Labyrinth Gate (12 page)

“Laborers aren’t paid
that
much, Charity,” said Maretha. “But it is much cheaper to hire local labor—there are always poor folk about any place who are eager for a day wage.” She shrugged. “But the earl insisted. Undoubtedly he has his reasons. Keeping them beholden to him in a place far from their own homes, for instance.”

“Surely not. You don’t think he would—”

“Charity.” Maretha sighed. “You don’t suppose he’s doing this out of some whim of generosity, do you? Monsieur Mukerji and I are to go down to Hutment today to hire some foremen. After tea. Perhaps you would like to come as well?”

“To Hutment?” Charity hesitated. The carriage, as if in echo of her feelings, slowed to a stop. “I’m not sure. Isn’t that a terribly poor district? With all sorts of unfortunate people? And criminals?”

The carriage door opened. “Vole House, miss,” said the uniformed individual who had helped them in.

“Of course it’s a poor district,” muttered Maretha as they descended. “That’s where you get labor cheapest.”

Lady Trent and Chryse were waiting to receive them. After the usual pleasantries, Charity ventured the topic of the dressmaker, and soon she and Lady Trent were deep in a close discussion of the merits of various modistes in the city. Chryse moved to sit next to Maretha.

“I understand,” said Maretha, “that it has been arranged that you and your husband will accompany the expedition.”

“Yes.” Chryse smiled. “It should be quite an adventure.”

Despite her own misgivings about the expedition, Maretha smiled back. She had liked this light-haired woman immediately, the first time they had met, and their further meetings over tea at Vole House and Farr House had only confirmed her first opinion. “I’m glad to have the company, too,” she added, diffident now.

“Yes,” said Chryse thoughtfully. “I should rather imagine you are.”

Their eyes met in understanding. Maretha flushed slightly.

On the other side of the room, Lady Trent had unearthed her stack of current fashion plates, which she and Charity now perused with great concentration.

“I’ve hesitated to mention this before,” began Chryse slowly, lowering her voice, “but Sanjay mentioned that your father had asked if I would—” She faltered. “That as a married woman, if you had any questions—if I would talk to you about—oh dear. Now I’m embarrassed.”

But Maretha smiled, and Chryse managed a weak chuckle.

“What my mother would have done,” said Maretha, “had she been alive. To instruct me in my marital duties.”

“It seems rather foolish, doesn’t it?” said Chryse, but to this Maretha frowned.

“No.” She lowered both her voice and her eyes. Her hands, clasped on her lap, tightened. “Of course I know the—the mechanics of—” Rather than flushing, her face had gone quite pale. “I don’t think Father was being progressive. I know it’s the fashion now to keep young people in ignorance of the procreative functions until they marry, but Father simply considered it another branch of natural science. But you see—” Now her eyes lifted, giving her pale face an expression of appeal. “—knowing the mechanics doesn’t make me know the—the process any better.”

“Oh dear,” murmured Chryse. Without thinking she reached out a hand to clasp Maretha’s. “Are you so very frightened?”

Maretha could not reply.

“I’m sorry,” said Chryse. “I’m sorry you have to face something so—” She made an impatient movement with her free hand. “I’m afraid that any word I use will be trite. It should be something to look forward to, not something to fear.”

“With any other man,” said Maretha in a voice barely audible to her companion.

“They are just rumors. Surely—” Chryse stopped herself, refusing now to say those trite words Sanjay had used: Surely he’s not as black as he’s painted.

“What if he is?” asked Maretha as if Chryse had voiced the thought aloud. “He is a sorceror. Such power does not come free. It must be drawn from somewhere, from oneself, from natural forces, from other people. There is always a price. I don’t know much about magic, but I have heard that it is easiest to steal that power from others. But perhaps that isn’t true.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I am a musician—have even done some composing, on and off, when I had the courage and the commitment to do it. And it
is
easiest to steal from others, when you’re composing, or creating any art. But it seems to me that the strongest art, the truest art, the most difficult to create, comes from oneself. Maybe that holds true for magic as well.”

Maretha bowed her head.

“Surely—” Chryse began, distressed by Maretha’s sudden passivity. “Surely as his wife, he would treat you with more respect than a—than some poor soul bought off the streets.”

Maretha winced. “How different am I?” she asked bitterly. “Bought and sold? But it is true—it is true that he mentioned having an heir.”

“Then he must know that he has to take care of you, if you are to bear a healthy child.”

Maretha’s hands tightened in a convulsive grip around Chryse’s hand. “But then I have to lie with him,” she whispered.

“Then for goodness sake,” said Chryse, trying to brace up her voice even as she grimaced at the pressure of Maretha’s grip, “you’ll just have to make it clear to him that he’s better off making it a pleasure for you than a—than otherwise.”

“Can it be?”

“Of course it can! It can be glorious. It can be uncomfortable for the woman at first, but if the man is gentle and if you—ah—convince him to take as long about the first part as possible, before—” She realized that her face was flushed, but Maretha was still looking down. “—then there is no reason it shouldn’t be pleasurable. And Maretha, all else aside, remember that in one respect at least it could be worse. He
is
attractive.”

Maretha’s hands relaxed and she raised her head. “He’s beautiful,” she breathed, and then blushed to the tips of her ears.

And as if that admission alone broke the tension, they both sat back and laughed. A little unsteadily, true, and with perhaps a touch of resignation, but it was laughter.

“Well.” From across the room, Lady Trent lifted her grey head from the plate Charity was exclaiming over, “If you two have nothing better to do than gossip and laugh over frivolities, then you had better join us here in choosing some gowns.” But her gaze met Chryse’s for a moment and she gave a little nod, in approval.

“Thank you,” Maretha murmured as she and Chryse rose. “Whatever course I choose, I need to remember that despair only leads to defeat.”

“I think it’s something we all need reminding of.”

“Then I shall resolve to be resolute,” replied Maretha, with a sweeping gesture of one hand, a parody of bad dramatics that almost tipped over a vase. She and Chryse both giggled, but composed themselves quickly when Lady Trent cast a stern glance in their direction.

“Now,” Aunt Laetitia demanded as the two younger women seated themselves on the sofa next to her, “you will of course want a gown in the traditional green—”

“If I may,” ventured Charity, a little hesitant, “Maretha’s coloring has never taken well to the greens.”

“Nonsense,” declared Aunt Laetitia. “Girls these days feel free to take any liberty they please with honorable traditions.”

Charity colored immediately, and shrank back into her chair.

Chryse laughed. “What do
you
want, Maretha?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a hairshirt like my namesake was said to wear when she went to her martyrdom.”

“Good Lady,” said Aunt Laetitia. “I have never understood why a woman of Saint Maretha’s obvious intelligence would wear such an uncomfortable garment under armour.”

“But she was a
saint,
Aunt Laetitia,” said Chryse. “I’d never heard that saints were concerned with comfort.”

“One would, however, expect them to be concerned with practicality. She was a Knight of Our Lady, and surely it behooved her to uphold Our Lady’s honor by wearing apparel most conducive to victory in martial endeavors.”

Maretha laughed suddenly. “Of course you are right, Lady Trent. I’m sure we can find a suitable pattern, and a
shade
of green that will suit even my coloring.”

“Of course,” said Lady Trent decisively. She gave Chryse the barest of winks as the four women settled themselves in for the task at hand.

They had provided, on paper at least, Maretha with bridal clothes and an additional wardrobe fit for a countess, and Charity with an attendant’s dress and a handful of other gowns, by the time Sanjay arrived. He had Julian and Kate in tow.

“We have good information,” he said after greetings had been made all round, “that one of these so-called correspondence societies is meeting this evening at the Crusader, an inn in Hutment,” and that two of the people Professor Farr has worked with in the past will be there.”

“Just as I’d hoped,” said Maretha.

“What?” asked Julian. “Are you really going to hire those radicals, Miss Farr? Isn’t that dangerous? I was almost caught in one of their emancipation riots. They’re hot-headed, proud of it, and don’t seem to care a whit that their activities could bring them a stiff prison sentence. I’d think it would be a chancy proposition.”

“That very pride you mention makes their work all the better,” answered Maretha. “And don’t you agree that there is some substance to their grievances, and to their demands?”

“Certainly not,” said Aunt Laetitia with feeling. “I say that that kind of hooliganism is what comes of wasting education on classes unable to absorb it rationally.”

“But Lady Trent,” said Kate. “You yourself insist that your servants be taught to read and write.”

“So they can read the Bible, Miss Cathcart. I’ll have no truck with these radicals—they are merely a wild rabble, inspiring mobs to violence.”

Chryse leaned towards Sanjay. “Correspondence societies?” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Working-class people, usually craftsmen, the sort who have had a bit of education, who write to their professional counterparts in other cities and towns.”

“That’s all?”

“—I can see,” Maretha was saying, “that it is a subject we cannot agree on, Lady Trent, so I won’t say any more. But the expedition must have workers, and supervisors to oversee them, and these men are experienced. They worked with my father at Eppot-Staw.” She rose. “Only Monsieur Mukerji and I need to go on this business, but any of you are welcome if you are interested.”

“I certainly am.” Chryse rose as well.

“I certainly am
not,”
said Lady Trent with asperity.

But Kate and Julian, applied to, proved eager to go, and Charity quickly, with less enthusiasm but a surreptitious glance at Julian, followed suit.

“Hmph,” said Aunt Laetitia when Julian, the last to leave the room, had paused to take his leave of her. “Young people these days have no respect for the law of the land. Lawless and unruly mobs who have not a scrap of permanent property interest in the land cannot be allowed to rule. It is unseemly to hold such notions.”

“Are you speaking of Miss Farr, Aunt?” asked Julian. He smiled.

“A good sort of girl, but no daughter of mine was ever allowed to cherish such radical leanings. She ought not to have them.”

Julian raised his eyebrows, giving him a musing look. “I don’t suppose she will, much longer.” He paused. “She is marrying the earl, after all. You can’t imagine he has any tolerance for even the mildest of reform politics.”

“Oh dear,” murmured Aunt Laetitia, looking now concerned rather than outraged. “I hadn’t thought of that. Poor girl.”

“Indeed,” said her nephew. With a bow he left the room.

It was twilight by the time the carriage pulled up outside the sign of the Crusader, a large inn in the district of Hutment. The wooden sign, its bright colors dimmed in the gathering dusk, depicted a knight in medieval style riding his caparisoned horse towards a distant and faintly-seen city, shield hung by his leg, sword in his free hand.

Lights showed through shuttered windows. Two nondescript men paused to stare at the rich carriage and went into the inn.

Inside, a pall of smoke from the two great hearthfires hung over the room. Many glances turned their way as the party entered to stand as unobtrusively as possible in the back of the room. The speaker, however, did not falter.

“—and at the trial of Mr. John Hardin for distributing pamphlets, the Justice herself asked “What right have these ignorant country people, these lower classes, to representation? A Government,’ she said, ‘should be just like a corporation—and in this country, it is made up of the landed interest, which alone has a right to be represented.’ Then she sentenced Mr. Hardin to ten years in prison. I ask you, citizens, is it for
this
that we sweat and toil and starve?”

A general clamor rose from the seated and standing listeners. The speaker, raising one hand, quieted them.

“We have been abused in the Parliament, calumniated in public, persecuted in private, and forced out of public houses, yet we continue to meet, we continue to receive addresses from new societies of working folk in other cities, new correspondence from others who have combined as we have—for our rights—”

“Hear, hear.”

In the resulting chorus of approving response, Maretha leaned toward Sanjay. “There, just to our left: the middle-aged woman in black and the young man beside her. Those are the two we want to speak to.”

He nodded, whispering back. “I think our party is too conspicuous. I’ll get the others outside; perhaps you can bring those two out there.”

“But let me ask you for yourselves, the question.” The woman at the front of the room continued, once the shouting had died down. “The question, which is the only requirement of admission to membership in our order, of which we are agreed that the number of members
shall be unlimited.”
She was dark-haired, small and vital. Sanjay, looking from the young man of the pair Maretha was now moving toward to the woman speaker, saw at once the family resemblance—an older sister, perhaps. “Are you thoroughly persuaded that the welfare of these kingdoms requires that all adult persons, in possession of their reason, and not incapacitated by crimes, should have a vote for a Member of Parliament?”