The Hidden Blade (23 page)

Vows of Marriage

In autumn of 1875, Mother married Mr. Delany in San Francisco. Two months later, her wedding photograph reached Leighton. She looked beautiful—and quite young still: She had been only eighteen when Leighton was born. Mr. Delany, though it was the first time Leighton had ever come across his image, looked instantly familiar; Marland had the same eyes and same cheekbones.

Leighton gazed a long time at the photograph. He had very nearly forgotten how it felt to carry Marland, the little boy’s head on his shoulder, his fine, soft hair tickling Leighton just under the ear.

Except Marland wasn’t so little anymore. He was six going on seven. Did he still remember his big brother?

He certainly wouldn’t know Leighton as a writer of interesting letters. Despite his suspicion that not all his letters made it through, Leighton wrote once a week, faithfully. But his dispatches might as well have been hectograph copies of the first letter he wrote after he emerged from what he now thought of as his comatose period: How much could there be to report when he left the house once a week for Sunday service, met no new people, and spent much of his time at activities he did not want Sir Curtis to get wind of?

Mother had probably sent photographs of Marland to Leighton. Marland might have even written on his own, a few lines in a child’s ungainly handwriting. But no such mementos had ever reached Leighton, who had only his memories.

And his hopes.

Leighton continued to study Parsi, Arabic, and Sanskrit. As part of Sir Curtis’s “magnanimity,” Mr. Colmes was allowed to purchase anything either written in or dealing with these languages. In addition to the Bibles, Leighton read the Quran in Arabic, the poetic works of Rumi in Parsi, and in Sanskrit the
Mahabharata
and, in honor of the Buddhist origins of the jade tablets, the Tripitaka.

Before he had packed Father’s jade tablet among Mother’s books to be sent to America, he had made a rubbing of it. From time to time he took out the rubbing to study the intricate details that had been captured. He could almost hear Herb’s voice recounting the legend behind the tablets’ creation.

That piece of paper he kept inside his Bible, the book least likely to be taken away from him. Inside the Bible there was another piece of paper, a note that had accompanied a birthday present from Herb when Leighton had turned ten.

My dear boy, I do not say this enough: It is a joy and a privilege to be your friend. Thank you for having welcomed me into your life with such grace and kindness. I treasure every minute in your company and look forward to many more years of fond companionship. Your ever devoted friend, H.

Sometimes he opened the note and read it. Most of the time he only passed his fingers over the paper.

He knew what it said.

He knew what had been lost.

In the space of six months Leighton outgrew all his clothes and shoes. When he was much younger, he had taught himself to walk on his hands. After the growth spurt he had to relearn that skill almost from scratch, as his shape and weight had changed so much.

His voice dropped. Just before he turned fourteen, the beginning of a mustache appeared above his upper lip, and not a faint, barely-there sprinkling of hair, but quite dark and noticeable.

Now when he attended church, much was made of his height and physical maturity. The teasing from the ladies embarrassed him. But he did not think less of those who showered him with this unwanted attention—it was all kindly meant. And after having experienced true malice, he would never again quibble with any good-natured and completely harmless gestures, even if they might prove somewhat vexing.

He remained on friendly terms with Mr. Brown, the post office clerk, but they did not steal any more letters: Mr. Brown never asked for more stamps—the one time for the Shanghai colonial stamp was probably all the rule breaking he could bring himself to do. And it was fine with Leighton: He already knew where to go. And even if he should find Herb no longer in Peking, he would have a forwarding address from the British Legation.

In his studies, he had long ago reached the end of the Greek Bible. And since he’d already read the Latin Vulgate Bible before he’d come to Rose Priory, Mr. Colmes wrote Sir Curtis for permission and they started on the German Bible. On his own, Leighton had made his way through the Parsi Bible twice and finished with the Sanskrit Old Testament. Arabic, on the other hand, was proving to be an unusually difficult language to master. He longed to have better instruction than two dictionaries and a book of grammar, both of which were written in a manner that hindered understanding more than they aided it.

When he wasn’t studying or exercising, he read every word of the daily editions of the
Times
and the
Manchester Guardian
, to which Mr. Colmes had subscriptions.

Mr. Colmes visited his daughter every two months, taking the Scotch Special Express from London to York. When he returned, he always made sure to put his copies of
Bradshaw’s Guide
—he had one for Britain and one for the Continent—in the top drawer of his desk. When Leighton was alone in the schoolroom, he would study the rail and steamer timetables, calculating the cost of his escape according to the listed fares.

Father used to give him few pennies now and then so that when Leighton walked to the village nearest Starling Manor, he could buy himself a glass of ginger beer and a nice big scone. Sometimes Father even handed over a whole shilling. For birthdays Leighton would receive a bright, shiny gold sovereign. The pennies he sometimes spent, but the shillings and the sovereigns he had always kept safe in a secret drawer of his nightstand.

When he came to Rose Priory, he brought his savings—plus a few pounds he had pilfered from Mother’s petty cashbox during the chaos of her abrupt departure. That money he hid in the room opposite his, inside a pillar candle that was never lit, eleven pounds, four shillings, and seven pennies in all.

It wasn’t an inconsiderable amount of money—a scullery paid at Rose Priory was probably paid only a pound or two more per year. But third-class passage to Shanghai, according to Bradshaw’s guide to continental travels, would cost him at least thirty-three pounds. And that was from Marseille, where there were ships with third-class fares. Unlike the Atlantic route, heavily used by emigrants, the eastbound steamers didn’t necessarily cater to those watching their every last farthing; in second class, thirty-three pounds wouldn’t even get him from London to Bombay.

He could only hope that Herb left him enough money for a passage to India, at least.

He also studied Mr. Colmes’s tattered map of London, memorizing the layout of the streets between Paddington Station and Waterloo Station, which he needed to reach to take a southbound train to Sussex.

By mutual consent they never spoke of Leighton’s plans—the less Mr. Colmes knew, the better for both of them. But sometimes Mr. Colmes would talk about his daughter, and about the health of her employer, whose condition had been deteriorating for the past year.

Leighton, who understood that Miss Colmes would depart for Australia after her employer had passed on, listened carefully to these updates.

In physical appearance he could now pass for a boy of seventeen or eighteen. In temperament he was calm and self-possessed. But he had very little experience outside English country houses. When he actually ran away, would it be very much like the first time he tried to walk on the moors in the middle of the night, falling splat into a frigid stream even though he proceeded cautiously, with his eyes wide-open?

That was something for which he could not practice or prepare. He could only wait, plan, and hope that no one would trouble or give a second look to a respectable-looking young traveler. And that he would cover ten thousand miles unharmed and undetected.

Much to Leighton’s surprise, in June of 1876, not long after he turned fourteen, Lady Atwood came to Rose Priory by herself—all her earlier visits had been in the company of her husband. She was still stupendously beautiful—the menservants grew tongue-tied around her. But to Leighton she felt different. Lesser.

There had been a hauteur to her, the utter confidence of someone who had never been denied anything. She still conducted herself with great condescension, but now there seemed to be a just perceptible brittleness beneath her air of superiority.

Beyond the initial welcome on his and Mr. Colmes’s part, he saw little of her. She walked on the moors; he traipsed about the house. She took her meals in the dining room; he sat with Mr. Colmes in the classroom, as was their custom. Only at Sunday dinner, after church service, did they all break bread together. Mr. Colmes and Lady Atwood conversed sedately; Leighton, still considered a child, followed the rule that he should be seen but not heard.

One afternoon he heard her come back into the house. She was earlier than usual and he had not finished his rounds yet. He kept on going. So what if she were to see him and report him to Sir Curtis? He still had to get in his daily quota of exercise.

A quarter of an hour later her voice came from behind him. “Why are you going into and out of all the rooms? Why don’t you go outside instead?”

He turned around and gave a half bow. “I am not permitted to go outside, ma’am, on account of my deplorable health.”

“Your health looks fine to me.”

“Yes, it is quite amazing, ma’am, that I am never sick despite being so frail.”

She gave him a hard stare and walked away. He resumed going into and coming out of all the rooms.

That evening he overheard her address Mr. Twombley. “The library is locked. Unlock it so that I may go in and choose a book.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Atwood, but I am not permitted to unlock the library unless the master is here.”

“I am the mistress. Is my wish not enough?”

“I apologize, ma’am. But my orders were very specific: Only when the master himself is at Rose Priory.”

Silence.

Her footsteps, when she walked away, were very quiet, almost inaudible.