Touchstone (23 page)

“I’ll do my part to protect the furniture,” Stuyvesant said, unable to tell if the man was making a joke or not.

“You were in uniform.”

“Two years. I was on one of the first troop ships to reach France, didn’t leave until it was over.”

“Good man. You Americans, you skipped the tale for us.”

Tipped the scale? “It was already tipping.”

“Jerry and us, we’d been battering each other so long it was down to a question of who ran out of bread first. Your guns brought it back to fighting, and that took care of it in no time.”

“You may be right,” Stuyvesant said, then remembered that the man himself had been decorated in another long and brutal war, this one in South Africa: He was better qualified than some stray American sergeant when it came to military tactics. But before he could retract his dismissive remark, the Duke had moved on.

“Too bad you lot weren’t early enough to save the boy Bennett from that shell. Instead of a happy battlefield of a marriage, he walked off into the night and ended up in a hut with some chickens. A gentleman’s act, and what Laura half wanted, but it left my girl up to her neck in Nod goes what all kind of politics.” God knows what, Stuyvesant translated. He made an encouraging sound, hoping to evoke a few details, but all the Duke cared to add was, “Bad show, all of it.”

Stuyvesant wasn’t certain if the bad show was Grey’s knocking-about, his parting from Laura, or the God-knows-what-all of Laura’s politics, but before he could find out, the other man made a growling noise deep in his throat, then said, “And now she’s made a liaison with this upstart Union man from Leeds. You know him?”

“Bunsen? I haven’t met him yet, either.” What was it with imagining that he knew everyone? It wasn’t
that
small a country, surely?

“Not a bad brain,” the Duke said, an unwilling admission. “A little smooth for my taste, neither fish nor fowl when it comes to class, but that’s modern life. Pity about the grandfather.”

“You mean the stone mason?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous, nothing wrong with honest toil. No, I’m talking about the shoe salesman.” Bunsen’s paternal grandfather had made, then lost, a fortune shipping raw cowhides in one direction and expensive leather goods in the other. His knighthood had marked the height of his personal fortunes, and the beginning of a rapid slide downhill.

“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with, er, shoes?”

The Duke glanced at him. “Are all Americans slow, or is it just you? There’s nothing wrong with shoes, I wear them all the time, myself. But the grandfather was a cheat at the horses. Sure sign of a through-and-through bounder.”

Stuyvesant was tempted to ask if Bunsen owned horses, but clearly that was not the point. “Well, sir, I’d imagine your daughter will keep him in line.”

“By God, you got that right,” he declared. Stuyvesant felt exonerated from the charge of slowness.

The old man crushed his cigarette out against the rock he was sitting on, dropped the stub into a pocket, and turned to fix Stuyvesant with the beam of those dark Spanish eyes.

“You’re his friend. The boy Bennett’s.”

“I…yes.”

“My girl was badly hurt last time. Didn’t show it, but it changed her. She gives her all, to a cause or to a man. Nothing halfway. Don’t let him hurt her again.”

And with that command, it appeared that the audience was at an end. The Duke stood up with the ease of a man half his age, and settled his hat. “Breakfast is sure to be ready. Good of you not to disturb the servants before they’d had their own.”

Then he walked away. The dogs bounded after him as he strode down the path, his stride sure and even. Stuyvesant, who had risen automatically when the Duke stood, settled back on the rock and watched the man’s retreat.

So, that was what a Duke looked like. Absolutely sure of his footing, on a hillside or in a conversation.

Or anyway, that was how it appeared. Stuyvesant had seen no indication that this scion of an illustrious name was aware of how very fragile the Hurleigh future was, with two adult sons and no grandchild in sight. And even the daughters: two of them deeply immersed in every meaningless thing modern life had to offer, while the third was out to undermine the Hurleigh way of life.

Somehow, he did not think that the Duke, for all his surface dottiness, was anything but rock-hard in his fundamental beliefs, which meant that he must be very worried indeed. And if, as Grey had said, the Duke succumbed to verbal gymnastics when in the grip of strong emotion, there had been three obstacles sufficient to trip the Duke’s tongue: the shooting of a fox, the American relief of the forces in 1918, and his daughter’s politics.

On the heels of this thought came another: Looking past the ducal waffling, when it came to getting on the good side of someone, Harris Stuyvesant had just been handled by a real expert.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

B
ENNETT
G
REY, TOO, WOKE EARLY,
with the soft closing of Stuyvesant’s door and the subtle shift of the old building under the big man’s weight. Was the American always up at this time of day, or was something preying on his mind? He’d certainly been disturbed the night before. Grey had to wonder if something other than the revelation of his ties to Laura had been at issue. Maybe it was the residual effect of Sarah, whose appearance had so astonished the man—Grey had felt the American’s pulse shoot up from ten feet away: redheads, my foot. Grey couldn’t quite tell now, by the mere feel of Stuyvesant’s movements, if he was still angry. He thought about getting up to look out of the window—he’d know in a moment, by the pitch of the American’s head and how he held his shoulders.

But Grey stayed where he was.

Pamela’s two antiques-shop friends were snoring on the other side of the hallway. They had begun the night in separate rooms, but not long after they’d all retired, the younger one, Dubuque, had come out of his room and tip-toed along to Stuyvesant’s door, only to be met by a rebuff of no uncertain terms. He had then retreated to his friend across the hall, who (Grey had been relieved to hear) had been too drunk or too blasé to do more than exchange a few words before falling back to sleep. Dubuque had begun to snore a few minutes later, leaving the barn to subside into its rest.

Sarah, in the room below, spoke a few dreaming words, turned over, and went quiet again. He lay, listening to the sounds of Hurleigh over the eternal whine in his left ear: Birds—seven, eight, nine of them within the confines of the garden—woke to song; the rooster down the valley produced a tentative crow; a young dog-fox two miles away yapped restlessly; the pack of hounds in the Hurleigh kennel across the stream grumbled from time to time. He could smell the family of mice that lived in the barn’s attic, although they had fallen still a while earlier. The cold air trickling through the small gap at the bottom of the window had the texture of a brief rainfall by evening. The odor of lavender had begun to fade from the bed-clothes and he could feel the start of a worn place in the linen under his left heel; in another few washes, the laundry-woman would discover a hole. Another set of footsteps trod softly through the garden, feet that knew the path intimately—an older man, a faint odor of cigars: the Duke. A faint breeze scratched a leaf across Sarah’s window downstairs, half an inch then it stopped. Someone in the main house, a hundred yards away and through several thick walls, dropped a pan; the last man to sleep in this bed had worn a flowery hair-cream, and water ran through distant pipes and the rich tang of coffee wafted in under the window followed by the warm tendrils of baking bread and in a minute he would catch Laura’s scent riding the dawn, taste a scrap of air she’d breathed out, across in the house.
I wish…

Grey jerked up onto one elbow and reached for the flask on his bedside table. The sound it made as it sloshed told him precisely how much was inside, and the sound of metal against metal as he unscrewed the top grated on his feverish nerves. But that was exactly what he needed, one sensation that could overcome all the others. He listened with all his might to the symphony the flask top made: a scraping noise, going smooth as worn metal turned against worn metal; a faint hesitation was followed by an infinitesimal ting as the threads hit the tiny dent where he’d dropped it two weeks before; smooth again, loose and looser, and then a microscopic sigh as the top came free.

He placed the flask to his mouth (
the whistle tasted of brass
) tasting the worn silvering of the edge. The liquid within hit his teeth like a miniature wave beating the shore, washing in over his tongue, filling his sinus cavity, giving him its burst of tastes—clear and identifiable, although he’d told Stuyvesant he didn’t know: Potatoes, yes, but his neighbor had then added a handful of dried cherries and some apples (which had been starting to spoil), and he’d cooked the mixture in a copper pot. The cool liquid coated Grey’s mouth and throat, seared his esophagus, and punched his stomach with its force. He took another, deeper swallow of the poisonous stuff, then lay back on his pillow.

The intense concentration broke his mind’s mad gnawing; the alcohol blunted the sensations, and on an empty stomach, with last night’s drink still running through his veins, it didn’t take long before the sounds and smells that picked and squabbled incessantly at his attention took a small step back. Slowly, the filtering mechanism of his mind went back into place, and he could begin to feel lawn take shape around him instead of a million distinct and clear-edged, clamoring blades of grass.

Once upon a time, he had felt safe here at Hurleigh. He had spent weeks of happiness, protected and in the company of friends. Now, he was all too aware that he was not in the safety of Cornwall, where he could see people coming. Here in the green heart of England the trees pressed in, the hills might hide a thousand men, and birdsong rose to conceal a stealthy approach. Here, the soft edges of easy agriculture and the smooth open vowels of the inhabitants threatened to weaken his defenses, make him forget his wariness.

And why shouldn’t he? The War was over, the enemy driven back to his own fields to lick his wounds.

Don’t believe it for a moment, Bennett told himself. You thought the convalescent hospital would be a retreat, until the Major found you and beguiled you away with encouraging words, with flattery and usefulness and before you knew it, you were standing beside him helping him inflict pain, looking on in interest while his victims gasped out their shame and terror.

Strangely enough, although he’d spent nineteen months with the Major’s so-called Truth Project, he still was not absolutely certain what its purpose was. Probably he hadn’t wanted to know—after all, when he had arrived at the clinic from his convalescent hospital, in August 1919, his legs could hold him and his mind could follow conversations, but it was all he could do to bear human company for more than a few minutes without curling into a shuddering heap.

It was Laura who had saved him, Laura and her infinite patience and her motorcar that carried him off to the unpeopled countryside. Laura with her caresses and her eager response that restored to him a sense of manhood, a rock on which he could cling when the world trembled around him. With Laura, with the clinic’s doctors and physical therapists, by the spring he felt in himself the semblance of a human being.

It had been months before the Major entered his life. He was aware of the man, as a presence in the background who made him uncomfortable but wasn’t around too much. Grey knew he had something to do with bringing him to the clinic, knew as well that the clinic was not simply another sanitarium, but again, he was too caught up in the work of building himself anew to think about it.

In the spring of 1920, however, the Major was there more and more often. Grey would be with the masseuse and the Major would stop in for a brief chat, then go, leaving Grey with the sensation of spiders creeping over his skin. Grey would be taking a meal in the dining room and become aware that uneasiness had settled in beside him; when he glanced at the doorway there would be the Major, casually studying the room at large. The Major would catch Grey’s eye and nod, but when the doorway went empty, Grey’s appetite would be gone and his bones would be tingling, as if he’d narrowly escaped stepping onto a gaping hole in a stairway.

Then in September, one of the clinic doctors asked Grey to observe a session with another patient, to give his impressions of the man’s truthfulness. It was in the interest of therapy, he said, because there was some confusion as to the man’s history, and they had noticed that Captain Grey could somehow put his finger on the truth. If the soldier was lying, that was one thing, but if he was actually delusional…to help the man…if Captain Grey was willing…? And, if Grey didn’t mind, they’d just attach a couple of wires to the man’s hands, to read his responses…

Afterwards, the doctor had thanked him profusely, saying what a difference it had made in the patient’s therapeutic process, to know for certain where the truth lay.

It started there. And God knew, it was a blessing to be of some small use to the world, since his body was nearly whole again but his nerves remained incapable of everyday social relations.

Except for Laura, of course: Laura the healer, Laura the bringer of joy, Laura the focus point that overcome the clamoring.

There were two similar interviews during the months that followed: both with twitchy soldiers, both conducted by the same doctor, both with fine wires attached to the men’s fingers and wrists.

The next interview, Grey’s fourth, was different in a number of ways: A doctor he’d never seen before conducted it; Grey saw no sign of war wounds on the man being interviewed; and Major Carstairs was there.

The Major’s presence was at first distracting, then painful, and by the end of it, a torment. He wanted something, craved it so badly he was sweating desire from his pores, but the object of his desire fluctuated between the man in the chair and Grey. It was not mere physical lust: He wanted them—wanted them both—to do something, to respond in some way that Grey might have been able to figure out if the driving confusion hadn’t brought on one of his blinding headaches.

The session left him cowering in a darkened room for days, unable to bear the presence of anyone but the orderly who brought his meals. For two weeks, he refused Laura entrance. There was no sign of the Major, no reference to the last interview; slowly he regained his equilibrium. A month later he was well enough to see his family on a brief Christmas visit home.

In the middle of January, the Major found him in the clinic’s conservatory and asked if he would be willing to assist on another interview.

Grey had not yet learned to trust his perceptions. He still thought that if he fought the sensations, if he refused to be dominated by this bizarre variety of shell shock, he could get back on his feet and live some kind of normal life. So he denied the repulsion he felt for the Major and all his works, and let himself be talked into it.

And that one went well. This one was clearly a victim of the War: Three years after his last battle, the spasms and stammers still racked him. Grey talked to him, watched him, and afterwards told the doctor where the man’s truths lay and what calming pathways might reach beyond the nerves.

It was a relief, being able to help. It made Grey feel not so utterly useless. He even began to wonder if perhaps, with care, this damnable sensitivity that afflicted him might not be turned into a gift.

It was the last time he’d held that thought.

The Major reappeared in early February with a young man whose bruises and easy winces made it clear that he’d been beaten. The Major demanded that Grey sit in on a conversation that in no time at all became an interrogation. The Major wanted to know which of the man’s circle were responsible—for what crime, Grey never learned, just: responsible. The headache came instantly, but this time the Major would not accept Grey’s dismissal, not until the Major had his answers. And in desperation, Grey told him which name had caused the man to tense, just a fraction, to hold his breath, for just an instant.

The next day, the Major had come to explain, something about disruption and violence and the threat of mob rule; later, asking around, Grey learned that the outside world was in turmoil because of the coal industry, and he realized that the young man with the bruised face had been a Bolshevik.

The world was indeed in turmoil, and the Major appeared with two more of these sort of men in March, bullying and cajoling Grey into cooperation. Grey was trapped: He couldn’t bear to pry into these men’s minds; the Major’s presence made him want to scream; on the other hand, the thought of leaving the clinic and trying to live outside frankly terrified him.

And everyone swore he was helping his country, keeping it safe against a threat every bit as real as the Kaiser’s army.

He might still be there, eating himself away inside, if the Major hadn’t allowed himself to be distracted by the troubles, and pushed Grey just a fraction too far. The nurse had no business being brought under that kind of scrutiny: Two minutes into the session Grey knew that, and what was more, he knew that the Major knew it. When the poor young woman broke, when she began sobbing out her shame at what her brother had done, Grey looked at the Major, and caught the Major watching, not the nurse, but Grey himself.

In that instant, Grey saw what awaited him if he stayed. Even if outright insanity seized him outside the clinic doors, it was preferable to this monstrosity.

He hit out against the Major and, inadvertently, won his release.

He tried, on the outside. He went home, summoned the self control to walk through the town, desperately clung to the fantasy of job, wife, home.

In less than a week, he knew his failure. He wrote Laura a letter, put some warm clothes into a rucksack, and walked out of his family’s house on foot, in search of peace.

He had thought he would find it beneath the wheels of a train, or at the bottom of a cliff. Instead, he had tramped without aim through lanes and over fields, sleeping rough under trees and in barns, until with the end of summer he found himself circling Dartmoor and entering Cornwall. There he found his end of the world.

So no, he was still not completely certain what the Truth Project was all about. He thought it had begun, as he’d told Stuyvesant, as research into interrogation techniques, looking to measure when a person spoke the truth, and when he lied. Using Bennett’s hypersensitivity to calibrate their machines, the Project’s researchers thought they might duplicate his sure knowledge.

In theory, leaving the Major out of the equation, he could see their point: He’d never actually participated in interrogations during the War, but he’d been outside a farmhouse during the questioning of a captured German, and just thinking of the sounds that spilled out made him queasy. As far as Grey was concerned, anything that meant you didn’t have to torture information from another human being was a good thing.