Page 12 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Father, you can’t mean to destroy the horse that threw me!” He glanced at John again. “Father’s almost too fond, don’t you think, Mr Blake? It was hardly the animal’s fault, but then, that’s Father; always blaming the innocent. You may feel a little less fond, Father, when I confess I took Pendragon without your permission and it was he who threw me. And now you’ve said you’ll make dog food of your own horse. What a shame!”
“Full of lies, as usual. I know what happened.” Lord Dalton’s voice was cold, almost bored. He took a spoonful of soup. “It’s the first time you’ve got that far, isn’t it? Taken you long enough; you’ve always been a weakling and a dammed little coward.”
John froze with his spoon half-way to his mouth, unsure which shocked him more; the public insults—in front of ladies, too—or the open allusion to whatever kept Thornby here. Lord Dalton seemed to be admitting very freely, if not his guilt, then his power over his son. At the opposite end of the table to her husband, Lady Dalton put down her spoon and bowed her head as if trying to remove herself from the scene. Lady Amelia’s head had gone up at the scent of battle, mouth pursed in disapproval, but she did not speak. Only old Mr Derwent kept spooning soup, mainly into his mouth, partly over his dinner jacket.
Thornby smiled at the shadowy ceiling. The table held plenty of candles but the light seemed to cower low, unable to pierce the gloom.
“You’re so right, father. A weakling. A coward.” Thornby sighed theatrically. “I’d make a terrible husband. I’d better never marry. How I’d like to! One of those lovely rich ladies I’m sure you have lined up for me. But it wouldn’t be fair on her.” He glanced at Lady Dalton. “Would it, ma’am? Think of the terrible whelps I’d sire; like father, like son, as they say.”
Lady Dalton glanced nervously at her husband, then at Thornby, then back to her husband. The men did not look at her. Dalton stared with loathing at his son, while his son affected an expression of martyred nobility.
John decided things had gone far enough. “How do you think Lord Thornby hurt himself, my lord?” he said to Dalton.
Dalton looked at him and frowned. “Blake, isn’t it? Yes, I invited you.” His frown deepened. “Can’t think why.”
“I have very valuable contacts, my lord,” John said firmly. With the Judas Voice charm, it was important to sound confident. “But you have a theory about how Lord Thornby came by his injuries?” He turned to Thornby. “Injuries I sincerely regret, my lord.”
Thornby gave him another of those cool, bored looks, but then a speculative expression crept into his eyes. It was almost a question, though not one John felt able to answer in public. He turned back to Lord Dalton.
“Well, my lord? You have a theory?”
“Haven’t you heard the local gossip, Blake? The boy’s weak in the wits, so perhaps he’s been banging his own head against a wall. Or maybe he’s a damned degenerate, and the years of unclean living are making their mark. It depends who you ask.”
“Village gossip.” John shook his head dismissively. “But you have a theory of your own? It wasn’t a fall from a horse, you say? So, what was it?”
“I’m not sure I like your tone, Blake.” Dalton glared at him, blue eyes rather bloodshot, mouth menacing.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. I meant no offence.” John took a mouthful of soup, wondering if he’d be thrown out, Judas Voice or no.
“Father doesn’t have any tone himself, you see, and so resents it in others,” put in Thornby. Was he drawing fire deliberately? It was impossible to say. “But in any case, Mr Blake, it’s very decent of you to care so much for my complexion. I expect Father’s about to announce an autumn ball or some such awfulness some time soon, and it would be a shame if I didn’t look my best for the ladies, wouldn’t it? Though of course now I’ve vowed never to marry, perhaps it doesn’t matter so much?”
“You’ll pick one this time,” Dalton said, voice ominous. “Or I’ll pick one for you. My patience is running out.”
Thornby shook his head. “No, Father. Yourmoneyis running out. Patience and money are two quite different things. You should look them up in the dictionary. Perhaps the marchioness could help. She could look up ‘misalliance’, couldn’t she?”
“Leave her out of it,” John said, quietly but firmly to Thornby. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Thornby’s raised eyebrow, but the younger man said nothing more.
“Is there to be a ball, my lord?” John said neutrally to Lord Dalton.
There was a long pause, while Dalton glared at his family, as if daring any of them to interject. Mr Derwent finished his soup and looked around, bewildered, at the others’ full bowls. Lord Dalton’s weathered face relaxed slightly.
“A small party. Spot of shooting. The Greys and the Lazenbys are coming.” He raised his voice to Thornby. “Miss Grey and Miss Lazenby, boy. You’ll make yourself pleasant.”
Thornby sighed again, like a kind schoolmaster with a slow pupil. But his knuckles were white on the stem of his glass, and John realised that, for all his show, Thornby was furious. His voice, when he spoke, was even more precise than usual.
“I wish you’d understand, Father, that nothing’s changed since last winter when you paraded some ladies around in front of me. I shan’t be pleasant to someone I despise, and I shan’t lie to someone I like. Not that I’ll make one, you understand, but my proposal would go thus: ‘Marry me, please. Of course when you do, your money comes to me, and I’m at my father’s mercy. So, he’ll take the money somehow and trot off to Scotland, leaving you with nothing but a husband who doesn’t love you and who can’t leave the estate.’ Doesn’t it sound jolly? Any girl would leap at the chance.”
“You think staying here’s the worst I can do to you?” Lord Dalton spat out. “Look at you, prancing around like a bloody popinjay. I shall have to arrange a little demonstration for you, boy. You might suddenly find Miss Grey a more attractive prospect.”
The open threat clearly touched a nerve. Thornby made a slight, jerky movement forward, as if he might leap across the table and brain his father with the gilt epergne. His face was like thunder, boredom vanished like the illusion it had been. John found he’d risen a fraction in his own seat, readying himself to hold Thornby back. He could hardly believe what was happening. What must the ladies be thinking? And in front of the servants! He’d been to some unpleasant dinner parties, but this was the first where he’d felt two of the party might actually have at each other amongst the condiments.
“Leave the boy alone,” Lady Amelia said suddenly to her brother, cutting across the tension. She wore an evening gown in emerald green. Along with her snowy-white hair, it gave her an unearthly look, like an avenging goddess in a play. “You come back here, Dalton; you’ve been gone all summer again! The Ramparts cottages are falling down. The chapel’s got dry rot. The place is falling apart. There’s no money in seaweed. Can’t you see that if you came home—What do you want with Scotland anyway? What do you want with Ireland? You could save things here, if you just came home and acted as you should.” She sat back in her chair, face grey, a gleam of sweat dampening her forehead, though it was not warm in the room.
Lord Dalton shot her a dismissive look. “Stupid woman. Not a clue,” he said, almost to himself. He stood and motioned to the butler. “I’ll dine in the study.”
Thornby stood as well. His chair fell backwards with a clatter. His eyes glittered in the candlelight and two spots of colour had come into his cheeks.
“How dare you call her stupid? You’re the fool here! You think staying here is a punishment for me? You couldn’t be more wrong. You know what you’ve done? You’ve given Mother back to me. I’d forgotten her; did you know that? You never let me come home afterwards, did you? And I forgot her. But now, I remember her every day. The sunken garden where she liked to sit. Her favourite ride, up to Jennie’s Pot. Remember? The way she laughed at that picture there.” He stabbed a finger towards a dim portrait of some grim Tudor Dezombrey who glared down at the table. “It scared me, and she said ‘No, Soren, he has a stomach ache, that’s all’ and laughed. Remember? Well, I do. And I remember she loved me. And she loved me more than you.” His voice shook on the final sentence and he wiped one eye quickly with the back of his hand. “You evil old bastard. Sometimes I wonder if you killed her.”
