Winterspell (6 page)

Clara Stole
, they must have thought,
is truly a lucky girl.

As Mrs. Hancock ushered her into the other room and stripped her once again, Clara stood, blank-eyed and still, refusing to look at her reflection in the mirror. She avoided it whenever possible, in fact. Such a hunched, twitchy, pathetic-looking figure. Who wanted to look upon that image and realize it was her own?

“I'm so sorry, miss,” Mrs. Hancock whispered as she peeled away the last bit of heavy green velvet trimmed with gold. She added the gown to the stack of discards and retrieved the next one. “I'm trying to go as quickly as I can.”

“Not to worry,” Clara said brightly. Mrs. Hancock gave her a despairing look, and Clara flushed with shame at having to stand here so unclothed, even in the company of this perfectly harmless woman. Mrs. Hancock was looking upon Clara's bare legs; she could see the gooseflesh along Clara's skin. She could see the bruises on Clara's body, the scabbed-over cuts, and as ever she tactfully ignored them, even arranged the gown to better hide them, though her eyes were heavy with concern.

Clara's mortification overwhelmed her from all quarters. Withdrawing from the horror of it, her thoughts leapt wildly to Godfather's shop, to its warmth and oddness and safety. She thought of Godfather, crowing arrogantly after a successful clock repair; and she thought of the statue, tall and impassive in the shadowed corner—its full lips and narrow waist, its arms in their serrated armor. As she pictured this, the flush on her skin shifted from embarrassment to pleasure, despite the danger luxuriating in the next room.

Mrs. Hancock prodded her to step into another gown, jarring Clara from her reverie. Guilty tears pricked her eyes—such atrocious thoughts! Apparently she could not help herself. She was a slave to her wandering mind. She was hopeless, depraved.

Shameful, wanton, sinful girl.

Why was she so plagued by such wicked impulses?

A few more tugs, and Mrs. Hancock led her back before Dr.
Victor, who sipped lazily at his cognac. Winter seeped in through the windows, making Clara shiver as she stood there before him, being appraised. She tried not to wonder what he might be thinking. The neckline of this gown was far too low-cut, the frothy sleeves too coy, the bodice too perfectly snug. It left little of her form to the imagination, and Clara found herself frantic to get away. The sight of her body in this disgraceful display would affect Dr. Victor adversely, as it always did, turning his eyes dark and his cheeks hot.

“Is there anything wrong with this particular gown, Dr. Victor?” Clara struggled to speak, keeping her eyes on the floor. “These are such fine gowns, and this the finest yet. May we not choose it and be finished?”

Beside her Mrs. Hancock tensed, and Clara's stomach dropped like a stone. Dr. Victor's stillness was too swift, too complete. She could have heard the ash from Dr. Victor's cigar hit the plush rugs. Had her tone been discourteous? Had she somehow offended him?

“Leave us,” Dr. Victor said at last.

Mrs. Hancock hesitated for only an instant before obeying. In the maid's absence Clara stood frozen by her own fear. Not for the first time in Dr. Victor's company, she considered calling for her father. She could do it; she could scream for him. He had no doubt returned from his afternoon outings. He would be downstairs greeting Concordia gentlemen as they arrived for the usual midweek coffee and brandy.

But then what would she do? Accuse Dr. Victor of . . . what, exactly? Looking at her? Smiling at her? And if she implied anything more, who would believe her? Her father would; even now, with his eyes always distant and cloudy and his breath smelling perpetually of drink, he loved her, and he would believe her. But the fury Concordia would turn upon them if John Stole accused the respected doctor of something so heinous would not be worth the relief Clara might feel.

So she remained silent, self-loathing souring her mouth. Dr.
Victor rose from his scarlet chaise in the corner, set down his drink, and approached her. He was a sinewy, looming man, the kind of man whose presence flooded a room with authority and menace. As he neared her, reaching for her arm with perfectly manicured fingernails, Clara thought he would not have to do anything else to hurt her. She would simply choke on the cancer of his existence; she would disintegrate beneath the eager heat of his eyes.

“Trying on party gowns, I see,” murmured a voice from the door.

Dr. Victor stepped back at once. Clara moved away from him to the chair by the window, and gripped the high back to stay upright.

“My apologies, Mrs. Plum.” The color flared high in Dr. Victor's cheeks. “I did not mean for you to witness Clara's indecency. She wanted to look her best for the party tomorrow evening. I was simply offering my advice on how best to appear . . . tasteful.”

In her steadfast widow's black, fingers and neck shimmering with diamonds, Patricia Plum glided forward in rustling silks, leaving the door open behind her. Clara heard Plum say something about the gathering downstairs, but her relief was too great for her to listen more closely than that. Even when Dr. Victor had gone, Clara felt his eyes on her body. When Patricia Plum offered Clara a shawl, Clara took it without question, wrapping herself tightly away.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I didn't mean to.”

Plum cocked her head, amused. “Sorry for what, exactly? Dr. Victor's perversions aren't your fault.”

“Perversions?” Clara blinked at her. The habit of pretending his sins away took over. “He was simply helping me pick out a dress.”

“Clara, don't pretend to be stupid. There's no need for it, not between you and me.” Plum turned to check her own immaculate reflection in the mirror by the door. “We both know what kind of man Dr. Victor is. Unfortunately, we have to pretend that we don't.”

Clara did not know what to say to that. “What . . . kind of man?”

Plum sighed irritably. “Will you be able to handle yourself now? It
might be best to sequester yourself in your room for the night. The good doctor gets worse with drink, as well you know, and who's to say how long our coffee and brandy will last?” Her eyes cut to Clara's in the glass. “Concordia has much to discuss tonight. End-of-the-year business.” She smirked to herself, tucking a dark coil of hair back into place. Her eyes were made of blue stone.

Clara tried to decipher Patricia Plum's face, without success. Godfather had taught her much about reading the faces of others—their expressions, their mannerisms. But Patricia Plum was a mystery. Since Boss Plum's murder a year and a half ago at the hands of the Eastside Delvers, Patricia Plum had headed Concordia with an assemblage of her late husband's most trusted advisors. How she had managed to maintain control and not lose the empire to one of them—Dr. Victor, Walter Higgins, or Hiram Proctor, no one knew. But no one knew much of anything when it came to Patricia Plum.

She, on the other hand, knew everyone and everything, from the schedule of the street performers on Broadway to what patrons sat in which boxes at the opera. She regularly met with bishops, university rectors, and glamorous foreign dignitaries, who would call upon her first, even before the mayor. What they talked about, no one knew, but one could sometimes catch glimpses of them in Plum's fine coach-and-four, jewels flashing through gaps in the curtained windows. People obeyed Patricia Plum when she spoke, without question, as if she were a sorceress of old, weaving spells with her eyes. Rumors of her origins ranged from witch to renegade European princess who had abandoned her birthright and made for America.

Some people said Patricia Plum had never loved her husband, that she had married Boss Plum to secure Concordia for herself. It was a laughable, unthinkable ambition for a woman, and yet when Clara met Plum's calculating eyes, she knew it was true. It was the one thing she knew for certain about Patricia Plum.

That, and how deeply Clara hated her.

Patricia Plum, Clara was convinced, was the mastermind behind this recent wave of discord, the suspicion about her father's loyalties, the spreading waves of antagonism against him. Clara's guess was that Plum knew a liability when she saw one and wanted to rid Concordia of John Stole's increasingly erratic behavior.

Thinking of this filled Clara with sudden defiance and cleared her head. “Why didn't you stop him?”

Patricia Plum turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dr. Victor.” Clara clutched her shawl, horrified at her boldness. But she had to see it through now. “You see how he treats me. How he looks at me. I know you do. You see everything. You mentioned his ‘perversions.' You send him away and tell me all will be well, yet you don't do anything to stop him. He goes unpunished, but you could punish him if you wanted. Why don't you? Why bother pretending to care if you truly care so little?”

A slow, cold smile. “Why don't
you
stop him?”

Clara stared at her. “I—I cannot . . .”

“And why can't you? Because you need him.” Plum sat down opposite her, smoothing her skirts. “You need him to stay happy so he will go on protecting your father and sister, and so you can go on cavorting with your godfather. So things can stay as they are.”

“We don't
cavort
—”

“And I need him too. I need to keep him happy so I can manage Concordia and he can still feel as though he's got a hand in things. I need him satisfied with being nothing but a counselor in the shadows, because our good doctor is not a good doctor at all.” She leaned forward, her eyes hard. “If only you knew, Clara, the sorts of experiments Dr. Victor conducts in his laboratories . . . but perhaps you can imagine.”

Oh, yes. Clara could imagine, and often did, based on the snippets of information she had gleaned over the years. The images were grotesque: skull-piercing metal tools, teeth plucked from their roots,
girls screaming in terror while strapped to examination tables. Clara had smelled the formaldehyde and laudanum, had seen the bloody grime caked on Dr. Victor's Concordia glove after he'd spent a day out at Harrod House.

Plum's smile thinned. “You understand, then. I need him right where he is, happy and content. He's too dangerous, his tastes too extreme. Even the lowest of criminals would turn on us, should he gain too much power. Even the street gang lords have a moral code. But not him. And I'm tied to him, you see.”

“You let him do it,” Clara whispered, thinking of Harrod House, thinking, guiltily, of herself and what the future might hold.

“Yes, I let him. I would let him carve open the body of every pretty little orphan girl within a hundred miles if I had to. And I would do it for the good of our city, for
order
. Just as
you
must. We ladies must stick together, mustn't we?” Plum rose, shook out her skirts, and examined Clara, eyes cool. “Is that the gown you selected?”

Clara ignored the question. It was a dangerous move, but she had to make it. “Don't you want to change things? You could fight him, fight all of them. Make them follow
your
rules. You don't want to cower before people like Dr. Victor forever. Do you?”

Plum froze, her smile strained, and then laughed. “I'm no fool, Clara. Concordia is an empire. I won't lose years of work and blood and loyalty because of my pride. I won't risk losing what is mine, no matter the cost.”

Terrible understanding overcame Clara. The widow would be no help; her father
could
be no help. She could not do much to protect him, but she could do this one thing—she could remain silent. And Godfather . . . Clara could not lose him. She would not risk his safety for her own. She would remain silent and small, she would care for her sister and father as best she could, and she would tolerate whatever of Dr. Victor her future might bring.

Patricia Plum must have seen Clara's comprehension. She smiled and straightened Clara's skirts—piles of white silk and taffeta edged with lace.

“Yes, that one will do marvelously, I think.” Plum turned toward the door. “The neckline alone will drive Dr. Victor out of his mind.”

C
lara entered her father's study and shut the door quietly behind her. Her gown caught on the latch.

“Damn lace,” she hissed, jerking the fabric half up her legs to free it. She was so close to crying—she'd been doing it for hours now, in unpredictable bouts—and her nerves stretched taut across waves of panic. Even now guests were arriving downstairs, and they would be expecting a flawless evening, a spectacular party. John Stole needed—they all needed—this night to go well.

So stop crying, in other words.
Clara wiped her eyes viciously. Could she do anything but snivel these days?

“Clara.” Felicity, scandalized, hurried over from her perch beside their father and fiddled with Clara's skirts, restlessly rearranging. “Don't show your legs like that. And don't move about so violently. You'll muss your hair. And don't say ‘damn.' ”

“You just said it.”

Felicity pursed her lips, and Clara's breath caught. Those shining red curls, the impudent nose and stubborn jaw, those bright eyes—in Felicity's face whispered the echo of the vibrant man their father had once been. Everyone said the elder Stole girl looked like her mother, the younger, her father: red hair, the trademark freckles, one sharply jawed, the other softer.

Of course Clara was the softer. Of
course
.

“Yes, but I was saying it to reprove you,” Felicity said primly. “That doesn't count.”

Clara smiled, hoping that the sadness behind it did not show. She brushed her fingers over Felicity's perfectly coiffed curls. Her younger sister was so proper, so lovely, so concerned with whether or not they were serving the most fashionable cakes. Felicity had been conscientious about such things from an early age, and since their mother had died, she had thrown herself into the role of stylish aspiring hostess with a ferocious zeal. It was as though by doing so Felicity could capture a bit of the poised woman their mother had been—or maybe, by keeping her thoughts so firmly in the superficial, forget about her.