Page 46 of Her Majesty's Necromancer
We still had quite a bit of our session to go when we had to stop for a visitor. The carriage rumbled up the long drive and it was some time before I realized who it belonged to. Lincoln must have recognized the horses and driver because before the carriage turned so we could see the escutcheon painted on the side, he ordered me into the house.
"Change into your uniform," he said quickly. "And stay in the kitchen."
I intended to do exactly as he asked, and only paused on the steps to see who had arrived unannounced in such grand style. As the carriage swept into a wide arc and pulled to a stop in front of Lincoln, I groaned. The escutcheon was that of a snake wrapped around a sword. Lord Gillingham's crest. I headed up the steps.
"You there! Girl!" Gillingham's barked order set my teeth on edge. I stopped, turned and inclined my head in question. I refused to curtsy to that man.
"What do you want?" Lincoln asked as Gillingham stepped down from the cabin.
The sun picked out the flecks of gray amid the red of his beard. He planted the end of his walking stick on the gravel and regarded first me then Lincoln with those insipid eyes of his. "Lady Harcourt has called a special meeting. It seems I am the first to arrive."
"A meeting? Why wasn't I informed?"
"I am informing you now." He went to walk off, but Lincoln stepped in front of him.
"What is the meeting about?"
"Ministry business." He stepped around Lincoln and pointed at me with the end of his cane. "Why is she dressed like that?"
"That's none of your affair."
"I'm training," I told him. Lincoln glanced over his shoulder at me. His face was positively rigid with fury. "Mr. Fitzroy is teaching me to fight and protect myself in the event of an attack."
Gillingham's red-gold eyebrows rose. Then he burst out laughing. "Is that a joke?"
Neither of us answered.
"You are trying to teach this girl to fight? Good lord, Fitzroy, you're softer in the head than I thought. Do you suppose that dressing her in boys' clothes will give her the strength, speed and aptitude of one? That's absurd."
"Nobody is concerned with what you think, Gillingham," Lincoln said. "Keep your opinions to yourself or leave."
I didn't trust Gillingham's smile. It was all lips and no teeth. "You'll find out soon enough what I and the others think at the meeting. You've been allowed free reign for too long, Fitzroy, and it's gone to your head. That time has come to an end. You cannot be allowed to make foolish decisions when the lives of so many depend upon you."
I had no idea what he was talking about, and if Lincoln did, he gave nothing away. He didn't even answer Gillingham; he simply turned and strode up to me. "Come inside," he said in a low voice.
"Wait a moment," Gillingham called. "Girl, come and collect my hat and scarf." He pointed into the cabin where the hat and scarf sat on the seat.
I went to fetch them, but Lincoln caught my arm. "Let him get them himself."
"It's all right. I am the Lichfield maid, and he's our guest. I ought to do it."
"He's no guest of mine," he growled.
"We have to tolerate him, for now, if a meeting has been called. It's all right," I said again. "I'll do this. You go inside and tell Cook to prepare tea."
He hesitated before removing his hand. I trotted down the stairs to Gillingham and the carriage. I reached into the cabin, but just as my fingers touched the silk of his hat, the crunch of gravel had me whipping around.
Teeth bared, Gillingham lunged at my head with his walking stick.
And Lincoln was too far away to stop it hitting me.
CHAPTER 8
I dove to the side so that the stick hit the carriage, not me, and landed on my hands and knees on the gravel. My palms stung, but I jumped up and went to grab Gillingham's arm and twist it as Lincoln had taught me.
Except he got there first. He stood between us and grabbed Gillingham's wrist. He snatched the walking stick and snapped it in two over his knee. It was the second stick of Gillingham's that he'd broken in as many months.
"Pathetic," Gillingham said as another carriage rolled up behind his. He laughed; a brittle, dry laugh that was as humorless as the man himself. "She's a maid, Fitzroy, and a creature of death. You shouldn't—"
