Page 3 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“You hear me?” Father went on. “Your possessions, your household, those ridiculous cufflinks, the shirt on your back. Everything. Mine.”
Thornby, who had curled protective fingers around one of his coral and gold cufflinks, now found himself unable to hold anything at all. It was as though Father’s words had paralysed him. He fought to stay upright on the swaying seat. A deep, claustrophobic chill settled over him. The very air seemed to have grown thick, and a hideous sense of invasion crept over his limbs as though something was claiming them as its own.
And then, as quickly as it had come, the fit passed. Father turned to watch the London streets go by, and Thornby laid his head against the side of the carriage, glad of a few moments to recover. The oddness of the situation—riding hatless through London with his father—was staggering. The coach turned onto Regent Street; it looked as if they were heading straight for the station.
How long would Father make him stay at Raskelf? A fortnight? A month? Raskelf Hall was in the middle of nowhere, hard by the North York moors. Thornby liked the countryside well enough for a spot of shooting in the autumn or hunting in the winter, but it was spring and the London season had begun. He was supposed to be attending a dinner party that very evening, followed by rather more fun later on, carousing with some fellows from one of his clubs.
Father had mentioned marriage. Twice, in fact, and in most threatening tones. But Thornby was only twenty-five, and certainly not inclined to marriage yet. Or, probably, ever, but he would not be telling Fatherthat.
Anyway, the marriage idea would soon blow over. More importantly, no arrangements had been made about Thornby’s valet. Perhaps Thornby could send a message from the station. Or perhaps Father would lend Thornby his own man. Thornby hardly liked the idea. Father looked spruce enough, but there was something repellent about borrowing his valet, who doubtless carried tales.
Thornby’s head swam, only partly from the after-effects of the blow. His tongue was swelling where he’d bitten it. And yet, despite the pain, the inconvenience and the worry, the novelty of the situation—Father paying attention to him—was at least interesting. Any normal father would have taken a horse-whip to Thornby years ago, and most of society would have thought it none too soon. Perhaps Father was finally taking some paternal responsibility. The idea was mainly alarming, but still.
Thornby remembered, at school, boys getting letters or half crowns from their fathers. Sometimes boys had told of beatings, or lectures, or new ponies as well. He’d wondered then what it might feel like to be a person of interest to his father. Lord Dalton had never written, never visited, never sent a package. In the holidays, apart from one seaside trip so disastrous Thornby tried never to think of it, he had generally been sent to the house at Beck Hill, fifty miles from Raskelf and barely in the same county.
He looked at Father’s profile, now a fume-reeking shadow against the darkening streets.Well, he thought,when it becomes dull at Raskelf I can always leave.
***
He realised he wasstill grovelling on the new sandstone steps behind Raskelf and forced himself to his feet. The Hall towered before him, a grand and crumbling cage. To make matters worse, Father was somewhere inside. He’d arrived home yesterday for the winter, followed some hours later, and in a different carriage, by the silly second Lady Dalton. Thornby was damned if he’d give either one of them the satisfaction of seeing him with reddened eyes and trembling hands.
He looked terrible these days. The months of prowling and fretting had caused him to lose weight, and there were new lines to his face that spoke of strain and anguish. He found himself muttering aloud as he paced the endless passages of Raskelf, jumping at shadows and drinking too much. No wonder the servants were afraid of him. He turned his back on the house.
Before him lay the estate with its rolling parklands and woods, its fields and becks. The park was just as much of a prison, but at least it had open skies. He headed back across the long grass to the boggy path that encircled what was left of the estate. There had been no boundary path when he’d arrived at Raskelf a year and a half ago, but his own feet had worn one bare. He’d always believed the land was entailed, but legalities notwithstanding, Father had disposed of great swathes of it. And every time a piece of land was sold, Thornby’s path must change. Always he was forced to skirt along the edge of whatever land still belonged to Father. It was the strangest thing to stand on the edge of the new boundary and look at the track his own feet had once made, and to know that he could no more walk there now than walk upon the moon.
Still, the estate remained large enough that if Thornby took the long way round he’d be late for dinner, which would reliably antagonise Father. Annoying Father was now all he lived for. Thornby had no doubt the dinner table tonight would be the usual battleground. Yesterday evening had been surprisingly mellow; the presence of the mysterious Mr Blake had put everyone on best behaviour.
Blake had arrived yesterday too, just before dinner. And Thornby, who seldom saw strangers these days, had wanted to stare like a rustic at this gentleman from London. Blake had sleek black hair, dark watchful eyes, and a mouth that turned down slightly at the corners. He was handsome enough, with an air of confidence, but his mouth gave him a grim look. Not a man to trifle with. He looked to be in his early thirties, and dressed conservatively in a plain, dark waistcoat and grey coat. He looked, in fact, the picture of the well-to-do industrialist he claimed to be. But he’d come without a valet, which was mighty odd for a man of that type, and he’d brought with him an enormous trunk so heavy it had taken six men to lift it.
Blake had said he was a friend of Lady Dalton’s cousin, another wealthy industrialist. And Lady Dalton, who generally flinched if one so much as looked at her, had agreed. She’d looked damn glad to see Blake, actually. How lovely if she planned to cuckold Father with him, but she probably hadn’t the imagination.
Most surprisingly, at dinner, to Father’s aggressive enquiry about what the devil he thought he was doing at Raskelf, Blake had said, almost dismissively, ‘You’ve known me for years, my lord. Remember, you invited me down any time.’ And Father, to Thornby’s lasting astonishment, had said ‘ah, yes’, and gone back to his consommé, just as if he were the kind of man who gave open invitations to the type of fellow he sometimes described as ‘bloody jumped-up trade’.
Thornby was disposed to like Blake, who never fawned, and who carried himself well; upright, but not stiff, and with a determined city energy that Thornby had desperately missed. And Blake’s eyes, so dark they were nearly Latin, were very fine. Yes, if Thornby let himself, he could enjoy looking at Mr Blake.
Blake didn’t seem to like him, though.
Over the roast beef, Blake had given Thornby a peculiar, intense look and said, ‘I think you remember me from Oxford, Lord Thornby.’ Thornby had almost agreed, to be pleasant, because anyone who dared to speak to Father in such an offhand manner was obviously a man of character. But since Blake was so clearlynotan Oxford man, though he spoke well enough, Thornby had said with genuine regret, ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Blake’. To his surprise, Blake had gone as white as his nice lawn shirt-front, and then looked daggers at him for the rest of the meal.
A nagging pain from his bad foot brought Thornby back to the present. With Father back, the pressure to marry would redouble. And yet, howcouldhe marry? Even if he was willing to swallow his pride, how could he involve some innocent girl in all this mess? What if he married and Father trapped the lady here too? It was an impossible situation. His throat was growing tight again, hopelessness threatening to drain away every ounce of vitality. There was only week after week, month after month, until—what? Until he died, or went mad? He sighed and his breath formed a cloud in front of him.
This was no good. He must not give up. Didn’t Virgil say that adversity is only overcome by endurance? So, he must endure. Father would be alert for any sign of weakness. Thornby needed to drum up some anger, some energy, to get through dinner and prove he wasn’t beaten yet.
He lifted his chin and walked faster along the boundary path, feet sending up splashes of mud. He began muttering curses and kicking stray sods. He worked up to shouting at sheep and gesticulating at the occasional farmhand. Both sheep and men stared at him with the same blank, open-mouthed incredulity. He knew it did nothing for his reputation in the village, but sometimes, when despair grew so tight it would crush his very soul, there was nothing for it but to shout unreasonable things and shake his fist at hedges.
“You know what I’ve missed, you pastoral savages? You damned Philistine sheep? I’ve missed the season. Again. Do you have any idea what that means? I’ve missed the Academy Exhibition. I’ve missed Millais’ Ophelia. And what’s more, what’s worst, what’s damnedinsupportable, is that I’ve missed the Great Bloody Exhibition! A Crystal Palace with trees inside and every damned wonder you could ever hope to see, and I’ve missed—”
Someone was watching him and it was not a grubby farmhand. He lowered his arms from a particularly expressive flourish. He was now at the farthest possible distance from the Hall, in an area that bordered on open moorland, recently sold to the Howarths. And there, just off the path by a clump of heather, was Mr Blake. Blake was lying on his coat, hands behind his head, as though Thornby had woken him from sleep. Quite how Thornby could have missed him at first, he didn’t know.
Thornby could feel his cheeks burning. He didn’t much care if a farmhand saw him acting like a lunatic; it would give him a story to tell later over a pot of ale. But Mr Blake was a guest. A rather handsome guest.
Well, Thornby could hardly slink away. He raised his chin and kept walking.
Blake fixed him with an intense stare, dark eyes boring into Thornby like augers. If Blake had been a real gentleman, he would have looked away and given Thornby a moment to recover his composure. But Blake barely blinked, lying there like an eastern potentate while Thornby approached. Would the man not get up or acknowledge him in any way? Thornby was suddenly very conscious that his clothes were forty years out of fashion and not especially clean. And that not long ago he had been so heart-sick he had nearly wept. Did that show on his face?
He decided to give like for like and walk past without speaking, but the ridiculousness of the situation hit him almost at once. They were now only a couple of yards apart. They were staying in the same house. In a few hours, they would be dining together. Was one really going to stride past as if the man were invisible?
He stopped. Blake was still lying there, still staring. Even lying down, he had the capable look of a man used to getting things done.
