Blaze of Glory (5 page)

'I've stopped things, for the time being, but I'm afraid it's
only temporary.' He shook his head, then bit his lip and
looked away as emotion threatened to overwhelm him.
'I'm sorry, George. I've overstepped myself, rather.'

George gripped his shoulder. 'You'll figure out something,
I'm sure of it. Besides, you've been in worse spots.'

Aubrey turned and stared at his friend. 'Worse spots?
Worse than being dead?'

George scratched his head. 'Well, I'm not, I mean, I
didn't exactly mean . . .'

Aubrey watched his friend with gratitude. George's
support was enough to bring him around to face his situation.
Inaction – never his friend – would in this case
probably prove fatal. 'Help me up, George. I need to get
to my books. I have to close that door.'

A
UBREY AND
G
EORGE DIDN'T GO TO THE INFIRMARY
after the debacle on the training ground. Aubrey
refused. Even though George was dubious, they went
back to their room.

Boarding at Stonelea School was not Aubrey's idea.
Nor his parents', really, even though his father had
attended the school himself. It had simply been assumed,
from Aubrey's earliest youth, and emphasised by Aubrey's
grandmother, his father's mother. Duchess Maria had
appointed herself the upholder of the Fitzwilliam family
name. Despite the twin handicaps of not being born
into the family and coming from overseas, her knowledge
of the family tree was formidable. Since her husband, the
Duke of Brayshire, had passed away, Duchess Maria oversaw
the family traditions. In her eyes, this included boys
attending Stonelea – and boarding there even though
Maidstone, the family home, was only a short walk away.
Since she was the fiercest old woman he'd ever known,
Aubrey had never questioned her decision.

Aubrey eased himself down on his bed and draped an
arm across his eyes. 'Put a chair behind the door, would
you, George? "Never disturb a wounded soldier", or so
said the Scholar Tan.'

No locks on the doors at Stonelea, so a chair under the
doorknob was the best security available. Unless one used
magic – and using magic for such trivial things was
frowned on as a waste.

George dropped Aubrey's pack on the floor. 'I'm sick
of your Scholar Tan. He's always droning on about battles
and tactics and retreats. It's so depressing.'

'Have some respect. A thousand years ago he was a
revered expert on the art of war.' Aubrey's head was
throbbing. He heard the sounds of ball sports coming
from the courtyard below and was glad when they were
muffled by George closing the curtains.

The physical test had been a shambles. Aubrey tried to
relax, to rest and regather himself. Since the bungled
experiment, he'd managed to find a few spells that eased
his situation somewhat, but he still had to take more care
of himself than he'd been accustomed to. He found it
difficult to put on weight, regardless of how much he ate.
His skin remained pale, even after time in the sun. The
hold his soul had on his body was tenuous. Physical or
emotional strain made it much harder to resist the call
of the true death.

So far, he'd been able to hide these things from others.
Even from his mother and father.

His motives for not telling his parents were clear to
him. At least, he'd thought them through carefully and
arranged them neatly, much in the way a barrister would
organise a defence for a client before going to court. His
aim was to avoid divulging his mistake by finding a
solution for his condition before anyone found out.

Being
ashamed
of what he'd done wasn't quite right.
Being
embarrassed
was more accurate. As a dedicated
perfectionist, getting something wrong on this scale was
deeply mortifying.

He was willing to admit there was more to it than that.
A son who had managed to suspend himself between
life and death through experimenting in forbidden magic
would certainly be exploited by his father's political
enemies. They would question Sir Darius's fitness for
public office, with many a shake of their bewhiskered
heads.

Lastly, Aubrey was determined to clean up his own
mess. It was a question of honour.

With that in mind, he managed to slip into a troubled
sleep.

A
UBREY RESTED, MARKING TWO HOURS BY THE TOLLING OF
the clock over the library. Refreshed, he opened his eyes
to see George slumped in the armchair asleep.

Aubrey padded to his desk, his bare feet hardly making
a sound. He took some books from the bookshelves over
the desk and soon was lost in the world of arcane magical
research.

Evening was drawing in when Aubrey heard a grunt
from George. He turned. 'Awake, I see. I thought I was
the one who needed the rest.'

George rubbed his eyes and yawned. 'Well, I was the
only one who managed to carry a full kit back here.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'Why should I carry all that gear
when someone's willing to do it for me?'

George snorted. He stood, opened the curtains and
came to the desk. 'What on earth are you doing?'

Aubrey held up his hand. Between his forefinger and
thumb were clamped a piece of glass and a copper penny.
'Experimenting. Mr Ellwood was rambling on about the
Law of Contiguity and I had a few ideas I wanted to
follow up.'

George snorted again. 'I'm glad I'm not taking Magic
this year. Too taxing on the brain. I'll stick with Sport and
Music.'

Aubrey glanced at his friend. 'You don't know what
contiguity is, do you?'

George nodded and adopted an air of ancient wisdom.
'Of course I do. Contiguity. Closeness. Proximity.'

Aubrey smiled. 'You continually surprise me, George.
Yes, that's what contiguity means. With the right spells,
a magician can invoke one of the variations of the Law
of Contiguity.' Deftly, he separated the two items and
held the coin in front of his eye. 'Look.'

'Fascinating. A penny.'

'I can see you, George.'

George raised an eyebrow. 'You're looking
through
the
penny?'

'The Law of Contiguity, in action,' Aubrey said. He was
pleased with himself. He hadn't been sure if his variations
on an approach he'd read about in an obscure tome
would work.

'Ah,' George said. 'The coin and the glass were in
contact. Close proximity.'

'Contiguous. That's right. Go on.'

'And so, magically, the coin has become a little like
glass?'

'Exactly!' Aubrey jumped to his feet and flung the
curtains wide. 'It cuts both ways, of course.'

He held up the fragment of glass. Through it, the light
was decidedly coppery. George took it from his hand and
stared at it. 'So, with some effort we can have transparent
metals?'

Aubrey threw his hands in the air. 'George, don't be so
straightforward. If the Laws of Contiguity can be properly
fathomed and codified, the possibilities are endless.'

'Well, that's all very good.' George looked away.

'Yes? You have something to say?'

'Today's little spectacle on the Hummocks isn't going
to impress your grandmother, is it?'

Aubrey made a face. 'I'm not worried about her
reaction.' It wasn't a lie. He didn't have to worry about
her reaction. He
knew
what it would be.

'You must be the only one in the entire country
who isn't.'

'I'm more concerned about my father.'

'He won't say anything, will he?'

'That's the problem,' Aubrey muttered. He glared at
the window, not seeing the view of the ivy-covered
library.

Aubrey readily admitted – to himself – how difficult it
was to be Sir Darius Fitzwilliam's son. His father being
one of the most prominent men in the country, a war
hero and former Prime Minister, meant that Aubrey had
much to live up to. Everywhere he went he was faced
with expectations and people who wanted to measure
him against the great man.

'You know how it is, George. I want to please him, but
I end up disappointing him. Not that he'd say anything.
It'd be the "Gallant try, Aubrey" speech.'

'Awkward, that.'

'Indeed.' Aubrey sprang out of the chair and grinned.
'And tonight you'll see just how awkward it is.'

'Tonight?' George frowned.

'When we have dinner at home at Maidstone. I have
special leave from the school and I asked for one for you,
too.'

'Me? I can't go. I've got to study. I have cornet practice.
I've got something else to do.'

'Good food at our table, George,' Aubrey purred.
'Succulent beef, roast potatoes, green beans. Nothing
overcooked, watery or cold.'

George brightened. 'Pudding?'

'Of course. Cook is superb at pudding. It'll probably
either be bread and butter custard or jam roly-poly.'

'When do we leave?'

'H
OW'S MY COLLAR?'
G
EORGE ASKED
A
UBREY AS THEY
stood on the doorstep.

'Perfect.'

'The tie?'

'Elegantly and firmly knotted.'

'My hair?'

'On top of your head, as it should be. Now, do you
want me to produce a full-length mirror?'

The walk from Stonelea School to Maidstone, the
Fitzwilliams' city residence, hadn't taken long. On such a
pleasant summer's evening, many people were abroad.
Courting couples were strolling arm in arm, oblivious of
the passing parade. Families were walking with more
purpose, mostly led by parents whose faces seemed to
suggest that they knew the walk was a sound idea but that
they'd rather be at home with a good book.

Maidstone was the house where Aubrey had grown up,
and where generations of Fitzwilliams had grown up. It
was one in a long, curving row of elegant three-storey
townhouses facing a small park in Fielding Cross. The
park was dominated by an ancient willow tree which
shaded a tiny pond. Aubrey had spent many hours there,
sailing wooden yachts and studying tadpoles.

The entire neighbourhood was clean, quiet and reeked
of money.

Wealth was in the discreet, but expensive, brass doorknockers.
It was in the uniformed domestic staff who
appeared at doors whenever they opened. It was in the
curtains, the clothes of the passers-by, the prize-winning
dogs being walked by anxious-looking kennel lads. It was
in the smoothly gliding prams pushed by pretty young
nannies.

When growing up, Aubrey had taken some time to
realise that the whole city wasn't like this. Small things,
like the shabbiness of the visiting knife grinder and
wondering where he came from, had aroused Aubrey's
curiosity and sent him out of Fielding Cross and into the
sprawling streets of the city.

He'd discovered the vast Newbourne railway yards and
the blunt engineers and navvies who worked there. He'd
found the Narrows, Newpike and Royland Rise, each
with their thriving communities so different from the
gentility of Fielding Cross, and visited Little Pickling,
Crozier, and even the Mire, despite its reputation.

The city was a grubby, brawling conglomeration, and
Aubrey loved it, but Fielding Cross remained home.

The entrance of the Fitzwilliam residence was grand.
A sandstone portico that would have done justice to a
minor pagan god sheltered the door from the elements.
The door itself was painted a glossy, dark blue. A bell pull
on the wall didn't draw attention to itself, but was there
for those who were brought up well enough to know
what to look for.

Aubrey took a deep breath, bracing himself. It was
always tense, returning home. Sometimes it was like entering
a battleground and he knew he had to have his wits
about him.

He reached out and rang the bell.

'Ah! Master Aubrey! Master George!'

The butler who answered the doorbell was tall, silver-haired
and ruddy-cheeked. The fact that Aubrey had
always thought he looked like a weary basset hound
didn't detract from the affection Aubrey felt for him.
'Harris. Good to see you. Is he in?'

'Not yet, young sir. Something has come up in
Parliament. The PM's called an early election.'

Aubrey whistled. 'An early election? Something must
be afoot. When?'

'He's called it for just after the King's birthday.'

'Very clever. No doubt he hopes the goodwill from the
King's Birthday procession will spill over to the election.'
He shook his head. 'What about Mother? She's not at the
museum, is she?'

'No, sir. She's bathing. She said she stank of formaldehyde
and needed a good long soak before dousing herself
with Padparadsha.' Harris said this with an impassive
face, as if he were reporting on the weather. He did not
have a high opinion of Lady Fitzwilliam's choice of
perfume.

'Good. Good. George and I will be in the library.'

Harris looked as if he were about to say something, but
simply nodded. He shut the door behind them before
disappearing into the cloakroom. Aubrey stared at Harris's
receding form, wondering what it was that he had been
about to say.

When they entered the library, Aubrey found out
what the butler's discretion had prevented him from
mentioning.

Aubrey's grandmother was in the library.

Duchess Maria was sitting in a huge armchair, facing
the door. The room smelled of old leather, cigar smoke
and woollen carpet that's absorbed too much port and
too many secrets.

Duchess Maria was over eighty years old, but her face
was smooth and unlined. She was tiny, almost lost in the
leather immensity of the chair. Her silver hair was
arranged under a black snood and she wore black lace
gloves on her long, thin hands. Her eyes were bright and
attentive. Aubrey knew, from past experience, that those
eyes didn't miss anything.

She didn't look surprised to see them, something
Aubrey attributed to her legendary network of informers
and spies. An image of Duchess Maria as a spider at the
centre of a web stretching across the country and much
of the world came to him and he shuddered.

He bowed and kissed her hand. She smelled of violets.
'Aubrey. You're too thin.'

She turned to George. George had learned enough to
kiss the hand held out to him. 'George Doyle. It has been
six months since I've seen you. You have grown.'

In someone else it would have been a cliché. In
Duchess Maria it was a careful observation. 'Yes ma'am.
Five inches in the last year.'

'Well done.' She turned her attention back to Aubrey.
'You didn't complete the training course today.'

'No, I didn't,' Aubrey said. Then he waited.

'I see. And you know that this will make it difficult for
you to become an officer in the cadets?'

'Yes.' Aubrey kept his answers brief and, he hoped, not
open to misinterpretation.

'You know that every Fitzwilliam male in the last two
centuries has been a cadet officer at Stonelea School?'

'Yes.'

'So what do you have to say for yourself?'

Aubrey looked mildly at his grandmother, knowing
that anger was not a useful reaction where Duchess Maria
was concerned. 'I'm allowed one more attempt. I'll make
sure I complete the course.'

Duchess Maria nodded. 'I see.' She turned back to
George. Aubrey thought the smoothness of the action
was like a swivel-mounted machine gun. 'Are you keeping
up your cornet practice, George?'

It was an hour before they escaped.

'I feel as if I've just been over the Hummocks myself,'
George said as he closed the library door behind them.

'You see why I don't much mind living at the school?'
Aubrey said. 'Let's go to the billiards room.'

Aubrey enjoyed a contest. He always felt that he could
make up for any lack of skill with a good grasp of
tactics, strategy, and the weaknesses of his opponent.
He had been playing against George in all manner of
games since they were four years old, and despite
George's easy co-ordination and strength, he usually
managed to beat him.

Aubrey was ahead by a few frames when Harris found
them. 'Dinner, sirs.'

Aubrey racked his cue. 'Lucky for you, George, that this
table has just been relaid. I was just starting to get the feel
of it.'

George shrugged into his jacket. 'I'm sure. A few more
decades and I would have been begging for mercy.'

Aubrey laughed. 'Harris, are my parents seated?'

'They are, Master Aubrey.'

Aubrey sighed and his head drooped for an instant.
Then he gathered himself. 'Tally-ho, then!'

Gaslights shed yellow softness on the dark, polished
wood that was the dining room. Wood panels, wooden
floor, immense wooden sideboards and mirrors with
heavy wooden frames filled the room, leaving space for
the large oval table in the centre. Aubrey had eaten a
thousand meals in this room and had always wondered
how many trees had gone into the making of the Fitzwilliam
dining room. A small forest or two, he was sure.

Duchess Maria was motionless, while seated at either
end of the table were his parents.

He looked at his mother, Lady Fitzwilliam. Masses of
dark blonde hair were flung over her shoulders, eyes the
colour of summer sky at midday, a face that the greatest
portraitists would fight to paint . . . Only her sun-tanned
skin prevented her from being universally acclaimed the
foremost beauty in the land in an age when white skin
was the hallmark of those who didn't have to work in the
sun and who – therefore – came from the leisured classes.

Aubrey glanced at George. George's face was red and
he wasn't looking at Lady Fitzwilliam. Anywhere else in
the room, but not Lady Fitzwilliam. Aubrey knew that
George had always been totally devoted to his mother,
and that she was the only female who unsettled him.
Agog, enraptured, in love, George was all of these things.
Aubrey was sure his mother knew it, and she tolerated it
with warmth, never embarrassing George or revealing
she knew of his infatuation.

A discreet throat-clearing drew Aubrey's attention to
the head of the table.

Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was tall and slim. His centre-parted
hair was beginning to grey, dramatically standing
against the original blackness. Aubrey had often heard his
father described as dashing but he'd always thought that
if he grew a beard he'd look like a pirate, such was the
glint in his eye.

'Father,' he said. He kissed Lady Fitzwilliam on the
cheek. 'Mother.'

'Aubrey,' she said. 'Are you well?'

'Of course he is, Rose,' snapped Duchess Maria. 'Can't
you see?'

'I'm not sure.' She put her hands on Aubrey's arms and
turned him this way and that, allowing the light to fall on
his face. 'You look pale.'

'He always looks pale, Rose,' Duchess Maria said.
A touch of acid lay on her response like frost on a well-kept
lawn.

'George, Aubrey, why don't you sit down?' Sir Darius
said, amused. 'They could be at this for hours.'

Aubrey admired his father's voice. He could understand
why the man had been able to inspire loyalty in his
troops, leading them into – and out of – certain death.
He also knew why the government flinched every time
Sir Darius stood up in parliament.

'Thank you, sir,' George mumbled, taking his seat.

'Your parents are well, George?' Sir Darius asked.

'Mother's healthy as ever, sir. Dad's leg has been playing
up, but he doesn't complain.'

'He wouldn't,' Sir Darius said. 'He never did complain.'

George's father had been Sir Darius's sergeant-major,
saving his life in the Battle of Carshee – but losing
his leg at the same time. Sir Darius had never forgotten,
making sure that William Doyle received the best
hospital treatment. After the war, Sir Darius had kept
up the friendship and their sons had grown up together,
Aubrey spending much time at the Doyles' farm. Aubrey
knew that his father had sponsored and paid for George
to attend Stonelea School, but only after much arguing
with George's father. This was only one small part of
Sir Darius's ongoing gratitude, but Aubrey also knew
that such things were not spoken of. Loyalty, duty,
honour were fundamental values, as important and as
unnoticed as breathing. Debts were repaid, friendships
maintained.

'You too, Aubrey. Don't let the ladies keep you.'

Aubrey nodded and took a chair. The instant he had,
servants brought soup.

Lady Fitzwilliam wouldn't be diverted. 'I hope this has
convinced you that the army isn't for you, Aubrey.' Her
gaze was direct, not allowing him to escape.

'Of course he hasn't,' flared Duchess Maria. 'Every
Fitzwilliam goes into the army.'

'And many's the Fitzwilliam who regretted it,' Sir
Darius murmured. 'If they had the chance to. As the
Scholar Tan said: "Warriors are often chosen, sometimes
made, but seldom remembered."' Every eye at the table
was on him. He lifted his head. 'My, this soup is good.'

Aubrey looked down. He realised it was pumpkin and
that he'd eaten half the bowl. He hadn't tasted it, which
was fortunate as he hated pumpkin soup.

Lady Fitzwilliam picked up her spoon and attacked the
bowl much as she took to her specimens at the museum.
'George,' she said, 'you were there, weren't you? Tell us
what happened.'

George froze in the middle of buttering a roll. 'Tell you
what happened?' he repeated.

'I don't think so,' said Sir Darius. He wiped his lips with
a napkin and glanced at Aubrey, then George. 'Hardly fair
to expect a brother-in-arms to report on another.
Loyalty, you know. Camaraderie, the spirit of the
regiment, that sort of thing.'

Neither Lady Fitzwilliam nor Duchess Maria looked
happy at that. 'Ridiculous,' Lady Fitzwilliam said and
attacked her soup again.

'Splendid soup,' George said into the silence. 'Much
better than anything we get at Stonelea. Potato and leek,
isn't it?'

'It's pumpkin, George,' murmured Aubrey.

'Ah.'

'School food is meant to be bad,' Sir Darius said, the
corners of his mouth twitching upwards. 'It means you'll
be grateful for the comforts of home.'

So the rest of the evening went. Nothing more was
discussed of Aubrey's failure, nor of his future. Lady
Fitzwilliam and Duchess Maria were polite as they asked
after school affairs, George's musical studies and his
family. Sir Darius regaled them with gossip from parliament.
Aubrey noted how George looked shocked at
some of this, and he chaffed him. George tried to explain
that he wasn't accustomed to knowing so much about
the great figures of the day, but they would have none
of that.

'Sweet, innocent George,' Lady Fitzwilliam said,
smiling and touching him on the arm. 'May we always
have plenty of sweet, innocent Georges.'