Timeless

CHAPTER TWO Wherein Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher Does Not Buy a Hat

“Don’t you believe this would suit the young miss better?” Biffy was a man of principle. He refused, on principle, to sell a huge tricolored pifferaro bonnet decorated with a cascade of clove pinks, black currants, and cut jet beads to Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher for her daughter. Miss Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher was plain, dreadfully plain, and the bonnet was rather more of an insult than a decoration by contrast. The hat was the height of fashion, but Biffy was convinced a little gold straw bonnet was the superior choice. Biffy was never wrong about hats. The difficulty lay in convincing Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher of this fact.

“You see, madam, the refined elegance complements the delicacy of Miss Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher’s complexion.”

Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher did not see and would have none of it. “No, young man. The pifferaro, if you please.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible, madam. That hat is promised elsewhere.”

“Then why is it out on the floor?”

“A mistake, Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher. My apologies.”

“I see. Well, clearly we have made a mistake in patronizing your establishment! I shall take my custom elsewhere. Come, Arabella.” With which the matron marched out, dragging her daughter in her wake. The young lady mouthed an apology behind her mother’s back and gave the little gold straw bonnet a wistful look. Poor creature, thought Biffy, before returning both hats to their displays.

The silver bells attached to the front of the shop tinkled as a new customer entered. Some evenings those bells never seemed to stop. The store was increasingly popular, despite Biffy’s occasional refusal to actually sell hats. He was getting a reputation for being an eccentric. Perhaps not quite so much as the previous owner, but there were ladies who would travel miles in order to have a handsome young werewolf refuse to sell them a hat.

He looked up to see Madame Lefoux. She carried in with her the slightly putrid scent of London and her own special blend of vanilla and machine oil. She was looking exceptionally well, Biffy thought. Life in the country clearly agreed with her. She was not, perhaps, so dandified in dress and manner as Biffy and his set, but she certainly knew how to make the most of somber blues and grays. He wondered, not for the first time, what she might look like in a proper gown. Biffy couldn’t help it, he was excessively fond of female fashions and could not quite understand why a woman, with so many delicious options, might choose to dress and live as a man.

“Another satisfied customer, Mr. Biffy?”

“Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher has the taste level of an ill-educated parboiled potato.”

“Revolting female,” agreed the Frenchwoman amiably, “and her gowns are always so well made. Makes her that much more vexing. Did you know her daughter is engaged to Captain Featherstonehaugh?”

Biffy raised one eyebrow. “And he’s not the first, I hear.”

“Why, Mr. Biffy, you talk such scandal.”

“You wrong me, Madame Lefoux. I never gossip. I observe. And then relay my observations to practically everyone.”

The inventor smiled, showing her dimples.

“How may I help you this evening?” Biffy put on his shopboy persona. “A new chapeau, or were you thinking about some other fripperies?”

“Oh, well, perhaps.” Madame Lefoux’s reply was vague as she looked about her old establishment.

Biffy tried to imagine it through her eyes. It was much the same. The hats still dangled from long chains so that patrons had to push their way through swaying tendrils, but the secret door was now even more well hidden behind a curtained-off back area, and he had expanded recently, opening up a men’s hats and accessories section.

The Frenchwoman was drawn into examination of a lovely top hat in midnight blue velvet.

“That would suit your complexion very well,” commented Biffy when she fingered the turn of the brim.

“I am sure you are right, but not tonight. I simply came to visit the old place. You have tended it well.”

Biffy gave a little bow. “I am but a steward to your vision.”

Madame Lefoux huffed in amusement. “Flatterer.”

Biffy never knew where he stood with Madame Lefoux. She was so very much outside his experience: an inventor, a scientist, and middle class, with a marked preference for the company of young ladies and an eccentricity of dress that was too restrained to be unstudied. Biffy didn’t like enigmas—they were out of fashion.

“I have recently come from seeing Lord and Lady Maccon at the theater.”

Biffy was willing to play along. “Oh, indeed? I thought it was bath night.”

“Apparently, Lord Akeldama was left to muddle through alone.”

“Oh, dear.”

“It occurred to me that we have switched places, you and I.”

The French, thought Biffy, could be very philosophical. “Come again?”

“I have become a reluctant drone to vampires and you nest in the bosom of the Maccon home and hearth.”

“Ah, were you once in that bosom? I had thought you never quite got all the way inside. Not for lack of trying, of course.”

The Frenchwoman laughed. “Touché.”

The front door tinkled again. Busy night for new moon. Biffy looked up, smile in place, knowing he made a fetching picture. He wore his very best brown suit. True, his cravat was tied more simply than he liked—his new claviger needed training—and his hair was slightly mussed. His hair was always slightly mussed these days despite liberal application of Bond Street’s best pomade. One, apparently, had to bear up under such tribulations when one was a werewolf.

Felicity Loontwill entered the shop and wafted over to him in a flutter of raspberry taffeta and a great show of cordiality. She smelled of too much rose water and too little sleep. Her dress was very French, her hair was very German, and her shoes were quite definitely Italian. He could detect the odor of fish oil.

“Mr. Rabiffano, I was so hoping you would be here. And Madame Lefoux, how unexpectedly delightful!”

“Why, Miss Loontwill, back from your European tour already?” Biffy didn’t like Lady Maccon’s sister. She was the type of girl who would show her neck to a vampire one moment and her ankle to a chimney sweep the next.

“Yes. And what a bother it was. Two years abroad with absolutely nothing to show for it.”

“No delusional Italian count or French marquis fell in love with you? Shocking.” Madame Lefoux’s green eyes twinkled.

The door jingled again and Mrs. Loontwill and Lady Evelyn Mongtwee entered the shop. Lady Evelyn headed immediately toward a spectacular hat of chartreuse and crimson, while Mrs. Loontwill followed her other daughter up to the counter.

“Oh, Mama, do you remember Mr. Rabiffano? He belongs to our dear Alexia’s household.”

Mrs. Loontwill looked at the dandy suspiciously. “Oh, does he, indeed? A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure. Come away, Felicity.”

Mrs. Loontwill didn’t even glance in Madame Lefoux’s direction.

The three ladies then gave their undivided attention to the hats while Biffy tried to comprehend what they were about.

Madame Lefoux voiced his thoughts. “Do you think they are actually here to shop?”

“I believe Lady Maccon is not receiving them at present, so they may be after information.” He looked suspiciously at the Frenchwoman. “Now that Felicity has returned, will she be rejoining the Woolsey Hive?”

Madame Lefoux shrugged. “I don’t know, but I shouldn’t think so. I can’t imagine it holds much appeal, now that the hive is located outside London. You know these society chits—only interested in the glamorous side of immortality. She may find herself another hive. Or a husband, of course.”

At which juncture Felicity returned to them, in clear defiance of her mother’s wishes. “Mr. Rabiffano, how is my dear sister? I can hardly believe how long it has been since I saw her last.”

“She is well,” replied Biffy, utterly passive.

“And that child of hers? My darling little niece?”

Her face sharpened when she was being nosy, noted Biffy, rather like that of an inquisitive trout. “She, too, is well.”

“And how is Lord Maccon? Still doting upon them both?”

“Still, as you say, doting.”

“Why, Mr. Rabiffano, you have grown so dreary and terse since your accident.”

With a twinkle to his eye, the dandy gestured at the little gold straw bonnet. “What do you think of this one, Miss Loontwill? It is very subtle and sophisticated.”

Felicity backed away hurriedly. “Oh, no, mine is too bold a beauty for anything so insipid.” She turned away. “Mama, Evy, have you seen anything to your taste?”

“Not tonight, my dear.”

“No, sister, although that green and red toque makes quite the statement.”

Felicity looked back at Madame Lefoux, on point. “How unfortunate that you are no longer in charge here, madame. I do believe that the quality may have fallen.”

Madame Lefoux said nothing and Biffy took the hit without flinching.

“Do, please, give my sister and her husband my best regards. I do hope they remain blissfully enamored of one another, although it is terribly embarrassing.” Felicity whirled to the French inventor. “And give the countess my compliments as well, of course.”

With that, the rose-scented blonde led her mother and her sister out into the night with nary a backward glance.

Biffy and Madame Lefoux exchanged looks.

“What was that about?” wondered the inventor.

“A warning of some kind.”

“Or an offer? I think I should return to Woolsey.”

“You are turning into a very good drone, aren’t you, Madame Lefoux?”

As she made her way out, the Frenchwoman gave him a look that suggested she preferred it if everyone thought that. Biffy hoarded away that bit of information. He had much to tell Lady Maccon when he saw her next.

Alexia and Conall arrived home from the theater prepared to go out immediately to call on the Woolsey Hive. One did not ignore an invitation from Countess Nadasdy, even if one was a peer of the realm. Alexia alighted from her gilded carriage in a flutter of taffeta and intrigue, marching into her town residence with strides of such vigor as to make the bustle of her dress sway alarmingly back and forth. Lord Maccon eyed this appreciatively. The tuck-in at his wife’s waist was particularly appealing, emphasizing an area ideally suited to a man’s hand, particularly if one had hands as large as his. Alexia turned in the doorway and gave him a look.

“Oh, do hurry.” They were still making a show of living in their own house and so had to move swiftly up the stairs and across the secret gangplank into Lord Akeldama’s residence in order to effect a change of attire.

Floote’s dapper head emerged from the back parlor as they did so. “Madam?”

“Not stopping, Floote. We have been summoned.”

“Queen Victoria?”

“No, worse—a queen.”

“Will you go by rail or shall I have the groom switch to fresh horses?”

Alexia paused halfway up the grand staircase.

“Train, I think, please.”

“At once, madam.”

Prudence, much to everyone’s delight, was down for her nap, nested with her head atop Lord Akeldama’s cat and her feet tucked under the Viscount Trizdale’s lemon-satin-covered leg. The viscount was looking strained, obviously under orders not to move for fear of waking the child. Prudence was wearing an excessively frilly dress of cream and lavender plaid. Lord Akeldama had changed into an outfit of royal purple and champagne to complement it and was sitting nearby, a fond eye to his drone and adopted daughter. He appeared to be reading a suspiciously embossed novel, but Alexia could not quite countenance such an activity in Lord Akeldama. To her certain knowledge, he never read anything, except perhaps the society gossip columns. She was unsurprised when, upon catching sight of them lurking in the hallway, the vampire put his book down with alacrity and sprang to meet them.

Together they looked at the lemony drone, calico feline, and plaid pile of infant.

“Isn’t that just a picture?” Lord Akeldama was adrift on a sea of candy-colored domestic bliss.

“All is well?” Alexia spoke in hushed tones.

The vampire tucked a lock of silvery blond hair behind his ear in an oddly soft gesture. “Excessively. The puggle behaved herself after you departed, and as you can see, we had no further incidents of note.”

“I do hope she grows out of this dislike for soap suds.”

Lord Akeldama gave Lord Maccon a significant sort of once-over where he lurked behind his wife in the hallway. “My darling chamomile bud, we can but hope.”

Lord Maccon took mild offense and sniffed at himself subtly.

“Conall and I have been summoned to visit Woolsey. You will manage without us for the remainder of the night?”

“I believe we may, just possibly, survive, my little periwinkle.”

Lady Maccon smiled and was about to head upstairs to change her gown when someone pulled the bell rope. Being already in the hallway and hoping to keep Prudence from waking, Lord Maccon dashed to answer the door despite the fact that this was most unbecoming for a werewolf of his station, and it was someone else’s house.

“Oh, really, Conall. Do try not to behave like a footman,” remonstrated his wife.

Ignoring her, Lord Maccon opened the door with a flourish and a tiny bow—as behooved a footman.

Lady Maccon cast her hands up in exasperation.

Fortunately it was only Professor Lyall on the stoop. If any man was used to Lord Maccon’s disregard for all laws of propriety and precedence, it was his Beta. “Oh, good, my lord. I was hoping to catch you here.”

“Randolph.”

“Dolly darling!” said Lord Akeldama.

Professor Lyall didn’t even twitch an eyelid at the appalling moniker.

“You had a visitor, my lord,” said the Beta to his Alpha, looking refined.

Alexia was confident enough in her assessment of Lyall’s character to spot a certain tension. He displayed quick efficiency under most circumstances. Such forced calm as this indicated a need for caution.

Her husband knew this, too. Or perhaps he smelled something. He loosened his stance, prepared to fight. “BUR or pack business?”

“Pack.”

“Oh, must I? Is it terribly important? We are required out of town.”

Alexia interrupted. “I alone am required. You, as I understand it, my love, were simply coming along out of curiosity.”

Conall frowned. His wife knew perfectly well that the real reason he wished to accompany her was for security. He hated sending her into a hive alone. Alexia waggled her reticule at him. As yet, there was no new parasol in her life, but she still carried Ethel, and the sundowner gun was good enough when pointed at a vampire queen.

“I’m afraid this is important,” said a new voice from behind Professor Lyall, in the street.

Professor Lyall’s lip curled slightly. “I thought I told you to wait.”

“Dinna forget, I’m Alpha. You canna order me around like you do everyone else.”

Alexia thought that a tad unfair. Professor Lyall was many things, but he was not at all tyrannical. That was more Conall’s style. It might be better said that Professor Lyall arranged everyone and everything around him just so. Alexia didn’t mind in the least; she was rather fond of a nice arrangement.

A woman moved out of the gloom of the front garden and into the light cast by the bright gas chandeliers of Lord Akeldama’s hallway. Professor Lyall, polite man that he was, shifted to one side to allow their unexpected visitor to take center stage.

Sidheag Maccon, the Lady of Kingair, looked much the same as she had almost three years earlier, when Alexia had seen her last. Immortality had given her skin a certain pallor, but her face was still grim and lined about the eyes and mouth, and she still wore her graying hair back in one heavy plait, like a schoolgirl. She wore a threadbare velvet cloak that would do nothing to ward off the evening’s chill. Alexia noted the woman’s bare feet. Clearly, the cloak was not for cold but for modesty.

“Evening, Gramps,” said Lady Kingair to Lord Maccon, and then, “Grams,” to Alexia. Considering she looked older than both, it was an odd kind of greeting to anyone unfamiliar with the Maccon’s familial relationships.

“Great-Great-Great-Granddaughter,” responded Lord Maccon tersely. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“We have a problem.”

“Oh, do we?”

“Yes. May I come in?”

Lord Maccon shifted, making an open-hand gesture back at Lord Akeldama, this being the vampire’s house. Vampires were odd about inviting people in. Lord Akeldama had once muttered something about imbalance in the tether ratio after Lady Maccon entertained Mrs. Ivy Tunstell overly long in his drawing room. He seemed to have adjusted tolerably well to Prudence and her parents living under his roof, but after the Ivy tea incident, Alexia always made certain to entertain her guests next door, in her own parlor.

Lord Akeldama peeked over Lady Maccon’s shoulder, standing on tiptoe. “I don’t believe we have been introduced, young lady.” His tone of voice said much on the subject of any woman darkening his doorstep with plaited hair, a Scottish accent, and an old velvet cloak.

Alexia pivoted slightly and, after a quick consideration, decided Lady Kingair was just lady enough to warrant the precedence, and said, “Lady Kingair, may I introduce our host, Lord Akeldama? Lord Akeldama, this is Sidheag Maccon, Alpha of the Kingair Pack.”

Everyone waited a breath.

“I thought as much.” Lord Akeldama gave a little bow. “Enchanted.”

The female werewolf nodded.

The two immortals evaluated each other. Alexia wondered if either saw beyond the outrageousness of the other’s appearance. Lord Akeldama’s eyes gleamed and Lady Kingair sniffed at the air.

Finally Lord Akeldama said, “Perhaps you had best come in.”

Alexia felt a surge of triumph at the achievement of such civilized discourse under such trying social circumstances. Introductions had been made!

However, her pleasure was interrupted by a high-treble query from behind them. “Dama?”

“Ah, I see somebody is awake. Good evening, my puggle darling.” Lord Akeldama turned away from his new acquaintance to look fondly down the corridor.

Prudence’s little head poked out from the drawing room. Tizzy stood behind her, looking apologetic. “I am sorry, my lord. She heard your voices.”

“Not to worry, my ducky darling. I know how she gets.”

Prudence seemed to take that as an invitation and padded down the hallway on her little stubby legs. “Mama! Dada!”

Lady Kingair, momentarily forgotten, was intrigued. “This must be my new great-great-great-aunt?”

Alexia’s forehead creased. “Is that correct? Shouldn’t it be great-great-great-great-half sister?” She looked at her husband for support. “Immortality makes for some pretty peculiar genealogy, I must say.” No wonder the vampires refuse to metamorphose those with children. Very tidy of them. Vampires preferred to have everything in the universe neat. In that, Alexia sympathized with their struggles.

Lord Maccon frowned. “No, I believe it must be something more along the lines of—”

He never finished his sentence. Prudence, seeing that there was a stranger among her favorite people, and assuming that all who came into her presence would instantly adore her, charged Lady Kingair.

“Oh, no, wait!” said Tizzy.

Too late, Alexia dove to pick up her daughter.

Prudence dodged through the legs of the adults and latched on to Lady Kingair’s leg, which was quite naked under the velvet cloak. In the space of a heartbeat, the infant changed into a small wolf cub, muslin dress ripped to tatters in the process. The cub, far faster than a toddler, went barreling off down the street, tail waving madly.

“So that’s what flayer means,” said Sidheag, pursing her lips and arching her eyebrows. Her unnatural pallor was gone and the lines in her face were more pronounced—mortality had returned.

Without even a pause, Lord Maccon stripped smoothly out of his full evening dress in a manner that suggested he had been practicing of late. Alexia blushed.

“Well, welcome to London Town, indeed!” exclaimed Lord Akeldama, whipping out a large feather fan and fluttering it vigorously in front of his face.

“Oh, Conall, really, in full view!” was Alexia’s response, but her husband was already changing midstride from human to wolf. It was done with a good deal of finesse. Even if it was done right there for all the world to see. Sometimes being married to a werewolf was almost too much for a lady of breeding. Alexia contemplated divesting Lord Akeldama of his fan—her face was quite hot, and he no longer possessed the ability to blush. As if reading her mind, he angled about so that he could fan them both.

“That is a lovely fan,” said Alexia under her breath.

“Isn’t it marvelous? From a little shop I discovered off Bond Street. Shall I order one for you as well?”

“In teal?”

“Of course, my blushing pumpkin.”

“I do apologize for my husband’s behavior.”

“Werewolves will happen, my pickled gherkin. One has to merely keep a stiff upper lip.”

“My dear Lord A, you keep stiff whatever you wish—you always do.”

“Doesn’t it hurt her?” Lady Kingair asked rather wistfully as Alexia exited the vampire’s house down the front stoop to stand next to her, watching as the massive wolf chased the tiny cub.

“Not that we can tell.”

“And how long will this last?” Sidheag made a gesture up and down her own body, indicating her altered state.

“Until sunrise. Unless I intervene.”

Sidheag held a naked arm out at Lady Maccon hopefully.

“Oh, no, not you. The preternatural touch has no effect on you anymore. You’re mortal. No, I have to touch my daughter. Then immortality, sort of, well, reverberates back to you. Difficult to explain. I wish we understood more.”

Professor Lyall stood off to one side, a tiny smile on his face, watching the chaos in the street.

Prudence tried to hide behind a pile of delivery crates stacked on one side of the road. Lord Maccon went after her, knocking the crates to the ground with a tremendous clatter. The wolf cub went for the steam-powered monowheel propped against the stone wall of the Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher’s front yard. Mr. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher was particularly fond of his monowheel. He had it specially commissioned from Germany at prodigious expense.

Prudence took refuge behind the spokes of the center area. Lord Maccon was having none of it. He wiggled one mighty paw through to get at her. The spokes bent slightly, Lord Maccon got stuck, and Prudence dodged out, pelting once more down the street. Her tail wagged even more enthusiastically at the delightful game.

Lord Maccon extracted himself from the monowheel, shaking loose and causing the beautiful contraption to crash over with an ominous crunch. Lady Maccon made a mental note to send a card of apology around to their neighbors as soon as possible. The unfortunate Colindrikal-Bumbcrunchers had suffered great travails over the past two years. The town house had been in Mr. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher’s family for generations. Its proximity to a rove vampire was well known and tolerated, if not exactly accepted. Just as all the best castles had poltergeists, so all the best neighborhoods had vampires. But the addition of werewolves to their quiet corner of London was outside of enough. Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher had recently snubbed Lady Maccon in the park, and frankly, Alexia couldn’t fault her for it.

She squinted at the Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher house, trying to see if an inquisitive face at a window might have observed Conall’s transformation in Lord Akeldama’s hallway. That would require an even more profound apology, and a gift. Fruitcake, perhaps. Then again, perhaps the sight of Lord Maccon’s backside might warrant less of an apology, depending on Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher’s preferences. Lady Maccon was distracted from this line of thinking by Professor Lyall’s shout of amazement.

“Great ghosts, would you look at that?”

Alexia could not recall Professor Lyall ever raising his voice. She whirled about and looked.

Prudence had reached a good distance away, near to the end of the street, where an orange-tinted lamp cast a weak glow on the corner. There she had turned abruptly back into a squalling, naked infant. It was very embarrassing for all concerned. Particularly, if her screams of outrage were to be believed, Prudence.

“Well, my goodness,” said Alexia. “That’s never happened before.”

Professor Lyall became quite professorial. “Has she ever gotten that far away from one of her victims before?”

Lady Maccon was slightly offended. “Must we use that word? Victim?”

Professor Lyall gave her an expressive look.

She acquiesced. “Quite right, it is unfortunately apt. Not that I know of.” She turned to look at Lord Akeldama. “My lord?”

“My darling sweet pea, had I known that if we simply let her run a little distance she would work herself out, I would have let her gallivant about at will.”

Lord Maccon, still in wolf form, trotted over to pick up his human daughter. Possibly by the scruff of her neck.

“Oh, Conall, wait!” said Lady Maccon.

The moment he touched her, Prudence turned once more into a wolf cub, this time stealing her father’s skin, and he was left to stand in the middle of the street, starkers. Prudence tore off back toward the house. Lord Maccon made to follow, this time in his lumbering mortal form.

Alexia, forgetting the delicacy of the Colindrikal-Bumbcrunchers’ finer feelings, was seized with the spirit of scientific inquiry. “No, Conall, wait, stay there.”

Lord Maccon might have disregarded his wife, particularly if he had any thought of his own shame or the dignity of the neighborhood, but he was not that kind of husband. He had learned all of Alexia’s cadences and tones, and that one meant she was on to something interesting. Best to do as she asked. So he stood, watching with interest, as his little daughter dashed back the way they had come and then past the house in the opposite direction.

Just as before, at a distance from her victim, she turned back into a toddler. This time Lady Maccon went to retrieve her. What must the surrounding households think of us? Screaming baby, wolf cub, werewolves. Really, she would never put up with it herself were she not married into the madness. As she hoisted Prudence, she looked up to see Mr. and Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher and their butler glaring daggers at her from their open front door.

Conall, with a little start, turned back into a wolf before heads turned in his direction and someone would be forced to faint. Knowing the Colindrikal-Bumbcrunchers, that someone would probably be the butler.

Sidheag Maccon began to laugh. Lord Akeldama hustled her swiftly inside, fanning himself with the feather fan.

Lord Maccon, once more a wolf, was in the door next. Alexia and her troublesome offspring followed, but not before she heard the Colindrikal-Bumbcrunchers’ door close with a definite click of censure.

“Oh, dear,” said Lady Maccon upon attaining the relative safety of Lord Akeldama’s drawing room. “I do believe we have become those neighbors.”