Magnificent Devices 01 - Lady of Devices

Fragonard.” She dragged Emilie into the morning room and hugged her fiercely, the unshed tears backing up in her throat. “I’m so glad to see you I can’t even express it.”
    “I’ve sent you a tube every day,” Emilie said with the merest tinge of reproach.
    “Have you?” Claire released her and indicated a second pile of tubes on the escritoire, which was reaching the limits of its stability, too.
    “Oh dear.” Emilie appeared to do a quick calculation. “There is two weeks’ worth of writing replies between here and the hall.”
    “At least. I can’t bear to think of it.”
    “Think instead of the kindness of all your family’s acquaintance,” Emilie said gently. “They wish you to know they’re thinking of you.”
    “I know,” Claire took a letter out of a tube on top of the stack and smoothed it flat. “And I appreciate it. I do. But what do I say to everyone? No one really believes what the Times said and we don’t dare refute it.”
    Emilie took the letter from Claire’s hands. “They would not be so crass as to speak it aloud. Stick to the main point—their condolences. And for that I have just the thing. Have you forgotten my Multiple Nib Scrivener?”
    “You’re assigning me lines?” Was this meant to take her mind off her situation?
    “No, you goose. Where is your mourning stationery?” She rustled through the pigeonholes of the escritoire. “Never mind, I have it. We line up the reply cards like so—” She laid them out like dominoes and seated herself at the table. The ten nibs of her device hung poised above the creamy stationery. “—and begin composing. What would you like to say?”
    “What would I do without you?” Claire gathered her wits and tried to remember what she and her mother had done when Grandmother Trevelyan had gone to her eternal reward. “We so much appreciate your kindness during this painful time,” she began slowly. Emilie’s nibs scratched along, following her. “The viscount, Lady St. Ives, and I are thankful for your thoughts and trust that God will keep us in His hand.”
    “Is His capitalized?”
    “Yes.”
    “‘... hand.’ Anything else?”
    “No. Hand them to me and I’ll sign them. Fortunately we use the same ink. India Black.”
    Emilie gave her a look over the rims of her spectacles. “Was that a joke?”
    Claire winced. “No, I’m sorry. Merely bad taste.”
    “I think it’s good. It’s a sign that maybe in time you’ll recover.”
    “I suppose I will. And Nicholas will be fine, except for the tragedy of his never knowing Father. Never learning how to ride with him like I did. Never seeing him come in at dinnertime and running into his arms, as I did.” She reached into her sleeve for her damp handkerchief.
    “But you can teach him how to drive the steam landau when the time comes.” Emilie’s eyes were soft with understanding, and Claire hung onto her self-control with difficulty.
    “That’s true,” she said, swallowing the tears down. “That much I can do.” She picked up the next batch of tubes and began extracting their contents. All she had to do was reverse the address on each tube and pop a reply in. Emilie deserved to have won the all-around academic award. She was brilliant. “At this rate we could be finished by teatime, just in time for the next mail.”
    “It almost makes you wish you had no acquaintance, doesn’t it?” Emilie bent to her task.
    “Almost.” Claire directed her attention to the pile in earnest.

Chapter 8

    The offices of Arundel & Hollis, Solicitors, were nearly as posh as the prime minister’s house, in Claire’s informed opinion. A clerk guided them to a heavily carved oak door whose brass plate identified it as belonging to the corner suite of Mr. Richard Arundel. A man of rather more dashing years than his position might suggest came out of it and greeted Lady St. Ives, bowing in his beautifully cut Savile Row suit.
    “My heartfelt condolences upon your loss, my lady,” he said, clasping her black-gloved hand in both his bare ones. “I am so glad you saw fit to call upon us in this difficult time.”
    Since they were there for the reading of her father’s will, Claire thought this was going a little far, but of course she said nothing.
    Mr. Arundel guided them over to a pair of armchairs upholstered in glossy burgundy leather and studded in brass, placed strategically beneath a huge map of the Empire. He ordered the clerk to bring tea, and when it arrived,