Avalon (17 page)

“Terrific,” said James. “Well, no doubt we’ll bump into one another again sometime.”

“No doubt. Come along, darling,” Charles said, steering Jenny away. “Let’s go find the birthday girl.”

James, pierced by pangs of guilt and regret, watched them weave through the press of family. He wanted nothing more than to slink away unnoticed, but when he reached the kitchen door, Agnes handed him a platter of ham and directed him to carry it to the table. “Be a dear, James,” she said, “and help call people to their places.”

Consequently, he endured an interminable meal, made indigestible by the overweening Charles, whose evident designs on Jennifer James found both infuriating and repugnant. It was early evening by the time James found a chance to sneak away. He ducked out the door, paused, and looked thankfully up at the clear night sky. Free at last.

He started across the yard, the cold gravel crunching underfoot. The sound made him feel lonely. He would have gladly given everything he owned, ten times over, just to go back inside and snuggle up to Jenny on the couch, alone, in front of the fire. Instead, he walked to his vehicle, jammed the key in the ignition, threw the gearshift in reverse, and almost collided with someone darting around the back of the vehicle.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” said Jenny, coming around the side of the Land Rover.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come out.” James opened the door partway, and she stepped into the gap.

“You could stay and have a cup of coffee.”

“I’m fine. You’d best get back in there or Charles will come looking for you.”

She frowned prettily. “You look so unhappy, James. You hardly said two words at dinner. Anything wrong?”

“No, I’m fine. Give your mother and father my apologies for sneaking off like this.”

“Don’t worry,” she snapped. “You were hardly here.”

She turned on her heel and swept back into the house. James watched her go, wanting to call her back but lacking the will to do so. He’d have to explain, and he was not ready for that yet.

He headed back to town. The road was deserted, and the town as well. He drove to Gilpin’s house, parked out front, hurried up the walk, and rang the doorbell. After a moment, he heard someone rattle the chain on the other side, and a bolt slid back.

“I’d just about given up on you,” Howard informed him, “but now that you’re here, you might as well come in.”

“I know it’s an imposition,” James replied, stepping over the threshold, “but I really do thank you for seeing me, and I promise I won’t keep you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Howard said. He padded towards a low cabinet on which stood a whisky decanter and an assortment of glasses. “Drink?”

“Thanks, no,” James said, following him into the room. The house smelled of cooked cabbage.

Howard poured two glasses from the decanter anyway, and handed one to his visitor. “Just in case,” he said. Raising his glass, he wished James good health. They drank, and Howard turned to the white-painted mantel over a gas log fireplace. “You’ll be wanting this,” he said, and retrieved a square brown packet and handed it across to James. “Maybe you won’t think so after you see what’s inside.”

It was an old-fashioned envelope, handmade out of stiff brown kraft paper — the kind with a big flap that was closed by winding red string around two cardboard disks. In this instance, however, the flap had also been sealed in two places with red sealing wax, which was intact. James turned the envelope over. Written in faded ink were these words:

FOR JAMES A. STUART

TO BE DELIVERED UPON REQUEST

How did Gilpin come to have such a thing? James stared at the envelope and his mind went blank. He was incapable of surprise now — only wonder.

“Are you going to stand there gawping all night? Go on,” Howard urged, “open it.”

“I’ve inconvenienced you long enough,” James told him. “It can wait until I get home.”

“Nonsense. Open it now — you might have questions.”

Sliding his finger under the flap, James carefully broke the seals — first one side, then the other — and unwound the red string. Pulling back the flap, he opened the envelope and peered inside.

“Come over here where the light’s better,” Howard said, indicating a small desk in the corner of the room. The lamp was switched on. “Sit down there.”

James sat as directed, and shook the contents onto the blotter. Several pieces of paper slid out. The first was a short note, written by the same hand that had addressed the outside. It read:

James, you should find everything you need here to claim your bequest and establish your legacy. Please know that it was never our intention to deceive or deprive you in any way, only to protect you. With much love
,

Always and forever
,
Mum and Dad

Upon unfolding the first piece of paper, James saw a shiny photocopy on slick, brittle paper which had been embossed with a notary’s seal — a birth certificate. It was, in fact, his own birth certificate.

His heart beat faster as he looked at the names, knowing already what he would see. Typed in the blank for FATHER was the name Robert Arthur Moray, Marquess of Morven; in the space for MOTHER was written Elizabeth Anne Moray, née Grant. His name was there, too, of course — and yet it
was not
his name, for instead of James Arthur Stuart, the name he’d used all his life, it was James Arthur Moray.

A sudden queasy emptiness spread through his stomach — as if the floor had been yanked from beneath his feet, sending him spinning into free fall.
My God
, he thought, his brain squirming,
it’s true! It’s all true
.

Pushing the thought firmly aside, he took up the next piece of paper. It was the marriage certificate of Robert Arthur Moray, Marquess of Morven, and Elizabeth Anne Grant. The date on the bottom was a little more than a year before James was born.

He swallowed hard, and lay the paper aside. He could feel Howard watching, but the old lawyer stood quietly aside and said nothing as James reached for the last document, which was, as he already suspected, the marriage certificate of John James Stuart and Elizabeth Anne Moray née Grant — the original from which the copy he had seen in Embries’ office had been taken. This one, however, had a paper-clipped attachment.

Peeling back the certificate, James saw a tidy, legal-looking form. The heading in block capitals at the top identified it simply as a
Deed Poll
, and a subhead read: Application for Change of Name. Skipping over the body of the document, James’ eye fell on the typed-in blanks where the name James Arthur Moray had been changed to James Arthur Stuart. The deed was dated the same day as the marriage certificate and, in addition to the official registrar’s signature, likewise carried a notary’s seal.

James sat for a moment, staring at the documents — looking, but not seeing. How was it possible, he wondered, for a few old scraps of paper to so alter the world?

Howard moved a step nearer. “I was hoping it would not come as a shock, but I see it has.” He held out James’ glass. “Here, get some of this inside you. Steady your nerves.”

James reached for the glass. “You knew about this,” he said, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.

“Yes, of course,” he admitted. “I’ve always known. I helped Robert prepare the fake annulment.”

“You knew about my trouble over the estate,” James said. “You knew and never said anything.”

“A very wise and powerful man swore me to secrecy,” Howard answered. “I have never been inclined to betray the trust that he, and your parents, placed in me.” He looked at James directly, his eyes moving back and forth over his face as if searching for someone he once knew.

“This morning you said you knew my father,” James reminded him, pointing at the papers on the desk. “But it was Robert you were talking about, not John. You were talking about the Marquess.”

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” James asked.

Howard swiveled his head slowly. “I can’t answer that. All I know is that I was given instructions, which I put in my own will, to keep this envelope and give it to you when you asked for it. I made a promise to my friend, and I always keep my promises.”

James stared at him and felt a great weakness drawing in upon him, as if all his strength were pouring through the gaping hole in the ground which had just opened beneath his feet. He drew a long, shaky breath and steadied himself. “I understand,” he said, not really comprehending anything at all.

“As I say, I know all about your legal tussle,” Howard continued. “Hobbs at the office has kept me informed.”

“He knows about —” James indicated the documents on the desk, “about all this, too?”

“No,” the old solicitor stated firmly. “He knows nothing about any of it. I told you, I kept it secret. No one knew but myself and the people involved. That was the way Robert wanted it — insisted upon it.” He paused, looking at James in a kindly way. “With these documents, you now have everything you need to take control of the situation. I’m glad you came to me before it was too late.”

James nodded, and the old solicitor raised his glass. “Here’s to the new Duke of Morven.”

Shock does strange things to people. In Afghanistan James saw a soldier carry a wounded friend through a mine field — never once realizing his own legs had been shredded to bloody ribbons by the same mine that had wounded his friend. He had seen men suffering from shock who went on working, talking, eating, laughing… until they simply collapsed into moist, mumbling heaps.

James was in shock as he drove home from Howard Gilpin’s that night. So many revelations so quickly, one heaped upon another, had finally tipped him over the edge. He’d fled London to get away from them, only to realize there was no escape. The cumulative effect was, simply, shock. Afterwards, he remembered thanking Gilpin for his help and saying good night, and he remembered climbing into the Land Rover and thinking,
I’ve been awake for forty-eight hours. I should get some sleep
.

And that was it. Of the seven-mile drive to the estate, he could not recall a single moment. To James, it seemed as if it never happened. Yet, it did — because the next thing he remembered was coming up the drive to the lodge and seeing the place lit up like a beacon. Every single light inside and outside the house was on. That was what registered first.
Someone’s broken in
.

The helicopter on the lawn registered next.

“What in blue blazes… ” He slammed on the brakes and cranked down the window for a better look. It was a small, neat, McDonnell Douglas Tempest, painted black — which was probably why he missed it at first — with gold markings and searchlight array beneath.

Whoever was ransacking the house had certainly arrived in style. James turned off the motor, and got out of the Land Rover slowly. There was no one around. The night was cold and deathly quiet.

Stepping off the gravel path, he walked swiftly to the house, pausing beside a firethorn bush growing at the edge of the drive. He saw no movement inside. The house remained quiet.

The
fiosachd
had given him no prompting, which was curious, in a way, because ordinarily this was just the sort of thing to set it off. Even so, to make certain he was not walking into something unpleasant, James circled the house, keeping well out of the light from the windows.

By the time he reached the back door, he still had no hint about who or what awaited him inside. He paused long enough to pick up one of the walking sticks he kept beside the door, then put his hand to the latch and shoved the door open. It bumped noisily against the inside wall; the last thing he wanted was to surprise someone in the act. James waited and, when nothing happened, he stepped across the threshold.

The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table, mugs in their hands and a teapot between them. Their heads turned as James entered the room.

“I thought I locked the door,” he said.

“You did,” replied Embries.

“I hope we did not frighten you, sir,” Rhys said, jumping quickly to his feet.

“Is that why you turned on all the lights?”

“As you were not here to greet us when we arrived,” Embries said, “we thought it might be best to let you know we were here.” He stood slowly, looking at James, studying him; the concern in his pale eyes was deep and genuine.

“You left rather abruptly,” Embries continued; there was no rebuke in his tone. “I was worried about you, James. I feared we might have overwhelmed you.”

“I couldn’t stay there anymore,” James told him. “London is no place for me.”

Unexpectedly, Embries smiled, closing his eyes. “Yes,” he sighed, as if this were a long-awaited confirmation. James stared at him, and Rhys stared, too. “Forget London,” Embries said after a moment. “There is something I want to show you. Will you come with me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Oh, we all have a choice, James. Destiny calls but once in a lifetime, and every person has a choice whether to answer the call or to ignore it. Stay or go, the choice is yours.”

“If I stay here,” James asked, “what will happen?”

“Nothing too bad.” Embries shrugged. “The world will still keep turning. It will no longer be the
same
world, true, but things will go on much as they always have: ignorance, poverty, crime, and vice will increase, as they do. Factionalism, rivalry, greed, and corruption will render all political and social systems impotent — but that is nothing new. Misery will multiply, and this nation will at last fall beneath the shadow. If you stay, you will be well out of it, for a while at least.”

He spoke softly, dispassionately — a seasoned doctor relating the symptoms of a common medical condition.

“And if I go with you?”

He smiled and spread his hands. “God alone knows.”

“You do make it sound inviting.”

“What would you have me say?” Embries asked. “That you will gain eternal fame and fortune, that you will blaze across the skies like a comet and your name will be written in the stars, that you will become the most revered human being in this or any other century — is that what you want me to say?