The Master of Heathcrest Hall (25 page)

Rafferdy was intrigued by this news. The elder Lord Farrolbrook must have known, or at least suspected, that his son would contract this same illness. “And in his letter, did your father impart to you knowledge of what this peculiar malady is?”

“No, I fear not,” Farrolbrook said. “While he offered much advice for managing the condition and ameliorating its effects, he seemed to understand its nature and origins no more than I do. I suppose eventually it will take its toll upon me as it did him.”

That it was already taking a toll was apparent. Despite his general improvement, there was still an impression of illness about Lord Farrolbrook. His complexion was pale and slightly jaundiced, and though it was obvious he kept his person clean, still Rafferdy often noticed that there was a faint but unpleasant odor about him—a cloying scent, like that of fruit that had been left in a bowl too long.

Farrolbrook shifted his grip on his pencil, and for the first time Rafferdy noticed a small blemish on the back of his hand—a suppurating wound or a moist sore. As if aware of Rafferdy’s gaze, the other man suddenly set down his pencil and book on the bench.

“I’m glad you could come today,” Rafferdy blurted out to mask the awkward moment. “I wanted to thank you again, for inscribing the message in your black book.”

The other man gazed at him with pale blue eyes. “And is that the only thing you came for today?”

Farrolbrook might have been infirm and a poor magician, but he was not so dull of wits as Rafferdy had once believed. It was quite the opposite, for his perception in this matter was keen.

“No, it’s not. There’s something else I was hoping you’d do.”

Rafferdy explained his intention, and Farrolbrook raised a golden eyebrow in response.

“Are you certain that’s a good idea, Lord Rafferdy? What will the other members of your order think?”

“I’m sure they’ll all come around. Once their hearts begin to beat again, that is.”

Farrolbrook gave him a wan smile. “Very well, if you think it would be of use.”

Rafferdy still didn’t understand why Farrolbrook was helping him. Perhaps it was to have some revenge against the order that had so callously used and abandoned him. Or perhaps it was for some other reason. Either way, Rafferdy would take such aid as he could garner.

“Yes, I do think it would be useful.”

“Very well, then.” Farrolbrook took up a cane that leaned against the bench and, with its benefit, rose to his feet. “I will not bother to say farewell, as I will see you soon enough. And I believe I may have something important to tell you then. I will soon know for certain.”

He gave a nod, then moved away down the path. Such was his slow pace, and the frilled, outmoded nature of his dark blue coat, that but for his gold hair he could have been mistaken for an elderly lord out for a toddle.

It was only after he was out of sight that Rafferdy realized Farrolbrook had left his sketchbook on the bench, still open to the page he had been drawing upon. Well, Rafferdy would have a chance to return it to him soon. He took up the book.

As he did, a shiver passed through him despite the warmness of the air. The open pages of the sketchbook were filled with a profusion of dark, crooked lines—a mirror to the braided branches of the wisteria tree that hung over the bench. Only the drawing was anything but an idyllic garden scene. Rather, the branches seemed to writhe and pulse across the pages, pushing in from the edges toward the center. There, a small figure rendered all in black stood alone within the small circle of white, its hands thrown up as if in one last gesture to hold back the encroachment of the black tangle.

A compulsion came over Rafferdy, to turn the pages and see what other visions were contained within the sketchbook. Instead, he snapped the book shut, tucked it into his coat pocket, and departed the grotto. There was only one mystery he wished to consider at the moment.

And that was where to get a drink before going to supper at Lady Marsdel’s that night.

E
VENING TOOK the city unawares, as the sun made a series of sudden lurches into the west. So it was, pressed for time, that Rafferdy was forced to present himself at Lady Marsdel’s abode on Fairhall Street without the prior benefit of a whiskey or two. His desire to dull his senses, however, was quickly removed when he entered the parlor. As if directed by some preternatural instinct, the first thing his gaze fell upon in that vast room was the very thing he had wanted to see most.

Mrs. Quent smiled at him from her position standing beside the pianoforte some distance away, where Mrs. Baydon sat at the bench, but said nothing; for of course it was not
her
parlor, and it was not she whom he must greet first.

“You appear to be having some difficulty in locating me, Lord Rafferdy,” came Lady Marsdel’s echoing tones from across the room. “Allow me to aid you, then—I am over here.”

Rafferdy went past the pianoforte and approached Lady Marsdel. She sat in a large chair at the far end of the parlor, near the
fireplace and the old stone sphinx—the one which Lord Marsdel had brought back after his time in the far south of the Empire. On a pillow on her lap was a bit of white fluff he presumed was either a dog or a ball of yarn her ladyship was attempting to untangle. He gave a smart bow. As he did, a growl emanated from within the ball of fluff.

A dog, then.

“Good evening, your ladyship,” he said, rising. “And thank you for directing me. Such is the great size of your parlor that I have a tendency to get turned around in it.”

“Your head is turned, I suppose, but I somehow doubt it is the size of my parlor that has done so,” Lady Marsdel said, her eyes narrowing.

Before Rafferdy could consider what these words meant, Lord Baydon spoke up.

“You are just in time, Lord Rafferdy,” Lady Marsdel’s brother said, his voice thin and reedy but still containing its usual jovial tone. “My daughter-in-law was about to perform another song on the pianoforte.”

Mr. Baydon gave the broadsheet he was reading a snap to remove a crease. “A song—is that what that last exercise was meant to be? I thought Mrs. Baydon was attempting to discover every out-of-tune key on the pianoforte, and having great luck at it.”

“I believe it is your ears that are out of tune, Mr. Baydon,” his wife said. She looked very pretty as she sat upright on the bench at the pianoforte, her golden hair falling in ringlets over her shoulders. She was wearing a blue gown that matched her eyes. “Perhaps you might have them adjusted the same way the strings of the pianoforte were done recently.”

“I assure you, my ears are working very well,” Mr. Baydon said.

Mrs. Baydon affected a pretty frown. “Well, either my playing or your hearing is off. We cannot both of us be right in the matter.”

“Perhaps you can at that,” Rafferdy said, moving to the pianoforte. “After all, given their remarkable size, it’s quite possible that Mr. Baydon’s ears perceive tones or vibrations that are beneath the notice of the rest of us—aside from her ladyship’s dog, perhaps.”

Mr. Baydon glowered over the top of his newspaper, while Mrs. Baydon let out a laugh.

“Yes, perhaps that’s it, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said brightly. “My husband is very handsome, of course, but he
does
have curiously large ears.”

Being at once insulted and complimented by his wife, it was evident Mr. Baydon didn’t know how to respond. Instead he raised his broadsheet once more and muttered something unintelligible behind it.

Mrs. Baydon smiled up at Rafferdy. “I’m so glad you were able to come tonight, as we have been greatly in need of amusement of late. We have been deprived of that which most delights us.”

“So have I,” Rafferdy said, though it was not at Mrs. Baydon that he looked. Instead, his gaze went beyond her, to Mrs. Quent.

She stood on the other side of the pianoforte, wearing a simple but very lovely gown of pale yellow that complemented her green eyes. Her hair, which was a lighter shade of gold than Mrs. Baydon’s, was worn more loosely and naturally, in a way that suggested it had just been stirred by some passing zephyr. It could only make him think of when they were at the Evengrove, and the way the trees had lifted her up to their crowns and carried her away.

“And good evening to you as well, Lord Rafferdy,” Mrs. Quent said, smiling at him.

He realized he had been staring, and he gave a quick bow to cover up the fact. “Good evening, Lady Quent. I trust your husband and sisters are well?”

“Yes, they are all well.”

“And yourself?”

It seemed her smile faltered for just a moment. “Yes, I’m quite well, thank you.”

A note of concern sounded within him, but before he could wonder what he perceived in her expression, Lady Marsdel was addressing him again.

“Come, Lord Rafferdy, sit beside me and allow Mrs. Baydon to finish her recital so that we may proceed to supper.”

“Are we not awaiting any others?” Rafferdy said as he turned around, for their number was but six at present.

The coating of powder upon Lady Marsdel’s face could not conceal the way her wrinkles deepened as she pursed her lips. “We are all for the evening. There is hardly anyone of worth left in the city to invite, for so many have gone to their estates in the south and east. We might have been more, for an invitation was extended to Lady Quent’s people, but I have been informed that they declined to come.”

“Sir Quent told me to extend his sincere regrets,” Mrs. Quent said—a bit breathlessly, as if she felt real distress. “His work at the Citadel has detained him beyond his control. And as I mentioned, my sisters were greatly disappointed they could not attend, but they had previously accepted an engagement.”

“One they might easily have broken, I am sure, to attend dinner at a lady’s house.”

“Unless, of course, they were invited to a countess’s house,” Rafferdy said with affected innocence. This won him both a glare and a growl from the direction of her ladyship, which let him know he had scored a point. “Besides, why should they come here? Wherever it was they were invited, they are far more likely to meet eligible men there than they would here.”

“I am sure you are quite eligible, Lord Rafferdy. But perhaps you mean they would be more likely to meet
notable
men.”

Rafferdy winced. Now it was Lady Marsdel who had scored a point. Rafferdy had recently heard whispers at Assembly that Sir Quent might be made into an earl if he was confirmed as lord inquirer; and if Rafferdy had heard such a rumor, then it was certain Lady Marsdel had as well. If it was indeed the case that Sir Quent would be raised up to an earl, then it was far from impossible to think the Miss Lockwells would each marry a lord, or even better.

Rafferdy shifted on the sofa, suddenly finding his seat uncomfortable. The thought that Lady Quent’s sisters might soon be above him was not one he relished. But why was that the case? It was not as if he had an eye upon either of the Miss Lockwells.

“Please, Mrs. Baydon, play your song,” he said through clenched teeth.

She did so, and any sour notes she might have struck were only echoed by the ones already sounding in his head.

At last Mrs. Baydon’s exercises upon the pianoforte were concluded, and it was time to proceed to the dining room for supper. Despite the benefit of a cane, Lord Baydon struggled to rise from his chair next to the fireplace, and Rafferdy went to him to lend a hand.

Lord Baydon had been frequently ill over the last half year. What had at first seemed only to be a mere head cold had progressively worsened. As far as Rafferdy knew, the doctors had not determined the nature of the older lord’s illness, though he suffered from a general weakness of the body, and he was prone to chills and spasms. As a result, he had been able to attend sessions of the Hall of Magnates only occasionally, and it had been far more than a month since Rafferdy had last seen him there.

“Thank you, my good sir,” Lord Baydon said once he had gained his feet with Rafferdy’s help. “I find I have more difficulty rising from a comfortable seat than a hard one these days.”

“Then it is assured you will have no issue gaining your feet when next you come to the Hall of Magnates,” Rafferdy said, “for you will find the benches just as uncomfortable to sit upon as ever.”

Rafferdy paused, expecting the older lord to pronounce that he was certain he would be at Assembly during the very next session. It had ever been Lord Baydon’s habit to adopt the best possible view, to constantly assume that good things would happen rather than ill.

Only this time Lord Baydon shook his head. “No, you will have to cast your votes without me, Lord Rafferdy. I do not think I will be going back to Assembly soon.”

This response seemed greatly out of character, but Rafferdy attempted not to display his surprise. “I am sorry that you are still feeling so unwell. This illness has no doubt been a great bother to you.”

“No, it is no bother,” the older man said quietly, and blew a breath through his gray mustache. “Rather, it was the least I could do. I could not go with them, after all.”

As he spoke, Lord Baydon looked not at Rafferdy, but rather at the sphinx that crouched next to the fireplace. The stone figure was a twin to the one that dwelled in the study at Asterlane; like Lord Marsdel, Rafferdy’s father had brought it back from the south as a memento of his time in the Empire. Its stone surface was worn and pitted from eons spent beneath the sands of the southern Murgh Empire, but its eyes of lapis lazuli remained smooth and blue, gazing serenely forward as if they saw things in their eternal wisdom that mortal men could not.

If that were really the case, perhaps the sphinx would understand the riddle of Lord Baydon’s words. What had he meant, that it was the least he could do? Before Rafferdy could ask, Lord Baydon looked away from the sphinx and said they should follow after the others.

Indeed, the rest of the party was just departing the parlor, so Rafferdy proffered his arm to his companion. They went slowly, for the older lord was out of breath after only a few steps. As long as Rafferdy had known him, Lord Baydon had been a very plump man, but now his suit hung on him somewhat loosely, and there was a hollowness to his cheeks.