Salt Magic, Skin Magic Page 5

  Hoping to remain undetected, he went up by the servant’s staircase and through the gloomy Drake Gallery. He was nearly at his room when he realised Mr Blake was standing on the first floor landing, looking at a bust of Cato. Thornby stopped, hiding in the shadows behind the gallery door. Blake was standing with his arms crossed, glaring at the bust as if it had just insulted his mother. His dark, sober suiting was as immaculate as his dark, sober hair. He looked clever; not one to suffer fools. Was he really a magician? With a ghastly bloody baboon thing slavering in his room? Possibly. Yet he looked more like a business man; the type that knows the price of everything.

  How could he ask Blake to help when he had nothing to give in return? Thornby could imagine himself squirming under Blake’s withering stare with such clarity that he found himself tiptoeing away. At one time it had never crossed his mind that confidence was partly to do with means. Now he knew better.

  Begging from the rector had depleted him. His soul felt raw with the failure and the shame. Perhaps he’d feel like tackling Blake after dinner. Thornby went back outside, to the east side of the house and down into the sunken garden. It was grey and miserable this afternoon except for some bright red rosehips just visible in the gathering dusk. He sat on the wooden seat against the west wall, completely hidden from the house.

  Mother had shown him this place when he was a child. He imagined the place as it had been the day she’d shown it to him—a riot of greenery, bright with flowers, alive with bees and butterflies. They had run here hand-in-hand, laughing, breathless, hiding from Nanny. They had curled up on this very seat, and Mother had whispered in his ear that, when he was just a tiny bit older, she would show him a big and marvellous secret. He had begged her to tell him now, and she had smiled and said she would tell him a little secret, to see if he could keep it. And if he could keep it for a whole month, then she would tell him the big one. He’d agreed, and she’d pointed to the nasturtiums that grew beside the seat and shown him the beads of dew that gleamed in the centres of the round leaves. She’d told him they were fairy jewels but that he mustn’t tell a soul or the fairies would be angry. He had believed her, and had come most days to the sunken garden after that, hoping to see a fairy.

  Then he had turned eight and been sent away to school. And Mother had died and he had never seen her again.

  He realised it had grown dark and he had grown cold and stiff with waiting. But for what was he waiting? Nothing would turn up. He was utterly friendless. He had nothing to give Mr Blake to persuade him to help, and no way of getting anything.

  And now he must go in and change for dinner with his father, the bastard who was responsible for it all.

  Chapter Four

  Five people sat down to dinner that evening; John himself, Lord Dalton, Lady Dalton, Lady Amelia and the elderly Mr Derwent. There was an empty place setting to John’s right. Lord Dalton glared at it briefly and waved an irritable hand at the butler to begin serving.

  They had started the carrot soup when Thornby stalked in. John tried not to stare, and failed.

  Thornby had dressed for dinner in tight black silk breeches, waistcoat and coat, black silk stockings, and a black cravat that swathed his throat. He wore on his lapel a sprig of rose-hips that glowed like tiny red lanterns. John had seen such old-fashioned clothes before, but only on elderly gentlemen who, for reasons of habit or thrift, still wore the fashions of their youth. To see such an outfit on a man as young and as handsome as Thornby was striking, to say the least. The wounds on Thornby’s face and hand had scabbed over and did little to mar his elegance. If anything, they heightened the effect of the Regency rake, recently come from an uncommonly dirty duel.

  John stood, and bowed, and received a glacial look.

  “Good evening,” Thornby said. “Forgive my lateness. Really, the days pass so quickly this time of year.” He sat down, affecting a bored expression as the butler filled his glass. But his eyes were wary. He tossed back the hock as if it were water and motioned impatiently for a refill.

  John had hoped to apologise to him without an audience, but thought he might as well get it over with. He’d opened his mouth to do so when he realised Lord Dalton, who sat at the head of the table, had fixed his son with an unpleasant smile.

  “Well, Soren, have you come off your horse, boy?” Dalton said.

  “How observant you are, Father. That’s exactly what happened.” Thornby flashed a glance at John, as if daring him to tell the truth.

  “It’s that old nag you ride. Sinbad, isn’t it? I’ll have Stewart take him for dog’s meat,” said Lord Dalton.

  “Father, you can’t mean to destroy the horse that threw me!” He glanced at John again. “Father’s almost too fond, don’t you think, Mr Blake? It was hardly the animal’s fault, but then, that’s Father; always blaming the innocent. You may feel a little less fond, Father, when I confess I took Pendragon without your permission and it was he who threw me. And now you’ve said you’ll make dog food of your own horse. What a shame!”

  “Full of lies, as usual. I know what happened.” Lord Dalton’s voice was cold, almost bored. He took a spoonful of soup. “It’s the first time you’ve got that far, isn’t it? Taken you long enough; you’ve always been a weakling and a dammed little coward.”

  John froze with his spoon half-way to his mouth, unsure which shocked him more; the public insults—in front of ladies, too—or the open allusion to whatever kept Thornby here. Lord Dalton seemed to be admitting very freely, if not his guilt, then his power over his son. At the opposite end of the table to her husband, Lady Dalton put down her spoon and bowed her head as if trying to remove herself from the scene. Lady Amelia’s head had gone up at the scent of battle, mouth pursed in disapproval, but she did not speak. Only old Mr Derwent kept spooning soup, mainly into his mouth, partly over his dinner jacket.

  Thornby smiled at the shadowy ceiling. The table held plenty of candles but the light seemed to cower low, unable to pierce the gloom.

  “You’re so right, father. A weakling. A coward.” Thornby sighed theatrically. “I’d make a terrible husband. I’d better never marry. How I’d like to! One of those lovely rich ladies I’m sure you have lined up for me. But it wouldn’t be fair on her.” He glanced at Lady Dalton. “Would it, ma’am? Think of the terrible whelps I’d sire; like father, like son, as they say.”

  Lady Dalton glanced nervously at her husband, then at Thornby, then back to her husband. The men did not look at her. Dalton stared with loathing at his son, while his son affected an expression of martyred nobility.

  John decided things had gone far enough. “How do you think Lord Thornby hurt himself, my lord?” he said to Dalton.

  Dalton looked at him and frowned. “Blake, isn’t it? Yes, I invited you.” His frown deepened. “Can’t think why.”

  “I have very valuable contacts, my lord,” John said firmly. With the Judas Voice charm, it was important to sound confident. “But you have a theory about how Lord Thornby came by his injuries?” He turned to Thornby. “Injuries I sincerely regret, my lord.”

  Thornby gave him another of those cool, bored looks, but then a speculative expression crept into his eyes. It was almost a question, though not one John felt able to answer in public. He turned back to Lord Dalton.

  “Well, my lord? You have a theory?”

  “Haven’t you heard the local gossip, Blake? The boy’s weak in the wits, so perhaps he’s been banging his own head against a wall. Or maybe he’s a damned degenerate, and the years of unclean living are making their mark. It depends who you ask.”

  “Village gossip.” John shook his head dismissively. “But you have a theory of your own? It wasn’t a fall from a horse, you say? So, what was it?”

  “I’m not sure I like your tone, Blake.” Dalton glared at him, blue eyes rather bloodshot, mouth menacing.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. I meant no offence.” John took a mouthful of soup, wondering if he’d be thrown out, Judas Voice or no.

>   “Father doesn’t have any tone himself, you see, and so resents it in others,” put in Thornby. Was he drawing fire deliberately? It was impossible to say. “But in any case, Mr Blake, it’s very decent of you to care so much for my complexion. I expect Father’s about to announce an autumn ball or some such awfulness some time soon, and it would be a shame if I didn’t look my best for the ladies, wouldn’t it? Though of course now I’ve vowed never to marry, perhaps it doesn’t matter so much?”

  “You’ll pick one this time,” Dalton said, voice ominous. “Or I’ll pick one for you. My patience is running out.”

  Thornby shook his head. “No, Father. Your money is running out. Patience and money are two quite different things. You should look them up in the dictionary. Perhaps the marchioness could help. She could look up ‘misalliance’, couldn’t she?”

  “Leave her out of it,” John said, quietly but firmly to Thornby. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Thornby’s raised eyebrow, but the younger man said nothing more.

  “Is there to be a ball, my lord?” John said neutrally to Lord Dalton.

  There was a long pause, while Dalton glared at his family, as if daring any of them to interject. Mr Derwent finished his soup and looked around, bewildered, at the others’ full bowls. Lord Dalton’s weathered face relaxed slightly.

  “A small party. Spot of shooting. The Greys and the Lazenbys are coming.” He raised his voice to Thornby. “Miss Grey and Miss Lazenby, boy. You’ll make yourself pleasant.”

  Thornby sighed again, like a kind schoolmaster with a slow pupil. But his knuckles were white on the stem of his glass, and John realised that, for all his show, Thornby was furious. His voice, when he spoke, was even more precise than usual.

  “I wish you’d understand, Father, that nothing’s changed since last winter when you paraded some ladies around in front of me. I shan’t be pleasant to someone I despise, and I shan’t lie to someone I like. Not that I’ll make one, you understand, but my proposal would go thus: ‘Marry me, please. Of course when you do, your money comes to me, and I’m at my father’s mercy. So, he’ll take the money somehow and trot off to Scotland, leaving you with nothing but a husband who doesn’t love you and who can’t leave the estate.’ Doesn’t it sound jolly? Any girl would leap at the chance.”

  “You think staying here’s the worst I can do to you?” Lord Dalton spat out. “Look at you, prancing around like a bloody popinjay. I shall have to arrange a little demonstration for you, boy. You might suddenly find Miss Grey a more attractive prospect.”

  The open threat clearly touched a nerve. Thornby made a slight, jerky movement forward, as if he might leap across the table and brain his father with the gilt epergne. His face was like thunder, boredom vanished like the illusion it had been. John found he’d risen a fraction in his own seat, readying himself to hold Thornby back. He could hardly believe what was happening. What must the ladies be thinking? And in front of the servants! He’d been to some unpleasant dinner parties, but this was the first where he’d felt two of the party might actually have at each other amongst the condiments.

  “Leave the boy alone,” Lady Amelia said suddenly to her brother, cutting across the tension. She wore an evening gown in emerald green. Along with her snowy-white hair, it gave her an unearthly look, like an avenging goddess in a play. “You come back here, Dalton; you’ve been gone all summer again! The Ramparts cottages are falling down. The chapel’s got dry rot. The place is falling apart. There’s no money in seaweed. Can’t you see that if you came home—What do you want with Scotland anyway? What do you want with Ireland? You could save things here, if you just came home and acted as you should.” She sat back in her chair, face grey, a gleam of sweat dampening her forehead, though it was not warm in the room.

  Lord Dalton shot her a dismissive look. “Stupid woman. Not a clue,” he said, almost to himself. He stood and motioned to the butler. “I’ll dine in the study.”

  Thornby stood as well. His chair fell backwards with a clatter. His eyes glittered in the candlelight and two spots of colour had come into his cheeks.

  “How dare you call her stupid? You’re the fool here! You think staying here is a punishment for me? You couldn’t be more wrong. You know what you’ve done? You’ve given Mother back to me. I’d forgotten her; did you know that? You never let me come home afterwards, did you? And I forgot her. But now, I remember her every day. The sunken garden where she liked to sit. Her favourite ride, up to Jennie’s Pot. Remember? The way she laughed at that picture there.” He stabbed a finger towards a dim portrait of some grim Tudor Dezombrey who glared down at the table. “It scared me, and she said ‘No, Soren, he has a stomach ache, that’s all’ and laughed. Remember? Well, I do. And I remember she loved me. And she loved me more than you.” His voice shook on the final sentence and he wiped one eye quickly with the back of his hand. “You evil old bastard. Sometimes I wonder if you killed her.”

  A hush descended, laden with the excruciating awkwardness of the English during a scene. John tried to keep his face absolutely blank. He could hear Thornby’s breathing, harsh as if he’d been running. Thornby’s fists were on the table; his trembling made the cutlery shake.

  “Soren—” Lady Amelia began, but Lord Dalton cut her off.

  “Love? You don’t know anything about love, you degenerate little whelp. I loved her truly. You understand? Truly. More than anything. You’ve never had a woman in your life, have you? You damned little mary-ann! My whole life has been for love. My whole life. You’re all fools.” He turned and walked away from the table, regal and calm.

  John sat perfectly still. Whatever he’d been expecting Lord Dalton to say to his son’s outburst, it was not that. As Dalton left the room, Lady Dalton burst into tears.

  “Well! Family dinners. Good cheer and happy banter. We are treating you to some lovely Yorkshire hospitality, aren’t we, Mr Blake?” Thornby had been aiming for a careless tone, but his voice shook again. He turned and walked out by the opposite door to that taken by his father.

  John left the weeping Lady Dalton with Lady Amelia and followed Thornby. Of course, it was not really his place, but there had been a note of desperation in the younger man’s voice that worried him. And besides, he had things to tell him.

  He didn’t have to look far. Thornby was slumped in a window seat in the blue saloon, only a couple of rooms away. The saloon was dimly lit by half a dozen cheap candles that were filling the air with smoke. As John approached, Thornby jerked to his feet and slammed a decanter of brandy down on a small table.

  “Well? What the devil do you want?” Thornby said in tones of open hostility.

  “To apologise properly for my behaviour yesterday.”

  “All right, you’ve done the decent thing. Now you can fuck off.”

  “You said you knew nothing of magic. So, I—” John took a deep breath. “I went to your rooms and looked about. And you were telling the truth. I’m sorry for doubting you, but the thing is—”

  “What?! You ‘went to my rooms’? You ‘looked about’? You damned swine!” Thornby lunged for him. John dodged, but Thornby caught him a glancing blow on the jaw. Thornby pulled back for another swing, but this time John caught his fist and held it.

  “Stop it, will you? I’m sorry. You think I enjoyed sneaking around? I had to be sure.” He dropped Thornby’s fist. “Hell, I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. Go on then, have a free hit if you like. I suppose I’d want to, if anyone went through my things.”

  Thornby glared at him, nursing his knuckles. “So, I’m not casting hexes at her ladyship? Such a relief to hear you say so. You can bugger off then, can’t you? And tell her cousin the lady’s been making up Banbury stories. Because she’d rather believe those than that her husband’s a vile old bastard who only married her for her money.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Because you could never say a lady’s been a social-climbing fool, and certainly not to the lady’s own cousin.” Suddenly th
e fight seemed to go out of him, and he leant against the wall in a pose of utter defeat. “Tell him whatever you like, then, but leave me alone.”

  “I wish you’d hear me out. It wouldn’t be right to go back to London, because there’s something damned odd happening. To her, yes, and to your father, but mainly to you.”

  “Yes, I’m a degenerate coward who can’t leave the estate.” Thornby spoke to the faded old carpet.

  John winced. “It’s true you can’t leave. But also, my magic doesn’t work on you—that’s never happened to me before.”

  “Professional challenge, am I?” Thornby said sullenly. He reached for the brandy and took a swig straight from the decanter.

  “But surely you can see the two things must be related? And to compound it all, well, you know that feeling when you see something out of the corner of your eye, but when you look, there’s nothing there?”

  “Maybe.” Thornby said. Then he seemed to consider, and added, in a more civil tone, “Yes, actually. I have it all the time.” He gave John a long look. Interest was beginning to kindle in his expression.

  “Do you? Well, that’s how I feel around you. There’s—something. There’s something about you that I can’t quite—” John broke off, casting about for a way to express the fleeting strangeness he sometimes felt around Thornby. The English language did not have words for it. “There’s just something about you.”

  To John’s surprise, Thornby’s mouth twitched, and curved into a slow smile. “Something about me, is there? A certain je ne sais quoi?"