Arabella the Traitor of Mars Read online

  “The Martians,” she replied evenly, “are not so stupid as to attempt such a thing. Unlike some I could name.”

  * * *

  After that disastrous conversation—which had, at least, ended in stony silence rather than fisticuffs—Arabella insisted upon an after-dinner walk in the snow with her husband. “They have no idea what they are on about!” she cried, clutching his bicep as they walked side by side. “Foolhardy English ambition will be the ruination of England as well as Mars.”

  “I must remind you that, in the absence of English ambition as regards Mars, your family fortune, and indeed your own sweet self, might never have existed.”

  “But both England and Mars might be better off.” She sighed. “I cannot deny that my family and I have been the beneficiaries of a … questionable history. If I were somehow to become Queen of Mars, I would certainly wish to restore the ownership of the khoresh-plantations to the Martians in some fashion. But the rights of the English owners, many of whom have held and diligently managed the property for generations, cannot be ignored either.” Again she sighed. “It is a difficult question.”

  “All of the most interesting questions are difficult.” And then he lapsed into silence.

  “I know that you face a difficult question of your own,” she put in after a time. The silence continued, relieved only by the crunch of snow underfoot. “You know my opinions on the topic.”

  “Indeed. As does every one at table to-night.”

  She paused, turned, and took both of his hands in hers. “I cannot play the silent, supportive wife in this. The lives of thousands, perhaps millions, both Martians and humans, will be irrevocably changed by your decision.”

  “That is true no matter which alternative I choose.” His dark eyes glistened in the gas-light reflected from the snow at their feet. “Responsibility to those millions, and further millions yet unborn, as well as loyalty to crown and country, may demand that I accept command of this scheme … even though I reject its premises.”

  “But you may be the only person who can bring it to a halt! The Prince Regent respects you. Lodge your objections with him, in the most strenuous terms, and saner heads may yet prevail.”

  “Perhaps. Yet I fear the hour has grown too late.”

  And with that ambiguous statement, he directed their steps back to the house.

  3

  DIFFICULT DECISIONS

  Days passed, endless days of cards and billiards and constant, tedious gossip. The snow outside grew crystalline, changing in character day by day as the Sun warmed it each day and the night froze it anew. Paths were trampled through the snow by the more adventurous, and a few brave carriages came through from town with letters and supplies, but by all accounts the roads to London were still impassible. Captain Singh spent his days in earnest discussion with Reid, Dundas, and the other projectors of the scheme, but continued to withhold judgement upon his own participation in it.

  Arabella spent as much time as she could in the Royal Stables, away from the sweltering heat and incessant prattle of the pavilion. She grew proficient in propelling the Draisine about the arena—remaining upright for as long as she wished, driving in figures-of-eight, achieving quite breathtaking speeds, and bringing herself to a stop exactly where she desired—and spent the time between these exercises with Kiernan, discussing possible improvements to the machine.

  “Aboard ship,” she told him, “we use a system of pedals and belts, powered by the muscles of the crew’s legs, to turn the propulsive sails which drive the ship forward in the absence of a favorable wind. Surely you have noted the mighty calves and thighs which mark an airman?”

  “I have,” he said, gazing off into the distance—in clear avoidance of a glance at her own lower limbs, which displayed some of the same development. She wore a borrowed pair of workmen’s breeches for her work with the Draisine, a habit which would surely have driven her mother to apoplexy but which the elderly coachmaker took well in stride.

  “I was thinking,” she went on as though she had not noticed Kiernan’s reaction, “that a similar set of pedals could be fitted to the Draisine, possibly producing even greater speed and efficiency … and also sparing the operator’s footwear.” She had worn the toes of her favorite Mars-made half-boots entirely through in her first day’s work with the machine. Though the royal bootmaker had already repaired them, the damage was still painful to her.

  “A capital idea! I shall have my workmen look into it immediately.” He held the machine upright while Arabella dismounted. “It will provide a relief from this infernal, enforced idleness.”

  * * *

  At last there came a day when the Sun beat down upon the snow with such force that it began to retreat, laying bare the brown and sodden ground upon which it had lain for so long. A coach arrived from London, the horses mud-spattered and weary, with news that Nelson’s body was now lying in state in the Painted Hall at the Greenwich Hospital, with a grand funeral procession scheduled for two days hence. “We must attend,” the Prince proclaimed at dinner that evening … a simple statement of fact, which was nonetheless greeted by toasts and resounding hurrahs.

  Conversation over dinner and afterward was almost entirely devoted to the forthcoming funeral. A Grand River Procession on the Thames from Greenwich to London was planned, with Nelson’s coffin borne by one of the royal barges, followed by a flotilla of the nobility and all the City Livery Companies. The coffin would then be transferred to an ornate funeral car—built to resemble Nelson’s flagship Bucephalus and hung with all of his trophies—and carried through the streets with a military escort, finally to be delivered at St. Paul’s for a triumphant state funeral. The whole procession and funeral would take three days. All the world would be in attendance, including every member of the English nobility and heads of state from all over Europe, and tickets to the ceremony were a treasure greater than rubies.

  But Arabella, though she did her best to participate in the conversation, sharing again and again the story of her personal encounter with the late Admiral, found her mind occupied with other thoughts. The return to London, she knew, marked the end of their idyll in Brighton, a return to crowds, the renewed pressure of society … and the requirement for Captain Singh’s decision upon participation on the Prince Regent’s scheme for the subjugation of Mars.

  Though she and her husband had talked of nearly no other thing in the past few days, she was still not certain what his decision should be—nor, she felt, was he. His hesitation showed that he knew the enormity of the Prince’s scheme was too vast to contemplate, yet duty, that shining beacon which had guided him throughout his career, drew him ever forth.

  During a lull in the dinner conversation, Arabella looked down the table to Captain Singh, who, along with Dundas, Reid, and the other projectors, was now seated much closer to the Prince Regent. As the conversation on Nelson’s funeral prattled about him like aerial cross-currents around an asteroid, he stared down at his plate … silent, morose, preoccupied.

  She did not envy him in this conundrum. Yet she trusted that he would eventually come to the right decision … the only possible humane decision.

  “You simply must try the venison,” her table companion prompted her, “before it grows cold.”

  Arabella raised a forkful, chewed, swallowed. “It is delicious,” she said.

  It might as well have been sand in her mouth.

  * * *

  After dinner that night, when the gentlemen returned to the withdrawing-room after their port and cigars, Captain Singh was not among them … nor was the Prince. Thus it was that, after all the other gentlemen had collected their companions and retired, Arabella found herself alone with Lady Hertford.

  “I expect that Prinny is pressing your husband for a decision regarding his offer,” the great lady said, dismissing the servants with a wave of her hand and conducting Arabella to a private corner. “His hesitation in this matter has been most vexing.”

  “I imagine you ar
e correct.” Arabella bit her lip, wishing for a cup of tea or hand of cards to distract her worried mind. If only there were some action she could take!

  “You do not wish him to accede.” It was not a question. Arabella’s opinions on the matter were far from secret.

  “I am a child of Mars, my lady.”

  “You are also a subject of His Majesty.”

  She acknowledged this truth with a nod. “Yet in this instance I feel there is more at stake than simple loyalty.”

  “Loyalty is never simple, my dear.” She sat, patting the settee beside her, and Arabella sat as indicated, drawn as though by a sudden increase in gravity. “And you are not the only one with multiple loyalties here.”

  “Oh?”

  Lady Hertford leaned forward just fractionally, lowering her voice so that Arabella was compelled to pay close attention. “I fear that Prinny is being used, as much as your husband.”

  “What?” Arabella gasped.

  “Hush, child. This is women’s work, and women’s work must be conducted quietly.” She leaned forward still further. “I have just this evening learned from Lady Reid that Lord Reid, contrary to his public statements, privately resents your husband’s success and fame. The term ‘uppish darkie’ may have been used.”

  “B-but why…?” Arabella stammered. She had seen no sign of such sentiments from Reid … though this revelation made her consider certain attitudes and statements of his in a new light.

  “Why does he support him so firmly in public? An excellent question. I suspect—and this is only a suspicion, mind—that his intent is to raise Captain Singh up, and then by some intrigue to cause him to fail, and thus be brought low.”

  “But how could he possibly…? If Captain Singh fails, the Company fails!”

  “Multiple loyalties, madam. The Company is a beast with many heads. It may be that a failure in one area can open opportunities in others.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps not. Do not underestimate the importance of personal resentment in even the largest decisions. In any event, this new intelligence causes me to suspect the entire scheme. If Lord Reid does indeed intend Captain Singh to fail, that implies that the true aim of his plan is something other than what he has presented to Prinny and the Admiralty.… which implies, in turn, that the scheme is in the Company’s, or at least his own, best interest and not in England’s.”

  “W—why have you not brought your suspicions to the Prince yourself?”

  “This information has just reached my ears this evening.” Lady Hertford sighed. “But my influence upon him is not as great as most people suppose. When his mind is firmly fixed upon some goal he is not easily dissuaded, especially by what he would certainly dismiss as mere gossip.” She shook her head. “I am afraid that the scheme itself cannot be stopped. But you may be able to rescue your husband from it.”

  “I … I thank you for this intelligence.”

  “You are most welcome. But I am afraid I must ask that you not disclose where you learned it … to any one. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.” Arabella rose. “Now I must beg your ladyship’s leave.”

  “Of course.” She held out a hand, and Arabella clasped it. “Brave heart, dear.”

  * * *

  It was well past midnight when Captain Singh returned to their bedchamber. The door creaked open quietly—clearly he expected her to already be asleep—but instead she stood at the foot of the bed, fully clothed and trembling with anxiety. She had not even sat down since speaking to Lady Hertford, instead pacing endlessly in the narrow space beside the bed.

  “I have received some vital intelligence,” Arabella said, before he could even close the door. “Lord Reid’s heart is secretly set against you.”

  Captain Singh’s head jerked backward at this revelation. “What?”

  “He despises your color and creed, and resents your accomplishments. This implies that his public support of you is false, and that he secretly intends you to fail. His mendacity upon this topic makes the entire scheme suspect.”

  He blinked, turned, gently closed the door, turned back. His frown was thunderous.

  “Well?” she prompted, when he did not speak.

  “I cannot believe this.” His gaze was directed to the floor, but his attention was elsewhere. “Reid is a man of impeccable honor, who has…” He paused, considering. “… who has hardly ever displayed any disapproval of my background.” He thought a bit longer, then shook his head and looked to Arabella. “No. I cannot believe this. What is your source for this information?”

  “I may not say.”

  To his credit, he accepted this with a slight nod. “Very well. But are you certain of it? Is there any possibility that your source could have some ulterior motive?”

  “I…” She knew herself to be naive in the ways of court gossip. Could she herself be a pawn in some scheme of Lady Hertford’s? “I must confess I cannot be absolutely certain. But, even so … this new intelligence is only one more stain upon an already filthy scheme. Even if you do not accept its veracity, you must decline the Prince’s offer. For your own safety—for the sake of Mars—for the sake of simple human dignity—you cannot participate in this horrific scheme of subjugation!”

  He turned away from her, facing the half-open wardrobe door. “I do not doubt your sincerity,” he replied. His voice echoed in the empty wardrobe; most of their clothing had already been packed away by the Prince’s servants for the morrow’s journey to London. “However, after discussions with the Prince Regent and representatives of the Company and the Navy, I have come to the conclusion that, if properly supervised, this plan can be put into action with minimal loss of life and property, both English and Martian.”

  The implication of his carefully chosen words was distressingly clear. “And you are to be the one to properly supervise it?”

  He hung his head, still facing the wardrobe. “Yes. I have informed His Royal Highness that I will accept the position he has offered me. I am to be Fleet Commander for the Royal Navy’s Mars Expeditionary Force, and thereafter First Duke of Mars. The announcement is to be made at Nelson’s funeral ceremony.”

  Command. Responsibility. Authority.

  Land. Riches. Peerage.

  Yet the emotion in his voice was like that she would have expected if the news were that he had been diagnosed with some fatal disease.

  Arabella’s own sentiments were even more desolate, for not only must she contemplate his service and its consequences, but she must consider his betrayal of the principles she thought they had held in common. “How could you?” she burst out.

  “I had no choice,” he replied, and now he did turn back to her. His face was hard, unmoving—a death-mask of his usual imperturbable self. “I swore an oath.”

  “You cannot participate in the subjugation of the Martian people!” she said, feeling tears forming at the bottoms of her eyes. She blinked hard, willing them back to the well from which they came. “You know how important they are to me! Consider Khema, who saved your life!”

  “I did consider your sentiments, my love. But the scheme will certainly go forward whether or not I accept this appointment. By taking command myself, I will at least be in a position to prevent the worst errors and excesses. And I hope that you will help me in this, with your superior knowledge of the Martian culture and language.”

  “You say ‘culture’ and ‘language’ as though there were only one!” she spat. “This … this enormity you contemplate will affect the entire planet—hundreds of cultures and dozens of languages! I cannot—I will not!—assist you in this madness. It is a fool’s errand, and will bring nothing but bloodshed and ruin!”

  “I…” He paused, then allowed his gaze to fall to Arabella’s feet. “I am truly sorry. I have no alternative.”

  “Please!” she cried. She covered the distance between them in a single step, placed her hands upon his shoulders, and squeezed hard. “You cannot do this despicable thing. It is not too late! We can leave her
e this instant—take a coach to London—take Diana to Mars—and warn the Martians of the invasion that is coming their way! Even a few months’ warning could make all the difference!”

  He did not look up. He did not meet her eyes. He ignored the pressure upon his shoulders, which must be painful. “Mars is in conjunction,” he said without emotion. Meaning, of course, that the two planets were on opposite sides of the Sun—the worst possible situation for a rapid, easy passage from one to the other.

  “All the more reason to depart immediately!” A white fleck of her spittle landed on the dark brown skin of his cheek. He did not reach to wipe it off. “It will be a long journey and we must begin now!”

  Gently—oh, so gently—he reached up and removed first one, then the other of her hands from his shoulders. Still not meeting her eyes, he held both of her hands in his and said, “I cannot. I am His Royal Highness’s subject and I must do as he commands.”

  Arabella snatched her hands from her husband’s and stamped her foot. It was the artificial foot, and the shock ran up its rigid brass and wood to jar painfully against her stump. She accepted the pain—practically reveled in it, as it echoed and amplified the pain in her heart. “Very well!” she cried. “If you will not take me to Mars, then perhaps Fox will!”

  Pausing only to snatch up her fur wrap, bonnet, and gloves, she dashed from the room.

  “Mrs. Singh!” came the captain’s call from behind her. “Do not do this.”

  She paused, breathing hard, looking down the hall and toward the stairs. The heat was intolerable, the ceramic Venusian gods ludicrous. “You may refer to me as Ashby,” she said without turning, then continued on her way.

  4

  TREASON

  Arabella wiped her eyes as she hurried down the stairs, propelled by grim determination. She had no plan, no course of action in mind—she knew only that she could not bear to remain here, trapped in this farcical burlesque of a Martian-Venusian palace with the grotesque Prince, his simpering coterie, and her faithless husband.