Arabella of Mars(17)
“What might ye be seeking?” called out a one-legged airman, who sat at the base of a nearby wall with his hat upended on the cobbles before him.
“The Marsman Earl of Kent.” She sorted a farthing from her much diminished purse and tossed it into the unfortunate man’s hat.
“I know her well,” the airman replied. “A fine ship, a soft berth. She were docked just here this very morning.”
Arabella swallowed. “And where is she now?”
An agony of waiting as the airman sucked his few remaining teeth, squinting and contemplating. “I calculate she’ll be well above the falling-line now.”
“Which means?”
“Just furling her envelope and swaying out sidemasts.”
“Swaying out…?”
“Just so, sir. A soft berth, the old Earl, but no air-clipper. Now, you want a fast ship, there’s better. Royal York, or Diana, she’d be halfway to the moon by now. Depending on the winds.”
“So the Earl is still nearby?”
“Nearby?” Again the old airman sucked his teeth. “Closer than the moon, aye, but above the falling-line.… Well, there’s nothing between her and Mars now save clean air and sweet winds, the good Lord willing.”
“I see,” Arabella said, though in truth she understood little of what she had heard … save that the ship was well departed. “Is there any chance she might be forced to return to port? By storm or foul winds, perhaps?”
The old airman shook his head. “She’d never have taken to the air in such case.”
Arabella’s shoulders slumped. “I see,” she repeated miserably, and gave the airman another farthing for his help.
“Thankee, mate,” he said, tucking the coin away in his pocket.
*
Stunned and dejected, Arabella wandered up from the docks, lacking any destination, letting the waves of humanity wash across her without feeling them. Her feet moved without volition, carrying her unseeing and uncaring though a dark fog of despair.
Simon had gone. Vanished into the air, Mars-bound, with his pistol and his envy and his greed. In two months he would arrive at Mars, meet with Michael, and find some way to work himself into his cousin’s confidence. Plenty of time to work out a convincing story as to why.
Michael could be so trusting sometimes. He would never suspect, until some supposed hunting accident or other artificial tragedy had already befallen him. And then Simon, all feigned distress and forged tears, would inherit Marlowe Hall and all the rest, and Arabella and her mother and sisters would be tossed out onto the street.
Arabella knew the fate of women who lost the protection of their family fortune. They were thrown upon the kindness of relatives—not that Simon could be expected to offer any such kindness, nor were there any other relatives upon whom they might depend—or, failing that, must make their own way in the world, taking in washing or selling matches to earn their daily bread.
Mother, for all her flintiness, was accustomed to a soft life. And Fanny and Chlo? were barely more than infants. None of them would survive if they were forced upon their own resources.
It would be up to Arabella herself to save her family. But how could she do so? She was only a girl … friendless, nearly penniless, and a hundred miles away from them.
She must send a letter, she thought. The Earl of Kent was not a fast ship, the old airman had said. A letter, carried on a fast packet-ship, might reach Michael before Simon did.
“Excuse me, sir,” she asked a passing stranger, “where might I find a receiving house for a letter to Mars?”
*
The nearest receiving house proved to be a stationers’, which among many other services received letters for conveyance to the penny, general, and aerial post. Her gracious bow to the proprietor, a thin and sour-looking man with pince-nez spectacles perched upon his nose, was met by a disapproving glare.
Arabella was suddenly very aware of the appearance she must be presenting. She was filthy, her ill-fitting clothes had been stolen from a poor Oxfordshire farmer, and they had been traveled in, slept in, and subjected to extremely hard service for the last several days without proper cleaning or care. Even she had to admit that her odor was extremely unpleasant.
Again she bowed. “If you please, sir,” she said in her politest tone, “I should like to send an express to my brother on Mars.” The cost of an express, she well knew, was extravagant, but when he read the news the letter conveyed she was sure her brother would be happy to have paid it. “My news is exceptionally urgent, and I wish to convey it immediately and by the fastest possible ship.”
Apparently her fine diction managed to outweigh her rough appearance, for the shopkeeper’s disdainful expression softened somewhat. “You are in luck, then, boy,” he said. “The next collection for the aerial post is in only half an hour.” He extended his hand.
Arabella stared blankly for a moment at the man’s open hand before realizing what it meant, then cursed herself for stupidity. “I’m sorry, sir, I have not written my letter yet.” She looked about at the stacks of creamy paper displayed behind glass on the shop’s walls. “And I fear that I lack paper.”
The shopkeeper sighed, opened a cabinet, and drew out a sheet of fine cream laid. “Eighteen pence and a half,” he said. “And ha’penny for the use of pen and ink, if you should require that, as I suspect you do.”