Wyrde and Wondrous (Paperback)

Winter passed reluctantly, that year; the chill, sunk deep into the bones of the earth, relinquished its grip slowly, and lingered late. But it did pass, and a bright, sun-drenched spring dawned upon the Werth family… at peace.

Peace. Can such a word apply to such a family? How does peace look, draped like a mantle over the shoulders of so strange a concoction of souls?

Well, peace meant Lord Werth left deceased Londoners undisturbed, abandoning necromantic antics in favour of the delights of books, afternoons in the parlour with his wife, and a good table at dinner. Peace meant Great-Aunt Honoria chiefly disported herself with Ivo Farthing, and largely blamelessly, fewer hair-raising pranks being played upon her nearest and dearest than usual. Peace meant Lady Werth, ice-free, devoted herself to the arranging of comforts across the townhouse as the weather warmed (once its singed roof had been repaired). And Theo? He abandoned theatres and gentlemen’s clubs, at least for the time being, and closeted himself in the library.

What of the disastrous Gussie? This Honourable Miss Werth, having developed a taste for lurid romances, subscribed herself to a circulating library, and scarcely emerged for weeks.

Curious, is it not? One might even say, suspicious. So much apparent tranquillity could only be a façade, beneath which all manner of villainy must be plotting.

But one would be wrong. This was a true peace, a balmy interlude between house fires (twice); risen revenants (of unusual quantity, Great-Aunt Honoria excepted); homicidal literature (a certain amount of which might be taken in stride, but it had really become excessive); and nefarious-minded thespians (quite unusual indeed).

But if you are disposed to feel concerned by this; to wonder, perhaps, what on earth a Gussie Werth might be expected to do with herself through two or three tranquil months together; permit me to reassure you.

It didn’t last.

* * *

One morning in April, Goodspeed found Gussie ensconced in the breakfast parlour with the second volume of Melmoth the Wanderer. The south-facing room enjoyed a great deal of sun on cloudless days (as this was); Gussie had caused a comfortable arm-chair to be placed for her in the best-favoured corner, and spent hours of every day tucked up in it. The only drawback to this regularity of habit was its predictability; she was altogether too easy to find, and thus to interrupt.

Goodspeed’s entry and discreet cough prompted a fair scowl of annoyance, an expression Gussie quickly suppressed. To do him credit, the new butler never interposed his presence without a good reason.

‘What is it, Goodspeed?’ said she, inserting a finger between the pages of her book to keep her place.

Goodspeed made a half-bow, and proffered something wrapped in brown paper. ‘A package was left for you, Miss Werth.’

‘A package?’ This was most unusual, and Gussie’s curiosity was immediately roused. ‘Left where, pray?’

‘On the front doorstep, Miss. Gabriel discovered it not five minutes ago.’

Gabriel was a footman, and until recently he would in all likelihood have brought such a parcel straight to Gussie herself. Since the advent of Goodspeed, however, things had changed in the household. Every one of the servants had quickly come to rely heavily on Mr Cornelius Goodspeed; they consulted him in everything, and deferred to him in everything.

This troubled the family not at all, for their own attitude towards their new butler was scarcely any different. Goodspeed had talents.

‘How curious,’ said Gussie, taking the package. ‘Thank you, Goodspeed. Shall you remain while I open it?’

‘I would be interested to learn of the contents, Miss.’

Gussie accepted this with a nod, and tore into the package. It had not travelled far, she judged, for it was but loosely wrapped, and the paper remained crisp and undamaged.

Inside it, she discovered a book. No aged and weighty tome, this, for it was barely the size of her own hand. Bound in lavender kid, soft as butter, and with a silk ribbon bookmark in a matching hue, the book was patently a lady’s journal, or something of that nature. A pretty thing, and innocuous, but nonetheless, upon beholding it, Gussie felt a chill of apprehension.

Nonsense, she scolded herself. She had grown wary of mysterious books, that was all, and it was no wonder.

The pages were blank.

‘I believe I am intended to write in it,’ Gussie said, looking up at Goodspeed. ‘I never was much in the habit of keeping a diary, I confess.’

She handed the little volume to the butler, who examined it carefully. ‘Have you no ideas as to who might have sent it?’

‘Not one. I am not in possession of the sorts of friends who might gift me with such an object. And if I were, I can only imagine they would hand it to me directly, not wrap it up in paper and leave it on the doorstep, without a note.’

‘It is peculiar,’ Goodspeed agreed, returning the book to her. Both eyed the diary warily, in case it should take it upon itself to engage in some troublesome antic. It didn’t, however.

‘I shall keep it,’ Gussie decided. ‘Perhaps an answer to this little mystery will present itself, in due time.’

‘I believe it must,’ Goodspeed agreed. ‘Whoever sent it must have done so for a purpose.’

With which wisdom, he bowed and withdrew, returning, no doubt, to his daily task of directing and managing every aspect of the Werth family’s London life.

Gussie turned the diary over in her hands, musing. It was not quite impossible that Clarissa had sent it; she did take odd notions into her head, sometimes.

Regretfully, Gussie laid aside the second volume of Melmoth the Wanderer and abandoned her sunny arm-chair. She had not seen Clarissa for some days, and a visit would likely be welcome.

And besides, she would soon be in urgent need of volume three.

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