Page 41 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Chapter Nine
The following afternoon, the Greys arrived; Mr Grey, Mrs Grey, Miss Harriet Grey, and two younger girls who looked just out of the schoolroom. John understood that the family had no noble connections, but that Mr Grey had made a fortune in textiles. Mr Grey’s plump, red, untroubled countenance was vaguely familiar; surely John had seen him at some Manchester mill? Mr Grey gave no sign of recognising him, but all the same, he mentally rehearsed a few remarks about Lord Dalton’s business interests, in case Mr Grey should suddenly remember him and think to quiz him on his place in the world.
Mrs Grey was a worried-looking lady with fluttering hands and a nervous laugh. She was obviously ill at ease taking tea in such exalted company, but Lady Dalton was doing her best to be charming, and her best was considerable. Mrs Grey was soon smiling more naturally and talking with less forced animation. There were curd tarts and tiny sandwiches; very decent ones, for Raskelf. John gathered that Dalton had borrowed the Howarths’ cook.
The Lazenbys would not arrive until the following day, and Miss Grey had obviously been told to press her advantage. Her light-brown hair was elaborately arranged and she wore a showy dress of primrose satin that suited her creamy complexion very well. She displayed none of her mother’s nerves, and accepted Lord Dalton’s antique courtesies with grace. Probably she was pretty enough to be used to all manner of attentions being paid to her.
Then Thornby made his entrance. He was late, of course. John gathered he made a habit of it to antagonise his father. But, for the majority of this party at any rate, the wait had clearly been worth it. All the female members of the Grey family froze and widened their eyes. Even Mrs Grey blushed prettily.
Perhaps in honour of the occasion, Thornby had abandoned his usual black, and indeed, the century. He was a vision of Georgian style in a cream silk court suit: tail coat and breeches, cream silk stockings, and a waistcoat of pale green and cream stripes sprigged with pink flowers. He wanted only a sword and powdered peruke and he would have made a suitable escort for Marie Antionette.
John found his own eyes had narrowed, partly with amusement and partly with speculation. It was impossible—for him, anyway—to look at Thornby dressed in such a way and not imagine undressing him. Mr Grey looked puzzled, and slightly suspicious, as if he was trying to work out whether Thornby’s costume was a subtle insult. Miss Grey almost dropped her shawl when Thornby was introduced to her; her first sign of nerves. Thornby bowed, very properly, and took her for a halting stroll in the long picture gallery, it being too wet outside to walk along the terrace.
As Thornby limped past, John could hear him saying, “Yes, a gin trap, Miss Grey. Such a cruel device! But let us find something more pleasant to discuss. Are you interested in art?”
Lord Dalton, watching his son, seemed to veer from barely concealed rage to satisfaction that the Greys were here, and that Thornby was, at least for now, being civil.
About half-way through the afternoon, Miss Grey went to talk to Lady Dalton. Lord Dalton had taken Mr and Mrs Grey into the long gallery and was impressing some family history upon them with the aid of the paintings. The two younger girls were looking through a cabinet of curiosities with Mr Derwent. John found Thornby standing next to him.
“Well, this is torture, isn’t it?” said Thornby.
“Miss Grey seems nice enough.”
“She saw Ophelia six times. You’ve no idea what a wretch I feel, lying to a lady who admires Millais. What a way to spend an afternoon!”
Thornby pulled fretfully at the cuffs of his tight coat. No one was watching, and John allowed himself one sideways glance. But it was not the pleasure he’d expected, because he could see that, for Thornby, the afternoon really was torture, almost as bad, in its way, as being chained outside the estate. One saw the Georgian confection he was wearing and expected frivolity, but there was nothing light-hearted about him. His eyes were defeated.
Of course, John had known for days that Thornby was desperate to leave Raskelf. It was so easy to forget, because Thornby hid his desperation behind that careless and teasing facade, but it was just that—a facade—and if it crumbled, as it appeared to be crumbling now—
What Thornby needed was to be held. To be gentled with hands and voice like a frightened horse, and then given a damned hard ride until he forgot everything except his own need. And then—release, even if it was not the more fundamental release he craved, but only the momentary sweet release of the body. For now, in the drawing room, John couldn’t give him that. But he could give him a few more bricks for his facade—a chance to tease, and maybe smile, and feel human once again.
He cast about for a topic that might do, and asked, “Why do you wear those old-fashioned clothes? I’ve been wondering since I arrived.”
Thornby looked at him blankly for a moment, then managed a tiny, intimate smile. “You don’t like them?”
“I wasn’t complaining, just wondering why.”
“I made a vow to my grandfather on his deathbed that I would always dress as he believed a gentleman should—which is thus.” Thornby made an elegant gesture. A spark of mischief had appeared in his eyes.
