Nelson peered out of the window like a hound-dog scenting prey.
‘Aha!’ he said, not to them but purely to himself. ‘Aha!’
The Admiral already had a sword about his waist but came back into the carriage to collect a brace of pistols (no mean feat for a one-armed man). Gripped in his lady-like hand they appeared monstrous.
In the vacated space Frankenstein took the opportunity to window gaze himself. Some distance off muzzle flashes sparkled from a farmhouse and surrounding undergrowth. A veteran of such events, Frankenstein knew better, but the faintness of the associated ‘pop!’ ‘pop!’ did make the unfolding incident seem remote, almost irrelevant to people on the road. Unless they chose to make it so.
Nelson so chose. In fact, so eager was he that Julius was almost shouldered out of the way. Though resurrected as an emaciated frame, Nelson now possessed Lazaran strength.
Ada sighed theatrically.
‘Do you have to?’ she asked the Admiral, wearily.
He was still a gentleman, whatever else he might have become. Nelson reversed back through the carriage door and perched on the seat opposite.
‘No,’ he snapped, after cursory consideration. ‘I don’t have to. In fact, I shouldn’t. But I shall! Damn duty! I want to!’
Then irresistible urges carried him out of the carriage and he was gone, haring away weapons in hand and joy written all over his face.
‘Come on lads! Last one to the enemy’s a nancy!’
Ages passed. The convoy had to halt while the skirmish lasted and any non-combatants must amuse themselves meanwhile.
Ada got her notebook out almost immediately and was soon lost in the re-found ecstasy of computation.
It was not a country Julius had a visa for and so was left to his own devices. Those quickly palled.
‘Can you see what’s going on?’ he called up to Foxglove.
‘Distant strife,’ came the reply from above and outside. ‘Puffs of smoke. Dead on the ground. Nothing special.’
There was little in that to occupy Julius’ thoughts—and nothing at all to merit bringing Ada to a dead stop.
Her pen suddenly stilled.
‘Oh!’
Lady Lovelace shut her book. She set it aside, forgotten. Then she looked up at Frankenstein, almost reluctantly, through the medium of those newly enlivened eyes.
‘I…’
‘What?’ said Julius, alarmed.
‘I…’ she tried again but faltered.
Frankenstein did not associate her with hesitation. It must be bad.
‘Are you well, madam?’
The gaze was maintained—but not as her usual tussle of wills.
‘I am not… unwell.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it, but you seem—’
She interrupted him.
‘Sorry.’
‘I said I’m delighted to hear it but—’
‘I heard you the first time,’ snapped Ada. ‘I said I’m sorry.’
Yes, that was it! The inexplicable look! She seemed sorry—which was why Julius had struggled to identify her predicament. In the context of Lady Lovelace, regret was so far down the list of possibles as to be invisible.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No, Julius, it is I who must beg your pardon. I’m sorry.’
It was his turn to have nothing to utter but ‘oh.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she pressed on. ‘It suddenly struck me. I have not been good to you. Or not as good as… I should. Or to Foxglove. Especially to Foxglove.’
Ada looked up to the presumed area where her servant’s posterior might rest.
‘I’ve been… I have been selfish. I’ve used you both. And that baby.’
Frankenstein gaped. Again words would not come. And Ada likewise—almost.
‘Awakening conscience!’ she said, equally to herself and him, utterly amazed. ‘Do you think… Do you think that this means…’
But now they were well beyond even Frankenstein’s range of experience and into terra incognito; vistas new.
‘I couldn’t say,’ said Frankenstein at last. ‘Maybe. But from what I hear tender conscience was not exactly your forte during life. In fact, the word is that it was a very small still voice indeed…’
Lady Lovelace freely admitted it with a nod.
‘I could always ignore it. But now…’
She didn’t dare say so but as a doctor Frankenstein was hardened to delivering stark judgements.
‘Full humanity…?’ he ventured.
Ada gingerly looked within—and flinched from a tender place. Her eyes widened.
‘No,’ she said, stunned, ‘more than human…’
Frankenstein realised he stood on the edge of scientific immortality, as great if not more so that his great uncle Victor. Spontaneous Lazaran remission! The recovery by sheer force of will of all that had been lost with life! No: more than all!
And all his to report and claim as his own if he wanted. As long as the species lasted his name would be remembered. A heady temptation!
But in the course of his mad career across the continent in Ada’s company Julius had changed too. Renown no longer blew so strongly upon his trumpet.
‘Do you regret it?’ he asked instead of all the obvious, dry, questions about how and why. ‘Are you sorry you studied the Sistine?’
Lady Lovelace looked at him again and for the first time Julius could see a soul behind the eyes. Her flesh might still be cold but she was not.
Everything was changed accordingly: not just with her or in the confines of the carriage but world-wide. The implications exploded and spread out like his Versailles Hellburner.
‘No,’ Ada answered, shocking herself. ‘No!’
‘Oh ho!’ said Nelson, returning at just the wrong moment and seizing with a death-grip the wrong end of the stick. ‘Turned you down has she, Frankenstein? Never mind. Lazaran flesh is like cold pork anyway—and I speak as one so I should know. Terrible! Be patient. Wait until you see the live ladies of Naples. Mmmmm!’
The Admiral smacked his blue lips.
‘De-licious! Every one of ‘em soft-palmed and full-bottomed to a man—if you get m’drift. And if you’re famous enough they’ll even go with a deader!’
There was a great spray of blood across his tunic—apparently not his own—and he bore a darkly wet sack. Dumped upon the seat whatever was within immediately began to seep out and stain.
With an abrupt movement that made his companions jump, the Admiral rammed his sword pommel against the carriage roof.
‘On,’ he bellowed to those above. ‘On to Naples! Take me to my ships!’
Soon there came the crack of whip and creak of harness, and off they set again.
‘Where were we?’ said Nelson, fidgeting to sit his thin frame comfortably. ‘Oh yes, you two. You three if you count the flunky up there…’
Again he thumped the carriage roof with his sword. Above them both Foxglove and the driver frowned in puzzlement—if they went any faster they’d leave the infantry behind. They reached a silent, tacit agreement between them that the noise hadn’t happened.
A pity, because Foxglove never enquired afterwards and learnt of his mistress’ ensuing vote of confidence. It would have swelled his loyal heart to bursting.
‘Oh, but I do count him,’ said Ada. ‘Never more so.’
‘Very commendable,’ said Nelson, who was known for his democratic impulses (when circumstances allowed). ‘Well, all of you then: tria juncta in uno. Three united as one.’