Shadow, page 2
part #1 of Jaegers of the Consortium Series
But she didn’t want him. She’d prefer being kidnapped by an illegal slaver from the wastelands, or captured by the Corsairs and held for ransom, than marrying the goon her parents had picked for her. Since then, her life had been nothing but planning and preparations for a September wedding, a long parade of people like this wedding planner, who wanted to know, which colors was Charity thinking about for dresses?
“Traditional white,” Charity said, turning to look across the Georgian countryside. The summer sun was high, and overhead she could see a few airships from the Dixie Air Corps slowly chugging past on their way to Atlanta. Below, on the ground, field workers toiled away at the crops with their own clockwork robots dutifully hauling the harvest from the workers to the storage bins that would later be shipped by rail to Atlanta. In a way, Charity envied them. At least the working class could marry for love.
Her mother was arguing. “My dear, peach goes much better with your light hair and pale complexion. You really must spend time outdoors to get more color in your cheeks. We’ll go with peach,” she told the planner, who smiled and nodded, jotting down notes on her papers. “Now, Charity, who are you going to have stand with you, dear?”
That was an easy decision and it brought Charity’s attention back to the planning. “I want Ayla.” At least she’d have one person there who was sympathetic to her cause. She’d met Ayla at university, and the two had become fast friends. She’d known her for six years now.
But her mother wrinkled her nose. “Oh, we wouldn’t want to bother her with the trouble of crossing international borders.” She smiled at the planner and lowered her voice, “She’s from Elysium.”
“Ah, yes,” the planner nodded. “You don’t need that sort coming up here from the islands, anyway. Is there someone local?”
“We can ask her two friends from grade school, and all of her sisters can stand with her. They’re nice, traditional girls who stayed here to receive their higher education,” her mother said. “We probably should have done the same with Charity, but she so wanted to study abroad.”
“Of course.” The planner smiled, jotting down more notes.
“But, Mother—”
“Charity, dear, not now. Now, we still need to settle the guest list—and the catering, is that right?”
Charity felt tears of frustration prick at the corners of her eyes. If she had to go through with this, the one thing she wanted was to have Ayla, probably the first real friend she had, stand with her at the altar. She was the only thing that would make this whole ordeal more bearable. Growing up in Dixie, she resigned herself to the way things were, which meant that parents in the aristocracy chose their children’s spouses. But now she was to have no say at all in how she was married, let alone to whom? Her mother and this woman were going to plan it all, from the color of Charity’s dress, to the food she ate, to the women who would stand witness at her side? No. No.
The planner was in the middle of expounding on the virtues of having a Tesla-Rivaz Generator handy for outdoor weddings so that the caterers would be able to produce freshly cooked food at the wedding site, rather than having servants and clockworks running back and forth from the main house, when Charity snapped.
“Fine!” she said abruptly. It stopped the planner mid-sentence, and her mother turned bright red out of fury or embarrassment or both, Charity didn’t know. “Whatever it takes, I will do it, just tell me what to do and where to sign. I won’t sit through another minute of this.”
Her mother gave her a furious look, but she had just made the wedding planner’s day. “Excellent!” the woman cried, clasping her hands together. “You’ve made an excellent decision, my dear.” She handed over a piece of parchment and started going over cost figures for the entire wedding. Why did everyone in Dixie insist on using parchment for formal transactions? She looked it over, and fought hard not to grimace. At these prices, one could easily finance a small wasteland bandit kingdom, or buy an election in the Republic of Mexico. But her family could afford it. Her parents could pay any price that the premier planner in Atlanta put forth.
“Be sure to use your own account, darling,” her mother said. “And don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady. Your father has an important business transaction coming up, and we do not need to have excess expenditures hanging out there.”
“Then call off the wedding,” Charity shot back. Hazel gave her a sour look.
After reading the terms of the contract twice, just to make sure there were no convenient loopholes that anyone could take advantage of, and feeling like she was signing her life away, Charity scribbled her name and account number at the bottom of the parchment. She passed it back to the planner who in turn handed it to one of her servants. The servant rolled up the parchment, bowed once, and ran off.
An hour later, they’d moved to the back terrace to have afternoon tea, and discuss some of the finer details of the wedding under the shadow of the veranda. They were just pouring second cups when the servant returned, handing the parchment back to the planner and leaning to whisper in her ear.
As the planner’s face fell, Charity’s mother leaned forward, “My dear, is something the matter?”
“Oh, I am sure that it’s nothing,” the planner laughed, waving her hand to dismiss her servant. “Only, my boy has come back with news that your daughter’s account does not have the funds to cover these expenses.”
Hazel gave the planner a distinctly insincere look. “Oh you know how girls are; always spending, spending, spending,” she said, reaching for the parchment. She signed her own name under Charity’s and added her own account number. “This should cover it. Please accept my most humble apologies for this dreadful error. I’ll be sure to have a stern talk with Charity about her spending habits later. In the meantime, we do have a radio telephone just inside of the library; your servant can ring the bank from there instead of having him ride all the way into town again.”
The wedding planner smiled.
Chapter 2
After hearing that her accounts were practically empty, and that her mother would have to cover the costs of the wedding, Charity went white. Her hands shook, and she put her cup and saucer down to hide the telltale rattle. How was it possible? They were one of the wealthiest families in all of Atlanta, if not all of Dixie—and she never spent her allowance money. The wedding planner laughed it off, of course, but Charity could see that condescending look in her eye that asked why on earth the Carmichaels had even bothered wasting her time.
Her mother laughed it off as well, but once the planner and her staff were shown out the front door, she turned on Charity. “Spending money to the point that you could not even finance your own wedding? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life! Are you trying to sabotage this?”
“As much as I’d like to say yes,” Charity said, glaring back just as hotly, “I can’t. I hardly ever spend money out of my account. I hardly ever spend any money at all! Daddy taught us to be sensible with our allowances; this has to be a problem with the bank.”
Her mother shook her head. “But the banks have professionals keeping everything in line, and they report to the Consortium. Nothing’s ever gone wrong with accounts like that before. I don’t want to hear another word of your spending habits, Charity, do you hear me? Or of your desire to cancel the wedding!”
“I don’t love him, Mother,” Charity said, her voice rising. “I don’t even like him. He’s a cruel, evil man who enjoys making others suffer.”
“Nonsense,” her mother snapped, her volume equaling Charity’s. “He is a fine, respectable gentleman who has always acted well and proper, unlike my ungrateful eldest daughter.” Ignoring Charity’s seething look, her mother pursed her lips together and clasped her hands to regain her composure. “Now, you will be marrying Baron Spence, and that is final. The sooner you get that through your head, the happier we all will be! I wish I had such a good match when I was your age, Charity; it’s the best thing for you. I just wish you could see it.” With that, her mother spun on her heel and left the foyer.
“The only reason you don’t see his bad side is because you’re never alone with him like I’ve been forced to be!” Charity screamed at her back. But her mother was gone, and there was nothing more she could do. She smoothed out her skirt, brushed some dust off the sides of her corset, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, the family butler, Esmond, was standing there with a curious expression on his face.
She gave him a weak smile. “You overheard all of that?”
“Miss Charity, I think they heard that all the way up in the Corporate States,” he said with a gentle smile. “If the weather’s good enough, I’m sure they heard you in Quebec and Canada.”
“Sorry,” she said, feeling her face warm. “I just need to go to the bank to sort this all out, that’s all.”
“I… must you, Miss Charity?” Esmond asked, reaching to adjust his collar. Why did the servants always wear such things if they were always constantly fiddling with them?
She chuckled. “Yes, I must. To the local branch at least, and if this is a serious matter that requires the central records, I’ll need to go to the main branch in Atlanta, as well.”
“Then I shall take you myself. I insist.”
Charity nodded. Esmond bowed and rushed away as Charity went outside to wait under the covered entrance. The two-story plantation home was the most commanding feature of the estate, with two separate wings in addition to the main house. Since her father had taken out the trees that once grew up beside the estate, there was no shelter from the harsh, unforgiving sun except the porch’s overhang. She was grateful for even that much shade, though.
A few minutes later, the carriage came chugging up, pulling underneath the covered part of the rotunda. It came to a halt with a long hissing rush of escaping steam, and Charity took a step back so that neither her platinum blonde hair nor her skirt would be buffeted by the bursts of steam. Esmond stepped down to help her into the back of the luxury compartment, then climbed back up to the driver’s seat, cranked the carriage into high gear, and set off toward town.
At the municipal bank, she was given her account history, showing that multiple withdrawals from around Marietta, and even Atlanta, had been done in her name. Charity’s brow furrowed as she looked over the transactions. At first glance, it looked like she had gone on a shopping spree; but she’d never even been to any of these places. When she asked the balding clerk for records of the transactions, he merely pushed his bifocal goggles up his nose a bit more, and sniffed. “You’ll have to go to Atlanta for that information.”
That was just fine by her. Charity was soon again in the carriage, heading toward the city while Esmond grumbled about the length of the drive. Her mind wandered as she watched the rural plantations pass. She didn’t make those purchases, yet her accounts were nearly empty. It didn’t make any sense. Who could have gotten hold of her account details? Eventually, the countryside gave way to the big city. The tall towers and spires of downtown loomed, and off in the distance, to the south of the city, she could make out airships moving around the Jackson-Hartsfield Skyport; their long, oblong silhouettes silently hovering over and around the port and descending to land. The Skyport had seemed as big as Atlanta itself when she’d come home from university earlier in the year, unused to the bustle and noise of city life.
At the National Bank of Dixie’s regional branch office, she left Esmond with the carriage and walked inside. She was met by yet another suited clerk; this one her age and with an extravagant black puff of hair. As opposed to the Marietta clerk, this one dressed in an impeccable suit and spoke with a drawl slightly different from the people of this region. Mister Muller. Charity asked him about it as they walked in. “I’m new here,” he grinned. “Well, just started, really. I moved here from out west. But what can I help you with today, Miss Carmichael?”
“I need to see all records pertaining to my accounts,” Charity said. “My personal account is nearly empty and I can’t for the life of me figure out why, nor get any help straightening it out.”
“And you’ve been to your local bank and they did nothing about it?” he asked, concerned. He frowned when Charity nodded. Ripping a piece of paper from a nearby pad, he jotted down the information that Charity supplied him, along with her account number before giving it to a junior clerk to fetch the books from the central vault. The clerk was back within minutes. Muller thanked the boy and started going over the large, leather-bound, accounting journal line-by-line with Charity. “According to this, you’ve made a lot of purchases and withdrawals. You’re sure that you did not make these, correct?”
“Absolutely,” she said, nodding emphatically. “Is it possible that I can get copies of these records? I can ask my father for help in deciphering all of this tonight after dinner. It’s getting a bit late.”
“Of course,” Muller slid the book toward her, “they’re in regard to your account, after all. You can even take this one with you, since all of the originals are kept in the central vault and we can make another copy of it tomorrow.”
At that moment, a tall, somewhat overweight, and very imposing man came in. He was wearing an even more ornate business suit than Muller’s. He clasped his hands together and smiled at them both. “Welcome to our bank, Miss Carmichael. Is everything okay here? Is there something that I can assist you with?”
Charity frowned. Why was the bank’s manager coming over when Muller had everything covered? He looked familiar, too, but she couldn’t place the name. “I’m sorry, sir, have we met?”
“I’m the regional director for the bank, Miss. Ambrose Wain, I do business with your father and your fiancé on a regular basis,” he said with a smile that made Charity want to cringe.
Now she remembered where she’d seen him. He’d been to the plantation many times, always for business meetings with both her father and Eddie. “I, uh, no, thank you, Director Wain. Mr. Muller here has everything covered and I was just about to leave, to be honest,” she said, grabbing the accounting book and holding it tight to her chest. “Thank you, both of you, for your help today.”
“We can put that account journal back in the vault for you, Miss Carmichael,” Wain said, holding his hand out for it.
“No, thank you,” Charity said as she stood and shuffled out of his reach. She didn’t know what it was about the director, but she didn’t want him touching her journal. “Mister Muller said that I could take this with me so that I can ask Father about it.” Charity gave him the sweetest smile she could with a quick curtsy before turning on her heel to leave. “Good day, gentlemen.”
As she walked out, she could overhear Director Wain giving Muller an earful as they walked over to his desk. “Why did you give her that?”
“It’s her account. Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s just… oh, never mind that now, I have a call to make!”
Outside, Esmond was standing by the carriage waiting for her, one hand on his collar. He was looking out into the distance, but started when he saw her, and hurried around. Still clutching the journal to her chest, Charity ignored his helping hand and nearly jumped straight into the back of the cab. “Is everything alright, Miss?” Edmond frowned at the book she was now carrying. “Doesn’t that need to stay here?”
“Never mind that. I’m fine. Just get me home, now!”
Her father was reading the Dixie Journal again when Charity came into his study, this time, the evening edition. Charity glanced at the headlines, but it was only more of the same. “Cheyenne’s Corsairs Raid Second Plantation.” As she got closer, she could see pictures. One of Dixie’s wealthier families had been hit by the infamous woman and her crew along the coast. “Another attack already, Daddy?” she asked with a bit of alarm. The Corsairs never seemed to sleep.
Bertram smiled. “Nothing for us to worry about,” he said, gesturing for her to come and sit across from him at the desk. “Some people are saying that this Cheyenne is doing a public service. ‘New evidence’ shows that everyone she hits is known amongst the elite to have some ties with even more nefarious activities. It’s all nonsense and conspiracy theories, of course, but people will say what they like.” He looked up, and must have noticed the look on her face. “But I have a feeling that you didn’t come here to talk about world events.”
“No,” Charity shook her head, holding out the accounting journal. “There’s a problem with my accounts. I went to Atlanta to get this earlier today and I’ve been pouring over it ever since.”
He took the journal and flipped through it, browsing the entries. After a while, he looked up at her. “I don’t know what you expect me to find here, darling.” He took his reading monocle off and put it into his breast pocket. It telescoped out slightly as he focused in on the written entries. After a few minutes, he flipped the cover of the journal closed. “There’s nothing in here that looks too out of the ordinary, just a lot of purchases and hotel charges.”
“Daddy, I wasn’t even in Atlanta when half of these purchases were made!” Charity grabbed the journal and flipped it back open to a page depicting the earliest withdrawals on her account. “Half of these places I haven’t even heard of or been to. Go upstairs and search my room, and you’ll see that I don’t have a quarter of the things that these transactions said that I bought.”
“Honey, isn’t it possible that you made the purchases on different dates and you just don’t remember? Or maybe you gave these things out as gifts to your friends?” Bertram asked. “Transactions are often delayed in being posted because of the time it takes for the invoices to get to the banks to be recorded. And many businesses now wait until the end of the week to send invoices and credit sales so all of them can be posted at the same time and the vendor can take the money back to his business with him,” he explained. “It’s more efficient that way as they don’t have to send runners or clockworks back and forth constantly.”
