall cane me. The daily flogging that Old Buggerhum administers to each of us in turn after supper is to set a high tone of moral and gentlemanlike feeling, and has no effect upon my learning square roots.

Mr. Byland, the history master, teaches us nothing. Today he read to us from the newspaper accounts of a civil war in the United States. It is a major conflagration, not to be missed. The instant I am released from this Hole I shall cross the sea and enlist in the Union Army. Fighting slave holders cannot be worse than St. Botolph’s. And a British public-school man will be a distinct asset, surely welcomed among the colonial ranks. Perhaps they will let me man a cannon! In the meantime I have finished Oliver Twist and begun reading Nicholas Nickleby.

Things I hate about school no. 16: Boys have but one change of linen a fortnight. We all are afflicted with fleas, which infest the mattresses so that they may never be eradicated.

Walter Hartright’s narrative

It is ever the case that beginnings are hard. The bye-election of 1860 sent me to Parliament as a new member. It was an enormous triumph, and a humbling one. I was determined to do my duty and be a credit to my constituents and my family. But with neither a university education, business experience nor high connections I was out of my depth. Nine years ago I made the leap from impecunious drawing master to propertied landowner. Now I had to learn the levers of governance and law, an even greater ascent.

As one of the newest members I held myself lowly, accepting assignments to the less desirable committees. I had hoped to work with Lord Shaftesbury and fight to keep the sane from being unjustly imprisoned in asylums. Instead I was allotted to that most depressing and futile of tasks, the Immoral Acts and Contagious Diseases Subcommittee. The larger committee’s brief was somehow to deal with the rising tide of prostitution and its attendant disease in Britain, which has a deleterious effect on military readiness. A comprehensive Contagious Diseases Act was our ultimate goal but was at that period years away.

The subcommittee hearings were an endless treadmill of depressing witnesses about the seamiest sides of modern life. Day after day I listened to pathetic broken women testifying of their abuse at the hands of pimps, or of the brisk trade in women, essentially slaves, to Brussels to be funnelled into the stews of Europe. Or grand doctors in black frock coats told us far more than one wanted to know about tertiary syphilis and its effect upon military readiness.

Every evening I returned to my mother and sister’s cottage in Hampstead feeling grubbier than the lowest bone-picker. Members of Parliament are the governmental equivalent of chimney sweeps or sewer flushers, delegated to labour in fetid darkness at endless tasks which the rest of society simply will not tolerate.

Even when the House rose in early August I was not free. Everyone who is anyone leaves London at this season, to estates, country homes, their hunting and grouse shooting. Much though I yearned to, I could not return to Limmeridge. Marian was in her ninth month, and my dear wife Laura would no more miss her sister’s confinement than she would her wedding.

When our chairman Lord Leonidas Sulpice learned I was staying in town, he handed me a folder. Possible witness for next session, he grunted, tersely. He was of exalted rank, only marking time in the Commons until his father the Marquess should die and he could take his seat in the House of Lords. Tall, barrel-shaped, and completely bald on top, he had side whiskers and long central chin beard, as if all the thick grey hair had slowly slid down either side of his head to drip off the tip of his chin. He never spoke to a subcommittee member if he could help it. Right in your neighbourhood.

It shall be done, my lord.

Lord Sulpice’s glance was fleeting and entirely cold, like the flick of a knife. But at least he was looking at me. You have a name, Mr. Hartright, for being able to find hidden things. We could use that gift in our work. I particularly want this Miss Fanette Portree next session. She’s been winkling out abusers of young girls – an unsuitable job for a female. She bills herself as a crusader, but I suspect her of being a moll buzzer.

After this House session I knew the term: a female criminal who preyed upon other women. I passed over this reference to my reputation. I do not boast of how I saved Laura from villains who stole her very name and identity. Surely we have testimony enough for action, my lord. What more proof can we look for, of the urgent need for legislation?

I shall discuss it with Mr. Whitbread. This was the chairman of the Select Committee, an exalted personage indeed, and I immediately subsided. Find this elusive female for us, Mr. Hartright. Something ramshackle going on there, and I want it unravelled and dragged into the light of day. A consummate politician, Lord Sulpice made no overt promises. But his unspoken implication was clear. He was giving me a chance for greater things.

Still the need to wash the taste out of my mouth was overwhelming. My sons Wally and Fairlie were nine and four years old respectively, an ideal age for a seaside jaunt, and Laura herself was in the family way. A short holiday was just what she needed, before all her attention was taken up by Marian’s confinement. We spent the fortnight at Whitley Bay, walking on the esplanade, riding donkeys, digging in the sand, and paddling in the shallow surf on the broad curve of beach with St. Mary’s lighthouse a white exclamation point on the horizon.

My sons burned brown as berries, and Laura’s fair hair was gilded with gold. Replete with sunshine and whelks, I felt almost completely restored to myself when we returned to London towards the end of August. Marian was due in September, and all the Camlet children needed their Aunt Laura’s help. Micah had to be packed up and dispatched to his first term at boarding school, his sister Lottie was returning to the local day school, and the littlest daughter Celeste, always called Lester, had to be read to and pampered so that she should not feel neglected.

Camlet planned to go with Micah and see his son well settled at St. Botolph’s. But on that very morning Marian went into labour, three weeks early. Micah had to take the train by himself to school while the entire household fell into the vortex of childbirth. My mother and my wife closeted themselves upstairs with Marian, and my younger sister Sarah took the girls along with my boys out for a picnic on Hampstead Heath.

My allotted duty was Camlet himself. Husband and wife are enviably happy together, almost too intimate, but these moments were when the bill came due. Before he could become consumed with worry I haled Camlet off to the village tavern. Descended from a long line of nonconformists, he was of an abstemious habit. Two tankards of strong brew ensured a sound slumber on the chesterfield sofa in the morning room. And in the morning we were greeted with the joyous news of his son’s birth.

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Sandett House, 31 August 1861

This morning was my baby’s first outing, to his baptism. We all just squeezed into the brougham, Theo, myself, Lottie, now a great girl of nine, and Lester, a self-possessed three-year-old miss. Theo held the baby. Laura and Walter are standing as godparents, and met us at the church with their own sons, and also Walter’s mother. His sister Sarah is a godparent as well. The girls had new bonnets for the occasion in pale blue velvet, and I had thought to celebrate the birth of my first son with something sensible like a new Indian shawl in the same hue. I am nursing him myself, and a shawl is always a useful accessory with a newborn.

But my dreadful husband took a notion of his own. We returned from church to a sumptuous christening luncheon at Sandett House. Theo said grace and carved the joint, and when every plate was filled he raised his glass. To Marian, my dearest companion and the best wife any man could ever wish for, he said. She is the good angel of all our lives.

With three times three, Walter said.

Tears welled up in Laura’s blue eyes, so that she had to blot them with her napkin. It’s just that I’m so happy, she made excuse.

Walter made haste to pass her a handkerchief. You are in a very delicate state, my dear, he said solicitously. She is visibly increasing now, and Walter is like a hen with one chick.

My love, you are so sweet, I said to my husband. And I am no angel! That is a base calumny.

Theo’s side whiskers swoop down and then up to join in a moustache, squaring off his face and framing an entirely wicked smile. I tremble as I make you this offering, my love, he declared.

Dubious, I accepted the cloth sack that the housemaid carried down to where I sat at the foot of the table. It was coarse undyed flour-sacking, the bag that bakers carry loaves in. I undid the knot in the drawstring and pulled out a quartern loaf. When I set it on the tablecloth Wally and Fairlie shouted with laughter, and Sarah frowned primly. How very odd of you, Theo. Is this a new fashion?

Giggling, Lottie said, Papa, a loaf of bread is not a very thrilling gift.

Your mother and I have solemnly agreed to avoid costly display, he told her. Perhaps, if you exhibit a demure spirit of female propriety, she may share her present with you in time.

This filled me with suspicion. When my darling man employs the ponderous tones of the paterfamilias he is absolutely untrustworthy. The bag was not yet empty, and from its flour-dusty bottom I drew out a muslin bag that held something square. Brushing off the chaff I opened this second bag and took out a black velvet box. And in it – Oh! Theo, have you run mad?

With trembling fingers I held up a pendant, glinting with gems. Beside me Mrs. Hartright gasped out loud, and Walter nearly choked on a bite of potato. Little Lester clapped her hands and cried, Sparkly!

Theo rose from his place at the head of the table and came around to take the trinket before I dropped it. Allow me, my love.

Theo, how can you? We cannot afford it!

If we fall on hard times, be assured Mr. Searle the jeweller has undertaken to buy it back from me. And consider that it is not every year that I am presented with a son. Incorrigible! He undid the clasp, stooping to fasten it under the mass of my pinned-up hair. Then he gently saluted my forehead before returning to his place. It looks well on you, my dear.

I leaped up to look at myself in the mirror over the mantel. My second-best gown is a figured dark-red wool. It will be some weeks yet before I fit into my best one. The pendant was of intricate gold filigree, a many-pointed star two inches across set with garnets and seed pearls. The ornament made but a poor contrast against the red wool. But when shall I ever have occasion to wear such a grand adornment? At least my ring, with its three sapphires, is a wedding ring.

Theo ladled beef gravy onto his potatoes. How often have I cautioned you about your expensive ways, he reproached me without the slightest shame as he addressed himself to his plate. If I must now take you to grand balls, or hold large, costly assemblies in your honor, I shall rapidly become bankrupt.

Laura laughed. I sat down and sputtered, deprived of speech. Walter took the opportunity to say, "Then I take it that business at Covenant Pamphlets and Printed Materials is good, Camlet. Is Daisy Darnell continuing to sell well?"

Briskly. And I have discovered a new author, of whom I have high hopes. John Padgett St. Lour’s thriller may eclipse even the adventures of Miss Darnell.

I want to read them! Lottie cried.

When you are older, child, her father replied, as he always did. Lottie and Micah are not permitted to peruse Daisy Darnell: The Most Dangerous Woman in Europe. It is a great secret that the first Mrs. Camlet, Margaret their mother, became Daisy Darnell when she left Theo.

I can’t wait, Sarah said. And why are there no more volumes about her, Theo? There ought to be.

Miss Darnell is in Buenos Aires, beyond my persuasive powers. This is the standard excuse, which Theo can produce without a blush.

I refused to be distracted. And you can afford wild indulgences like this? Theo, we agreed to buy each other only the most practical gifts!

This is not display, my love, he said, with so earnest a demeanor that I knew that some new outrage was coming. It’s in the nature of a bribe. I hope to placate your fury with gifts.

He can always make me laugh. You have something yet more awful to tell me?

I do. Suddenly he was not pretending to be serious. You remember that I planned a journey not to Argentina, but to Amsterdam. To Walter he explained, I have the first English edition of the theological works of John Frederic Bachstrom in train, but the translator has fallen behind. I have postponed the trip as long as I can.

Marian, you cannot be alone, with a new baby, Laura cried. Theo, how can you think of leaving her?

In all fairness, Laura, he’s been discussing the trip since spring, I said. At considerable inconvenience, he has loitered for my confinement, and for William’s baptism. I’m very nearly recovered now. And you won’t be gone long, Theo, will you?

Theo smiled down the length of the table at me. I shall go and return as swiftly as I may. He added to Walter, You see how it’s done? A munificent gift, and my dear wife’s opinion veers right around to the opposite point of the compass. Could she be more entirely reconciled to my truancy?

Oh! You’re a monster, entirely evil!

I’ll certainly stay with you while Theo is away, Laura said. You should not be by yourself in the house.

What with the servants, the nanny, and the baby nurse, not to mention my daughters, the very last thing I am is alone. And the Hartright cottage is but half a mile away. But I said, I would be delighted to have you, Laura. And you, Walter, as well.

Mrs. Hartright cried, But I must retain my dear grandsons! And with a new baby in the house you do not want lively boys making noise.

We will drive over every day, I promised.

Not until later however did Theo reveal that ‘soon’ meant Monday morning! I was nursing, and was so flummoxed that the flow was interrupted, making my baby grunt in protest.

There, there, lovey, I murmured, making a concerted effort to compose my spirits. A woman with a newborn partakes of the nature of a milch-cow. Theo, I do think you might have been more precise. We have been married getting on for four years now, and the happy cup of matrimony is sweeter every day. This would be our first lengthy parting. But I was determined not to pain him with feminine clinging. It is the duty of a wife to support her husband in all he does.

I’m sorry, my love, he said. But the boat connections are simply more convenient at the forefront of the week. He leaned over the back of my rocking chair so that he could look down at our new son. What a great lump of a lad. And the way he smacks his lips!

My front was discreetly draped with a shawl, but I blushed under his gaze as if it were not there. We both thoroughly enjoy the pleasures concealed by it. He reminds me of you, I said daringly, which made us both snort and giggle. He’s already gained more than a pound. Do you think his eyes will stay blue, or darken in time? Lester was hazel-eyed from the very first.

I look for his eyes to be as black as your own. I’ve made all the arrangements for my absence, the household accounts settled and the quarterly monies in order. I put your pin money into your box. Inching is to be in charge in the city, as usual, in my absence.

I nodded. Mr. Talbert Inching has run the day-to-day operations of Covenant Pamphlets & Publications for some years. We shall miss you here, but we’ll jog along. I leaned my head back against his male chest, and looked up into his intriguingly upside-down countenance. He bent and kissed my nose. This made both of us laugh inordinately, and my poor baby complained again.

When little William had nursed himself into a stupor I handed him off to his nurse to be tucked into his cradle. Donning a wrap I went with my husband downstairs to his study.

This is a pleasantly masculine space at the back of the house, with an old-fashioned wide fireplace and a glassed-in passageway that leads to his beloved greenhouse. The shelves are laden with Theo’s own books, the ones he reads for pleasure – all his business ones are at Covenant.

But the novels are in the locked case. He is too canny to forbid the children to read Daisy Darnell, and has instead placed his fatherly stricture upon all fiction, an attitude that is old-fashioned but by no means rare. One may still find doctors who hold that reading novels leads girls into immorality or madness. Now he opened a lower cupboard behind the massive cherrywood desk. I believe I showed you the safe.

Yes, when we first married. Behind the unassuming wooden panel was a small Milner safe. Its massive iron door was not quite closed. Theo swung it open and put the jeweled pendant in its black velvet box into the top drawer. The lower shelf was stacked with papers. I knew these must be leases, stock certificates, and other financial documents. The danger in our placid London suburb is not theft so much as fire. The house nearly burnt down once already this decade.

Now that you also are storing possessions here, it’s right that you learn how to work the lock. He showed me where the eleven digits of the combination were noted, on an inconspicuous paper label gummed to the bottom back corner of a cluttered desk drawer. A similar notation is in my desk at Covenant. One begins by spinning the wheel to the right, for several full revolutions…

Under his supervision I locked and unlocked the massive door. But I shall not need to wear gems in your absence.

It is as well to be prepared. What if I should die?

Don’t you dare! You are going to travel safely and return promptly.

He had been supervising proceedings from his desk chair, and now drew me down to sit on his knee. I shall. If for your part you keep equally safe.

A nursing mother and her expectant sister. Could there be two females more innocuous and feeble? I put my arms around him. We shall live quietly here in the most gentle and domestic seclusion, with Walter to watch over us.

Two doves in their cote, he said. Remain so, until I return to make you flutter again.

Oh, the loving look in his hazel eyes! I had to immediately kiss him. A new mother may not return to her wifely duties for six weeks or so after the birth, and so his hands warm around my waist were simply a promise of delights to come. But by the time he returns I shall be fit to welcome him properly!

Walter Hartright’s narrative

When all four of my family crowded into the cottage with my mother and sister it was undeniably close quarters. I was happy to remove to the more commodious and luxurious Sandett House, and since it was but half a mile away Laura was still near her sons. She and Marian were extraordinarily close, and I had grown to esteem Camlet as a brother, so the removal was entirely pleasant. The only annoyances were trivial. Wally and Fairlie might become unutterably spoilt by their aunt and grandmother. And Camlet and Marian tend to slip into pet names and catch phrases that make them giggle but mystify hearers.

Refreshed from my respite, I at last found the time to look at the committee papers Lord Sulpice had handed me. The portfolio held only a few documents. There were copies of two letters to Miss Fanette Portree, a special secretary with the Female Preventative and Reformatory League at the League’s office in Bloomsbury, but no replies. A sterner letter over Lord Sulpice’s signature urged a reply, which apparently had never come.

At the back was a larger heavier sheet, folded in four. Unfolded, this was revealed to be a landscape sketch, competently executed in pen and ink with colour wash – a subject upon which I have some knowledge. The style was delicate and feminine. Surely this was the lady’s own handiwork.

No personal address for her appeared anywhere, but only that of the League. But the chairman of the League was the Rev. Thomas Wilfrid Angier, the vicar of St. John’s right here in Hampstead. This must have been what Lord Sulpice meant, about being in my neighbourhood. Very convenient for me, since it was the Camlets’ church and I was acquainted with the vicar. I therefore sent the stable boy with a note, making an appointment to call upon the Rev. Angier, and planned to visit the League offices in the city.

Turning my attention to the drawing, I noted that the landscape was no common view. The image was of a town, taken from a great height – not an isometric sketch, of all the houses tilted in perspective to give the illusion of a bird’s view, but a true panorama, as if the artist were lofted in a balloon. Very unusual – I could not imagine a lady sitting in the gondola of an airship, placidly sketching. Such activities are usually undertaken by soldiers doing reconnaissance for battle. I held the drawing up to the light and considered the subject depicted. It was not London, nor Paris, nor Edinburgh. It did not look like the venue of any major battle I could recall.

The roofs and buildings had an English look, ancient thatch roofs nestled onto a hilly tongue of land enclosed by a wall and the bend of a river. And though I had never seen this sketch before, nor the town, the actual scene was familiar to me. At some point in the past, I had seen another painting or drawing of this view. Unfortunately, in my past career as a professional landscape artist, the number of cityscapes that have passed before my eye is very large indeed. I cudgelled memory in vain.

On Monday morning we set out together for town. Camlet was going to Covenant for a final word or two, and then on to the station for his train to Folkestone and so across the Channel. A prosperous business owner, he kept a brougham. I pretended to supervise the coachman in the loading of the baggage while Camlet made his farewells. Little Lester especially was firm in her disapproval. She had her mother’s thick black hair and her father’s hazel eyes. I could come with you, Papa, she said in her childish treble. I could keep the best seat in the compartment for you on the train.

It is not possible, daughter, he replied, hugging her close. Be assured I shall remember you every day. Lottie, I rely upon you to be studious at school, and help Miss Marian at need. Are you continuing to write to Micah?

Yes, and he’s developing some quite odd notions, Lottie replied. A girl of nine with bright golden ringlets, she too was precocious. All of Camlet’s children were unusually intelligent. I do not think St. Botolph’s suits him.

Camlet leaned to kiss her cheek. I shall look into it when I return.

Marian stood on the step, resplendent in a red and yellow paisley silk dressing gown and holding the baby in a white woolly shawl on her shoulder. Her great dark eyes were bright with tears, but her voice was steady. Travel safe and swift, my love.

And I leave everything I possess in your care, he said. Guard and nurture my property with the most punctilious care. I shall demand a strict accounting when I come back. He immediately belied these austere and patriarchal words by kissing her ardently. It was not entirely proper to thus indulge marital affection in the view of others, even in one’s own home, but I had to make allowance for farewells.

Disturbed by these shenanigans, the infant began to grizzle. Marian sighed. Hungry, again.

Let me take him, Laura said.

Camlet delayed the transfer to kiss the tiny forehead under the wee cap. I detect a nappy calling for the closest attention. And I do not need to emphasise to you, wife, what I treasure most, and what you must nurture with the tenderest care. The baby removed, they were able to embrace even more closely.

Without a doubt, for you have instructed me so straitly, Marian cried. But the pendant is locked in your safe and so you need have no fears.

At this raillery Camlet laughed until his cheeks went pink. A final kiss, and we were off at last. Not until the carriage was well down the road did he take a deep breath. It’s a comfort to me that you will be on hand, Hartright. You have ever been a trustworthy caretaker of all I hold dear.

I shall do my very best for you, Camlet. But Marian tends not to heed my strictures. I have not your way of it.

Why, what wildness do you look for? She is the most obedient and amiable woman I know.

Camlet, the two of you bicker continually.

Only in fun, he assured me. Besides, a nursing mother with a tiny infant can do little. She does not even plan to leave the house, except of a Sunday to church. With both you and Laura to keep her company, she will want for nothing.

I found this dubious. But on the other hand it was true that after a tumultuous start the Camlet union was exemplary. In spite of the volleys of teasing their mutual devotion was unquestionable, and they were the happiest pair I knew. That pendant was but the latest of the luxuries Camlet had showered onto his wife. Although he accuses her of extravagance he fools no one.

We parted with hearty handclasps, he on his travels and I to the offices of the Female Preventative and Reformatory League in Bloomsbury. I had put no especial thought into this call, assuming that it was a large concern that kept regular hours. To my surprise I found that it was simply an accommodation address, the office of a copyist no different from the thousands of copyist firms in London. The clerk there said, Oh, the League isn’t based in town. London rents to blame, I’m told.

Then perhaps you could tell me where they are. Surely it would not be necessary to travel to some distant part of Britain?

Can’t be done, sir. We’ve promised the League complete discretion. You may write to them, but no calls.

I had no choice but to withdraw, telling myself that this was odd but by no means unknown. A group manned only by volunteer labour does not squander funds on an office. And if it had been so simple, merely to go to Bloomsbury and discover Miss Portree, Lord Sulpice would not have called upon me for aid. I would have to fall back upon the Rev. Angier.

From the journal of Micah Brickley Camlet

St. Botolph’s, 3 September

INVADERS SHALL DIE!! [elaborate drawing of assegais and longbows omitted]

2 September 1861

Covenant

My dear Micah,

I write in haste to tell you that I am off to Amsterdam on business. Miss Marian and your sister rely upon your faithful correspondence. In my absence you are the man of the family. I will write at greater length from the Continent.

All love,

Your Papa

From this letter I recognise the trend of events. First, I am disinherited. My younger half-brother has unquestionably supplanted me in my father’s heart, and in any case my sire is sure to die very soon. Secondly, Papa is gone out of the country, beyond my reach. This will probably tie into his untimely and tragic demise. Probably there are dangerous aborigines in the Netherlands who will cut his throat with honed clam shells. My stepmother (who has just sent me a parcel of hand-knitted socks, an entire set of new linens, and two jars of home-made marmalade! I ate them immediately) will naturally prefer the new little boy to myself. I am alone in my own country and surrounded by my foes. Have written in code to my sister for help. She, at least, has never failed me.

Things I hate about school no. 22: Games, every day, no matter how foul the weather. Why?

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Sandett House, 3 September

I am worn out with the rigours of new motherhood. Even with Nurse’s assistance, little William’s insistence upon feeding every few hours or so is exhausting. I had forgot how demanding a newly born baby can be! It’s simplest just to lie in bed dozing, and have Nurse bring him in whenever he wants topping up. If one does not dress or go downstairs, life is constricted but far easier.

However, this does mean that I cannot take my sleep in one comfortable stretch through the night. After nursing my infant last evening, I found I was unable to fall back asleep. Walter and Laura had gathered up the girls and gone over to the cottage to take supper with their own family, so that everything should be quiet for the baby. I was alone in the house.

I put on my dressing gown and made my way downstairs. On the dining room table a nutritious snack was laid out for me: a new-baked oatcake and butter, raspberry preserves and an apple. I sat groggy as an owl in the silent dining room and stared at the plates. Ellen looked in. Would you like milk, madam, or a glass of ale with lemon?

You know I cannot abide milk, Ellen.

Mrs. Hartright said you were to take it, madam, for the young master’s sake. But ale’s better than nothing.

Let it be ale, then. And to my irritation she brought in the milk after all, made into a custard. What an agricultural function I serve these days. I am little better than a cow myself, turning fodder into milk to suckle an insatiable baby. But I was so fuddled that I ate and drank everything without tasting it.

The reins of my mind were slack. I sat spinning out my ale, staring blankly. The dining room is at the back of the house, behind the morning room. The door into the hall was open, and on the other side of the passage the door into Theo’s study stood ajar also. Since he is not home the lamps were not lit. Beyond the dark book-lined room ran the glass passage to the night-mantled greenhouse. Outside the moon was full and bright, silvering the greenhouse glass with its pallid light.

And suddenly I saw it – the dark silhouette of a tall figure, outside the glass. I sat up, every nerve snapping taut. Someone was lurking in the garden, peering into the house. Immediately I thought of that dratted garnet pendant. A valuable jewel locked in the safe, a magnet for any with a burglarious intent! Where was Walter, now that I needed a strong male arm to defend me? I was alone in the house with a newborn baby.

But I have never been a helpless female. My husband’s first wife preferred an air pistol, but I have a derringer, a single-shot piece I snatched from the hand of an attacker several years ago. Quickly I ran up the stairs to my room again and fetched it out of the writing-table drawer. The ammunition is kept with it, and as I ran down the stair again I pushed a cartridge into the single chamber.

Then I stood panting for breath in the hall. Being confined means exactly that, staying in one’s room to recover from the birth process in quiet. This is prudent, of course. It is not called labour for nothing. The more stringent medical advice calls for the new mother to be kept in perpetual twilight, abed with the curtains closely drawn, but this I refuse to tolerate. I am