Page 1 of A Devilish Element
-PROLOGUE-
Jem
October 1801, London.
The impact of the horse and phaeton had shattered the woman’s collarbone, leaving her neck with a sideward tilt that James Whistler reached out to straighten, only to have his hand stayed by the bark of his acquaintance, Dr Ludlow Bell.
“Don’t touch her. That is my task. Have you a paper, a pencil about you? Good, then please record what I bid you record, and nothing else.”
“It is only that her head—”
“The matter of appearances are beyond her now. We need not concern ourselves with bodily comforts or the crease of a dress, nor a muddy hemline.”
“Of course.” Jem nodded his understanding. It wasn’t as if he wished to poke at the woman’s broken body, only that she lay in such an uncomfortable and ungainly pose. Head crookedly set, and both legs stuck out at unnatural angles, like they were the edges of two set-squares and not the limbs of someone who had been a living, breathing person only a moment ago. The only positive thing one could say about the death was that it had been mercifully quick. Lord Linfield’s phaeton had been mid-race. Where she had come from, no one could say.
Linfield was miraculously unscathed, but two horses had been shot.
“Record, please: a woman of some twenty to thirty years of age, of stouter proportions and”—Bell felt about his pockets for a measuring tape—“statuesque height. You may record that as five feet, nine inches. Impact has splintered the left collarbone and broken both shinbones… and the left wrist. The lady is married, if the ring on her finger is to be believed. The ring is gold.” This Bell slipped into his waistcoat pocket. “That will suffice for observations in situ.” He waved over a pair of grooms ready with a stretcher and a cart. “You will deliver her to this address. My housekeeper will show you where to put her.”
No sooner had they doffed their hats than Bell’s hand extended to Jem.
“My notes, Mr Whistler. I thank you for your assistance.”
Jem tore the page from his pocketbook, glad that he’d had the foresight to mark the observations on a fresh page, and hence was not forced to sacrifice his algebraic formula. The matter of steam, resulting pressure, of pistons and volume had consumed him these last few days. He was sure he was on the verge of something, might have already grasped it had Lord Linfield not insisted that Jem accompany him to the race. How he wished he’d remained at his desk, with his thoughts and his scribblings. The vision of death, the permutations of angles and trajectories and resulting impacts would surely haunt him for nights to come. Linfield, however, was not easily gainsaid, and so Jem frequently found that despite his best intentions, he ended up someplace he never intended to be.
“Bell,” he remarked. “Will you not check on the viscount before you leave?”
The physician was already rolling down his sleeves. He raised his chin and peered down his hooked nose with raven-black eyes. “I would say that Linfield is in remarkably sound health given that I can hear him from here, a distance of some considerable yards. I’d be surprised to learn he sustained more than a bruise, and therefore the services of an anatomist are not required. No, I will attend to the lady instead, and leave the company of Lord Linfield to yourself. An arrangement I think he will vastly prefer. Now, good day to you, sir. Thank you again for these. Please assure the viscount that I will attend to any matters that might arise with the magistrate, and the notification of any kin.”
-1-
Eliza
December 1801, Yorkshire.
If Eliza Wakefield was certain of one thing, it was that only the foolhardy or truly stubborn willingly undertook carriage journeys in the month of December. Though she dearly loved the moors of her beloved Yorkshire, she was the first to admit that they were prone to trying fits of pique, especially in the grey months of the year. Today was such an occasion.
The dark clouds had folded themselves around the hilltops like a smothering shroud sometime after two and were now inching into the valleys. Soon the entire landscape would be nothing but mist so thick one could barely see one’s own hands held before them.
“I don’t know how wise it is to press on, Miss,” Martins, the coachman, advised in his throaty drawl. The poor man had been injured in battle fighting in the Americas, and since, had always sounded rather strangled. “Even with the lantern lit, Posey can barely see the way, and I don’t know these parts well enough to be sure of them in this wuthering nonsense. Perhaps…”
“Perhaps?” Eliza prompted, allowing the coachman a moment to gather his thoughts. Martins was prone to rather woolly thinking. After a rather lengthy pause, when he seemed unlikely to reply, she added, “I agree that it’s not ideal weather, but our destination is surely closer now than home, so it would be illogical to turn back. Nor will I sit here in this damp in the hopes of it clearing. No, Martins, we must be almost at Cedarton by now. We will press on.”
“If you think it’s best, Miss, I won’t gainsay you, but Posey ain’t too fond of this. She’s getting twitchy, so she is.”
Posey, being perhaps the mildest mannered mare ever to have pulled a gig, was enjoying the moment of relative idleness to feast on the surrounding vegetation. If she was twitchy, she wasn’t displaying it in any way Eliza could discern.
“There’s the worry of boggarts, too, if we stray from the path.”
“Boggarts?” Eliza heaved an inward sigh. “Yes, I suppose that is a concern, but I put it to you, Martins, I’d rather risk an enchantment than huddle in this rickety vehicle for an indeterminate amount of time. Why, it doesn’t even have the luxury of multiple walls to shelter us, merely this rather inadequate hood.”
A fat bead of moisture dropped from said hood at that very moment and worked its way inside the collar of her pelisse. “Come, get Posey to trot on. We’ll all be happier once we arrive.”
~?~
Cedarton was not what Eliza expected. To be fair, she’d had little to go on beyond the name, which had conjured in her mind a vision of autumn: bright days, blue skies, fresh breezes, and leaves swirling around in a rainbow of golds and bronzes. Built of stately grey stone, Cedarton Castle ought to have impressed one with a sense of solidity. Instead, it squatted like a fat moggy about to pounce. To Eliza, gazing on it for the first time as the gig came to a jerky halt, it inspired a sense of menace. This was no cosy manor, rather a weather-beaten, battle-scarred fortress, complete with iron-pinned doors and soot-stained ramparts.
“Seen some troubles in its history, I should say,” Martins muttered under his breath. “I’m not well acquainted with the folks or lore of this stretch, but I’ll hold to my earlier warning: you’re to be on the lookout for boggarts, spectres, and the likes, Miss Wakefield.”
