The Jade Boy (14 page)

Ludlow House was quiet as Jem crossed the hall.

“Jem!” Sarah’s voice came from above. He looked up and saw his mother leaning over the first gallery. She propped the bolt of cloth she was carrying against the rail and hurried down. “How did you fare with Count Cazalon?” she asked eagerly.

Jem thought about the man’s taunt, “Every time she looks at you, she is reminded of her shame.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. “It was fine, mother,” he grunted.

“I hope you acquitted yourself well. He has connections that could be very useful to a boy like you.”

Jem gritted his teeth and spoke without thinking first. “And what exactly does that mean, mother? What sort of a boy am I?”

Sarah froze. Her face set hard into a pale mask.

Jem shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. After an uncomfortably long silence, he continued, “I think you’ll find I did exactly what the count wanted, mother… and I have the book for the duke.”

“Then you must take it to his room immediately,” came the duchess’s voice from above. “Immediately!”

She rustled down the staircase. “I know exactly the place where His Grace will expect to find it, Jem. Come.”

Sarah made to accompany them, but the duchess raised her hand. “I left my needlepurse in my bedchamber. Would you bring it to me in the blue salon?”

An odd expression crossed Sarah’s face as she looked from Jem to the duchess, but she nodded curtly, dipped the faintest of curtseys and turned towards the stairs.

The duchess led Jem directly to her salon. When they were alone together she gripped his arm.

“Give it to me.”

Jem felt in the pocket of his coat and handed her the leather pouch full of mummia.

She looked disappointed. “But there is even less here than before. This is not enough. I must have more!”

Jem looked up. The duchess’s eyes were gleaming with a feverish brilliance and her skin looked tight and sallow. Purple bruises bloomed beneath her eyes. Far from looking youthful, today she looked old and
sick. The duchess noticed his stare and took a step back.

“You will have to go back for more.”

“No!” Jem almost yelped the word, before adding, “I… that is… he, the count, said that this is a very potent supply. It will be more than enough. You must not take more than a single pinch of the mu… medicine in a glass of wine. He ordered me to tell you that.”

The duchess looked suspiciously at the little bag and weighed it in her hand.

“Well, we shall see.” Her eyes narrowed. “I can always send you to collect more, Jem.”

Jem shook his head. “I am very sorry, ma’am, but the count is travelling to Paris. He is leaving tomorrow. He said that you must make that quantity last through the summer. It is very fresh, my lady. You must be careful not to use too much.”

The duchess looked furious. She turned her back on Jem and studied her face in a little gilt mirror on the wall. After a moment she spoke.

“Very well. You may go.”

She waved a hand and didn’t look back as Jem bowed and left the room.

London basked in unusually warm sunshine. Fat red roses glowed in the gardens at Ludlow House – but their fragrance was swamped by the stench from the household middens and open drains in the city’s streets.

The duke gave an order that all the windows should be shut against the horrible smell that smothered the city like the folds of a soiled cloak. But even that, along with huge bowls of dried lavender, spices and flower petals placed about the rooms, could not keep out the throat-gagging stink.

London was not a healthy place in the summer months. Usually, the duke’s household moved to his country estate, Pridhow, where the air was pure, but this year it soon became apparent that the annual journey to Herefordshire would not take place.

A part of Jem was disappointed. He loved the green rolling hills around Pridhow and this year, more than ever, he longed to be far away from the city.

But when he thought of Tolly, Ann and Cleo and of the plot to reduce London to a heap of smouldering ash, he was almost glad to stay.

At least one thing was clear – Cazalon was in Paris. He hadn’t visited the duke for weeks now.

Jem thought about his friends constantly – if only he’d been able to see them again before leaving Malfurneaux Place that last time. Had Cazalon taken them away with him? And if so, was he yet experimenting on Cleo or Tolly? And what about Ann? Had he opened the blood bridge again? In his darkest moments, Jem found himself wondering if his friends were actually still alive.

Worst of all, there was no way he could slip away to find out. The duke had given strict orders that no one should leave Ludlow House unless they had his permission. It was never discussed above or below stairs, but everyone knew he was worried about the plague – they all were.

Wormald watched over the servants like a gaoler and took great pleasure in making sure that Jem’s days were filled with exhausting menial chores that started at dawn and lasted until sunset.

Bellingdon himself was often away from Ludlow House for days at a time and even when he was at home he spent hours locked away in his study with Lord Avebury, Alderman Pinchbeck and the Marquis of Kilheron.

Mysterious letters arrived from Paris, too. These were collected at the door by the duke himself and
he would rush off to his chamber to read them in private. He paid little attention to the duchess.

As the days became hotter and longer, the Duchess of Bellingdon spent more time in her rooms with only Sarah for company. The servants gossiped that her ladyship didn’t bother to change from her morning wrap. Some of them whispered that she was gravely ill and Jem noticed that his mother often seemed preoccupied.

Then, one morning, he took a bowl of scented lavender water up to the blue salon and was surprised to find the duchess neatly dressed and sitting at her writing desk. The curtains were partly drawn against the light.

“Ah, Jem,” she exclaimed as he entered the room. “I believe that you are assisting with the inventory this morning?”

Jem nodded. The annual inventory of all household items took place each summer before the move to Pridhow. This year it was still taking place despite the fact that they were staying in London.

“Then you will need this list of the silver. Give it to Wormald.”

She held out a sheet of paper covered with lines of writing and numbers. Jem went over to take it,
but as he got closer he noticed in the thin light that – unusually – the duchess’s face was heavily painted. Her lips and cheeks were coloured red and even though her skin was covered in chalk-white powder, it could not conceal the mottled lumpy patches that stretched from her right eyebrow across her eyelid and down to her chin.

The air around the duchess was thick and sweet – as if she had recently doused herself with a floral cologne, but Jem also recognised another scent. It was not the stench from the streets outside, it came from the woman sitting before him – something old, something musty, something rotten… Something very like Count Cazalon.

Aware that he was staring at her, the duchess turned her face away. “That will be all, Jem,” she snapped.

The first cases arrived from Paris at the end of July.

Jem and the kitchen scullions were called up from the kitchen one broiling afternoon to assist the footman and several of the grooms, who were struggling to lift twelve huge black boxes from a massive wagon in the courtyard.

The duke watched from the first landing of the main staircase in the hallway as the sweating servants heaved the delivery into the house. The cases were so large that they almost covered the entire chequered floor.

When the last of them was hauled over the threshold, the duke spoke. “Take them all to the great gallery and leave them there. Do not open them or attempt to look inside. When you have completed this task, the gallery will be locked. From this day on, no one, I repeat no one, will be permitted to enter. Do you understand me?”

His gaze swept over the servants and over the boxes once again. “Now, go to it.”

Without another word, the duke returned to his chambers.

The servants muttered and grumbled as they heaved the enormous cases across the tiles. When all the boxes were moved to the great gallery, Wormald made a show of locking the doors.

“You all heard His Grace,” he said, his cold eyes scanning the exhausted men and boys. “No one is to enter that room.”

He placed the enormous, clinking ring of keys for Ludlow House in his pocket and patted it twice. “Because it is such a hot day, the duke has decreed that you may take refreshment in the kitchens. Ten minutes… and no longer, mind. There’s cordial and ice set ready for you all.”

“What d’you make of all that then?” Tobias the footman was sitting at the end of the long trestle table next to Jem.

Jem shrugged and wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “I’m not sure. It all seems very strange.”

He glugged the cup of iced cordial gratefully, before adding, “What could make them so heavy?”

Tobias snorted, “An’ there was I thinkin’ that what with you an’ him, bein’… you know? He might
have let somethin’ slip.”

Jem bristled, “What do you mean, Toby? Me and the duke being what, exactly?”

But Tobias just laughed unpleasantly and another of the footmen joined in.

“Perhaps he’s bought some toys for you. Or perhaps they’re presents for his mistress, your mother. What d’ya think, gypsy brat… or perhaps I should say Your graceling?”

Jem felt himself go red. The birthmark on his neck began to itch. More than anything he wanted to hit the smirking footmen, but he knew that was exactly what they wanted him to do.

He simply stood, turned his back on them and walked to the far end of the kitchen where he stared out of the small window onto the herb garden.

It wasn’t true, Jem thought furiously, the duke wasn’t his father. Ann had said so, hadn’t she?

But she had also said that his father was here somewhere in the city – a city that the duke and his cronies intended to burn to the ground.

“You will know him before your thirteenth birthday.”

Jem gripped the edge of the little water trough used for pot scrubbing in front of the window. He had the bleakest, emptiest feeling that time was
running out for so many things. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see Simeon standing next to him.

The small boy smiled shyly.

“Don’t take any notice, Jem. They just like to see you get angry, that’s all. And being cooped up here for the summer has made them all bored and scratchy. They bait each other, too… and me.”

Jem looked out onto the dusty garden and sighed. “Do you think about your father, Sim?” he asked.

“All the time,” said the boy, quietly. “And me mother.”

Jem squeezed the boy’s thin shoulder. “I’m sorry. They were good people.”

They were quiet for a moment. On the window sill just in front of them sat a small glass bowl full of crystallised fruits and sugared flowers.

Pig Face had clearly been busy again.

“Try one. They’re really good,” whispered Sim. “I’ve had three, but don’t tell Wormald.”

Jem’s mouth began to water as he looked at the dish. He checked that no one was paying attention, chose a fat sugared strawberry and crammed it into his mouth. It was a small sweet revenge and
it was delicious. He licked the crystals from his lips and reached for another two, handing one to Sim.

Thwack!

Wormald’s thin cane came swishing down on the back of Jem’s hand.

“No you don’t, you thieving little toerags. Those sweetmeats are for the duchess. Arrived today they did from Count Cazalon in Paris.”

The rites of binding!

Instantly, the delicious taste turned to something bitter. Jem’s mouth seemed to burn, his tongue and lips felt as if they were scraped raw and scalded. He choked and tried to spit out the half-chewed strawberry, but it was too late.

The burning in his mouth and throat made it difficult to breathe. For a while Jem struggled like a gasping fish out of water, his body wracked by spasms as he fought to gulp air into his lungs.

Simeon raced to fetch a tankard of water, but Jem couldn’t swallow a drop. The serving lad’s eyes became huge with concern as Jem bent double, clutching his heaving stomach. Even Wormald seemed anxious rather than angry when Jem vomited on the flagstones.

The steward eyed Cazalon’s sweetmeats
suspiciously and tipped them swiftly into a little slop bucket in the corner.

Eventually Jem managed to calm himself. But, after taking one look at his shivering body, wraithlike face and watering eyes, Sarah, who had been called down to the kitchens to deal with her ailing son, demanded that he should rest.

Reluctantly Wormald agreed, but only after one of the maids whispered loudly that the sickness might be the start of something contagious.

Jem’s duties were cancelled for the rest of the day, and Sarah helped her son from the kitchen, supporting him up the stairs to his truckle bed in the attic.

But instead of getting better, Jem grew worse. His body burned with fever and his bedding became so sodden with sweat that it had to be changed on the hour. He became delirious and babbled incoherently about fires and white ravens. For two days and two nights Sarah tended to him while the servants whispered fearfully that the plague had returned to London.

On the third morning the fever broke and by evening that day Jem was sitting upright in bed asking for food.

“You must be feeling better.” Sarah smiled fondly at Jem, but she had huge black circles under her eyes. She fussed over the covers, then bustled off to fetch some milk, bread and honey. Jem lay back and stared at a cobweb hanging from a ceiling beam.

Despite his exhaustion, his anger at the ways Cazalon had tricked him burned sharp in his mind. Jem counted on his hand:

He had crossed a barrier of salt at the man’s invitation.

He had given him his own blood.

He had knelt before him.

… And now he had eaten his food.

Jem had unwittingly done four of the five things that Ann had expressly warned him against. All that remained was for him to offer Cazalon an article of his clothing.

He remembered her words, “
Once you have tricked a person into fulfilling the five rites you have complete power over them. You will be able to make them do exactly what you want. They will become your creature
.”

Jem hammered a clenched fist down onto the blanket. He stared furiously at his hand, the stupid, greedy hand that had taken the strawberry from the bowl.

Cazalon had outwitted him at every turn, but Jem was determined he wouldn’t let him do it again.