The River of No Return (16 page)

“So the men left.”

“Yes. The strongest and best farmers, of course. They pooled their resources and bought land in America, in a place called Ohio, and they left with hardly a fare-thee-well. They have named their new town ‘Blackdown,’ but they own it, Nick.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. Blackdown, Ohio. Hilarious. He wondered which dark, Satanic box stores were built, in the twenty-first century, on his tenants’ pleasant pastures. “So who is left?”

“Some twelve men who can work hard. And of course there are the old men, and the women work in the fields when they must, although they don’t like it.”

“You have been carrying this burden all on your own? I don’t suppose Mother has been of any help.”

“No,” she said flatly, and they paused for a moment, thinking of their mother. When Clare spoke again her face seemed to yearn toward him. “Everything has changed, and not just because you are dead. Were dead.” She smiled at her mistake. “It’s as if you left a hundred years ago.”

“Yes,” Nick said. “I know.”

“War kept us rich, Nick. I see that now.” Clare’s voice was low, hesitant, as if she were telling him a shameful secret. “Those men who went to Spain went as sacrifice to Mammon. And the manufactories. They eat people. They eat them up and demand more. They are spinning gold up there on the looms, but there never seems to be enough money, and the people are wretched. And we, we grow gold down here! In 1813 we grew enough corn to feed the world, but the people cannot live.” She looked down at her tightly laced fingers and deliberately untangled them, placing her hands on her thighs and straightening her spine. “At least Napoleon is locked away on Elba and the war is finally done. We may be poorer, but we are at peace.”

Nick swallowed a laugh. For God’s sake, he knew that Napoleon would escape in a few weeks’ time! He knew the name of the battle that was to come, knew its outcome, knew the name of every war that would follow down across two centuries. Wars to make this one look like child’s play. Waterloo!
Forty-seven thousand casualties in a few hours. Forty-seven thousand, and for what? So that Sweden could win the Eurovision Song Contest in 1974? Nick bit the inside of his cheek to keep the laugh in. Yes, Clare, look behind you! The past is melting away, and the future is catching you up in its pantomime.

“Are you all right?” She had that wary look in her eye again.

Nick smiled, forcibly packing the Technicolor future back into the recesses of his mind. “Yes. I am merely thinking of Napoleon. Of the war. Now tell me. How does all of this translate into you selling Blackdown?”

Clare reached up and adjusted her cap on her head, then folded her hands in her lap. “When you died,” she said quietly, “it was as if a curtain had been pulled aside from a great truth. In France and in America they know it. Our day has passed.”

“Our day?”

She nodded.

He said nothing.

She continued, her voice a little stronger. “I mourned you; you will never know how I mourned you. But then I thought that if anything good could come of your death, it was this: Blackdown was now . . .”

“Free.” Nick said it roughly.

“I was going to say ‘unencumbered.’”

“Oh, let us speak plainly, Sister. Without me Blackdown is free of almost three centuries of bondage—more if you count the centuries it belonged to the Pope. Visiting the iniquity of the fathers onto the children unto the seventh generation.”

“You put it far more harshly than I ever thought to.”

“But it is what you meant.”

She sucked in her cheeks and regarded him for a long moment. “I thought that there must be a way to bring free men back to free land. Bring them back and not indenture land and men both to the same master. Have you not read of Robert Owen’s manufactories at New Lanark; it is possible to make a profit without sacrificing human dignity. He has proved it up there. Well, farming is not so different from manufacture. Why could we not do something similar at Blackdown? So I thought to invite a group of decommissioned soldiers and sailors—”

“You wanted to found a model community.” The laugh burst out before he even knew it was coming, fast and harsh. “By God, you have become a Benthamite!”

“Have you not seen the returning soldiers and sailors?” Clare leaned across the space between them and clasped his hand. “Nick, they have fought our war, but they have no homes, no work, no food. They have scars, like yours; they have been wounded inside, too. All they know how to do is fight the French. Now they fight themselves, and us—they fight in the streets, over scraps.”

“They are dogs.” Nick withdrew his hand and squeezed his eyes shut against Clare’s shocked silence. “I don’t mean that. There are good men among them.” He thought, for some reason, of Tom Feely and his cheeses, far away and in the future. He opened his eyes. “But they are not little orphan children, Clare. You cannot take them in and mother them.”

“No, of course not, Nick.” Clare leaned back. “And I was not meaning to turn Blackdown into an almshouse. Far from it. I wished to transform it, make it fit the modern age. After Mr. Cooper absconded I engaged a new steward. With his help I devised plans that would put our arable acreage into a trust. For twenty years the men would work the land much as our tenants do now, but the money they pay to me would go toward buying the land, do you see? At the end of twenty years they would own the land in common. The great farm would produce everything the families need to survive, and the extra would turn a profit that would be divided equally among them.”

“Yes, I see,” Nick said. “And after twenty years? Your noble soldiers would be living the high life, to be sure. But where would your money come from? What would happen to Falcott House?”

Clare frowned. “That doesn’t matter now. It isn’t going to happen. You are returned and with you the entail.” She smiled lightly. “Back to sewing fine seams!”

Nick twitched his cuffs into place and with that gesture the marquess finally boiled up, hot and angry, in him. The marquess knew exactly how to feel about this situation, and exactly what to say. Nick let him blow: “Robert Owen is a visionary. But who are you, Clare? What experience do you have? None. You intend to sign your land—my land—away to a pack of rascals fresh from the carnage of war. The same men who laid waste to Badajoz are to lay their bloody hands on my acres?”

Clare’s expression retreated as he talked, and when she spoke her voice was devoid of feeling. “No, Nick, not anymore. You are returned and the land is safely entailed. Unto the seventh generation, et cetera.”

“And I am the eighth marquess, sister.” Nick sneered, whether at Clare or at himself, he was not sure. “The eighth benighted marquess! With quite enough iniquity to curse another seven generations. So your little dream must wait three centuries more.”

She said nothing to that. Her face was now as calm as an open palm—it was the same empty look she used to turn upon their mother when the dowager marchioness was in temper. But the marquess was at full throttle now, and Nick couldn’t check him: “Who is this radical new steward, Clare, who wants to throw Blackdown to the dogs? For it is he who has put these ideas into your head, isn’t it?”

Clare answered flatly, but Nick, who knew her so well, could hear the anger crackling around the edges of her words: “I believe you know him. He served with you in the Peninsula. His name is Jem Jemison.”

Well, shit. Nick collapsed back, raking his fingers through his hair, and the marquess fizzled away as if he’d never taken over the conversation.

J
ulia crept out at dawn and saddled her mare, whom she had not seen for a week. Marigold whickered when Julia entered the stall, nibbled Julia’s fingers with her lips as she put on the bridle, and flirted sideways as Julia stood on the mounting block. Then she danced a gavotte all the way down the drive, tossing her head and whinnying. “Will you be quiet?” Julia glanced back at the house, but there was no enraged Eamon leaning from an upstairs window in his dressing gown. She reached down and patted Marigold’s neck, and the horse whinnied again. “I’m glad to see you too, you idiot. Now be quiet.”

Marigold settled and soon Julia guided her along a path that cut into the woods to the right of the drive. The early morning was clear and cool, shot through with birdsong. The forest knew nothing of dead grandfathers and dreadful, mad cousins. It seemed timeless. Timeless! Julia’s heart rose to her throat. Her powers still felt unreal.

Julia looked up into the oak trees above her and listened to the whispering of their new leaves. Oak trees carried magic. Everyone around here knew that, though not many people would admit to believing it. On Midsummer’s Eve the men from the village came to Castle Dar and demanded a great oak log of the earl, which he was obliged to give. Then they went to Falcott House and demanded an oak log of the marquess. That night, in the village, a bonfire would be lit to honor the turning of the season. It was just a bonfire, everyone said, just an evening’s revelry. But the logs had to be ancient oak and nothing else; it had always been that way. That was magic, or at least the traces of it.

But Julia was convinced that, Talisman or no, her ability to manipulate time was not magical. What she could do, what Grandfather had been able to do, this twisting of the threads of time—it didn’t feel otherworldly or even very strange. It felt like making music—a talent, a gift, one that had to be honed to reach its full beauty. She was untrained, because Grandfather hadn’t known she had the talent. He had thought she was a talisman, an instrument through which his own power was magnified. He thought she needed to be protected so that others couldn’t use her. If he’d known that she also had the ability to manipulate time, he would have taught her how to do it, how to develop her skill. He would have trained her to protect herself.

Unless . . . Julia allowed the doubt that had been knocking at the door of her heart ever since she had frozen Eamon at the dinner table to enter. Unless Grandfather
had
known, and had simply kept his knowledge to himself. If that were true, it would mean he had deceived her, day in, day out.

Julia forcibly ejected the doubt. She just couldn’t believe it of him. He had loved her.

Marigold emerged from the woods into the sunlight. Horse and rider stood gazing over the fields to Falcott House, an elegant Palladian structure glowing in the morning sun, the River Culm sparkling along below its magnificent gardens. Falcott House, where she had spent so many happy hours with Bella, her childhood friend. But Bella was gone to London, and Julia couldn’t ride down to that empty house and demand sanctuary.

Julia looked around, and a shiver of memory passed through her. This spot, right here at the edge of the woods—this was the place where she had seen Bella’s brother, crying. Nicholas Falcott, the young marquess.

It had been ten years ago, on the day that the seventh marquess had died. Word had come in the afternoon that John Falcott had fallen and broken his neck. Grandfather had ridden over immediately to offer his help and his condolences. He told Julia to stay at home. “No place for a child!”

But she had sneaked out—of course she had. Bella was a child, too, and Bella was at Falcott House, suffering. She would need her friend. Julia could almost feel Bella calling to her. So she had set out walking through the woods.

When she had emerged just here, she had seen Bella’s older brother standing in the shadow of the trees. He was all bony elbows and knees. His arms were around his horse’s neck, his face pressed into its mane.

Julia had taken a step backward, intending to steal into the shadows and return the way she had come. It would be terrible if he saw her. He was clearly here to be alone. But when the horse pricked its ears and whickered, Bella’s brother looked up as well. There was no hiding. Julia stepped forward into the sunlight. He had looked at her intently, not seeming to care that his cheeks were wet with tears. She smiled. It was the only thing she could think to do. They exchanged a few words. She offered him condolences for his father. He said he was obliged to her for her sympathy.

Then he had mounted and ridden off toward the river, and Julia had turned back to Castle Dar.

Now that gangly boy was a man three years dead. His bones were in Spain, and his monument stood beside his father’s in Stoke Canon.

Julia stared across the meadows to Blackdown. There was smoke coming from the chimneys; she supposed the servants were keeping themselves warm. The family was not at home. A sad little family it was, now that the marquess was gone. Bella had always been full of news about his exploits at Oxford and later in London. After he enlisted, she showed Julia the letters that came from Spain, bursting with descriptions of the camps. He wrote about rabbit hunting, about how he and his friends would run packs of Spanish greyhounds across the dry plains, then eat rabbit stew by the light of the moon and stars. He was a convert to greyhounds for hunting rabbits, he said, but wasn’t sure they would suit the fox hunt. He wrote of Lord Arthur Wellesley and his staff, the revelries of winter camp. But there was never any description of battle, which left Bella frustrated. She wanted blood and gore.

Then the letters had stopped coming.

Julia sighed and patted Marigold’s neck. “Shall we run?” she whispered. Marigold tossed her head. Julia encouraged her to a quick trot and then a canter. The horse whinnied, loud and shrill, and stretched out, her long strides eating up the sweeping green meadow. Julia laughed in answer, relaxing into the rolling rhythm of the ride.

* * *

Nick awoke before the rest of the household and knew immediately where he was. He was home. He pushed back the linen sheets. How could he have forgotten the glory of heavy linen? No more cotton for him. He would find just such thick, glorious sheets, by hook or by crook, when he went back to the future. If he went back.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked out of his bedroom window, over the mist-shrouded gardens, down to the river, which was glowing silver in the predawn light.

Arkady had been right. It felt good to be the marquess. And it was funny—this morning he could barely remember how he’d felt a few weeks ago and two hundred years from now, his suspicion of the Guild, his anger. Or even how he’d felt yesterday, when he was talking to Clare. The way the title had revolted him, his desire to give it up. It must have been some version of the bends—entering the past too quickly. His emotions had been scrambled. Well, he felt fine now. So what if he was here to spy on people, perhaps even kill people? So what that Jem Jemison was installed as the new steward? Nick could handle it. He was Blackdown, he was here, and here was home. He stretched and stood, warmth spreading through his limbs.

Arkady popped out of his bedchamber as Nick strode down the hallway on the way to breakfast. “Today we begin our investigation,” he said. “Shake your sister off.”

Nick looked the Russian up and down. His borrowed nightshirt barely skimmed his bony knees, and its full sleeves didn’t reach his wrists. “You look like a girl who has outgrown her pinafore, Arkady.”

“Bah. These nightclothes of this time. So undignified.”

“Indeed. I recommend that you dress yourself before emerging from your lair.” Nick twitched his cuffs. “As for your plans, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I’ve just been reunited with my sister, the world smells good for the first time in two centuries, and I intend to spend a few days forgetting your existence. Today I am going to beat my bounds and if I catch sight of your unkempt white hair anywhere in my path, why, I’ll scalp you. What day is it today, Monday? I do not wish to think about the Guild or the Ofan until Friday. Oh—and on Friday, Count Lebedev, this household is going to London.” He held his hand up to quash Arkady’s response. “You cannot bring me back and not expect me to care for my family. My young sister is having her first London Season, and my mother is with her. We will be going to London and joining them. You said that the Ofan are at work in London, too; we will begin there, and finish the job up in Devon later. Is that understood?”

“You are quick to slip back into your aristocratic arrogance, Blackdown.”

“You told me I would enjoy it.”

Arkady looked at him soberly for a moment, then slapped Nick on the back. “Yes. I did say it. And I like to be right. Up to a point. Enjoy your freedom. Then yes, London is a good place to start. As for me, I make myself scarce. Hunt the Ofan. Perhaps I will cultivate the acquaintance of your so lovely sister.”

Almost before he realized what he was doing, Nick found himself grabbing Arkady with both hands by the thin cotton of the nightshirt and dragging his face close to his own. “If I did not know your devotion to Alice, Arkady, I would challenge you for those words.”

The Russian raised his brows high and let his eyes drop down to Nick’s two fists. “My old friend Nick Davenant, he was a blasé fellow,” he said in a constricted voice. “But Lord Blackdown has a temper.”

Nick released him and took a step back. He was shaken. “I apologize,” he said. “But . . .”

“But?” Arkady brushed his nightshirt into place with the same care as if it had been one of Weston’s finest jackets.

“My sister is not a modern woman.”

“And you? You are a modern man, Nick Davenant.”

“Am I? I’m not so sure.”

“If I trifle with your sister, what will you do?”

“I will horsewhip you.”

“Ah.” Arkady bowed. “And now, my lord, we have both threatened to harm each other over women.”

“Have we?”

“Yes.” Arkady’s smile was a little sad. “When you flirted with my wife? I said I would kill you. I joke. But you . . . you are in earnest about your whip. Nevertheless. Now we are true friends. Come to me.” The Russian gathered Nick into a bear hug and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “My brother.” Then he stepped back into his bedchamber and snapped the door shut.

Nick stared at the closed door, flexing his hands. The marquess was triumphing. Indeed, Nick had been the marquess since the moment he had awoken this morning. Maybe it was best that way. A month ago he had been a New Yorker with a house in Vermont, a twenty-first-century Casanova with no responsibilities beyond his own pleasures. Today he was a Georgian aristocrat, the lord of a vast estate. His concerns were bound up with tenants, farming cycles, investments, virginal spinster sisters, and oversexed Russian noblemen. Perhaps he needed nineteenth-century feelings to handle nineteenth-century situations. He couldn’t lay his title aside, neither legally nor, it seemed, emotionally. So be it. When they sent him back to the twenty-first century, then he would become Nick Davenant again.

And perhaps he could find a way to stay here. Arkady had said the Guild would drag him back to the twenty-first century, but all the rules of the Guild seemed to be malleable. Perhaps he could simply be the marquess forever.

* * *

Half an hour later Nick stood on the front steps, his belly full of ham and eggs from the home farm. A lunch stolen from the kitchens bulged in his satchel, and his none-too-supple buckskin breeches were warming up nicely. His toes were happily at home in an old pair of country boots made especially for his feet. He carried his favorite fowling piece, in case he scared up any game. He would take a long walk all around the periphery of the estate. Greet whichever of the tenants were left. Maybe take a detour into the village and pay his respects to the vicar.

“My lord.”

The voice came from behind him. A northern voice. Jem Jemison’s voice. Nick turned, and there he was.

He was dressed as a civilian, not as a soldier. Of course. But it surprised Nick. Somehow he had pictured Jemison still in those sun-faded, dust-dulled regimentals. The only true scarlet left had been their armpits and beneath the white straps that crossed their chests.
X
marks the spot.

“Jemison.” Nick held out his hand.

Brown hair and eyes as black as a Spaniard’s. They’d used to tease him about that. But Jemison was unteasable. Nick remembered watching him in the firelight, as the men laughed all around them, making cruel fun of one another. That thin, alert face in the flickering glow, like a fox’s mask when it turns and watches the baying pack of hounds that chase it.

It was only when he felt Jemison’s hand in his own that Nick remembered; he was a marquess and Jemison a commoner. He pulled his hand away and nodded instead.

Jemison’s mouth twitched—was he amused? But then he bowed, with precision. “Welcome home, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Nick looked the man up and down. The last man he’d seen before jumping. Well, the second to last. For Nick had certainly seen the Frenchman, seen the look in his eye.

“I killed him,” Jemison said.

Nick blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Why?” Jemison looked puzzled.

“I mean, what did you say?”

“The dragoon. I killed him.”

“I see. Thank you—I suppose.”

“No need to thank me. I didn’t save your life.”

“No. Of course not.” It was a heavy debt, owing a man your life. Jemison wasn’t claiming those dues. He was up to something, though.

“He fell, you see, after you disappeared,” Jemison said, his voice flat. “He lunged to kill you, and then when you weren’t there he overbalanced and tumbled. I crushed his head with my rifle butt.”

Nick nodded, his eyes never leaving Jemison’s. Painted into that blunt portrait of a death was the thing Jemison was really telling him. He had seen Nick disappear, and he wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t. “Are you the one who blabbed about my disappearance?”

“That was Peel. Everyone thought he was crazy.”