Wolf Omega: Lykanos Chronicles 2

New York City, 1871

Shortly after Henry’s eighteenth birthday, Maximo had written to me to announce that the boy was finally a young man and “ready” for the world. I also received a letter from Richards, who, to my delight, informed me he was “satisfied” with young Henry. Others may have understood that commendation to be at best tepid. But knowing Richards, I read it as a love letter.

Henry arrived at the backstairs entrance promptly at five o’clock with a single bag in hand. My butler, Michaelson, received him kindly as I had requested and showed him to his room. Once he’d given Henry ample time to rest from his journey and settle in, Michaelson knocked at the door and entered. He found the young man writing a letter before stopping to rise.

“Missus Roussade is dressing for dinner, but she is eager to greet you. I understand you two are already well acquainted.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry confirmed. “My mother was a housemaid in the family’s Washington house before the Baroness moved here years ago. She was very gracious to me after my mother died.”

“I should tell you now that Missus Roussade prefers we do not refer to her European title, publicly or privately. You might be too young and domesticated to appreciate the challenge, but I’ll admit it has been difficult for me not to refer to our mistress as “Your Ladyship.”

Henry was an American, born on U.S. soil, even if you could still hear the permanent fixture of his mother’s North Yorkshire accent in his voice. Michaelson, however, was a genuine expatriate. Having an English butler in New York was thought to be more than ideal by my social peers. In fact, they considered it a social triumph. As a result, I’d witnessed no small deflation in the man on his first day in my house when I corrected his address.

“The thing I appreciate most about America is the absence of such traditions,” I told him.

Though Michaelson found it appalling to throw off such a distinction, as did the women of my parish, clubs, and charities, I remained insistent that I would no longer identify in such an outdated way.

“But privately, I’ll admit I’m grateful to hear you refer to her by her true station,” Michaelson confided.

“Then Mister Richards and you have more than one thing in common, sir,” Henry smiled. “He isn’t English, but he still refers to them by their titles in private.”

“I’ve been briefed by our mistress, and I’ve received a letter from Mister Richards in Washington. Why don’t you tell me about your qualifications and experience?”

“Of course, sir,” Henry nodded. “For the last two years, I’ve performed as a footman under Mister Richards’ hand. I have acted as a valet for gentlemen guests and as an understudy to Baron Roussade when needed. I’m able to serve at formal dinners, as well as perform all the normal duties required in a house like this.”

“That’s quite impressive in one of your age.”

“It was important to Mister Richards that I be properly trained to take on any duty at a moment’s notice. If I’m honest, sir, Mister Richards helped raise me every bit as much as Miss Thompson did—my governess that the family provided when my mother passed. He felt it his duty to ensure I could replace him at a moment’s notice, so I’ve had the extreme fortune of his discipline and respect for our profession.”

Michaelson sighed and nodded his impression of the young man’s candor.

“I believe it says a great deal about the strong morality of this family and the integrity of Mister Richards that a maid’s son was given such a tremendous advantage. But I’ll be equally candid with you when I say that I won’t make similar accommodations where your performance is concerned. You will only receive privileges and commendations here once you have shown your competence. I require excellence from all the people under my management, without exception. If that proves to be beyond your capabilities, I will dismiss you. Do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sir,” Henry bowed slightly.

“Good. I’ll inform you if and when Missus Roussade calls for you. Until then, I’ll leave you to rest after your journey. You may begin in the morning. We start promptly at—.”

I entered without a knock and crossed the room to take Henry into my arms.

“My dear, but look how handsome you are!” I said, laughing and kissing him on the cheek. “I can’t believe how you’ve grown.”

I ran my gloved hands through his hair, which clearly embarrassed the boy, though I could tell he sincerely appreciated my affection.

“How excited you must be to finally be out on your own! And in New York City, of all places. Well, I’m thrilled to have you back with me.”

He would never be out on his own, as far as I was concerned. But I knew the sentiment would land well with a teenager.

“That you so much, Mistress,” he smiled, trying to gather himself from my loving assault.

“All right, I’ll leave you two to get started.”

I turned to find Michaelson turning a deep scarlet. I didn’t need telepathy to know how upset he was with me and my undermining display.

“Thank you, Richards,” I conceded with an apologetic tone.

I took appearances seriously. I’d learn to appreciate how crucial they could be after suffering a dozen failures in my life after Como.

Though Duccio and I had been lovers for eight years, I refused to allow that fact to be known. We kept our houses and lives as separate as possible. Weeks would often pass between us seeing each other, and the wait served only to make the reunion that much wilder.

Whenever our passion led us to become careless, and some indiscretion caught the attention of a servant, I took immediate action to correct it. I did this as harmlessly as possible, but it required constant upkeep. I ensured anyone would forget seeing Duccio steal up to my room after dinner or that I’d not returned from his mansion before the morning.

Duccio, on the other hand, found the pretense to be a tiresome chore. While he had agreed to my insistence initially, he now couldn’t care less about anything to do with his staff’s opinions. And if someone outside our homes knew, well, what difference could that possibly make to an immortal such as he? Duccio would come and go as he pleased. If someone decided they disapproved of it, they would soon find that they did. If someone wanted to tell, they found that they couldn’t. I was not to mistake his desire to be among the whirl and the rush of New York with any concern for its perceptions of him.

And so I should’ve been better prepared when, barely a week after Henry Jackson arrived at my house, Duccio came to dinner.

“Mister Thomas Van Duren,” Michaelson announced, bringing him directly to the dining room after he’d arrived rather late.

My other three guests were well into their soup when he took the empty seat beside me.

“Forgive me. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Dears, this is an old friend of my husband’s, Thomas.”

“Please, all of you, accept my apology for being so late.”

“I believe you’ve met Susan and Elizabeth before, but this is Miss Woodhull. We were discussing how she’s decided to run for the office of President.”

“Oh?” he asked with a distracted tone as Henry filled his glasses.

“President of the United States,” I clarified. “She’s running on the Suffragist ticket.”

“Oh,” he changed his tone one of bewilderment. “Is that... possible?”

“Not only is it possible, but I intend to make substantial changes when I win,” Victoria smiled with no acknowledgment of his incredulous tone.

“I see,” Duccio nodded.

He looked to me with a stoned face.

“Don’t worry—it won’t be me,” I assured him.

“Well, if you’re looking for a proper benefactress to your cause, I can assure you we’re all seated beside her. I could share stories with you about all the misfortunate souls who’ve ever underestimated Gabrielle in—.”

“Stop,” I whispered with an unrepressed grin.

It was a bit of insider humor that I didn’t want him to play with in front of these women. Of course, my response exposed the room to a level of intimacy between us that countermanded my wish.

It was not by chance that our company was oddly numbered. I had discovered quickly during the years of our arrangement that the appearance of an even number of dinner guests had the effect of communicating pairs to an observer’s mind. They would unconsciously link people together and soon find that simple dinner conversation might imply so much more. I remedied this by always keeping my company at an odd number. I would remark that the empty seat was reserved for my husband, should he decide to surprise us and arrive unannounced for dinner.

Yet, on the night in question, this simple trick was not enough to dissuade young Henry from noticing my conduct with Duccio. Certainly not after the third glass of wine touched my lips.

“No! Not a strike of the sexes—a sex strike. The women in the warring cities all refuse to engage in intercourse with their husbands until they lay down their arms. It was a scheme to convince the men to end their war. Well, I don’t have to explain to any of you about the effects of war on women. So, one enterprising woman decided she must take matters into her own hands.”

“Oh, dear,” Duccio remarked, downing his second glass.

I had enough self-control to ignore his lewd suggestion.

“This all led to an exposition of feminine appraisal of masculine leadership ability. Later on, a magistrate and herald arrive at the peace talks while sporting enormous erections between their legs. Can you imagine? That’s how the author chose to draw the audience’s attention to their sexual repression. It was a symbol of their imposed drought, if you will.”

“If only Missus Lincoln had thought of that in the sixties,” Duccio mumbled, and I couldn’t help but roar.

“Who would ever produce such a play?” Susan asked, her dour manner incapable of hiding her shock.

“Aristophanes,” I rose my eyebrows.

“Who?” she turned to Duccio.

“Aristophanes of ancient Greece,” he confirmed.

“The play is thousands of years old!” I yelled at her, laughing hysterically. “It’s a comedy about gender roles, and it’s positively obscene by modern standards. So this man—this Mr. Comstock I mentioned—is bent on banning it here, if you can imagine.”

“Oh, dear,” Victoria laughed with me. “I’ll be sure to keep my campaign slogans a bit less drastic.”

My laughter rang a bit too loudly, and my teasing look to Duccio lasted a bit too long.

I’d chosen to dine with this group of equality leaders, hoping they would not feel scandalized by the sight of a woman drinking in her house. But I could already sense that Susan did not care for my behavior.

Further, the wine dulled my usually diligent notice of the staff. I only realized the connection being made in Henry’s distracted mind via Duccio’s perception of it. Henry stole several glances back at us, and I could tell he was more than suspicious of our behavior.

“Thomas, have you met our new footman, Henry? He’s recently arrived from serving my husband in Washington.”

“Good to meet you, Henry. How was the Baron when you left him? I had so hoped he might be in town to join us tonight.”

“He was excellent, sir,” the boy remarked, flustered to be called out.

“And how are you finding New York?”

“It’s very impressive, sir.”

“The city is a powder keg right now. You’d do well to keep south of 50th for the time being. But I’m sure Michaelson has already warned you.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man confirmed.

“Brace yourselves—Henry is only eighteen-years-old as of last month,” I said with an almost triumphant smile.

“It can’t be true,” Elizabeth said, turning back to reappraise him. “He looks so mature. And English, as well? My, Gabrielle, but you are fortunate.”

“American,” I corrected her. “His mother emigrated before he was born, but his voice certainly comes from across the Atlantic. He’s been training for several years in service, and now he’s come to start his career with us in earnest.”

“His service is a credit to your house,” Duccio remarked, “and to your leadership, Michaelson.”

“Here, here,” the others called.

Henry bowed his head almost imperceptibly, then returned to his duties when Michaelson cleared his throat.

But I knew the distraction wasn’t enough. I sensed Henry still wondered about Duccio—this Thomas Van Duren—the bachelor who sat at my table while I laughed too loudly and drank too much.

I’d have to alter his mind in the same way that I often did Michaelson’s. I would do it as soon as the others left.

Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it, Duccio promised me.