Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

He brushed the ice gently-reverently now-with his glove, and put his face mask closer to the wall.

In the beam of the flashlight, he looked into the ice, where, like Sleeping Beauty imprisoned in an icy fortress, he saw a young woman's face, staring out… but not in repose.

Nothing like it.

Her eyes were open, wide open-eyes so green that even here he was stunned by their brilliance-and so was her mouth, in a final scream. A violent shiver racked his body and a warning alarm sounded from his oxygen tank. He drifted back, barely able to accept what was happening, until he was far enough away that the ice clouded over and its terrible treasure was again concealed.

July 6, 1854, evening

When the Brougham rumbled across Trafalgar Square and into the refined precincts of Pall Mall, where the finest gentleman's clubs had all come to roost, Sinclair had the coachman stop at the corner of St. James's, rather than in front of the main entrance to the Longchamps. It was there that the side entrance was located, and it was only through the more humble door that any woman was ever allowed to pass.

The coachman stepped down smartly unfolded the carriage steps, and helped the ladies to disembark. The gas lamps that lined the street (Pall Mall had been the first such district in London to be so graced, in 1807) were just flickering on against the encroaching dark.

Inside the marble vestibule, a liveried servant-Bentley if Sinclair recalled his name correctly-awaited, but when he saw Sinclair an uncertain look crossed his face.

“Evening, Bentley,” Sinclair crowed, in his most affable manner. “We've had a winning day at Ascot!”

“I'm pleased to hear it, sir,” Bentley replied, casting his eye over the assemblage.

“And what we need now is refreshment.”

“Indeed, sir,” Bentley replied, without volunteering anything more.

Now Sinclair knew that something was awry. His debts, he suspected, had risen to the point where the board of governors had posted his name as being in arrears, and his club privileges had been suspended.

While the ladies were no doubt blissfully unaware of any problem-too busy marveling at the way the evening light came through the stained-glass oriel window-Sinclair knew that Rutherford and Frenchie must have guessed at the problem already. Rutherford looked ready to escort them all back to his coach, and on to the Athenaeum, where he belonged.

“Bentley, may I have a word?” Sinclair said, drawing the nervous servant aside. Once they were out of earshot, Sinclair said, “Have I been posted? Is that it?” and Bentley nodded.

“A bookkeeping mistake,” Sinclair said, regretfully shaking his head, “nothing more. I'll straighten it out in the morning.”

“But sir, until then, I have been instructed-”

Sinclair put up a hand and Bentley immediately fell silent. Reaching into his pocket, Sinclair extracted a wad of bills, peeled off several, and handed them to Bentley. “Give this to Mr. Wither-spoon in the morning, and have him put it toward my account. Will you do that?”

Bentley, without counting or even looking at the money, said, “I will, sir, of course.”

“Good man. For now, what my companions and I require is a cold supper and colder champagne. Can you have something served up in the stranger's coffee-room?” Though hardly the most appealing room in the massive old club, it was the only place where women were permitted at all. Bentley said that he could arrange it, and Sinclair returned to his guests.

“Right this way,” he said, showing the ladies down a short corridor and into what was in fact an annex that the club had built to accommodate its growing membership. The room was untenanted at present, though a servant quickly appeared to draw the long, red velvet curtains and light the wall sconces. There was a vast, rough-hewn stone hearth at one end, surmounted by a stuffed elk's head, and an array of worn leather seats, sofas, and oaken tables.

The ladies seated themselves in a small conversational grouping beneath the main chandelier, their tired feet resting on a faded Oriental rug.

“Shall we have a fire?” Sinclair asked his guests, but everyone declined.

“Good Lord, haven't you sweltered enough today?” Rutherford said, taking the seat closest to Moira, who was still fanning her throat and shoulders with the Ascot program. “I'm praying for rain.”

A storm had been threatening the whole way back from the racecourse, but it had not yet broken. Sinclair, too, appreciated the cool of the room after the long, hot ride in the carriage.

A pair of servants bustled in, and soon one of the round tables was set for six, with yellow damask napery glittering crystal, and a gleaming silver candelabrum. When everything was ready, Bentley nodded toward Sinclair, who seated Eleanor directly to his right, and Moira on his left. Frenchie and Dolly, who had at last removed her garden hat to reveal a cascade of black ringlets, completed the circle. She was a pretty girl, no more than twenty or twenty-one, but wore a rather heavy layer of makeup to conceal what appeared to be smallpox scars.

Once the champagne had been poured, Sinclair raised his fluted glass and declared, “To Nightingale's Song-our noble steed and generous benefactor!”

“Why do you only share your losing hunches with me?” Frenchie said, winking at the memory of the pit-bull match, and Sinclair laughed.

“Perhaps my luck has changed,” he said, turning ever so slightly toward Eleanor.

“To luck, then,” Rutherford said, weary of all the words, and draining his glass all at once.

Eleanor had had champagne just once before in her life, when the town's mayor had celebrated his election with the farmers and tradesmen, but she was sure that it was meant to be drunk slowly. She lifted the glass, and the cold froth of the bubbles almost made her sneeze. Even the glass was cold, and the wine, when she tasted it on her tongue, was sweet and surprising. She took only a sip, then gazed at the glass, with its bubbles rising, and it reminded her of the bubbles one would sometimes see under the thin ice that covered a stream. There was something very nearly mesmerizing about it, and when she took her eyes away, she saw that Sinclair was amused at her concentration.

“It's for drinking,” he said, “not contemplation.”

“Hear, hear,” Rutherford said, commandeering the bottle to refill his own glass, and then Moira's. He leaned very far over her as he poured, and Moira obligingly leaned back in her chair to afford him more room, and a better view.

Eleanor, who had often wondered what the interior of such impressive clubs might be like, was somewhat let down by the reality. She had imagined far more sumptuous surroundings, rich with gilding and ornamentation and fine French furniture beautifully upholstered in silks and satin. The room, large though it was and with a high, beamed ceiling, felt much more like a comfortably appointed hunting lodge than a palace.

Under Bentley's close supervision, a series of cold dishes-veal tongue, mutton with mint jelly, duck in aspic-were brought out, and the men regaled their companions with stories of the brigade and its exploits. All three were members of the 17th Duke of Cambridge's Own Lancers, first formed in 1759, and as Rutherford proudly declared while holding a scrap of duck aloft on his fork, “Never far from the cannon fire since!”

“In the thick of it more often that not,” Le Maitre added.

“And soon to be so again,” Sinclair said, and once more, Eleanor felt an unexpected pang. The situation in the east was worsening-Russia, under the pretext of a religious conflict in the ancient city of Jerusalem, had declared war on the Turkish Ottoman Empire, and defeated the Turkish fleet in the Black Sea. It was feared, as Rutherford explained to the ladies, that “if we don't stop the Russian bear on the land, he will soon be swimming in the Mediterranean Sea.” Any such challenge to the British command of the seas, it was universally understood, had to be nipped in the bud.