Chapter 17
Edmund stood in front of Moulde Hall, dressed in the finest fitting suit he had been able to purchase in town, watching the carriage driver drive up the hill.
Ung had been waiting in his room to help him dress. Edmund was no expert, but Ung had assured him that the suit was well made and a perfect fit. The collar was broad and tall, and the vest was a thin leathery gray with Plinkerton’s watch tucked neatly into the pocket. His pants were well fitted, resting lightly on his shiny black shoes, while faint beige ruffles slipped out from around his sleeves like flowers.
It was the first time Edmund had worn clothing that fit properly in his entire life. He wasn’t used to be so acutely aware of the absence of his sleeves squeezing his wrists or a belt choking his hips. He felt naked and natural at the same time. It was unsettling, and at the same time empowering.
Ung was in his standard uniform — a jet black suit with a white shirt and tie — but it was impossibly clean and bright, like the fabric had been polished. Mrs. Kippling was still in the kitchen, focusing on her dinner. Edmund’s timing had been exact; she would be finished minutes before they sat to dinner.
Edmund swallowed as the carriage drew closer. It was decorated appropriately, with deep purple ribbons, blue-black plumes, and three flags to notify on-lookers of exactly who was in the carriage.
As he stared at the three flags, Edmund hoped, for neither the first nor last time, that he had chosen his guests correctly.
Matron Cromley had been the easy choice. According to one of the up-to-date heraldry books in the study, she had grown up with Matron when they were little girls; and while there was no love lost between the Cromleys and the Mouldes, they had never fought each other outright. At least, not openly. Or at least not very harshly. Or at least the damage hadn’t been permanent.
Patron Vanndegaar was riskier. The Vanndegaars and the Mouldes had struggled quite publicly over use rights to the North Road of Brackenburg generations ago, and the wounds had never truly healed over. The Vanndegaars were on fair terms with the Rotledges however, and that was important for Edmund’s plan.
Matron Scower was a wild card. She was a known pragmatist and not given to either sentimentality or loyalty. It would be difficult for Edmund to win her over; but if he did, it would say much to the other families. It was far from a sure thing, however; Matron Scower had a reputation of being hard to convince of anything.
Edmund checked his ever-wound watch as Moulde Hall began to chime. Six-o-clock exactly. The Heads of the Families were punctual, if nothing else. He could feel his heart beating fast and hard as the carriage came to a halt. The spindly driver unfolded from the front and opened the carriage door, bowing almost to the ground.
For neither the first nor last time in his life, Edmund wished Matron was at his side.
He had spent a lot of time in the library, studying the three families before he even dared to write the invitations, but he had never met a member of another founding family before; he had no real idea of what to expect. Thankfully, his training sessions with Wislydale gave him some idea of how to behave properly, and if worst came to worst, as Kolb had once said: flattery is always a safe recourse, because it is impolite to disagree.
A thin woman dressed in a mourning veil stepped from the carriage first, opening a silver fan. She was old — easily as old as Matron — but her face was rounder and her nose smaller. Her mouth was twisted into a frown. She held out her hand to Edmund, as he quickly ran through the notes in his head.
“Matron Lerriet Scower,” he said, taking her hand gently. “It’s so nice to have you here, at Moulde Hall. Please enter, and I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Matron Scower’s eyebrow raised sharply, and fell almost as quickly. She gave a nod and stalked to the open Mansion door, ignoring Ung, who kept his head bowed as she passed. Edmund was pleased he had made an impression. He couldn’t tell if it was a good one or not, but that didn’t matter — he needed to be noticed first.
The second family head had a full mane of brown curly hair that fell from under his cap like a muddy waterfall. He had a patch over one eye that barely covered a vicious scar that ran down towards his jaw, and he walked clumsily, leaning heavily on his thick black cane. He reminded Edmund a little of Kolb, though there was no glint in his eye nor spring in his step.
“Patron Samsuel Vanndegaar, it’s so nice to have you here, at Moulde Hall,” Edmund stuck out his hand, only to withdraw it lamely when no hand was offered. “Please enter, and I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Poorly said,” Patron Vanndegaar said, sniffing disinterestedly, “but you may deliver my thanks to Mander before dinner. I doubt I shall offer them again this evening.”
Edmund nodded as Patron Vanndegaar walked up the steps to the front door, his large black cane cracking against the marble. The joy Edmund had felt at making an impression was quickly shifting to dread — while mere seconds ago any impression had been all well and good, now he was concerned that a poor showing would not help him any. He was going to have a long way to convince the other family heads of his legitimacy, and now that distance felt longer then ever.
He stretched out his hand again as the third and final family head exited the carriage.
“Matron Hagetha Cromley,” he said to the rotund woman waddling towards him. “It’s so nice-”
“Yes, yes,” she puffed, wiping her brow with her white blouse’s sleeve. “I heard you the first two times. You must be Mander’s new heir, I suppose? And she must be just too busy to come down and say hello? Busy looking for some stone to draw blood from?”
“Not at all,” Edmund said, frantically reciting his prepared excuse. “She is feeling ill and won’t be joining us for dinner. She asked me to host instead.” How he wished that he was telling the truth.
“Did she now?” Matron Cromley smiled. “How kind of her. I’m sure you’ll be an excellent host.”
Uncertain how to react to such an insincere display of support, Edmund followed after as Matron Cromley pulled herself up the steps.
“This sitting room hasn’t changed much since I saw it last,” Patron Vanndegaar muttered, lifting his cane to poke aimlessly at a small candlestick that squatted on the fireplace mantle.
“Not a bit, really,” Matron Cromley sighed as she settled into a wide settee. “I must say, though, it still shows a great deal of character. I remember when Matron Moulde and I once sat in here when we were young, playing at tea. She would always claim she had poisoned me, and then I had to flop about on the floor like a fish. Ha! It was quite amusing.”
“Did you ever poison her back?” Edmund asked, as any proper host should.
Matron Cromley giggled. “Oh my, no. I would always stab her with a letter opener. Much more satisfying, I thought.”
“May I offer an aperitif?” Edmund asked.
“I will wait for dinner,” Patron Vanndegaar said, bending over to look into the fireplace. “I, for one, won’t eat or drink anything I can’t see you eat first.”
“Now, Samsuel,” Matron Cromley smiled, “I can’t imagine the young lad wants to kill us — he seems like such a smart boy.”
“Does he?” Matron Scower said, her tone making her opinion clear on that point. “He faked the invitations so poorly.”
Edmund’s blood chilled.
Patron Vanndegaar paced the room. “And I wouldn’t put it past a young and foolishly misguided heir to try and throw our families into disarray by cutting off the heads. It’s been tried before.”
“Yes,” Matron Cromley nodded sadly, “and it didn’t go well for the poor lass, did it? Do you know if they ever found the rest of her?”
Edmund’s stomach was churning. He had been so careful, making sure he copied Matron’s handwriting perfectly from an old letter, double checking the spelling, proper names, and titles…
“I think you had better tell us what this is all about, boy.” Patron Vanndegaar said.
Edmund desperately tried to think of some lie…no, some exaggeration that could salvage his crumbling evening. He opened his mouth to speak, only to see the heads of the three Families staring in subdued impatience, their eyes cold and clear, proclaiming in no uncertain terms that they were better at this than he was.
He would have to tell the truth.
“Matron didn’t invite you,” Edmund swallowed. “I signed Matron’s signature to your letters.”
“That was plainly obvious, boy,” Matron Scower’s small mouth pursed in disgust. “You bungled her handwriting quite terribly.”
“Though it was nice to see her name written so steadily,” Matron Cromley sighed. “It reminded me of our childhood, you know.”
“And,” Matron Scower continued, “you didn’t send letters to the rest of the families. Quite improper.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to invite everyone,” Edmund said, “I only wanted to speak with you three alone.”
“Good god, boy, you don’t invite them all to come,” Patron Vanndegaar snorted, slipping his cane into his other hand. “You invite them to damn well stay home!”
“That wasn’t in any of the books I read,” Edmund admitted. “I didn’t know I could do that.”
Matron Cromley smiled and patted him on the head. “There’s quite a lot for you to learn that you’ll never find in any books. It’s just common courtesy to make sure we all know what’s going on.”
“So there aren’t any nasty surprises,” Matron Scower hissed. “You won’t want to have any of those, would you my boy?”
“I can’t say I wasn’t expecting something of this nature,” Patron Vanndegaar rolled his one good eye. “Brash headstrong foolishness, a clumsy gambit that falls apart in the opening volley…Mouldes are hardly capable at the best of times, and it’s clear this is not the best of times for the Mouldes.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Edmund said, his stomach calming. He was ready for this conversation; he had played it out at least twenty times in his head.
“Don’t keep thinking we’re fools, boy,” Patron Vanndegaar stepped closer, his thick cane hitting the ground with a solid crack. “Matron hasn’t invited anyone to Moulde Hall in fifty years and it’s clear why. If she had any money at all, there would be more servants, more decorations, hors d’oeuvres, live music…a proper evening. Not this shoddiness.”
“I think it’s encouraging,” Matron Cromley smiled. “It shows the boy is trying to buck their thieving ways.”
“What you call improvement,” Matron Scower grumbled, “I call a lack of organizational skill.”
“I agree,” Patron Vanndegaar thumped his cane on the floor. “The fact is, they would have stolen a proper evening’s worth if they were able. Further evidence of their degradation. The sooner we are gone, the better.”
“Then…” Edmund paused. “Then why did you come in the first place?
An icy chill filled the air.
“Because we are polite,” Matron Cromley blinked.
“I note you have not answered the question,” Matron Scower said. “Why are there only three of the nine Families here this evening?”
“Four,” Edmund bristled. “I am Matron’s son, and heir to the Moulde Estate.”
“Of course, my dear,” Matron Cromley smiled soothingly. “I’m sure Lerriet didn’t mean to exclude you, but I must say, and I don’t mean to be rude, but while all three of us have heard of you, none of us know anything about you.”
“Mander doesn’t speak to anyone much,” Patron Vanndegaar said, running his tongue over his teeth, “but we would have heard of a newborn child. Am I to take it you are adopted?”
“Poppycock,” Matron Scower sniffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Mander would never adopt anyone. No, this is undoubtedly some long lost relative…perhaps some illicit affair with a gardener.”
“I’m a Moulde,” Edmund said, firmly. “Adopted, long lost grandson, whatever you may think, I am the heir to the Moulde Estate, and it is as the heir that I asked you here.”
“No, it was as Matron Mander that you asked us here,” Matron Cromley corrected, holding up a thick finger. “And I have to say, that is starting us off on quite the wrong foot.”
“We don’t lie to each other,” Matron Scower nodded. “Lies are always found out in the end. Though I am learning you are clever enough to have gone this long without answering my question. Why are we here?”
Edmund was spared the need to reply by the sitting-room door opening to reveal Junapa and Kolb in the fine clothing he had purchased for them.
Junapa’s dress was an elegant black gown, covered with lace and small pearl buttons. The neck was tight and long, surrounded by a web of white thread that gave her shoulders the look of light snow on the dark branches of an old tree. Her hair was held in place by a large net of pearls that also bore a single jewel resting squarely in the middle of her forehead. Along the edge of this net was a wide headdress of small raven feathers. She held a bright paper fan, painted with a rolling seaside view that glowed against her slim figure.
Kolb was dressed in a marvelous black coat that shimmered deep red in the gaslight. His tails were long, and his lapels reached out almost to his shoulders. His jacket was open, revealing a smoky blue vest with a long silver watch chain that dipped almost to his knee. His clothing accented his strong limbs while his dark shoes glimmered as he walked.
They both swept into the room, arm in arm, polite smiles plastered painfully on their faces.
“Good evening,” Junapa trilled, a faint note of panic still plain in her tone. “I’m so glad you three could join us for supper.”
“Indeed!” Kolb said, his hat brushing the carpet as he swept it off his head in a deep bow. “It is an indescribable delight to have your illustrious personages honor our humble home with such…such grace, poise, beauty, lucre, class, comfort, propriety, generosity, and humility.”
“Yes, quite,” muttered Patron Vanndegaar as he looked them up and down. “I can imagine you don’t get those qualities much around here.”
“Well,” chirped Matron Cromley. “I, for one, am delighted to see you both again, and looking so well!”
“Now,” Matron Scower snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut the others dead, “If there are no further interruptions, I reiterate my question, boy. I would like to know why we are here!”
“I should think we all are a bit intrigued, what?” Wislydale said as he walked into the room with — no! Without a glass in his hand.
Edmund hoped this was a good sign — that he had thrown everyone off balance enough with the sudden arrival of the Heads of Family. With luck, his cousins would be far too focused on not embarrassing themselves to pay much attention to him and what he was doing, until it was too late.
Wislydale, for his part, didn’t seem quite as nervous as Junapa or Kolb. He was dressed in the fine white-tie outfit Edmund had chosen, rimed with bright gold trim and sporting a deep cut neck. The collar was wide and sweeping, giving him a trim coiffed look. He looked clearer eyed than Edmund had ever seen him, and he strode confidently into the room, reaching out to Patron Vanndegaar and shaking the reluctantly offered hand.
“Samsuel, old boy!” he said, a small smile playing about his lips. “Good to see you again.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Patron Vanndegaar said through gritted teeth. “Hasn’t Grigori kicked you out of the Rotledge family yet?”
“Not at all, old chap,” Wislydale shrugged. “My dear Patron seems to agree with me that it’s best for the family if I keep the name. Less scandal all around, what?”
“Am I to take it Tricknee is around as well, then?” Matron Scower sniffed, looking back towards the door. “I seem to remember hearing you both tend to follow one another around, these days.”
“Someone has to keep an eye on the old fellow, what?” Wislydale gave a stiff bow to Matron Scower. “Patron Rotledge thought ‘who better than the goat’s own son?’ Ah! Tunansia, how…splendid you look.”
Edmund turned as Tunansia walked into the room, her usually scowling face forced into an unnatural smile. Gone was the yellow dress she had worn almost every day that Edmund had seen her, but neither was she wearing the bright blue dress Edmund had found for her. Instead, she was wearing an elaborate pearl dress covered in purple ribbons with a large bow set slightly lopsided on her head. Edmund had never seen the dress before; it must have been hers.
She walked unsteadily through the room, heading straight for Patron Vanndegaar, her arm outstretched like the reaper claiming its victim. “Patron Vanndegaar,” she said breathlessly. “I’m so pleased…”
With the glacial speed born of caution, Patron Vanndegaar took Tunansia’s hand and gave a small bend at the waist. Instantly, Tunansia’s face blossomed into a bright blush through her brown skin, and she fumbled at her waist for a ornate lace fan, flipping it open and fanning herself as Vanndegaar dropped her hand.
Well, I wasn’t expecting that.
“Now…” Matron Scower hissed. “As I was saying —”
Pinsnip fell into the room with a crash, his top hat rolling into the middle of the room.
“Um…I…uh…” He picked himself up, his hands combing over his jacket sleeves and collar like a nervous fly. His suit was remarkably similar to what he had worn when he first met Edmund, tall and black with the collar that passed his ears.
“My dear cousin,” Junapa stepped towards him. “Are you alright?”
“Just…um…Matron Crowley, it is so…so nice to —”
“Enough!” Matron Scower shouted, freezing the room with her fury. “I am becoming quite irritated with you, Master Edmund. Either you tell us immediately why you have asked us here tonight, or I will leave this house forthwith!”
Had Edmund been able, he might have done as she commanded and ruined everything, but his heart had fluttered up into his throat, preventing him from speaking. He took a deep breath from his stomach, like Kolb had taught him, and by the time his throat was free again he had calmed enough to remain resolute.
“I must beg you for patience, Matron Scower,” Edmund said. “Ordinarily, I would have explained myself at once, but I have a very important announcement to make, and I would like everyone present to make it.”
“Need I remind you of our opinion of surprises?” Matron Scower said, icily.
“Oh, don’t listen to her,” Matron Cromley smiled warmly. “I love surprising other people. It’s the look of shock on their faces, you know — it’s really my favorite thing. May I ask whom we are waiting for?”
“Tricknee will be joining us, along with his granddaughter, Googoltha,” Edmund said, hoping he was right.
Matron Cromley was about to respond when Kolb swept in front of her with a grand bow and asked about her hair.
Matron Scower grimaced and took a breath, when Pinsnip stammered his as-yet-ungiven greeting.
Patron Vanndegaar’s shout of frustration was stifled almost instantly by Tunansia’s fainting into his arms, along with Junapa’s smooth apology and charming comment on the weather.
It was working!
And the beauty of it was, they all knew it was working, but they couldn’t stop themselves. He could see in their faces. It was no accident that his cousins had entered the room so erratically — they were stalling for time. Perhaps they trusted Edmund to have a plan, or maybe they wanted to postpone the inevitable, but for whatever reason…they all had the same goal; distract their guests until opportunity presented itself.
For the heads’ part, they had to know they were being stalled, but etiquette trapped them in conversation. When etiquette wasn’t enough, their suspicion was, keeping them talking while they tried to ascertain some clue as to what was going on.
But no one knew what was going on. No one except Edmund. If he failed, he would be back at the orphanage, no worse off than he had been half a year ago. If he succeeded…
Tricknee burst in through the door. He scuttled across the floor, his bent posture and twisting limbs looking all the stranger with the long silver and gold white-tie suit that hung loosely over his spindly frame. He quickly took each hand of the family heads, and then threw himself into a chair next to the fireplace.
“Right then,” he scowled. “Are we going to eat or not?”
“Hello to you as well, Mister Rotledge,” Patron Vanndegaar sighed, carefully extracting his arm from Tunansia’s grasp, a nearby Pinsnip catching her as she fainted again.
“Is Googoltha going to be joining us this evening?” Edmund asked.
“Pha!” Tricknee waved a hand like he was swatting at a fly. “That little brat can barely handle a spoon yet. I won’t have her putting me off my appetite.”
That could cause problems, later.
“Grigori might find your caustic attitude boorish, Tricknee…” Matron Scower cautioned.
“My dear Patron Grigori Rotledge,” Tricknee spat each word as if he could draw blood from it, “can go sit on a gate-spike. I’m old, hungry, and I don’t give a damn about anything else at the moment.”
“I didn’t think the Rotledge family was so poor as to be unable to afford common courtesy,” sniffed Matron Cromley. “This evening will go much more pleasantly if we remember our manners.” She looked around the room, daring anyone to disagree.
The brief pause while everyone considered her words was all Edmund needed. He stood up, moved in front of the fireplace, and cleared his throat.
Instantly, all nine pairs of eyes in the room were locked on him. He could feel the humors bubbling in his body as his heart began to race. For a moment, he couldn’t speak — his throat closed and his breath caught, threatening to choke him rather than let out the words he was about to say. He wanted to run, to escape back to his room. His muscles tensed to hurtle him out the door…
…when the image of Orpha Moulde’s skull swam into his mind. Closing his eyes, he thought of the flaming skeleton, and the ticking watch. Matron was gone; it was all up to him now.
His throat opened. Pulling himself up to his full height, he spoke aloud to his waiting guests.
“I invited you all here to inform you of the arranged marriage between myself and Googoltha Rotledge, to be consummated in ten years.”