Blaze of Glory

by Michael Pryor

  'Ah.'

  'Don't worry. The Holmlanders are notoriously bad dressers. They spend enormous amounts of money on clothes whenever they're posted over here, but they have abominable taste. They'll either look like walking haystacks or they'll scare away any game for miles.'

  'That's not much consolation. "There goes George Doyle. He doesn't dress quite as badly as a Holmlander."'

  'George, you have tweeds, perfectly acceptable shooting clothes. You're from the country, we're going out to the country. You'll be at home.'

  'I hate tweed,' George mumbled. 'It itches.'

  Six

  AUBREY LIKED TRAINS. HE FOUND IT HARD TO PASS A station without pausing to take in the steam, smoke and organised business that was railway life. The smells of oil and coal appealed to him, as did the knowledge that every station was the beginning of a thousand destinations, all waiting at the other end of the vast steel network that was the railways.

  He saw trains as the result of a hundred and fifty years of accumulated expertise and refinement. He admired the power and precision in the engineering that went into engines: the way that coal and water was turned into enough horsepower to pull a laden goods train was testimony to years of practical thinking, each engineer adding his competence to those who'd gone before him.

  Or her, Aubrey added mentally, thinking of Lord Ashton's daughter, Sophie, who had recently invented a particularly clever magically augmented anti-blowback valve for locomotive boilers. Extraordinarily expensive, it was, so it was only found on the showpiece locomotives, such as the one he was gazing at.

  He stood on the platform of Ashfields Station, the busiest in the city, admiring the Teal, the latest of the Northern Line's engines, the pinnacle of the Hurricane class of engines. The dark green paint glowed on the streamlined cowling as a stoker polished brasswork that already glistened in the morning sun. A thin wisp of steam came from the smokestack, indicating it was some time before the train was to leave.

  Aubrey wanted to stop and chat with the driver, but George was looking pained as he waited. 'Come on, George,' Aubrey said, with a lingering glance at the great driving rods and wheels. 'Let's find our compartment.'

  Aubrey led the way. He'd been feeling ill at ease all morning and his stroll around the station had done him good, allowing him to think clearly about the looming weekend.

  He was willing to admit that he felt ambivalent about the shooting party. The lack of clear direction from his father was awkward. Aubrey was tossing up if it meant that his father had confidence in Aubrey to know what to do, or whether it meant a lack of confidence.

  Of course, the sinking of the Osprey was going to make the weekend tense. Aubrey smiled to himself as he imagined how the Albion politicians and generals would be polite through gritted teeth, saying they understood how these things happened while seething underneath. The Holmlanders would be stiff and diplomatic and manage to offend everyone without realising it, as Holmlanders usually did.

  It was bound to be a weekend of walking on eggshells. He wondered if his father really had another engagement to go to.

  Aubrey marched down the platform, studying his ticket and peering at the carriages. The porter with the bags had to hurry to keep up.

  'Here, George,' Aubrey gestured. 'Climb aboard. Next stop, Penhurst Estate Station.'

  'Why couldn't we take an ornithopter?' George asked. 'It'd be fun. We'd be there in no time.'

  As if to emphasise George's suggestion, an ornithopter rose clattering into the air from the ornithopter port nearby. Aubrey shaded his eyes and watched as it swooped, steel wings beating birdlike at the air, righted itself and then rose over the neighbouring Engineers' Guild headquarters. Aubrey approved of the way the pilot rolled the aircraft around the dirigible tethering mast on top of the building and then mounted even higher.

  'I wanted to think,' he said. 'Ornithopters are so noisy it's hard to talk, let alone think.' He looked up again and followed the ornithopter as its metal body caught the sun. Someday, he'd like to learn how to fly one of those magically enhanced machines. 'Another time, George.'

  AFTER THE PORTER HAD STOWED THE LUGGAGE, HE BACKED out of the compartment.

  With blue velvet bench seats, chintz curtains, brightly polished brasswork and turned wood, the compartment was fit for a king, Aubrey decided, and most probably had hosted royalty. He approved of the combination of luxury and cunning artifice, showing that comfort need not be sacrificed in an efficient, modern world.

  Aubrey placed his hat on the wire shelf above the other seat in the compartment and hung his coat in the cleverly designed rack, which was no more than a handspan wide. He sat on the velvet and brushed his hand backwards and forwards, studying the changing sheen of the nap.

  George frowned at the compartment from the narrow doorway. 'Don't just stand there,' Aubrey said, 'come in.'

  George sat. Then he smiled and ran a hand through his sandy hair. 'Plush, isn't it? I feel out of place.'

  'Don't worry about it. Relax, enjoy the ride.'

  George sat back, realised he was still wearing his jacket, stood, took it off and hung it up. He took a position by the window.

  Unlike George, Aubrey had some experience in dealing with royalty and foreign diplomats. A constant stream of the powerful and famous had run through Maidstone over the years of Aubrey's growing up. George was a country lad, not accustomed to the brittle world of precedence, protocol and politics. He was more at home in the fields and woods than in the drawing room.

  At least he should enjoy the shooting, Aubrey thought. He remembered the letter his grandmother had given him before he left Stonelea that morning.

  'Something amusing?' George enquired.

  'Grandmother. She gave me a twelve-page letter, detailing everything she thought I'd forget.'

  'Stand up straight, eat all your greens, things like that?'

  'Protocol, George. How to address the Crown Prince. How to address a foreign diplomat. Correct forms of praise for good shooting by one's host. That sort of thing.'

  'Twelve pages,' George mused. 'You read them all?'

  'Hardly.' Aubrey grinned. 'But I'm sure it's nothing personal. I'm certain she would have written such a tome for Father if he were going instead of me.'

  George smiled and then looked serious. 'How are you feeling?' he asked.

  Aubrey shrugged. 'I'm all right at the moment. I'm rested, the spells seem to be holding . . .There's not much more I can do.'

  'Have your researches given you any hope of a lasting cure?'

  'I've found a few small refinements to the spells I'm using, but that's all. I have a few prospects to investigate, but . . .' Aubrey's good mood began to evaporate. Thinking about his condition made him depressed. He'd achieved an equilibrium state where maintaining his integrity was almost automatic. Focusing on it made him aware of how precarious his state actually was, how fragile the grace afforded to him by his spells.

  Aubrey brooded, cursing the impetuousness that had led him to the disastrous experiment. He had grown good at this self-chastisement and he took a moment to give himself a good dressing-down. He deserved it.

  In addition to castigating himself for bungling the experiment, he spent time dissecting his actions. As well as the failure in the focusing figure, he was sure that, despite his efforts, the problem had arisen from a slight looseness of expression in one element in the spell. It was enough to introduce an error, which had influenced a variable and thus created another error, which led to more. Subtle, infinitesimal, but errors nonetheless. The result was death's opening in front of him. It was still there, waiting.

  Aubrey felt cold when he thought of it. He had so much he wanted to do in his life that the idea of leaving it now appalled him. He didn't want an obituary that included phrases such as 'too young', 'cut short' or 'before his time'. He smiled wryly. If nothing else, he was determined to leave more than clichés behind.

  The trip took just over an hour and a half. They had had time to visit the din
ing car, with George tucking into a huge plate of scones. The landscape rushed by, the steam whistle split the air and the deep-throated chuffing of the locomotive underlined everything.

  The conductor was a roly-poly man who looked as if he'd break into a sweat if he even thought about climbing stairs. He assured Aubrey and George that Penhurst Estate Station was not a regular stop on the line and it wasn't to be confused with Penhurst Station. Penhurst Estate Station was actually part of the Crown Prince's Penhurst Estate and only used for his business and guests. Anyone wanting to go to the town of Penhurst had to get off some two miles further down the track.

  As the train began to slow, Aubrey peered through the window. 'No brass bands to welcome us.'

  George was struggling into his jacket. 'Just as long as there's someone.'

  Aubrey looked again, with a level of careful appraisal. 'There is. It's a girl.'

  Standing alone on the platform was a girl. A young woman? Aubrey found it hard to say, with the swirling smoke and steam. She was dressed for the outdoors, with leather gloves, a small cap, a tweed jacket and a heavy skirt. Dark brown hair. The more she tried to wave the smoke and steam away from her face, the more it seemed to cling, attracted to her.

  George hurried to the window and joined Aubrey. 'Well,' he said. 'Charming. This weekend is looking more promising all the time.'

  'We're here out of duty. Remember that.'

  'And it looks as if this duty may be a pleasure. Come now, old man, the train isn't going to wait all day. Tallyho!' He fairly bounded for the door of the compartment.

  Aubrey wondered if he should point out that they weren't going fox-hunting, but shrugged instead. It wouldn't make any difference.

  Once they'd alighted, Aubrey saw that the young woman was closer to his age than he'd thought. 'Fitzwilliam, Doyle? I'm Caroline Hepworth. I've been sent to fetch you.'

  She held out a leather-gloved hand. George looked nonplussed, but took it and she shook in a businesslike manner. Before she could repeat the process, Aubrey held out his hand first. 'Miss Hepworth,' he said, looking her directly in the eye and smiling. 'Thank you for coming out for us. I hope we haven't kept you waiting.'

  She hesitated, then took his hand. 'Not at all. It gave me a chance to get out of the Big House and all the nonsense that's going on up there.'

  Aubrey blinked. 'Nonsense?'

  'Politicians and diplomats. They love a chance to scheme and plot away from the eyes of the public. They're more excited than a class of schoolboys on a field trip.'

  'I see.' Aubrey was a little taken aback, but intrigued all the same. 'I'd guess you're not a politician, Miss Hepworth, so your role here is . . .?'

  'My father. My mother made me accompany him to keep him out of trouble, but there's only so much guff I can stand.'

  'I'm sure,' Aubrey said.

  At that moment the conductor appeared with their luggage. George took his bags and placed them on the trolley that was waiting for them. The conductor hurried back for Aubrey's trunk.

  'Good Lord,' Miss Hepworth exclaimed. 'How long are you staying? Six months?'

  Aubrey shrugged and spread his hands. 'My grandmother packed for me. I could insist, but she feels I can't do the job properly without her.' He paused. 'Miss Hepworth, your father would be Professor Lionel Hepworth?'

  'Quite. And my mother is Ophelia Hepworth.'

  The name was familiar. Aubrey hazarded a guess. 'The artist?'

  George looked from Aubrey to Miss Hepworth, puzzled.

  'Sorry, George. Professor Hepworth is renowned for some extraordinary work at Greythorn University. Uncertainty Theory, if I'm not mistaken, Miss Hepworth? Working with Winslow and Tremaine?'

  She nodded, but Aubrey saw wariness in her eyes. 'That's his field.'

  'I haven't read anything about his research for some time,' he said. 'I hope I'll get the chance to meet him. It'd be an honour.'

  Miss Hepworth glanced at George and added, 'My mother is Ophelia Hepworth. Her works are hung in the National Gallery as well as in major galleries overseas. Her paintings are sought after by private collectors and the Royal Family own several. She's a genius.'

  'I'm sure she is.' George smiled.

  She turned back to Aubrey, who was trying to keep up with the mercurial Miss Hepworth. 'Your mother is Lady Rose Fitzwilliam, the famous explorer and naturalist?'

  Aubrey was surprised. It was his father that most people were immediately interested in. 'Indeed.'

  'I'd like to meet her. 'With that, she swept towards the station exit, not looking behind to see if they'd follow.

  'A modern young woman,' George said, after a moment's silence.

  'Certainly,' Aubrey said. 'Let's go and join her, George. I'm sure she has more surprises for us.'

  The station was a tribute to the stationmaster's care, with climbing roses growing along the picket fence and up one side of the tiny house. The stationmaster himself came bustling out, tucking his shirt into his trousers. 'Here, young sir,' he said to George. 'Let me take that.'

  George happily relinquished the trolley. The stationmaster took the handles, and it was only a short distance through the gate before they found Miss Hepworth.

  She was standing by a carriage, stroking one of the matched pair of black horses that looked as if they'd been prepared for dressage. The driver nodded approvingly at her handling of the animals.

  The stationmaster frowned at the lightly sprung carriage and then at the luggage. He pushed back his cap, scratched his head and then shrugged. 'You go ahead. When you get there, tell them they'd better send the wagon down.'

  Aubrey offered his hand to Miss Hepworth, but she climbed into the carriage unaided. Aubrey and George sat opposite her. The driver clicked his tongue and they moved off.

  George waved a hand. 'You've been to Penhurst before, I take it, Miss Hepworth?'

  She had been studying the elms that lined the long avenue leading from the station towards the house. She looked at George and inclined her head a little. 'Father has been working nearby. Prince Albert has made his colleagues and him welcome a number of times. He says that their living circumstances are too spartan.'

  'And are they?' Aubrey put in, leaning forward.

  'I wouldn't know.' Miss Hepworth returned her gaze to the trees she obviously found more fascinating than Aubrey and George. 'I haven't seen them.'

  'Ah,' Aubrey said, his mind racing. His curiosity was pricking at him. A number of things Miss Hepworth had said – or not said – were intriguing, but Aubrey knew better than to force matters. He sat back and let his mind work.

  After fifteen minutes travelling through woods and well-kept fields, the avenue brought them to a large set of gates in a tall stone wall that stretched as far as Aubrey could see in either direction. The gates bore the coat of arms of the Royal Family. 'The Big House,' Miss Hepworth said, pointing.

  Still some distance away, well inside the walls, was a huge, rambling building, four storeys, brownish stone, many windows looking outwards. A flag flew from the tower, indicating the Prince was in residence.

  Aubrey smiled, remembering the happy times he'd spent at the Royal Family's favourite country estate. Its popularity, no doubt, arose from the King's fondness for shooting and Penhurst's possessing some of the finest country in the land. Of course, the King had done a great deal to improve its natural advantages. Much replanting of coverts was undertaken, woods were cleared to suit efficient beating, all with an eye to providing superlative shooting opportunities for the King and his friends. No one was considered a serious shooter until he or she had scored a bag at Penhurst.

  A dapper young man stepped briskly out of the gatehouse. He was tall, lean and wore his hair and moustache clipped short. 'Good morning, Miss Hepworth,' he said, then he peered at Aubrey and George. 'Mr Fitzwilliam and Mr Doyle?'

  'That's right,' Aubrey said.

  'We are expected,' George added.

  'Of course,' the young man said. He gestured over his shoulder and after
a moment another young man left the gatehouse and drew back the gates.

  'Very good,' Aubrey murmured as the two young men ushered the carriage through the gates. He leaned out and watched them lock the gates behind.

  Military men, both of them, he thought. No mistaking it. It was all they could do not to salute.

  He straightened to see Miss Hepworth looking quizzically at him. 'Lovely gardens,' he said, gesturing at the trees, the rolling expanse of lawn and the small, but exquisite, lake, the result of a few centuries of dedicated labour. 'Competence Rowe, if I remember correctly?'

  'Yes,' Miss Hepworth said. 'It's said to be his best work. See how the stone bridge over that end of the lake takes you to the grove of linden trees? It's a fine place for contemplation. Or so I'm told.'

  George seemed to feel he should make some contribution. 'So, you like shooting, Miss Hepworth?'

  He hadn't slapped her with a dead fish, but her face said he might as well have. 'No,' she said. 'And it's only been made barely tolerable by the banning of blood sports.' She looked at Aubrey. 'That was your father's doing, wasn't it?'

  'Yes. He pushed that bill through Parliament while he was Prime Minister.'

  'Not an easy task, that. Nor many votes in it, either.'

  'He felt it was the right thing to do. He'd always been sickened by fox-hunting and the like. He couldn't see how a country could call itself civilised and still allow such things.'

  'Clever, though, how he managed to promote an alternative. Without it he wouldn't have had a chance of getting a ban on live hunting made into law.'

  'The theory for magical hunts had been around for ages,' Aubrey said. 'Father simply brought the right people together and they perfected the spells needed, translating some of the Traskentian elements into more modern language.'

  Miss Hepworth held her hands together tightly. Her face was set, Aubrey noticed uneasily. 'And he made quite a deal of money from it, didn't he?'