The Nautilus Knight: The Thrilling Adventures of the Most Dangerous Woman in Europe, #7

By Brenda W. Clough

For years publisher Theophilus Camlet has been discreetly distributing a pamphlet with some of the most incendiary information in Victorian England: birth control. When he is arrested for distributing pornography Marian's worst enemy seizes his chance to destroy her most valuable possession: her marriage. To save her husband's sanity Marian agrees to a false death certificate. But how long can she live as an impoverished widow and mother, when her man has fled to America?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda W. Clough
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781611389678

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

Foreword by Walter Hartright

My dearest wife Laura paused at the turn of the broad marble stair to look for me. The great gallery at Cranmorden was thronged, murmuring with happy anticipation. It was February, the Winter Ball, but the light of a thousand candles made the ladies’ gowns into spring blossoms. Every delicate hue showed bright against the background of the gentlemen’s black formal dress. In the ballroom, the musicians’ twiddles and plinks resolved into melody as they finished tuning their instruments. Soon the dancing would begin.

Laura’s ball gown was of the palest blue moiré, unadorned by lace or trim. It struck me, not for the first time, that her dress is too simple for her station in life. But pinned in the drape of the low bodice was her sole ornament, a massive floral brooch. At this a princess would glance twice, for its central flower bud is an emerald the size of an unhulled walnut. She flaunts it because I won the stone for her from a cenote in the Honduras. Like many emeralds, the gem is flawed. Hold the brooch up to the light, and the weakness is plain to be seen: a dark fissure in the jewel's green core. Set incautiously or struck by an unskilled hand, a magnificent gem will fall into worthless fragments.

I raised a hand, and when she caught sight of me she floated down the stair to put her satin-gloved hand into mine. How wonderfully fine we both look, my love, she said with a shy smile. I am so glad Marian insisted we come.

But I was silent. I recognised the metaphor. The emerald is the human heart. A thousand blows may rain down upon a man, and he will laugh. But let the sole weak spot be struck, and he shatters, falling forever into the abyss.

Book 1

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

London, 24 April 1868

The Varnishing Days at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition are open only to the artists. But my brother-in-law Walter Hartright slipped my husband and me into the gallery towards the end of the day. Address no one, if you would, he warned as we mounted the broad shallow stair. Even if you recognise the artist. Their minds will be taken up with the final touches, and conversation is unwelcome.

Really, Walter, I replied. I cannot speak for Theo, but I myself am entirely civilised.

A wanton and unprovoked insult. My dearest husband squeezed my hand so that I did not dare to glance at him.

The galleries at Somerset House were indeed thronged, and far too small for the number of works. Everywhere painters darted about in a fever of anxiety, work smocks buttoned over their decent frock coats, clutching paint-boxes and palettes and touching up their works even at this final moment. I am not sure where the varnish comes into it! On the marble stair some exalted artist was quarrelling with a committee member about where his work had been hung.

Walter shepherded us past. Laura shall not be able to bear the crowds, but once the work is returned to Limmeridge she looks to enjoy it daily.

Theo peered at him through his round steel spectacles. You are certain your painting will not sell.

Walter’s smile was sheepish. I set what I felt was a fair price on the work: a hundred pounds. And then Laura trebled it.

Good girl, I declared. I’m proud of her. Laura is transparent as glass, but in Walter’s cause she can be as cunning as – well, as me! It must be the most expensive painting here.

"It’s sharp dealing. Millais only got three hundred guineas for Ophelia, and that was unquestionably a masterpiece."

It’s fruitless to argue with a wife on such matters, Theo advised. Simply nod and move on. He demonstrated this before an enormous dramatic canvas of Andromeda being rescued by Perseus. It was done in the modern highly-detailed style, so that one could discern every strand of the princess’s long red hair and note from her bunions that she favoured overly-pointed shoes when she was not barefoot, nude, and chained to a rock. To sit down to a muffin and behold a young woman wearing so very little would depress appetite.

The smile under the swooningly-barbered moustache, which dipped down to join with the side whiskers, told me exactly what my husband was thinking. He’s unutterably depraved! I was hard put to smother my laughter, and Walter quelled me with a glance.

Even when Walter was a professional artist he had not aspired to these levels. This painting is the most ambitious work he has ever executed. He is not an Academian, and although outsiders may submit works for consideration, nine out of ten are rejected by either the Selection or the Hanging Committees. To have Brunhilde Discovered accepted for the Exhibition fulfilled a dream that I doubt Walter dared to articulate even in his inmost heart.

We approached it with reverence, as we would an icon in a church. The walls of the galleries are hung cheek by jowl with the selected paintings, and many works are so high they can barely be viewed. The most desirable position, at eye level ‘on the line’ is reserved for members only. Walter's was above some grand RA member's seascape which occupied the prime spot, but this piece was smaller and so the more largely proportioned Brunhilde was not too high to be easily examined.

The work had its inspiration in a sketch he had taken of me, without my permission, as I lay in Theo's big bed at Sandett House. Admittedly I was unconscious at the time! It did make for a dramatic pose, myself in bed under the covers but with my loosened hair pouring down to pool on the floor. But to title the work Sleeping Beauty was a blatant falsehood. I may have some minor comeliness, but I am emphatically no beauty. My protests forced poor Walter to begin the work afresh.

When I consider the mountainous obstacles that surrounded even acquiring the canvas, it’s a triumph that the work is at long last complete. The bed canopy is gone and the heavy red bed curtains have become sheer, orange and yellow hues added to transform them into wavering walls of flame. Over in the corner what had been a mahogany chifforobe is now distant snow-capped mountains, clearly inspired by our visit to the Italian Alps a few years ago. Another yard or so of length has been added to the abundant black hair of the heroine, increasing its resemblance to an ebony waterfall pouring into a rippling black pool, and her flannel nightgown sleeve is now chain mail. And her sleeping face has been subtly prettified. Closed, the eyes are no longer so protuberant, and I am certain that British art lovers shall prefer a Germanic roses and snow to my own rather swarthy complexion.

The hero Siegfried, on the further side of the bed, is an entirely new addition to the composition. He has just hauled her helm off and is holding it to one side with his mouth agape, leaning back in a melodramatic attitude of startlement. Walter coerced one of the gardeners at Limmeridge to pose in this uncomfortable attitude hefting a flower pot. But between his sweeping blue cloak and his upraised arm the hero's face is not terribly prominent.

The eye is instead drawn to the gleaming armour, glittering with gems, heaped beside the bed. The lady clasps to her breast a great sword in a golden sheath that weighs down the covers, which have been changed from the homely coverlet to a very Nordic polar bear’s fur, head and all. Imaginative! No one I know possesses such a rug. Walter must have spent hours outside the polar bears’ cage at the zoological garden, studying the fall of light on its shaggy pelt.

Did you take sketches at the British Museum? I stood on tiptoe to see better. Surely a German warrior maiden is not going to wear a Roman corselet.

This isn’t history, Theo reproached me. It’s art, and of the most romantic. You handle surfaces well, Hartright. I can distinguish gold, brass, and silver inlay with ease. And one may almost feel the bear’s pelt and the velvet of the hero’s cloak. He examined the plaque at the bottom of the massive frame. And this blue label. Is it significant?

Label? Walter looked, and started. There must be some mistake.

You aren’t alone, I said. See, that one over there has one. I nodded at a portrait of three girls by Millais, an artist so famed even I can recognise his work.

It’s a 'sold' label, he said, in strangled tones. There’s an error. Excuse me, Marian, Camlet. He pushed through the crowd and vanished.

Theo went on musing with his usual practicality. How beautifully polished her armour is. Perhaps the magical flames keep tarnish at bay. One would never carry such a heavily jewelled sword into combat. The lady was therefore immured with her parade armour, a sensible provision by her father Odin. Upon awakening she would need assets, and a ruby or so is easily converted into cash.

But his reflections were hushed as some others paused to look at Brunhilde. An elderly artist sniffed. "Pho! Another scene from myth and legend. One would never think there were suitable incidents in British history to portray. D’you remember Wollen’s Last Stand at Gundamuck? Now that was a noble painting."

Who is he, George? His companion nodded at the plaque and its blue label.

Not a member. Humph! They'll buy anything these days. No discrimination of eye left any more, in the GBP.

How sharp the tooth of envy is, I murmured to my husband. Can it indeed be sold? Walter will have made a fortune.

And so soon, before the public opening, even. It’s a coup.

Who could have spent such a sum on a work by an obscure artist? Walter is known, but not for his painting.

A frantic artist made to pass with a stepladder so that he could reach his masterpiece high up near the cornice, so we moved out of his way back to the hall. I looked over the marble baluster and saw Walter’s tall athletic figure pounding up the stairs, his face red and his tall hat in hand. This is unbelievable, he panted as he came up to us.

Then I congratulate you, Theo said.

My poor brother-in-law seemed half-mazed, and I steadied him with a hand through his arm as we descended again. You work has caught the fancy of a rich connoisseur. Who?

I shall not know the purchaser until after the Exhibition.

So that a buyer may think twice, Theo guessed. Well! Any way one considers it, it’s a mighty honour, brother. And now the work shall be the cynosure of the exhibition.

Outside a chilly evening was closing in, and the evening mist from the river made each gas lamp a fuzzy yellow ball of light. In spite of the dark, the street was as crowded as the gallery, and we had to walk down to where Matson waited at the kerb with the carriage.

The coachman opened the door for us. A note for you, madam.

For me?

Yes, madam. A lady passing by recognised the brougham, and left her card.

How odd. It is not at all correct, to leave cards with a coachman as one would at a house. Theo handed me up into the vehicle. Only when we were in motion did I have a moment to look at the card. Mrs. Pierpont, I read aloud. From Birmingham. Do I know a Mrs. Pierpont, my love?

Crinolines are thankfully falling out of fashion, but my gown is made with a polonaise, ten yards in the skirt. Theo is the mildest of men and made no complaint of my surging tide of maize-coloured silk. Never heard of her. The fabric hid his gloved hand completely as he tucked mine into it. How it rejoices my heart, that you believe I have a budget of everything in your head.

I had to smile up into his loving eyes, hazel behind the steel-rimmed spectacles. We are odiously familiar, are we not?

You are, Walter said with conviction, across from us.

Only then did I turn the card over. The five characters penned on the back blurred before my eyes, and with a little cry I fell back.

The card dropped to my lap and Theo picked it up. Oh, God.

He passed it across to Walter, who tipped it to the gaslight and then breathed out a long breath. So. Redmund Lowry is returned to Britain. A bad penny always turns up again. But what does he mean, ‘Soon!’?

I spoke the lie firmly. I have no idea. But, Theo – we must inform the earl. Instantly!

Parliament was in session, so my noble cousin was in town. Upper Belgrave Street is not far, Theo said. In half an hour we halted in front of a grand city dwelling on one of the most exclusive streets in London. Herbert Halcombe Faversham Lowry, the sixth Earl of Brecon and Stowe, is my third cousin. We are cordial, but I take care not to presume, he being so very far above me. His countess Winifred is a dear, and I correspond with her regularly, but she spends most of the year at the great estate of Cranmorden in Gloucestershire, her first son being a year old.

As is usual during the season the earl was entertaining this evening, and his butler told us his lordship was not at home to callers. I had to be firm. His lordship shall wish to hear the news I bring. You are familiar with me, Mr. Bowles. You are aware I would not intrude upon his lordship for a trifle.

At last Brecon and Stowe was fetched. The earl cuts an unimpressive figure, stocky but on the smallish side, his complexion weather-beaten from days spent in the saddle. A chinstrap beard lends strength to an already stern countenance, and his hair is colourlessly fair. He looked down his narrow nose at us, but when Walter held the card out his long face instantly altered.

Come through, into the library. Bowles, bring sherry. And let them carry on with dinner. Say that I have an important message.

The library was a high-ceilinged and expansive room, lined with leather-bound volumes that my cousin never opens. A wood fire crackled in the grate, and the sherry was excellent. There was little we could add to the fact of the card. His handwriting is unmistakable, my lord, Walter said. And that he left it for Marian …

Yes. It’s unquestionably him. We all three sipped sherry and looked away to give the earl time to absorb the shock.

It is a profound secret that Herbert Lowry has a twin brother. Redmund Lowry is the elder by ten minutes, and so the rightful earl. But he was born missing a hand and a foot. His fearful physical deformities led his parents to hide him away, allowing Herbert to succeed to the title all unknowing. And now there is no going back. Redmund cannot win a suit against his brother and shall never claim his birthright. But he’ll never stop trying. If Redmund is returned to England, Herbert is in imminent danger.

Boldly I put my hand on his impeccably tailored black sleeve. You’ll be careful, cousin. Redmund sticks at nothing.

He is more removed from the title than ever now. For just one instant his lordship’s severe face softened at the thought of Richard Henry Halcombe Lowry, his son and heir.

And so he must be desperate, Walter said, throwing down a barefaced defiance like this. I hope it’s merely chance that he left his card on Marian. Perhaps he was simply going down the street and recognised the brougham.

I could not tell them – no one knows save my husband – that to save Theo’s life I had promised Redmund Lowry that I would spend a night in his bed, some day. That was what he meant by ‘soon’, a terrifying prospect. But I kept my countenance, not betraying my shame and dread. You have guests whom you ought not neglect, my lord, I said. Return to them and finish your dinner. We may speak of this at some more convenient time.

Not here, the earl replied. I’ll send word. Perhaps we should go for a ride again. Only a very few know the earl’s Secret, because he guards it with fanatical devotion. He clasped my hand in both his own in farewell. You fear him.

Yes, I do, I admitted.

Know that you are not alone. He sighed. I’m grateful for the warning. Good night, cousin Marian. Keep her well, Camlet, Hartright.

In the carriage again Walter grinned at me. Your kindness is misplaced, Marian. His lordship would feel more courage if you spoke the truth – that if Redmund should dare to come buzzing about, you would crush the jackanapes like an insect.

Painting all that armour and weaponry has addled you, Walter, I returned with spirit. I am a matron and a mother. Your warrior woman exists only in fevered imagination. Besides, I already shot Redmund in the head once, to disappointing effect.

Do you join us for dinner, Hartright? Theo asked. Or shall we leave you off here?

No, I have a sheaf of papers to go through, and then must be up early tomorrow. We’ll dine when Laura arrives on Monday. He opened the door and swung himself down to the pavement. Be wary, sister. And grateful, that you are not Brecon and Stowe.

Only when he vanished among the teeming crowds of London could I fling myself trembling into Theo’s arms. Oh Theo! Walter cannot know – I promised. I put my word to a degrading and infamous bargain, and now Redmund means to hold me to it!

Every woman I know has been brought up to defer to men. And men, in their turn, are required to be masterly. My hat, a maize-coloured Lamballe confection with black lace and feathers, slipped alarmingly sideways as Theo kissed my brow. You need fear nothing, little bird. Recall my intent, to lay about the rascal with a horsewhip.

It was a melodramatic notion, but immediately I felt better. We had assumed that my criminous cousin would fall foul of the law and be jailed for a long term. But a horsewhip would be a fine alternative! I don’t believe you, I said. Do you even own a whip? None of your horses has ever felt a blow from you.

But you believe that as long as I’m here, you’re under my protection. It’s my duty to guard and nurture you. His arms were warm and strong around me. We shall begin making provision this very evening. I’ll warn all the household that I fear burglars. All the locks on the windows and doors on the ground floor shall be tested.

He is full of good ideas, and I immediately carried this one forward. None shall answer the bell except the servants, who shall be instructed to learn the name and business of any caller before letting them in the door.

A wise notion. And I shall ride or cab to work, so that the carriage may be at your disposal. You shall not go out without attendance, not even into the garden. Which should be staffed better. The gardener and his boy shall be there every day.

I rested my cheek on his woollen shoulder. We play these games, but in moments of stress they are a support. You’ve never failed me, Theo. Although, Hockett to come in every day? That will be expensive. Do you plan to renovate the perennial beds again?

My naughty man was prompt to reply. Not in the spring, no. But you lay bare my stratagem. I’ve been thinking of a rockery, over near the side. The digging should take weeks.

I had to laugh at this. Oh, you monster. Using my fears as an excuse for colossal indulgence – you are a cunning one! And I was entirely myself again.

Walter Hartright’s narrative

My younger son Fairlie having just turned eleven, it was past time to consider whether to send him to school. Laura was reluctant to part with her youngest, but my sons benefit from systematic and stringent instruction. My eldest boy Wally started at Marlborough a few years ago and the improvement was notable. I feared he was a hopeless dunce. Certainly governesses and tutors had not helped him. At boarding school, Wally was growing into a youth of decency, although of no accomplishment whatsoever except in sport. As his aunt Marian unkindly pointed out, he was the beau ideal of the English gentleman. But then her children were of an opposite temperament, all of them what I would term excessively intelligent.

The estate was entailed upon Wally. As the younger, Fairlie’s fate was to make his own way in the world. And therefore his parents were obliged to ensure that he had all the tools and learning he might need. To that end Laura brought him to town with her, the plan being to visit Marlborough and see how it suited.

His cousin Micah Camlet was a lordly sixth-former and undertook to take us around to all the major points of interest, with special emphasis upon the boathouse and the rowing shells. With his height and strength Micah was in the first eight, and had already been tapped to row for his college when he went up to Cambridge. Wally was too slight to do well at the oar and spent his schooldays perfecting his bowling at cricket, which he was to demonstrate for us. And I was to undergird the entire party with a massive and luxurious tea.

I met the two travellers at the station without incident on Monday afternoon. Laura was fair and slight, of a nervous temperament, but attended by her maid and her son tolerated the journey from Limmeridge well, and greeted me with joy. Fairlie, a lean tow-headed lad, cavorted around us like an animated scarecrow. We must go by Covenant and collect your uncle Theo, I said. Your aunt is at Sandett House, baking and roasting us a welcoming meal.

As is her habit Laura had brought luggage enough to fill a second cab, and I sent the bags with my son and the maid straight to Hampstead. We took a second hansom to Piccadilly, where the thriving combined offices of Covenant Pamphlets and Sensational Books occupy nearly an entire block. Around the corner from the tobacconist a mews runs from Prince’s Street through to Leicester Street, giving access to the stable yard. Ordinarily this narrow way is no more crowded than any of the other byways of London. But today the driver drew up. A mort o’ traffic, sir, he called down to me. Does you want to risk it?

Laura peered out. There must be an accident, Walter. The gate into the yard is blocked.

Pull up at the kerb, and I’ll go in, I said to the cabby. Some thought of a horse accident passed through my mind as I opened the door into Covenant’s reception room.

I staggered back as Jerome Flawne ran slap into my chest. Good God, Mr. Hartright, the slender and bewhiskered managing editor cried. Have you come from Erbistock and Smithee?

The solicitors? Idiotically I said, No, from the station. With a cry of frustration Flawne dashed past me and pounded up the central stairs.

I turned and from down the corridor came Camlet. All questions died on my lips, as I saw there were two uniformed policemen escorting him. Above the fawn-brown side whiskers and moustache his face was pale as paper, and dimly through Marian's expert face paint I could see, flaring red, the scar that cut across his left eyelid and cheek. But his tones were controlled. Only because I knew him well could I discern his inner turmoil.

Hartright, you are an answer to prayer, Camlet said. I’ve sent for my solicitor. Would you mind informing Marian of my arrest?

Good heavens! I addressed the nearest policeman. Upon what charge, officer?

Printing and possession of obscene literature with the intent to sell, sir. I saw through the windows that on the Leicester Street side the police wagons were drawn up. Two by two, uniformed officers staggered up with the heavy cartons of confiscated publications and tossed them in.

I did not have to think what to do. I’ll come with you. Let me just inform my wife – she’s waiting in a cab outside.

I ran back out to Laura. Camlet’s in trouble, I cried, leaning in at the window. Arrested! I’m going with him to the police station. It will be the one in Vincent Square. Do you hurry to Hampstead and tell Marian! She gaped, voiceless. Laura is never at her best with sudden happenings. I reached and pulled the smelling bottle out of her handbag, and thrust it into her hand. To the driver I called, To Hampstead, as fast as you may!

Unfortunately the afternoon was already far spent, and when I arrived at the station I learned that Camlet was the last hearing of the day. Jaded from hours of pleas and mendacity from the scum of the city, no one was inclined to patience or clemency. The solicitor had not come. As has happened before Camlet himself seemed stunned by his calamity, and failed to plead his respectability and standing in the community. A warrant was issued against him, and he might have been sent without ceremony to Newgate for the duration except that I stepped forward when the magistrate set bail.

I will stand surety for him, I said, cutting him off before he could gavel Camlet into a cell. I am Walter Hartright, a Member of Parliament. I produced my card, which should have been sufficient.

But one of the magistrate officers, the one in charge of the raid on Covenant’s offices, said, One hundred and forty-three separate items of literature confiscated, your worship.

Of the vilest?

A mélange of seething blasphemy and obscenity.

Tut! To me the magistrate said, Then it shall call for more than your word, sir. What recognisance can you offer?

Dismayed, I explored my purse. I had only the sum I carry for minor day-to-day expenses, a mere seven pounds. He’s been an upstanding member of the business community all his life, I protested. And his fathers before him! He will certainly surrender to custody at the appointed time.

Years, decades even, dealing in disgusting literature, the devil’s advocate suggested.

A pledge of real property would be better, the magistrate agreed, peering short-sightedly at my card. Is this Limmeridge, where you reside, a property?

My estate in Cumberland, I said hotly. I will stake its value without hesitation, to free an honest and innocent man.

To the sum of a thousand pounds, perhaps? the insinuating officer suggested. The bailiff thrust papers at me, and I signed.

Hum, the magistrate grumbled, when they were handed up for his inspection. Cumberland? The ends of the earth. Practically Scotland. He peered down at me from his high seat. What is this property worth? Perhaps it would be as well to send, and learn its value.

I nearly despaired. This would surely take days. But there was a commotion at the back of the chamber. A lovely fair lady, and an uncomely dark one: it was Laura and Marian!

My sister-in-law was tall but not too tall, and though her face was not beautiful she was possessed of a magnificent figure. Women are like flowers. Some bloom early in the year, and some come into their full blow later. My wife was at her peak in the springtime of her life, but Marian’s season was summer. Unquestionably she was at her best in womanhood, and commanded instant respect. She swept forward, the amplitude of her maroon skirts adorned with festoons of black lace increasing her resemblance to a fully opened rose.

With her customary intelligence she instantly grasped what was going forward. I am Mrs. Camlet, wife of the accused, she declared. And I have the security your worship requires. She set a black velvet box down on the table. When the bailiff opened it the diamond necklace within made everyone gasp.

Goodness, madam, the magistrate said, craning his neck.

Paste? the officer suggested, while from the other side a bailiff whispered into the magistrate’s ear.

The flash of Marian’s great dark eyes should have dropped the fellow where he stood, but all she said was, If you wish, I may demonstrate the stones’ genuine quality by using one to cut my initials onto that window pane.

Marian’s reputation as the most dangerous woman in Europe is known only to a very few. But her voice and manner never fail to declare her high blood, and the murmured words from the bench could be heard: …some sort of Lowry cousin. Earl of Brecon and Stowe, your worship will recall…

That will not be necessary, madam, the magistrate said. Your security, along with the surety undertaken by Mr. Hartright, is entirely sufficient. Bail is granted for the accused.

And in another half-hour Camlet was at liberty. When he emerged onto the pavement the excess of their mutual feeling was such that husband and wife tenderly embraced in public, while their coachman patiently held the door and Laura blushed for their indiscreet behaviour. Is this the end then, Walter? He is free?

Until he must return for his arraignment, I replied. Pull down the blind, Marian. You cannot weep on his bosom here. Into the carriage with you both.

There was just room for the four of us. Close to, Camlet’s pallor could be discerned. He made an effort to speak in a commonplace tone. How many times have you saved me, Marian? Thank God you came. You’re an angel.

But your diamond rivière, Laura mourned. It was so lovely.

We shall get it back again. Camlet drew a deep breath, leaning back against the cushions. I think I could have borne it. But I am very glad to be spared even one night in a cell.

You’ve endured worse, my brother. Sitting knee to knee, I was able to tap my ankle against his. Under the stockings, long drawers and trousers we both bore the marks of fetters. Why, you’re a veteran of prisons. I know of no man with more practice at it; you certainly have me beat all hollow. You’ve been constrained by chains and hostages and medical men with potions. Immured on islands and in rail cars, consulates and castellos. Your captors are legion, everyone from native partisans to police authorities to rulers of states. And how many weeks did you spend in Newgate?

My banter lightened his tension. That was long ago, Hartright. I was younger then. With a deliberate gesture he laid Marian’s hand down. I’ve never been a knight in shining armour like you. And I become less heroic every year.

His energetic wife could not be expected to tolerate this. Nonsense, Theo. Walter is quite right. You are as brave as a lion and patient as a saint. But what is it all about? If the authorities are objecting to triple-decker thrillers then Mr. Trollope and Mr. Dickens shall soon be behind bars, and there’ll be rioting in the streets.

Her literary references do Camlet more good than my raillery. That would be amusing, would it not? Alas, it’s no laughing matter. You – all of you – know that Covenant Pamphlets and Publications quietly distributes… a pamphlet about health.

Marian stared out the window at the fast-falling evening, and Laura ducked her head, fumbling for a handkerchief to hide her embarrassment. We all knew of what he spoke.

The publication in question was cheaply printed, and encumbered with a title in the wordily laborious style of a generation gone: ‘An Entirely New System of Medical Admonition for Married Couples Only, Respecting the Preservation of the Health, the Enhancement of Conjugal Happiness, and the Perfecting of the Institution of Marriage.’ Though it was but eight pages, the pamphlet was marvellously informative, with exact and complete details of trimming sea sponges and the use of lemon juice. It was also effective, allowing Laura and myself for instance to limit our family to two sons.

Has not the thing been in publication since your grandfather’s time? I demanded. Why does it excite ire now?

Times have changed, Hartright. Even within our lifetimes. have you not seen a steady, and on the whole laudable, increase in modesty and propriety?

Last year we passed legislation barring public executions, I recalled.

Precisely. What used to be allowable, either in public or in print, on the canvas or carved in marble, is no longer quite so acceptable. It was my first wife’s father in fact who first published ‘Medical Admonition.’ It’s enjoyed a steady sale all my life, without drawing any comment whatsoever.

Because you sensibly distribute it only to those who are trained to use it wisely, I pointed out.

Yes, doctors and clergymen, in the main. Women’s health societies, but only if they’re funded and organised by the proper authorities.

But if times have changed so, then perhaps you should stop, Laura suggested.

If they convict me of distributing obscene literature, I shall have no choice, Camlet said. They’ll burn my stock, and bar me from printing more. But I shall plead my own innocence, and not only because I most earnestly wish to avoid a jail sentence. This is not new information, but forty years old. Many – Carefully he did not look at Laura. A host can bear witness that it has saved many a woman’s health, and kept many a marriage happy. And Marian knows this, but it may be news to you. The sales of ‘Medical Admonition’ are the backbone of Covenant’s business. I would be sorry to lose those sales.

Were I you, I would not bring up the pecuniary considerations, I said. Your solicitor will surely advise you to make your stand upon the most high-minded grounds.

And where is Mr. Erbistock? Marian cried. Mr. Smithee? They should have been here, supporting you. It is a scandal and a shame to leave such important matters to myself, a mere female!

With an effort I refrained from rolling my eyes. I could only hope that Marian was not carrying her revolver. Holsters are cunningly seamed into her wide skirts, and if they had tried to haul Camlet away blood might have flowed.

But when we arrived at Sandett House Mr. Smithee was there, plumper than ever, his blond curly hair receding terribly from his wide pink forehead. I was at a hearing, and arrived but ten minutes ago, he cried. But I am delighted to see you had no difficulty securing bail, sir.

Both Marian and I had been given receipts for the security we had given for Camlet’s liberty, and Marian thrust hers into the solicitor’s hand. I do not trust that rascally-looking bailiff, she said, darkly. You would do well to keep a close eye on him, Mr. Smithee. I would not put it past him to abscond with my necklace.

It shall be done, madam. He took my papers and glanced at them. And you are the owner of Limmeridge House in Cumberland, Mr. Hartright? From what Mrs. Camlet has told me, I was given to understand that you are merely the guardian and caretaker, for your son the heir.

I stared. Why yes, that’s true. I never thought about it, however. Camlet is not in the least danger of failing to be present for his arraignment and trial. It’s security pledged on a sure thing.

We are Wally’s parents, Laura said gently. And I agree with my husband. We risk nothing.

That being the case, it shall not be a difficulty, Mr. Smithee agreed. But if you will, do not mention this detail to the court. An unnecessary complication.