The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (145 page)

Lady Maccon looked at her husband as if he might be one to justify such behavior.

He shrugged. “Actors.”

Prudence, lacking in all sense of dignity and decorum, squeaked in delight and clapped along with the song.

Madame Lefoux immersed herself in some papers from the Royal Society, humming along.

Tunstell demanded ale, despite it being early morning. One of the young ladies from the supporting cast began to dance a little jig in the aisle.

“What will the steward think of us?” said Alexia to no one in particular. “This is going to be a very long trip.”

I
n the years that followed, when Lady Maccon had occasion to recall that nightmare morning, she would shudder at the horror of it all. She who has not traveled in the company of ten actors, three toddlers, a werewolf, and a French inventor cannot possibly sympathize with such torture. The chaos of the train station was a mere appetizer to the main course of utter insanity that was the Maccon party's attempt at boarding the steamer at Southampton. Miraculously, they managed to do so with few actual casualties. Ivy lost one of her hatboxes to the briny deep and had a fit of hysterics. The man playing the villain, a fellow named Tumtrinkle, barked his shin on the side of the entrance ramp, an occurrence that, for some strange reason, caused him to sing Wagnerian arias at the top of his lungs to withstand the pain for the next three-quarters of an hour. The wardrobe mistress was in a panic over the proper treatment of the costumes, and the set designer insisted on handling all of the backdrops personally,
despite the fact that he had a dodgy back and a limp. One of the understudies was not pleased with the size and location of her room and began to cry, claiming that in her country, ghosts were tethered near water, so she could not possibly be in a room that overlooked the ocean… on a boat. Percy spit up on the captain's lapel. Primrose ripped a very long feather out of a lady passenger's hat. Prudence squirmed out of her father's grasp at one point, toddled over to the railing, and nearly fell over the edge.

Lady Maccon felt, if she were the type of woman to succumb to such things, a severe bout of nerves might have been called for. She could quite easily have taken to her apartments with a cool cloth to her head and the worries of the world far behind her.

Instead, she oversaw the loading of the mountain of luggage with an iron fist, distributed cleaning cloths to the captain and Percy, rescued and returned the feather to its rightful owner, sent a steward to Ivy's room with restorative tea, insisted Tunstell comfort the hysterical understudy, distracted the wardrobe mistress and set designer with questions, corralled her daughter with one arm and her frantic husband with the other, and all before the steamer tooted its departure horn and lurched ponderously out into a dark and choppy sea.

Finally, once everything was settled, Alexia turned to Conall, her eyes shining with curiosity. “Who did you order it from?”

Lord Maccon, exhausted, as only a man can be when put in sole charge of an infant, said, “To what could you possibly be referring, my dear?”

“The parasol, of course! Who did you order my new parasol from?”

“I took a good hard look at the available options, since Madame Lefoux was off the market, and thought we needed someone who at least knew something of your character and requirements. So, I approached Gustave Trouvé with the commission.”

“My goodness, that's rather outside his preferred practice, is it not?”

“Most assuredly, but out of fond regard, he took the order anyway. He has, I am afraid to say, encountered some difficulty in execution. Hasn't Madame Lefoux's touch with accessories.”

“I should think not, with a beard like that. Are you quite certain he is up to the task?”

“Too late now—the finished product was supposed to arrive just before we departed. I left instructions with Lyall to send the article on as soon as it appeared. It was meant to be a surprise.”

“Knowing Monsieur Trouvé's taste, I'm certain it still will be. But thank you, my love, very thoughtful. I have felt quite bereft these past few years. Although, thank goodness, I have had very little need of it.”

“Comparative peace has been nice.” Conall moved Prudence, who had dozed off, to drape more artistically over one massive shoulder and shifted closer to his wife. They stood at the rear of the ship, watching the cliffs of England retreat into the mist.

“But?”

“But you have been getting restless, my harridan. Don't think I haven't noticed. You wanted to come to Egypt for a bit of excitement, if nothing else.”

Alexia smiled and leaned her chin on his vacant shoulder. “You'd think Prudence would be excitement enough.”

“Mmm.”

“And don't place this all on me—you're harking after some adventure yourself, aren't you, husband? Or have you Egyptian interests?”

“Ah, Alexia, how do you know me so well?”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Not yet.”

“I loathe it when you do that.”

“It's only fair. You practice the same policies, wife. Case in point: were you going to tell me about Biffy?”

“What about him?”

“You said something to him before we left. Didn't you?”

“Good gracious me, how could you possibly know that? Biffy has far too much circumspection to reveal anything to you.”

“I know, my dear, because he changed. There was a lightness about him. He fit correctly into the pack, a role he has been reluctant to fill heretofore. What did you do?”

“I gave him a purpose and a family. I told you all along that was what he needed.”

“But I tried that with the hat shop.”

“I guess it had to be the right purpose.”

“And you aren't going to tell me any more until I tell you about my reason for visiting Egypt.”

“My love, now it is
you
who knows
me
too well.”

Lord Maccon laughed, jiggling Prudence quite violently. Fortunately, much like her father, she was difficult to awaken.

It was a gray, wintry day, and there was little to see now that they had taken to the open ocean.

Alexia was beginning to feel the chill. “So long as we
understand each other. And now let's get our daughter inside. It's a mite cold out here on deck, don't you think?”

“Indubitably.”

Biffy felt the absence of his Alphas as a kind of odd ache. It was difficult to describe, but the world was rather like a tailored waistcoat without buttonholes—missing something important. It wasn't as though he could not function without buttonholes; it was simply that everything felt a little
unfastened
without them.

He returned from the station in good time only to find a stranger at the door to his hat shop. A well-rounded stranger with a narrow wooden box tucked under one arm, an indifferent mode of dress, and an abnormally proactive beard. From the quantity of dust about his person, Biffy surmised the man had been traveling. Without spats, he noticed in alarm. There was a certain cut to the stranger's greatcoat that suggested France, and from the weathered appearance of the garment, Biffy deduced he must have come by train directly from the Dover landing green, on the Channel Dirigible Express out of Calais.

“Good evening, sir,” said Biffy. “May I help you at all?”

“Ah, good evening.” The man had a jovial way of speaking and a French accent.

“Are you looking for Madame Lefoux, perhaps?”

“Cousin Genevieve, no. Why would you think…? Ah, yes, this used to be her shop. No, I am in search of Lady Maccon. I have a delivery for her. This was the address given with the commission.”

“Indeed? Is it something for the London Pack perchance?”

“No, no. For her specifically, at Lord Maccon's request.”

Biffy unlocked the shop door. “In that case, you had best come in, Mr.…?”

“Monsieur Trouvé, at your service.” The Frenchman doffed his hat, his button eyes twinkling, apparently at the mere pleasure of being asked to introduce himself.

Biffy felt the bushiness of his beard became less offensive in a man who seemed so very good-natured.

“Pardon me for a moment. I must see to the lights.” Biffy left the Frenchman at the entrance and flitted quickly about in his practiced nightly ritual of turning up the gas in all the lamps and straightening gloves and hairmuffs from the day's activities. His head girl was good, but when she closed the shop for supper, she never left things quite up to his exacting standards. He remembered talking with Lady Maccon about her journey through Europe after Lord Maccon's unfortunate distrust of her moral fiber. At the time, he had been locked in a massive egg beneath the Thames. Later, however, Lady Maccon had related her side of the story, and it had included this French clockmaker, one Monsieur Trouvé. He was also the man who had designed the cages in the contrivance chamber below.

He completed his circuit of the shop and returned to his visitor.

“You are said by experts to be the last word on the subject of clocks. And I have heard of your exploits as relates to a certain ornithopter, the
Muddy Duck
. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The Frenchman threw his head back and let loose an infectious peal of laughter. “Yes, of course. It has been so long since I saw either Lady Maccon or Cousin Genevieve
that I thought I might make the trip to London myself with the goods. An excuse for socializing, yes?”

“I am afraid you've missed them both. They left only a few hours ago for Southampton.”

“Oh, how unfortunate. Will they be back soon?”

“Regrettably, no. They have taken a large party on an Egyptian tour. But if that box contains what I think it contains, Lady Maccon will want it as soon as possible. I am charged to send important items on to her. They are traveling by steamer in deference to Lord Maccon's, er, health.”

“Ah, mail by dirigible has ample opportunity to bisect their journey? A most acceptable proposal, Mr.…?”

“Oh, dear me, my sincerest apologies, sir. Sandalio de Rabiffano. But everyone calls me Biffy.”

“Ah, the newest member of the London Pack. Genevieve wrote of your metamorphosis. A matter of some scientific interest not to mention political unrest. Not my field, of course.” Knowing he was conversing with a member of Lord Maccon's pack seemed to relax the Frenchman. Yet France was not progressive in its approach to the supernatural.

“You are not afraid of me, Monsieur Trouvé?”

“My dear young man, why should I be? Oh, ah, your unfortunate monthly condition. I admit before meeting Lady Maccon I might indeed have been taken aback, but a werewolf came to our rescue on several occasions, and of wonderful use he was, too. Now vampires, I will say, I have little use for. But werewolves are good to have on one's side in a fight.”

“How kind of you to say.”

“Here is the box for her ladyship. The contents are quite durable, but I should not like to see it lost.”

“Certainly not. I will ensure it is transported safely.”

The twinkle reappeared from the depths of all the facial hair. Biffy dearly wanted to recommend the man the services of a good barber but thought this might be taken as an insult. So he bent his head to examine the package—a plain thing of untreated wood, cut thin like a cigar box.

“There is one other matter.”

Biffy looked up from his inspection expectantly. “Yes?”

“Major Channing, is he also out of town?”

Biffy's good breeding took over, hiding his surprise. “No, sir, I believe he is at the pack's town residence.” He tried to hide the curiosity in his voice, but the Frenchman seemed to sense it.

“Ah, that werewolf I spoke of, the one who came to our rescue. We ended up traveling through Europe together. Decent fellow.”

At a complete loss, Biffy told him the pack address. He and the Gamma had very little to do with one another. Biffy showed the major his neck on a regular basis, and the major took control as needed and ignored him the rest of the time. But never before had anyone described Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings as a
decent fellow
.

The French clockmaker continued this surprising line of conversation. “I believe I will pay him a call, seeing as the ladies are away. Thank you for your time, Mr. Biffy. Good evening to you.”

“I hope the rest of your London visit is more productive, Monsieur Trouvé. Good night.”

As soon as the man left, Biffy popped open the long, skinny wooden box to look inside. It was terribly out of
form, of course, to inspect someone else's mail. But he argued himself into believing it was to check on the safety of the contents, and he
was
now a member of Lady Maccon's Parasol Protectorate. It granted him, he felt, certain rights of familiarity.

He gasped in horror at the contents. Lady Maccon had carried with her many rather ill-advised parasols over the course of their association, one of which had been a good deal
more
. There was something to be said for such a weapon. But the parasol in the box before him was a travesty. Apart from everything else, it was utterly plain and undecorated except for the stitching of the supposedly
hidden
pockets. It was made of drab olive canvas! It was probably quite deadly, and there was no doubt the bobbles on the handle housed hidden dials and debilitating poisons. It was certainly heavy enough to do any number of things. But if such a thing could be said of a parasol, it looked like the kind of object a sportsman would carry, all function and no beauty. The brass handle positively clashed with the olive color. It looked—Biffy shuddered in utter horror—like an… umbrella!