Chapter Text
London, 1837
It was a dull, overcast January afternoon when young Miss Viola Weston hired a hansom cab to take her to an unfamiliar part of town. Damp, heavy snowflakes drifted from the hazy sky and turned the cobblestone streets to rivers of grey slush. Clumps of snow clung to the horse’s mane and even coated the driver’s hat and cape.
Viola winced at the very thought of the unnecessary expense—usually she walked everywhere, regardless of the distance or cold, because she could hardly afford the fare—but today she would regard it as an investment of sorts.
She smoothed out the newspaper advertisement that she had tucked into her skirt pocket, though the runny ink was smudging onto her fingers.
Help Wanted: Skilled seamstress to serve in the household of Mr. Albert Carlyle, esq. Three pounds a week, plus room and board. Please bring samples of your work.
Viola could hardly be presentable for an interview in a respectable household if she arrived flushed and windswept. From the cab window, she watched pedestrians burying their faces in mufflers and hunching over to shield from the biting chill. She thought of her father, left behind in a dismal, bare room, struggling to warm his hands by the feeble coal stove.
“Please, my dear, do not take this position if it is demeaning and low,” her father had urged her this morning. “We can get by without you slaving away in some factory or scrubbing floors.”
Viola had bit her tongue against the obvious wry observation that their family was not, in fact, getting by: they were living in the Marshalsea debtors’ prison. For years, their family’s pride had prevented them from seeking help from friends and relations, until they found themselves buried in debts.
True humility, and seeking a domestic position in a wealthy household, was the only remedy Viola could see. That, or an advantageous marriage, but she had no desire to leap from one prison to a wholly different one.
As she rode on, the houses and buildings grew smarter, neater. Gone were the shabby, narrow pawn shops and public houses with dingy windows and peeling paint; they gave way to gilded music halls and libraries with gleaming marble pillars. The unfamiliar address that she had given to the cab driver turned out to be a brick townhouse with newly-painted green shutters, nestled comfortably in a nouveau riche neighborhood.
Promising, but not intimidatingly ornate, she noted with satisfaction.
Her knock on the front door was brisk and confident. She straightened her bonnet and smoothed back the wisps of hair that had begun to escape in the breeze. She was greeted by a sullen-looking housekeeper with an upturned nose.
“Yes? What is your business?”
Her prepared speech tumbled out in a rush. “Hello, my name is Weston, Viola Weston, and I’ve come about the position you advertised in the newspaper—if it’s still available?”
“Slow down, child, what are you saying?”
Viola exhaled in a gust, endeavoring to speak more coherently. “I was wondering if the position is still available. I sent you a letter…?”
“Oh, Miss Weston, of course, you’re expected. Do come inside.” Despite her words of welcome, the housekeeper peered at Viola critically as she beckoned her inside. “You’re rather younger than I was expecting,” she remarked.
Viola met her gaze without wavering and lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to feel self-conscious. Young hands were more nimble with a needle, and young eyes could see up close without spectacles.
The interior of the house was just as cheerful and comfortable as the exterior promised. Though the foyer was long and narrow, it felt bright and airy with its sunshine-colored wallpaper and stair carpets flecked with poppies and daisies. It was as if someone were trying to bring the English countryside inside, to spite the dingy, smoggy city outside.
The housekeeper led her through a front parlor, but instead of directing her to sit, crossed to a heavy oak door on the other side.
The housekeeper rapped her knuckles on the door. “Sir, Miss Weston is here to see you.”
From within, a smooth, refined tenor voice responded. “Promptly on schedule. Excellent. Be kind enough to send her in, Mrs. Hutchinson.”
The housekeeper leaned closer to Viola to speak to her in a whisper. “The Master asked to meet you in his study. He thinks the front parlor is too formal.”
Viola chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Is he an agreeable man, Mr. Carlyle?” she asked in an undertone. “Do you like him as an employer?”
A curious look passed over the housekeeper’s face. “Agreeable, yes. He’s a fair and generous employer. A man? That depends on who you ask.”
Before Viola could make any sense of this cryptic remark, the housekeeper opened the door and all but thrust her into the study.
A cursory glance over the room suggested a man of curious tastes and scientific interests. Much of the wallpaper was hidden by detailed diagrams of vascular plants and root systems, and framed collections of beetles and butterflies pinned to cards. The mantle was bedecked with ammonite fossils, and the bookshelves stuffed with taxidermied weasels and hedgehogs.
But Viola’s impressions of the study quickly faded from her attention when she caught sight of its occupant.
She thought she had prepared herself for any and every possibility when meeting her prospective employer, but she could not have been more wrong. The figure standing by the desk was shaped vaguely like a man—and yet it was not a man.
It stood nearly seven feet tall, its body lean and lithe as an antelope. Every visible inch of skin was covered in thick, shaggy chestnut-brown fur. Its long face was framed in a heart shape by a soft tufted black mane, like a lion’s, and from the top of its head sprouted two wide, elaborate antlers, like those of an elk. Its arms and hands seemed dexterous like a human’s, but each of the fingers was tipped with a sharp, curved talon.
Surely—surely that soft, genteel voice had not come from this creature?
Despite the figure’s bizarre chimera appearance, he was dressed neatly as a gentleman in grey silk waistcoat and cravat. When he looked up from the letters on his desk, she saw his eyes were large and catlike, golden amber.
“Miss…Weston, is that correct? Thank you for coming. Please, do be seated.”
She sank wordlessly into a chair. He seated himself in the armchair opposite, folding his absurdly long legs underneath it—she then noticed he wore no shoes, for his feet were formed into two wide, splayed toes like a camel’s.
If he noticed her distraction, he cheerfully ignored it. “Will you take some tea, Miss Weston? It is such a dismally cold day and I know you have come some distance to us.”
She accepted the steaming cup and saucer with numb hands, still unable to unfurrow her nonplussed expression. His manners and tone were impeccable, courteous, designed to put her at ease, yet he seemed determined not to acknowledge the reason for her stunned silence.
“Ordinarily, I would not accept a domestic employee without references,” he said as he offered her the sugar bowl, “but at present I am more concerned with your mending skills. I trust you have brought samples of your work, as requested?”
“Yes—yes, I have,” she said, shaking herself out of her confused haze. She drew out a fine cambric handkerchief that she had embroidered with bluebells and daisies. He put a pair of pince-nez on the end of his long snout-like nose to examine the stitches more closely.
“Hmm. Yes, you have a neat hand,” he muttered in an approving tone. “And you can mend just as well?”
“Yes, I mend all my own clothes. And my father’s.”
He nodded, giving her back the handkerchief, carefully avoiding brushing her hand in the action.
Viola could not take it any longer. “Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but I must ask. What…manner of being are you, exactly?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“That was a terribly rude question,” Viola sighed. Why could she never simply keep her mouth shut?
Instead of contorting his face in outrage, as she might have expected, Mr. Carlyle chuckled. His smile revealed a row of dagger-sharp teeth.
“If I knew the answer to that, Miss Weston, I would certainly tell you,” he said.
His light, conversational tone emboldened her to press onward. “And have you always been—like this?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat.
“As far as I can remember, yes. My guardians told me I was born like this, though I suppose I must take their word for it.”
Viola studied him for a moment in disbelief. He stared right back at her over his teacup with a placid smile.
“I apologize for all the impudent questions,” she said with some chagrin. “I suppose you must be used to it by now.”
“Most people in my circle are content to leave those questions unspoken. It is truly amazing what eccentricities people will tolerate when enough money is involved,” he added wryly.
Viola straightened in her seat. “I cannot bear to leave the obvious unspoken, sir. I think it is an affront to common sense. But I understand if my lack of delicacy makes me an undesirable candidate for your household.”
He cocked his head to the side as he studied her. Despite his inhuman features, his expressions were surprisingly easy to decipher.
“Quite the contrary, Miss Weston,” he said mildly. “I find your frankness refreshing. As you say, it is foolish to tiptoe around the obvious.” He opened a small chest on the side table and pulled out a pipe. “Will you object if I smoke? Some ladies find the aroma offensive.”
“Not at all, sir.”
He methodically filled his pipe and lit it before turning his attention back to her. The wisps of tobacco smoke smelled warm and redolent, like spiced tea from India.
“You haven’t yet asked the most obvious question,” he noted. “Why should anyone employ their own seamstress instead of bringing their clothes to a tailor?”
“The thought did occur to me, but I assumed you would explain in due course.”
“The answer is somewhat…awkward. But your candor has convinced me that I may be just as forthright with you.”
For the first time in their interview, Mr. Carlyle looked uncomfortable, his amber eyes fixed determinedly on his lap. He took a deep breath.
“As you might imagine, Miss Weston, tailors find me a frustratingly difficult subject to fit. And I am…rather prone to tearing my clothes if I am not careful,” he added, holding up his sharp claws in explanation.
“Ah.” Her heart swelled with pity. “That must be quite irritating for you. I can understand why our arrangement might be more practical in the long term.”
His eyes were wide, earnest. “Are the terms of this arrangement agreeable to you, Miss Weston? That is to say—you needn’t make up your mind this very instant, you may think on it as long as—”
“They are,” she said emphatically. “Your offer is fair and generous.”
He smiled, again displaying that row of jagged teeth. “I am pleased to hear that. I am prepared to take you on immediately, on a trial basis of course.”
There was a brief pause in the conversation as he poured out another round of tea and offered her a plate of biscuits. His solicitous manner made her feel more like an honored guest than a potential employee.
“Have you any family in the city, Miss Weston?”
“Yes, I live with my father. He used to be a clockmaker, quite a good one in fact.” She fiddled with a loose strand of lace at the edge of her sleeve. “Unfortunately his health has forced him to set aside his business, which is why I must look for work.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it skirted uncomfortably around the truth.
She had come to this interview intending to be forthright about her family’s financial situation. But now that the moment had come, she felt too queasy at the thought of this strange, kindly gentleman knowing how desperate their circumstances were.
No, I can’t mention the debts. Not while he’s speaking to me like an equal. He’ll look down on Father—or worse, he’ll feel sorry for me.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Carlyle said. “I always give my staff Sunday afternoons off, but perhaps you would like the entire day to visit him, if he is in poor health.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. I should like that very much.”
“That’s settled, then.”
Viola glanced nervously at the sun outside, weakly sinking toward the horizon. “Mr. Carlyle, would you happen to have the time?”
He drew out a silver pocket watch. “Twenty minutes past five. Are you expected elsewhere?”
“No, sir, but I must get back before the gates—” (before the gates to the Marshalsea are locked) “—before dark, that is.”
She colored a little at her slip, but he did not comment on it.
“Are you certain that’s wise? This blizzard seems only to be getting worse. Wouldn’t you rather set out in the morning? There is a spare bedroom in the servants’ quarters, and I’m sure my housekeeper could lend you some nightclothes.”
They both froze for a moment, listening in dismay as the wind howled over the chimney and made the fire stutter. The shutters rattled against the windows as if some unseen creature was struggling to get inside.
Nevertheless, she pulled on her shawl and replied, “Thank you for the offer, but my father will fret if I do not come home.”
“Then do take care, Miss Weston. I’ll hire a cab to take you—”
“No need, sir. I can hire my own cab.” She winced: that had come out sharper than she had intended. It would have been perfectly ordinary courtesy for her new employer to help with travel expenses, but it was now so ingrained in her to pretend she needed no help, that she no longer knew how to accept it.
Mr. Carlyle looked a trifle crestfallen, and she suddenly wished she could apologize. But he quickly recovered and smoothed over the awkward moment.
“In that case, I shall see you first thing tomorrow, if that’s quite convenient,” he said briskly, rising from his seat to bid her farewell.
“It is. Thank you for everything, Mr. Carlyle,” she added with feeling; “I am much obliged to you for the opportunity, and for your hospitality.”
She extended a hand for him to shake. He stared at her uncertainly for a moment. When he hesitantly took it, he bowed his head and kissed the air above her hand, as if he were taking leave of a duchess.
She suppressed a shiver at the subtle scrape of his claws against her palm.