Chapter 24 Lightning Hill
Lightning Hill
We have had a breakthrough.
For weeks now, Georgiana and I have been feverishly pursuing a promising line of inquiry I previously mentioned re: bones. However, we ran up against a wall, eventually: insufficient power. Finally, though, we realized, more was in fact available. All we had to do was wait and watch the leeches.
“Look,” said Georgiana last evening, kneeling down next to the tempest prognosticator. “St. John has a message for us.”
I leaned down next to her. Indeed, St. John had crawled nearly to the top of his glass, well past the tempest line, ignoring the lovely puddle of fresh offal in the bottom.
I frowned. “Just because he is your favorite, it does not mean you should abide by his counsel only.”
“Just you watch,” said Georgiana. “The others will soon follow him.” Sure enough, as we watched, Barnaby, Andrew, Lily (“She’s too pretty to be a boy,” said Georgiana), and all the others began oozing up the sides of their glasses.
Within fifteen minutes every leech in our instrument had passed the tempest line.
We looked at each other. Then I went and opened the window.
It was not raining—yet. But the air felt thick and close. The sky had gone a yellowish gray. A restless breeze chased down the skylight, ruffling my hair. I might not be a leech, but I knew what that feeling meant.
“Right,” I said. “It had better be tonight.”
We were able to sneak out a little before midnight. We waited for the rest of the house to quiet, packed our rucksacks, and went out into the tempest.
At this juncture, Harry, I must remind you that all we did that night was in service to the public safety.
Surely you understand that I meant no immodesty.
We simply could not go about the countryside dressed as young ladies.
I assure you I took no pleasure from the exercise.
Well. Very little pleasure. Trousers do allow one more freedom of movement.
I always thought it was absurd in stories and plays when girls donned boys’ clothes and went about in disguise.
I still do not believe it would serve at, say, a public ball, or the court of Illyria (come, Olivia, you are cleverer than that!), but on a stormy night, when no one is about, two young ladies may don trousers and homespun shirts and tuck their hair up in their caps and pass without remark.
More than one lamp shone out from the farmhouses as we passed; but the only gossip I heard about it the next day was a little head-shaking over some farmer who had sent his farm boys out on some errand despite the foul weather.
The rain stung our faces, and the wind howled around us.
I kept my head down and my eyes on my hobnail boots as I tried to keep from losing my footing in the rivers of mud that had formed.
I had never been out in a storm like this—not for any longer than the distance from a carriage to our front door, at any rate.
I ought, perhaps, to be frightened. It was a five mile walk to our destination, and a hard one even in good weather. Jane had once nearly caught her death making the journey. The roads were swamped, the stiles were slippery, and more than once the thunder roared so loud that my ears rang afterward.
My heart pounded. But not with fright.
I do not know what Quindley would say about young ladies who, instead of staying quietly inside, go out into storms and fall in love with them. Young ladies who long to fly up with the lightning, to sheet down with the rain. To be wild . I suspect he would not approve.
However, Quindley’s does not actually say anything on the subject, so I felt myself at liberty to enjoy it.
It took us some time, but at last we arrived at our destination. Netherfield looked very fine, silhouetted against the sky whenever the lightning flashed.
“Are you sure about this?” I yelled over the rain.
Georgiana nodded. Laying a hand on my shoulder, she put her lips near my ear and said, “The Bingleys are permanently installed in Derbyshire. However, Bingley still holds the lease to Netherfield for some months yet. The place is quite empty.”
Even quite empty houses of that size usually have a servant or two who stays with the property to keep it from falling to ruin. However, it was true I could see no light in any of its windows, so we hurried on.
It is not only Netherfield’s emptiness that suits it to our purpose, Harry. Its park has certain peculiarities. There is a large artificial hill to the rear of the house, which quite blocks the view; no doubt this is why the house is never let for long.
It was to this hill that we now made with all haste.
It is surmounted by a little ornamental pond, with a garishly tall fountain at the center.
At the very top is an ugly little cherub pointing at the sky.
The artist had not the skill to accurately portray a child, and his face was strangely old.
He put me in mind of a miniature nude Mr. Collins.
Georgiana gave me a boost up, and I wound a coil of copper wire round that chubby little finger, then down around the body, and so to the base. From there we unwound it down to a stone bench near the side. On the bench resided the third member of our little party tonight.
“He looks a bit pale,” Georgiana said. “I hope he is not taking ill.”
“Ha-ha.” I placed phials on either side of him. “Must you talk of it as though it were a person?”
“He is a person.” Georgiana patted the yellowed skull. “Not just a person—a Darcy . Show some respect.”
“If you had any respect, you would not have secreted him out of your family catacombs and into your trunk.”
“Yes, well, good thing I did, is it not? I had a feeling he might be needed.”
“Right.” I put the ancient Darcy skull in a soup tureen I had borrowed from the kitchen. Then Georgiana and I wrapped the filaments of wire around the screws we had earlier secured to Sir Guy D’Arcy.
“Hopefully no one will ever look closely at him when he is returned,” I yelled over the rain. “They might wonder how a thirteenth-century knight had acquired skull holes from a steel drill.”
“Nonsense,” G called. “Submitting the skull to the procedure left it far less dingy. I am sure he’s not looked so well in centuries.”
Sir Guy certainly looked better for all the acid baths, electrocution, and other treatments we had subjected him to. But the most radical step was yet to come.
There was a small pavilion near the pond.
To this we repaired, shivering, to wait.
We were soaked through, so we pressed together to avoid catching our death.
Beneath her sodden clothing her flesh still glowed with heat against my own.
I had a momentary vision of how much more efficiently we might share body heat without clothing between us. Cold does strange things to a person.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “It seems a matter of chance.”
I nodded my head with more confidence than I felt. “Sir Thomas’s estate has had to replace the fountain three times. It has been struck again and again.”
“Very well. I hope it goes before I do. Brr-r-r.” Georgiana clung to my arm.
An eternity seemed to pass. I suppose it was only about twenty minutes really, but when one is soaked to the skin, that is an eternity.
Even pressing closer to Georgiana brought no relief, for her skin was now as icy as the lashing rain.
I could hear her teeth chattering almost as loudly as my own.
I was just toying with the idea of tying a kite to the cherub’s finger—something I read about in a report from the Colonies—when it happened.
brRRRROOOOMMMM.
The brightest light I had ever seen in my life flashed before my eyes. With a shower of sparks and a CRAAA-AACKKK , the fountain broke in two. Half a cherub listed crazily for a moment, pointing this way and that in the sky, then toppled to the fountain.
I seized Georgiana’s hand and ran forward.
Before the afterimages had even cleared, I was kneeling by the tureen. There was certainly liquid in the basin—but was it just rain?
I raised the lantern high, holding my breath.
Black, thick liquid was dripping from each of the holes in the skull. The volume was tiny, but steady. As we watched, the black serum made tracks down the skeleton’s face, pooling in the bottom of the basin.
We must have watched for an hour. The stream remained utterly steady.
I heard a loud whoop of joy. So unused to the sound was I that at first I thought it was Georgiana. But no. It was me.
Not that she was far behind. Her scream of delight was so loud it drowned out the rain. We threw our arms around each other and jumped in circles, crushing an embrace, screaming in one another’s ears.
“We did it! We did it!”
The cold was forgotten. We had a new source of serum, and provided we could pour enough electricity into it, it seemed it could provide endlessly.
At last we pulled back. Georgiana was still grinning, still gripping my hands in hers. In the darkness, I could just barely make out her features.
Her smile faded a little. She was still looking at me. Her face was so close to mine.
Harry, do you remember when I was small and I told you I looked forward to being a ghost? No need, no sensation, just pure, drifting brain?
I do not think I want that anymore.
Georgiana’s chest was heaving against mine. There were damp blades of hair stuck to her face. I could brush them back. A friend might do that. We had forgotten ourselves in our moment of triumph. What if I forgot a moment longer?
BOOM.
A crash of thunder made us start and jump apart. Just as well, of course. We had work to do.
Georgiana raised the lantern so I could examine the ichor in the bowl more closely. “Too bad it’s black,” I said.
“No great surprise there,” Georgiana said. “He was an absolute rotter. All we need to do is find bones from someone nicer.”
“Yes,” I said. “Still, it is greatly heartening to see that our hypothesis was correct.”
What happened next was, I admit, my own fault. A serious scholar must be more careful.
But I was still dizzy with triumph and from spinning with Georgiana, and I was not being as cautious as I ought. As I peered down at the fruits of Sir D’Arcy’s labor, my braid slipped free of its pins, fell out of the cap, and slithered over my shoulder until the end rested in the black liquid.
Before I could move— BOOM .
I thought I heard Georgiana scream. I had the feeling I was flying. Then everything went dark.
“Mary!”
Ouch.
“Mary, my dear, please!”
Ouch!
I awoke with a pounding headache to find myself sprawled out on my back. Georgiana was kneeling astride my chest, slapping my cheeks.
“Ouch,” I finally managed to say aloud, and she sat back with a sob of relief.
“Oh, Mary, I thought we’d killed you!”
“Not entirely,” I managed. With a groan, I sat up.
I felt as though a herd of cattle had trod over every inch of me.
My ears were buzzing, my eyes still dazzled with the flash of light.
As I turned my head, it felt strangely off-balance.
I shook it, trying to clear it, but it only made the uneven, rubbery feeling in my neck feel worse. “What happened?”
“Another stroke of lightning,” she said breathlessly, pulling me to my feet. “The wire was still secured to Sir Guy, and your hair was…”
Here she trailed off. Her hand half-lifted toward my head.
My eyes followed hers. My hand found the end of my braid nearly a foot above where it ought to have been. It felt coarse and frizzy, and there was a strange burnt smell, like when one of my sisters left a curling iron in for too long.
“It appears that Sir Guy’s essence is quite combustible,” said Georgiana apologetically. “I’m sorry, I ought to have brought his daughter. She was a nun.”
A snort of laughter escaped me.
Georgiana’s lips twitched, and soon we were both convulsed with hysterical giggles. “Ah well,” I gasped at last. “Sir Isaac Newton lost his senses to mercury poisoning. A little hair is a comparatively light price for advancing the sum of human knowledge.”
Advancing the sum of human knowledge. We really had done that. We might not be able to tell the rest of humanity, but we had done it.
We packed up our equipment—Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, you may have to replace a very ugly cherub to escape the Netherfield lease—and poured out Sir Guy’s serum.
(It hissed a little—the Bingleys may have to pay for some emergency gardening as well.) If anything, the conditions were worse when we headed for home than when we set out, but the knowledge of our success kept me warm and my feet light all the way home.
More soon, Harry. I thought Georgiana asleep, but she has called me to her (my) room. Something about “the problem of my hair.”