Realising it was his last observation on earth, the would-be assassin moved on to whatever lies beyond, meanwhile folding gracefully to the floor.
Next in was a Guards officer, double-armed with red sword and cocked pistol. No friend of the effeminate (even those with the good excuse of being female), he observed the cameo before him with ill disguised distaste.
‘Right…,’ he said. ‘So…, how’s things wi’ ye?’
Talleyrand let his composed countenance answer for him. But one lace-fringed hand went so far as to wave gracious thanks.
‘Aye, well…,’ said the officer, and withdrew.
Prince Talleyrand sighed. A twisted corpse was paying homage at his feet. Gales of gunpowder perfumery offended his upturned nose. Worse still, he could imagine the ruin of his precious boudoir, site of his second most important remaining life ambitions.
‘England!’ he said sadly to the remaining faithful, ‘What can one say about it? My dears: the noise! The people!’
Chapter 9: THE COUNCIL OF BOX HILL
In after-times they came to call it ‘The Council of Box Hill’: the first time Ada’s awful ambitions were revealed in their full glory. In fact, it took place on nearby Betchworth Station but Ada preferred Box Hill—and what Ada preferred she tended to get.
Also, it was more of a monologue than a debate.
‘It must be so!’
Ada’s assertion cut the conversation’s throat. All contradiction was curtailed—because she said so. It was good enough for Foxglove: he wandered off along the platform.
Not so Doctor Frankenstein: his curiosity was pricked. Such certainty shouldn’t flow from all the cold water he’d been pouring. He turned to his travelling companion.
‘Why?’
Lady Lovelace looked to the hills—and beyond—for salvation. She obviously thought Julius was being slow.
‘Because I want it to be!’ she replied. And then realising that sounded too ‘spoilt brat’ out here in the big wide world (though the inmost conviction of her heart), hurriedly added. ‘And logic dictates it also.’
Frankenstein sighed and returned to repose on the station bench. He suddenly found the birds overhead fascinating. Unlike him, animals and mad-people had freedom, sweet freedom—and the great gift of understanding nothing.
They’d got off their most recent train when awareness of travelling without aim struck home. Just getting out of London had been objective enough in the first hours, but soon the little branch lines became samey and wearisome. They were comparatively safe now for a while: a little while. If there was pursuit it had been shaken off and their trail muddied by complexity. Time to take stock.
It was a nice day and place to do so: the sun shone bright on Betchworth, but all debate had been throttled at birth. Ada’s plans proved to be concrete.
Julius sighed again.
‘So you’ve recruited logic to your side too, have you? And to think I considered him my supporter. Pray tell how it was done…’
Ada knew when she was being humoured. She’d had a lot of that from Lord Lovelace.
‘It simply stands to reason. They would not have revived Bonaparte without a reason. The French Convention worships reason! But if there were no serum to fully revive him—not the feeble stuff you gave me, but spark and all—then there would be no cause to. No? But revived he was, therefore ipso-facto, such a serum exists…’
Julius would have tipped his hat to such a bedlam-fresh parade of ‘logic’ had he not been so tired. They’d barely rested all day. Even this uncomfortable iron seat on a station platform was siren-calling him to sleep.
‘Amazing…,’ he ‘replied.’
And it was really. Ada’s thought processes were amazing. The fact of their escape from London after one close shave too many was amazing. Their ‘success’ in reaching this sleepy Surrey station was… well, amazing—in a spectacularly unhelpful way.
The big question was, where to next? And then, just as important, why? Julius Frankenstein had the disquieting suspicion that, right beside him that very moment, Ada Lovelace’s insanity was assembling an answer to both.
Meanwhile, the scenery was enchanting: green hills spread before them shone, basking in the sun, and the few trippers who’d disembarked at Betchworth as they had, could now be seen as dots ascending the white ‘Zigzag’ path to Box Hill. Allegedly, a spectacular view over multiple counties awaited them. Further away, toiling along another approach to the same slope, cantered a hunt; matchstick figures resplendent in their ‘pinks,’ in pursuit of Mr Fox. Probably. Hopefully.
All very charming; all very English, but nothing to do with them. Back on the platform, there was no one about to bother about. After announcing that the next train anywhere wasn’t for an hour or more, the Stationmaster had taken himself and his suspicions about this trio off to some private citadel. Betchworth village was too tiny and remote to merit waiting cabs and so the ensuing space constituted solitude and interlude. Julius decided he might as well spend it exploring the delusions of a dead mad-woman.
‘You’ll surely concede,’ said Lady Lovelace, returning to the fray, ‘that he has been attended by success…’
Well, yes, Julius surely would. ‘He’ could only be ‘the Wolf of Europe,’ the revived Napoleon, dragged from the grave to win battles anew. Frankenstein considered ‘The Great Breakthrough,’ and ‘The Month of Marches,’ followed by ‘The Masterstroke of Mons’: epic victories to ten times over wipe away the shame of Waterloo. A time when every newspaper every day reported shattered armies streaming back whence they came, and thrones toppling. And since then other, equal, triumphs had been added. Recent rumours said that Prussia (what little was left of it) had been swept out of the anti-Conventionary alliance. Russia waited, trembling, next in line. The Grande Armée, living and otherwise, stood masters of the continent. But for neo-Nelson’s navy they’d be in England too! So no, Ada’s contention, as far as it went, could hardly be denied.
Of course, she had to drag it further, beyond all reasonable bounds.
‘Accordingly,’ said Ada, like she was administering a coup de grace to a fallen foe, ‘not only does this royal serum exist, but it clearly works!’
‘‘Royal serum’?’
‘My term: the invention of a second ago. It fits, n’est pas?’
Frankenstein quibbled for the sake of it.
‘He’s not Emperor this time round; not royal.’
Lady Lovelace brushed his pedantry aside with a sweep of her fan.
‘Give it time, mein herr, give it time…’
Likely so, but time was one resource the trio were short of. And sleep. And clean clothes. In fact, they must each have looked as wretched as Julius presently felt. One of the trippers from the train had been moved to pity and offered them a spare ham-sandwich and swig of ginger-ale. Frankenstein, for one, now secretly repented of spurning that charity. Out in darkest Surrey there was no question of a station buffet.
Meanwhile, though no mathematician such as Lady Lovelace, Julius was adding her two plus two to arrive at an alarming five—or more…
‘You want to go and borrow some, don’t you?’ he asked, resignedly. ‘To tap on Versailles Palace door and ask if Field Marshall Napoleon Bonaparte has any ‘royal serum’ he can spare…’
Ada admitted all with a smile. Though robbed of their living sparkle, her eyes were still lustrous; even beguiling. She turned them on Frankenstein and he could not turn away.