by KJ Charles
Raven dabbed his brush on his palette. “If you want to watch, pull up a chair. If you chatter I’ll shout at you.”
“He tells no lie,” Rookwood said.
“Shut up and lean forward.”
Guy did as bid, watching with fascination as Raven’s brush dipped and dabbed, building the image. He’d never seen painting in oils, only Amanda’s unenthusiastic watercolours, and it was compelling. Raven would use a dab of green or blue on Rookwood’s skin, so glaring that Guy wanted to point out he’d picked the wrong pigment, and then a few more strokes made the colour part of a shadow or a vein, obviously right all along. He wondered if Raven saw the world as blobs of different colours where Guy saw pink or brown.
And he wondered about the picture. Lord Corvin had commissioned it, Rookwood had said. It was extraordinary to think a lord would commission a portrait of himself with his male lover, but if one was going to do such a reckless thing, why include a third party? And while Raven was clearly on the most friendly terms with the two titled men, to put himself rather than Corvin in the middle of the picture was extraordinary. Everyone knew the lord ought to be at the centre. The viscount came first, then the baronet, with the jobbing artist well off to one side. That was how things were.
But it seemed Raven didn’t agree, and, since they were posing for the picture, Guy had to assume that Corvin and Rookwood didn’t either.
Under my roof, think and speak as you will. Rookwood had said that. Suppose he’d meant it.
Perhaps he did. He’d told Guy about his illegitimacy with staggering unconcern. Guy couldn’t imagine saying My mother abandoned her husband and children to run away with her lover out loud; the misery of people knowing at all or, even worse, commenting, had dogged every day of his life since he was eight. Rookwood’s situation was on the face of it far more shameful, yet he spoke of it openly. As if he didn’t care, or as if he preferred to take the shame by the scruff of the neck and thrust it in people’s faces. This is the skeleton in my family’s closet; come and shake its bony hand.
What would it be like to do that? Could one really say, That is my mother’s disgrace, not mine, and I am not tainted by it?
“Philip!” Raven snapped. “Stop gawping.”
“I’m sitting here thinking seriously, which is what you asked me to do.”
“While looking in the wrong direction. All right, hold on. Frisby, would you mind?” He waved at Guy to stand, moved his chair a foot or so, changed its angle, and gave a nod. “Right, you can sit.”
Guy sat, somewhat baffled as to how moving him would help anything. He glanced to the canvas for answers, saw none, looked up, and realised the alteration had put him directly in Rookwood’s line of sight. And Rookwood was indeed looking at him, fingers steepled, eyes so direct that Guy felt his face heating.
“He needs something to focus on,” Raven said. “Hope you don’t mind. It’s that or have Harry and Sheridan bring out the stone horrors.”
“That’s not entirely flattering to my guest,” Rookwood said.
“Shut up.”
“I don’t mind,” Guy said. He rather thought he minded a great deal, but Raven had helped set Amanda’s leg. Dr. Martelo had praised his cool head in a crisis as making all the difference, and said he believed the bone was mending straight. If Raven wanted Guy to sit and be looked at, sit he would. Under the intent gaze of the man who’d been in here yesterday with Corvin.
That was the wrong thing to think about. Guy knew it instantly, but couldn’t stop the picture filling his mind: Rookwood, looking down into Corvin’s eyes so tenderly, with his hand on his—his parts. Guy hadn’t seen any more than that but his mind was filling in the swelling of firm flesh, the stroke of fingers, Rookwood’s full undivided attention.
He was going red, and it wasn’t his body’s only reaction, because he realised with abrupt horror that he was roused.
This was hell. He wanted to shift position to hide the evidence, but that might draw attention to it, which would be infinitely worse, and especially under Rookwood’s intent eye. Guy didn’t even know why the man was looking at him so. He ought to be thinking about Corvin—well, no, he ought to be thinking about a young lady, or nobody, but if he had to think about men it ought to be Corvin. It was one thing, and very wrong, to be committing unnatural acts with an illicit lover; it was quite another to do that and then smile into another man’s eyes and tell him that speaking his mind suited him. If Rookwood was Corvin’s, or anyone’s sweetheart, he had no right to pay other people compliments. He had no right to be looking at Guy, and Guy had to stop looking back.
He forced himself to contemplate the canvas. It was no improvement. All he saw was Corvin’s wicked smile, which seemed to suggest acts that Guy would never know, and Rookwood’s intent look that saw far too much. Did Raven know they were lovers? How could Rookwood sit so calmly in the room where he’d said and done such things, with the very couch on which he and Corvin had done them right there against the wall, possibly even stained—
Guy glanced round. It was an involuntary action, and a nonsensical one, as though the upholstery would bear evidence visible from a distance. But still he felt compelled to look at the couch behind him, seeing nothing but a piece of furniture, and when he turned back Rookwood’s expression had changed. His eyes narrowed, his mouth opened very slightly, and he breathed, “Ah.”
He knows. The thought was like a drenching in ice water which, had it come for any other reason, Guy would have welcomed. He feared he’d betrayed his guilty knowledge over and over again, with his blurting out of accusations and his ridiculous flinches at remarks in which others would have seen no sinister meaning. Now Rookwood had unquestionably realised, and Guy was in more trouble than even he could possibly imagine.
Except that Rookwood didn’t seem furious, or afraid. He was still looking at Guy, still intent, and as Guy fearfully met that grey-blue gaze, he smiled. It was just a tiny, conspiratorial twitch for Guy alone; not apologetic, not hopeful. It was a smile of recognition.
Guy sat gripping the seat of his chair, and panicked.
THE SITTING LASTED an hour, and felt like a decade. Guy leapt up from his chair as Raven was still saying, “Well, that’s enough for today”, babbled insincere thanks for the interesting experience but he needed to visit Amanda, and fled. He more or less ran down the stairs to the sickroom, and thought he heard laughter from the room he had left.
Amanda was propped up on pillows, talking animatedly to Dr. Martelo. She looked over as Guy entered and her face lit. “Oh, hello. I wondered where you’d got to.”
“I’ve been watching Mr. Raven paint Sir Philip.” He wasn’t going to think about anything else, not in here.
“He’s very good,” Dr. Martelo said. “He could make a fine living as a portraitist, I think, if he didn’t waste his time on those satirical prints that infuriate everyone.”
“Sir Philip said someone had threatened to horsewhip him for a picture,” Guy remarked, mostly for Amanda’s delectation.
Her expression repaid him. “Oh. Really? What was it of? Do you know, Doctor?”
“Some Society scandal, I believe. Or was it a politician? It happens all the time; you’d have to ask him. He won’t mind,” the doctor added. “He enjoys provoking people. It’s why he does the prints instead of portraits. He says, why should I flatter the rich when I can insult them?”
Amanda gave a delighted gasp of shock. Dr. Martelo smiled down at her. “Now, I shall leave you with your brother. No wriggling, mind.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said, adopting a dutiful expression. He laughed and departed; Jane requested permission to take some time also.
“Well,” Guy said once they were alone. “You look better.”
“I feel so much better. I’ve had buckets of soup, and I don’t feel feverish in the slightest. You know how that happens, when one feels so ghastly and then quite suddenly you realise you aren’t sick any more and you aren’t even sure when it stopped. It’s marvell
ous. Except for my leg, which is aching dreadfully, but that’s different. Guy! We’re in Rookwood Hall!”
“I know,” Guy said, with some restraint. “It’s been several days for those of us who weren’t busy frightening everyone.”
“Yes, but, the Murder!”
“I know. And—” He checked the door was shut. “What on earth were you thinking? You lent Mr. Street your book!”
“I did, didn’t I?” Amanda grimaced. “I wasn’t quite sure where I was. I probably shouldn’t have. Do you think he’ll notice anything?”
“I expect so, yes. They’re not a stupid set. In fact— I have such a lot to tell you, Manda. But for heaven’s sake if anyone mentions the book, don’t say anything, will you?”
“Of course I won’t. But what are they like? Have you met Lord Corvin? Is he awfully wicked?”
“He, uh.” Guy’s mind juddered on that. “He’s not at all the thing. Not respectable in the slightest and quite outrageous. But he laughs a great deal, and he likes it when his friends laugh at him.”
“Oh.” Amanda considered. “Well, he can’t be all bad, then, surely.”
“That’s what I thought, though you still shouldn’t associate with him. Then, two of them are musicians, awfully good and very pleasant but not terribly talkative. Mr. Raven is a painter, and rather plain-spoken,” Guy said, understating the matter considerably. “And Mr. Street and Mr. Salcombe study—oh.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure...” He trailed off, rather than finishing the intended I’m not sure I ought to tell you. He really ought not. It was one thing to be inadvertently exposed to casually atheist claims about monsters of the past frozen in millions of years of stone, quite another to repeat them to one’s overimaginative and occasionally irreligious sister. And yet he couldn’t but think of the dinner, and Rookwood telling Corvin that he treated knowledge as entertainment for drawing rooms. Rookwood, who told the truth without shame, and was free.
“They study the past,” he said. “The distant past. The origins of rocks and things. They have some rather shocking ideas.”
“Shocking ideas about rocks?”
“Yes.”
“Goodness,” Amanda said dubiously.
“It’s rather odd. Street has a sort of stone monster that— Well, I can’t explain it, and I’m not saying I agree with any of it. But it was awfully interesting.”
“I’m so jealous. You are remembering for me, aren’t you? And you will tell me everything?”
“Of course,” Guy said, permitting himself a considerable area of exception.
“And what about Sir Philip? What’s he like?”
“He, uh. He wants to meet you.”
“Me?”
“Well, we are his guests,” Guy said. “He asked for an introduction when you’re well enough. Just for politeness’ sake, I’m sure. Shall I—”
“Yes. Yes, do. I suppose I look a fright,” she added regretfully.
“You look wonderful.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“You look wonderful,” Guy repeated. “Because you aren’t feverish and you aren’t lying there barely breathing and I’m not afraid of—of— Don’t do that again, Manda, please.”
She reached for his hand and gripped it. “I’m sorry, dearest. I didn’t mean to fall.”
“I know.”
They held each other in silence for a little while, then Amanda settled her shoulders. “Well. Perhaps I could ask Jane for my good shawl, and to dress my hair a little better. I don’t like sitting here like an invalid. And yes, I know I can’t move my leg and I won’t try. Dr. Martelo said. He’s awfully nice, isn’t he?”
“He’s mostly shouted at people in my hearing,” Guy said, and gave her a highly coloured account of the early stages of her treatment. Amanda gasped and shrieked and interjected in a way that put any lingering fears of her health to rest, and was vocally supportive of the decision not to bleed.
“I hate it. Dr. Bewdley always does it, the old vampire.”
“He’s only trying to help.”
“But it doesn’t help. It just makes me feel worse, and I’ve always said so. Dr. Martelo is dreadfully clever, I think.”
“Yes, so do I. They all are. Well, I’m not sure about Lord Corvin, but Sir Philip is far more thoughtful than I’d have imagined, and extremely considerate, too.” Amanda was giving him a narrow look. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. You’re thinking about something.”
“No, I’m not,” Guy said, an automatic denial.
“You are. I think they’ve got you wondering. You’re not going to join the Murder, are you?”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t invite me to.” It was true, such an obvious, banal truth it didn’t need saying, and it made no sense at all that Guy heard his own words with a painful shock of disappointment, as though he’d been denied something he desperately wanted.
“Guy?” Amanda was frowning.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. They’re all very good friends, and I just... It’s been awfully lonely without you to talk to. Everyone’s been kind but I missed you.”
“You ought to have more society,” Amanda said. “And I know it’s my fault we can’t—”
“It is not your fault.”
“It is. You stay in with me every night.”
“I’d far rather do that than go to a political club or some drinking society,” Guy said. “You know I don’t like new people.”
“You seem to like these new people well enough.”
Guy opened his mouth and found nothing immediate to say. “Well, yes. That is— I shouldn’t have chosen to come here. It’s only that we were forced by circumstance.”
“And you never speak to anyone unless you’re forced by circumstance, or by me.” Amanda sighed. “I know. I wish you would. Otherwise we’re both going to stultify, sitting here in the countryside until we turn into turnips.”
“Manda,” Guy said reprovingly, but it was true. They had been confined to a very limited life for some time, squirrelled away from any but the most limited Yarlcote society by Amanda’s situation, their aunt’s iron rule, and Guy’s own fears. It had been a great relief at first, and then become a habit. Amanda had been chafing for a while. Guy wouldn’t previously have said the same was true of himself.
They talked a while longer. Guy could have sat in here for hours, both to enjoy the pleasure of his sister’s company and because in here, behind this closed door, he could avoid thinking about all the things that might await outside. Too soon, though, there was a knock and Dr. Martelo entered, with Jane. Amanda had to be moved to avoid bedsores, her leg examined, massaged, and measured.
“I want to apply a weighted splint,” Martelo announced, at the end of this. “It’s the best technique I know to avoid shortening of the limb.”
“Well, I’d prefer that. Will it hurt?” Amanda asked.
“It will certainly be uncomfortable,” Martelo said. He had no bedside manner at all; Dr. Bewdley always reassured his patients that his treatments would be entirely painless, even when they proved agonising. “We will, in effect, attach a weight to the end of your leg, perhaps two bricks, so as to pull the two halves of the break apart.”
“I thought we wanted the two ends to come together.”
“They will. The bone wants to knit, but this way we make it work a little harder and grow a little longer before the parts are reunited. It will be all the stronger for the treatment.”
“I should certainly rather have my legs the same length,” Amanda said. “Since I have to lie here anyway.” She gave a martyred sigh.
Martelo looked down at her with a glinting smile, and Guy revised his opinion of the man’s bedside manner. “I diagnose the natural boredom of the invalid, Miss Frisby, and I prescribe good books and company. You may have as many visitors as you want. A lively, cheerful state of mind is the best aid to healing I know.”
“That’s what I think!” Amanda exclaimed. “I s
hould never get better sitting in a room on my own wishing I was outside. And I should love more company, instead of poor Guy having to sit for hours. Do you suppose Mr. Street would tell me about his shocking rocks?”
“Try to stop him,” Martelo said, over Guy’s muted yelp. “And send for any friends you wish. Sir Philip will want you to consider your house his own.”
“I think we should ask him,” Guy said. “Since he hasn’t precisely invited society himself. And, uh, people might not come.”
Martelo made one of his impressive scornful noises. “English propriety. Well, ask. And in the meantime, you must have entertainment. Do you like music?”
GUY LEFT AMANDA A LITTLE later. It was half past six; they kept fashionable hours here, dining at eight. It would take no more than twenty minutes to ready himself physically for dinner, even if he dawdled. He wasn’t sure he could ready himself mentally given a week.
He’d seen Rookwood with Corvin, and Rookwood knew it. He’d watched Rookwood when he shouldn’t have, and Rookwood knew that too. And he couldn’t push aside the little sneaking, nagging thought that if he asked questions, Rookwood might even perhaps answer them.
Which was all very well for Sir Philip of the Murder who lived in London and was independently wealthy. He could talk and think as he chose. Guy Frisby of Yarlcote could and should not. And if that stolen glimpse of a kiss, and the way Rookwood had looked at him, and the stealthily-thumbed pages of classical poems Guy would never have admitted to reading or dared translate had all started adding up to something too large to ignore any more—well, he’d just have to ignore it, that was all, because the alternative was beyond his imagining.
