Lord John and the Private Matter (29 page)

“He says that he will not live without her,” Grey said at last. “I do not know whether he means it.”

Byrd closed his eyes briefly, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“Oh, he means it,” he said. “But I don’t think he’d do it.” He opened his eyes, smiling a little. “I’m not saying as how he’s a hypocrite, mind—he’s not, no more than any man is just by nature. But he—” He paused, pushing out his lower lip as he considered how to say what he meant.

“It’s just as he seems so alive,” he said at last, slowly. He glanced up at Grey, dark eyes bright. “Not the sort as kills themselves. You’ll know what I mean, my lord?”

“I think I do, yes.” The cat, tiring at last of the attention, ceased purring and stretched itself, flexing its claws comfortably in and out of the coverlet over Grey’s leg. He scooped it up under the belly and set it on the floor, where it ambled away in search of milk and vermin.

Learning the truth, Maria Mayrhofer had thought of self-destruction; Trevelyan had not. Not out of principle, nor any sense of religious prohibition—merely because he could not imagine any circumstance of life that he could not overcome in some fashion.

“I do know what you mean,” Grey repeated, swinging his legs out of bed to go and open the door for the cat, who was clawing at it. “He may speak of death, but he has no . . .” He, in turn, groped for words. “. . . no friendship with it?”

Jack Byrd nodded.

“Aye, that’s something of what I mean. The lady, though—she’s seen that un’s face.” He shook his head, and Grey noted with interest that while his attitude seemed one of both liking and respect, he never spoke Maria Mayrhofer’s name.

Grey closed the door behind the cat and turned back, leaning against it. The ship swayed gently beneath him, but his head was clear and steady, for the first time in days.

Small as the cabin was, Jack Byrd sat no more than two feet from him, the rippled light from the prism overhead making him look like a creature from the seabed, soft hair wavy as kelp around his shoulders, with a green shadow in his hazel eyes.

“What you say is true,” Grey said at last. “But I tell you this. He will not forget her, even should she die. Particularly if she should die,” he added, thoughtfully.

Jack Byrd’s face didn’t change expression; he just sat, looking into Grey’s eyes, his own slightly narrowed, like a man evaluating the approach of a distant dust cloud that might hide enemy or fortune.

Then he nodded, rose, and opened the door.

“I’ll fetch my brother to you, my lord. I expect you’ll be wanting to dress.”

In the event, he was too late; a patter of footsteps rushed down the corridor, and Tom’s eager face appeared in the doorway.

“Me lord, Jack, me lord!” he said, excited into incoherence. “What they’re sayin’, what the sailors are sayin’! On that boat!”

“Ship,” Jack corrected, frowning at his brother. “So what are they saying, then?”

“Oh, to bleedin’ hell with your ships,” Tom said rudely, elbowing his brother aside. He swung back to Grey, face beaming. “They said General Clive’s beat the Nawab at a place called Plassey, me lord! We’ve won Bengal! D’ye hear—we’ve won!”

Epilogue

London
August 18, 1757

T
he first blast shook the walls, rattling the crystal wineglasses and causing a mirror from the reign of Louis XIV to crash to the floor.

“Never mind,” said the Dowager Countess Melton, patting a white-faced footman, who had been standing next to it, consolingly on the arm. “Ugly thing; it’s always made me look like a squirrel. Go fetch a broom before someone steps on the pieces.”

She stepped through the French doors onto the terrace, fanning herself and looking happy.

“What a night!” she said to her youngest son. “Do you think they’ve found the range yet?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Grey said, glancing warily down the river toward Tower Hill, where the fire-works master was presumably rechecking his calculations and bollocking his subordinates. The first trial shell had gone whistling directly overhead, no more than fifty feet above the Countess’s riverside town house. Several servants stood on the terrace, scanning the skies and armed with wet brooms, just in case.

“Well, they should do it more often,” the Countess said reprovingly, with a glance at the Hill. “Keep in practice.”

It was a clear, still, mid-August night, and while hot, moist air sat like a smothering blanket on London, there was some semblance of a breeze, so near the river.

Just upstream, he could see Vauxhall Bridge, so crowded with spectators that the span appeared to be a live thing itself, writhing and flexing like a caterpillar over the soft dark sheen of the river. Now and then, some intoxicated person would be pushed off, falling with a cannonball splash into the water, to the enthusiastic howls of their comrades above.

Conditions were not quite so crowded within the town house, but give it time, Grey thought, following his mother back inside to greet further new arrivals. The musicians had just finished setting up at the far end of the room; they would need to open the folding doors into the next room, as well, to make room for dancing—though that wouldn’t begin until after the fireworks.

The temperature was no bar to Londoners celebrating the news of Clive’s victory at Plassey. For days, the taverns had been overflowing with custom, and citizens greeted one another in the street with genial cries condemning the Nawab of Bengal’s ancestry, appearance, and social habits.

“Buggering black bastard!” bellowed the Duke of Cirencester, echoing the opinions of his fellow citizens in Spitalfields and Stepney as he charged through the door. “Put a rocket up his arse, see how high he flies before he explodes, eh? Benedicta, my love, come kiss me!”

The Countess, prudently putting several bodies between herself and the Duke, blew him a pretty kiss before disappearing on the arm of Mr. Pitt, and Grey tactfully redirected the Duke’s ardor toward the genial widow of Viscount Bonham, who was more than capable of dealing with him. Was the Duke’s Christian name Jacob? he wondered darkly. He thought it was.

A few more trial blasts from Tower Hill were scarcely noticed, as the noise of talk and music grew with each fresh bottle of wine opened, each new cup of rum punch poured. Even Jack Byrd, who had been quiet to the point of taciturnity since their return, seemed cheered; Grey saw him smile at a young maid passing through with a pile of cloaks.

Tom Byrd, newly outfitted in proper livery for the occasion, was standing by the bamboo screen that hid the chamber pots, charged with watching the guests to prevent petty thievery.

“Be careful, especially when the fireworks start in earnest,” Grey murmured to him in passing. “Take it turn about with your brother, so you can go out to the terrace and watch a bit—but be sure someone’s got an eye on my Lord Gloucester all the time. He got away with a gilded snuffbox last time he was here.”

“Yes, me lord,” Tom said, nodding. “Look, me lord—it’s the Hun!”

Sure enough, Stephan von Namtzen, Landgrave von Erdberg, had arrived in all his plumed glory, beaming as though Clive’s triumph had been a personal victory. Handing his helmet to Jack Byrd, who looked rather bemused by its receipt, he spotted Grey and an enormous smile spread across his face.

The intervening crowd prevented his passage, for which Grey was momentarily grateful. He was in fact more than pleased to see the Hanoverian, but the thought of being enthusiastically embraced and kissed on both cheeks, which was von Namtzen’s habit when greeting friends . . .

Then the Bishop of York arrived with an entourage of six small black boys in cloth of gold; a huge
boom!
from downriver and shrieks from the crowd on Vauxhall Bridge announced the real commencement of the fireworks, and the musicians struck up Handel’s
Royal Fireworks
suite.

Two-thirds of the guests surged out onto the terrace for a better view, leaving the hard drinkers and those engaged in conversation a little room to breathe.

Grey took advantage of the sudden exodus to nip behind the bamboo screen for relief; two bottles of champagne took their toll. It was perhaps not an appropriate venue for prayer, but he sent up a brief word of gratitude, nonetheless. The public hysteria over Plassey had completely eclipsed any other news; neither broadsheets nor street journalists had said a word on the subjects of the murder of Reinhardt Mayrhofer, or the disappearance of Joseph Trevelyan—let alone made rude speculations concerning Trevelyan’s erstwhile fiancée.

He understood that word was being discreetly circulated in financial circles that Mr. Trevelyan was traveling to India in order to explore new opportunities for import, in the wake of the victory.

He had a momentary vision of Joseph Trevelyan as he had been in the main cabin of the
Nampara,
standing by his wife’s bed, just before Grey had left.

“If? . . .” Grey had asked, with a small nod toward the bed.

“Word will come that I have been lost at sea—swept overboard by a swamping wave. Such things happen.” He glanced toward the bed where Maria Mayrhofer lay, still and beautiful and yellow as a carving of ancient ivory.

“I daresay they do,” Grey had said quietly, thinking once more of Jamie Fraser.

Trevelyan moved to stand by the bed, looking down. He took the woman’s hand, stroking it, and Grey saw her fingers tighten, very slightly; light quivered in the emerald teardrop of the ring she wore.

“If she dies, it will be the truth,” Trevelyan said softly, his eyes on her still face. “I shall take her in my arms and step over the rail; we will rest together, on the bottom of the sea.”

Grey moved to stand beside him, close enough to feel the brush of his sleeve.

“And if she does not?” he asked. “If you both survive the treatment?”

Trevelyan shrugged, so faintly that Grey might not have noticed were he not so close.

“Money will not buy health, nor happiness—but it has its uses. We will live in India, as man and wife; no one will know who she was—nothing will matter, save we are together.”

“May God bless you and grant you peace,” Grey murmured, reordering his dress—though he spoke to Maria Mayrhofer, rather than Trevelyan. He smoothed the edge of his waistcoat and stepped out from behind the screen, back into the maelstrom of the party.

Within a few steps, he was stopped by Lieutenant Stubbs, burnished to a high gloss and sweating profusely.

“Hallo, Malcolm. Enjoying yourself?”

“Er . . . yes. Of course. A word, old fellow?”

A boom from the river made speech momentarily impossible, but Grey nodded, beckoning Stubbs to a relatively quiet alcove near the foyer.

“I should speak to your brother, I know.” Stubbs cleared his throat. “But with Melton not here, you’re by way of being head of the family, aren’t you?”

“For my sins,” Grey replied guardedly. “Why?”

Stubbs cast a lingering glance through the French doors; Olivia was visible on the terrace, laughing at something said to her by Lord Ramsbotham.

“Not as though your cousin hasn’t better prospects, I know,” he said, a little awkwardly. “But I have got five thousand a year, and when the Old One—not that I don’t hope he lives forever, mind, but I
am
the heir, and—”

“You want my permission to court Olivia?”

Stubbs avoided his eye, gazing vaguely off toward the musicians, who were fiddling industriously away at the far end of the room.

“Um, well, more or less done that, really. Hope you don’t mind. I, er, we were hoping you might see your way to a marriage before the regiment leaves. Bit hasty, I know, but . . .”

But you want a chance to leave your seed in a willing girl’s belly,
Grey added silently,
in case you don’t come back.

The guests had all left off chattering, and crowded to the edge of the gallery as the next explosion from the river boomed in the distance. Blue and white stars fountained from the sky amid a chorus of “ooh!” and “ahh!”—and he knew that every soldier there felt as he did the clench in the lower belly, balls drawn up tight at the echo of war, even as their hearts lifted heavenward at the sight of flaming glory.

“Yes,” he heard himself say, in the moment’s silence between one explosion and the next. “I don’t see why not. After all, her dress is ready.”

Then Stubbs was crushing his hand, beaming fervently, and he was smiling back, head swimming with champagne.

“I say, old fellow—you wouldn’t think of making it a double wedding, would you? There’s my sister, you know . . .”

Melissa Stubbs was Malcolm’s twin, a plump and smiling girl, who was even now giving him an all-too-knowing eye over her fan from the terrace. For a split second, Grey teetered on the edge of temptation; the urge to leave something of himself behind, the lure of immortality before one steps into the void.

It would be well enough, he thought, if he didn’t come back—but what if he did? He smiled, clapped Stubbs on the back, and excused himself with courtesy to go and find another drink.

“You don’t want to drink that French muck, do you?” Quarry said at his elbow. “Blow you up like a bladder—gassy stuff.” Quarry himself had a magnum of red wine clutched under one arm, a large blonde woman under the other. “May I introduce you to Major Grey, Mamie? Major, Mrs. Fortescue.”

“Your servant, ma’am.”

“A word in your ear, Grey?” Quarry released Mrs. Fortescue momentarily, and stepped in close, his craggy face red and glossy under his wig.

“We’ve got word at last; the new posting. But an odd thing—”

“Yes?” The glass in Grey’s hand was red, not gold, as though it contained the vintage called Schilcher, the shining stuff that was the color of blood. But then he saw the bubbles rise, and realized that the fireworks had changed in color, and the light around them went red and white and red again and the smell of smoke floated in through the French doors as though they stood in the center of a bombardment.

“I was just talking to that German chap, von Namtzen. He wants you to go and be a liaison of sorts with his regiment; already spoken to the War Office, he says. Seems to have conceived a great regard for you, Grey.”

Grey blinked and took a gulp of champagne. Von Namtzen’s great blond head was visible on the terrace, his handsome profile turned up to the sky, rapt with wonder as a five-year-old’s.

“Well, you needn’t decide on the spot, of course. Up to your brother, anyway. Just thought I’d mention it. Ready for another turn, Mamie, m’dear?”

Before Grey could gather his senses to respond, the three—Harry, the blonde, and the bottle—had galloped off in a wild gavotte, and the sky was exploding in pinwheels and showers of red and blue and green and white and yellow.

Stephan von Namtzen turned and met his eyes, lifting a glass in salute, and at the end of the room the musicians still played Handel, like the music of his life, beauty and serenity interrupted always by the thunder of distant fire.