The Hidden Blade (9 page)

“It’s a nice day,” he said to Marland’s nursemaid. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take my brother to the trout stream.”

They could not keep Marland out of Sir Curtis’s sight forever. But they could for another day.

Marland ran to Leighton and wrapped his arms around Leighton’s legs.

Leighton lifted him up. “Come, Master Marland. Let’s go skip some rocks.”

The fact that Father had died by his own hand was hushed up. The inquest returned a verdict of accidental death due to the unanticipated discharge of an antique firearm while being cleaned.

The tale, as trumped up as it was, did not encounter much resistance—it was still less unlikely than suicide on the part of a man who seemed to have everything to live for, and who had appeared, in the days immediately preceding his untimely demise, to have been in the finest of both health and spirits.

His funeral was thickly attended and many extravagant words were spoken about his kindness, his generosity, his devotion to his duties and his family. Leighton had been afraid he would cry, but he remained dry-eyed through the eulogies, as if they sang the praises of a complete stranger.

When Leighton had been little, Father would secretly pass him a morsel of sweets on Sunday mornings, which would be Leighton’s to enjoy during the sermon, as long as he kept his enjoyment still and silent. The Sunday after he turned seven he’d declined the bribe, feeling himself quite capable of suffering through the sermon like a man. Father had ruffled his hair.
Seven going on twenty-seven, aren’t you?

Perhaps he was in danger of weeping, after all.

He blinked back the tears. Several mourners away, someone leaned forward slightly to look at him: Sir Curtis’s fiancée, Miss Saithwaite.

Before the funeral he had met Miss Saithwaite for the first time. She was almost eye-wateringly beautiful, blond and ethereal. But more than her beauty, he had been struck by her age: She could not be more than nineteen. And Sir Curtis, despite his slim figure and unlined face, was nearly fifty.

Her gaze was quite impersonal, almost Sphinx-like. And swift—a second later her attention had already turned back to the eulogist. Briefly Leighton wondered what kind of woman would marry Sir Curtis. If he’d been told, sight unseen, that Sir Curtis’s bride-to-be was nearly thirty years his junior, he would have guessed that she had been compelled by her parents to accept his suit.

But this girl, with her cool pride that verged on arrogance, was not the kind to allow herself to be compelled by anyone. She was marrying Sir Curtis because she wished to.

It was terrifying, the idea that there existed a kindred spirit for Sir Curtis.

Words of sympathy flowed Leighton and Mother’s way as they made their way out of the church. Many a hand came to rest on Leighton’s shoulder—he only wished that he could draw actual strength from the crowd of mourners. Or that they could form a true barrier between Sir Curtis and the rest of the family.

A man stood at the very back of the sanctuary, looking as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in a week. Herb! The backs of Leighton’s eyes stung. He wished he could run to Herb; he wished they could be alone. With him there would be no shame giving in to the tumult inside. They could weep, scream, or destroy an entire room at the needlessness and injustice of Father’s death.

But Leighton only dared give a tiny nod as he filed out behind Mother.

“Mr. Gordon is here,” he said to her, when they were out of earshot of Sir Curtis and his fiancée.

“Yes, I expect he has been asked by the solicitors to come and hear the will.”

She sounded nervous, yet half hopeful, as if she expected the reading of the will to be an emancipation.

Leighton should have thought of the question sooner, but he hadn’t. “Do you know whom Father appointed as our guardian, ma’am?”

Mother briefly laid her hand on his arm. “Not Sir Curtis. You can be sure of that.”

Father was buried at the family’s private cemetery, which gave out to a wide vista of rolling hills and green fields. They had often stopped here on their long hikes through the surrounding countryside. Leighton could still see Father as he was the last time, his coat on the grass, his sleeves rolled up, dividing a large sandwich into three, making sure that Leighton and Herb had the bigger pieces.

Herb, too, was at the interment, but he stood halfway down the slope, gazing up at the sight of his beloved being lowered into the ground. He wiped at his eyes.

Leighton was the last person to drop a handful of soil onto Father’s casket. Inside the casket, lying upon Father’s no longer beating heart, was an envelope that contained a copy of Leighton’s favorite photograph of the three of them together, on the bank of the trout stream before a canoe, each with an oar in hand.

On the back of the photograph, he had written,
Rest in peace, Father. I will look after everyone you loved.

In the nursery, Marland, who hadn’t attended the funeral because he was judged too young, was knocking over column after column of blocks. The moment he saw Leighton, he came running and grabbed Leighton’s hand. “Did they bury Father?”

Father had loved Marland, albeit with an anxiety that Leighton had not understood completely until he’d learned that Marland was not Father’s natural son: It had been the apprehension of a good man who had the charge of another man’s child. He must have worried about doing everything right by Marland, and perhaps he had been especially concerned that Marland should never feel he was treated differently from Leighton.

“Yes, they buried Father.”

“Will he be lonely?”

Leighton crouched down so he was at eye level with Marland. “We can visit him often, to keep him company.”

Tears rolled down Marland’s face. “Can we visit him now?”

The door of the nursery opened and in the doorway stood Sir Curtis. Marland stared at him. “Who are you?”

Sir Curtis did not answer. He looked from Marland to Leighton and back again, something like a pleased smile on his face. Without a word, he closed the door and left.

“Who was that?” Marland asked Leighton.

“Sir Curtis,” said Leighton.

The answer was good enough for Marland. “Can we go visit Father?”

The satisfaction Sir Curtis had derived from seeing Marland, however, chilled Leighton. He caressed Marland’s hair, so blond that it was almost white. “We can, but not now.”

Leighton slipped into the library from the secret entrance up in the gallery and listened to the reading of Father’s will, which the solicitor finished in only a few minutes.

Father had left handsome gifts to the seniormost servants. To Mother and Marland he gave a substantial settlement each. Starling Manor would come to Leighton when he reached majority, along with tracts of land in London, Manchester, and Birmingham. To Leighton himself he left the jade tablet. To Herb, his collection of stamps.

To Sir Curtis, absolutely nothing, which gave Leighton a savage pleasure.

Father also named Mother and Mr. Henry Knightly, Mother’s cousin, as Leighton and Herb’s guardians. Again, a deliberate repudiation of Sir Curtis. Leighton was almost giddy—until he remembered Sir Curtis’s smugness, looking into the nursery.

But what could Sir Curtis do? He did not hold their purse strings and he had not been appointed guardian.

Sir Curtis, however, did not seem the least bit upset by the reading of the will. After the servants and the solicitor had vacated the library, he strolled to the ivory-inlay console table where Father’s decanter was kept and tapped a finger on the crystal topper.

“Any fortification for you, Mrs. Atwood? And you, Mr. Gordon?”

They both shook their heads, Mother uncomfortable but stoic, Herb stone-faced but unafraid. Like Leighton, they had been bolstered by the contents of Father’s will.

“Well, then, we will start with you, Mrs. Atwood—ladies first.” Sir Curtis gave a thin-lipped smile. “You are an utterly useless woman.”

Mother flinched. Leighton gritted his teeth.

“Get out,” said Herb. “You will not insult a lady in her own home. And there is nothing more for you to do here.”

“So speaks the man who might as well have pulled the trigger on my brother,” said Sir Curtis coldly.

Herb swallowed.

Sir Curtis turned back to Mother. “It is the role of the wife to uphold the vows of marriage and the sanctity of the family. But you, Mrs. Atwood, you had no strength and no conviction. You chose to seek your own pleasures and left your husband vulnerable to temptation. A better woman would have guarded him and kept him safe for as long as she and he both lived. But you, full of weakness and selfishness, abandoned your duties long ago.”

Each of his words seemed to strike a blow upon Mother, who shrank and shrank.

Leighton saw now that he had been blind, that Father’s death had left Mother badly shaken. Had she been blaming herself the way he blamed himself? Had she been wondering whether things would have been different if only she hadn’t been so far away from home when Sir Curtis unexpectedly arrived?

“Do you actually think I will let an unrepentant adulteress be guardian to my nephew? Don’t act so surprised. When he died did you think I did not notice you were not at home? Did you think I did not find out that one week out of every month you took that other child of yours and left on some supposed trip to visit elderly relations? And from then on, did you think it was all that difficult to find out about the tall, blond Californian?”

Mother spoke, her voice almost choked, but defiant. “It doesn’t matter. There is nothing you can do.”

“To the contrary, there is a great deal that I can do. No doubt my brother believed your cousin Mr. Knightly to possess not only robust health, but a sterling character. I suppose you neglected to inform him that Mr. Knightly had been sent down from university for forging cheques?”

“That was more than twenty years ago, and for all of five pounds!” cried Mother. “It was only a youthful prank—Henry just wanted to see whether it could be done.”

“But how can we be sure such deceit has been eradicated from his character? Not to mention that Mr. Knightly is wretchedly poor for a man with a demanding wife and four daughters who will need London seasons very soon. Would the Court of Chancery look kindly upon his fraudulent past? I do not think so. Not when there are substantial rents that come in every month from lands that belong to my nephew, and every opportunity for embezzlement.