Текст книги "Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon,Diana Gabaldon
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“No.”

The hand squeezed harder.

“You see, my lord?” Another voice came from his other side. He cracked one eye open, far enough to see an earnest cove with a long face and a stern mouth, this downturned in displeasure at Grey’s state—or perhaps his existence. The name popped into his mind, sudden as if the face had acquired a label—Longstreet. Mr. Longstreet, army surgeon.

“Shit,” he said, and closed his eyes. Hal squeezed him again, evidently thinking this remark a response to the pain.

Another of the voices loomed up at the foot of the bed, this one speaking German. Burly sort in a green uniform, jabbing his finger at Grey in a definite sort of way.

“…must amputate, as I said.”

He was barely lucid enough to hear this, and flapped the uninjured arm in a feeble attempt at defense.

“…rather die.” Hoarse and cracked, it didn’t sound like his voice, and for a moment, he wondered who’d said that. Hal was scowling at him, though, attention momentarily diverted from the doctor.

The lining of his mouth stuck to his teeth, and he worked his tongue in a frantic effort to generate enough saliva to speak. His body convulsed in the effort and he reared up from the bed, fire roaring up the left side of his body.

“Don’t…let ’em,” he said to his brother’s swimming face, and fell back into darkness, hearing cries of alarm.

The next time he came round, it was to find himself bound to a bedstead. He checked hastily, but his left arm was still amongst those present. It had been splinted and wrapped in bandages and it hurt amazingly, much worse than the last time he’d been awake, but he wasn’t inclined to complain.

He was mildly surprised to hear that the surgeons were all still arguing—in German, this time. One of them was insisting to Hal that it was futile, as “he”—Grey himself, he supposed—was undoubtedly going to die. Another—Longstreet, he thought, though he also spoke in German—was insisting that Hal must leave the surgeons to their work.

“I’m not leaving,” Hal said, close by. “And he isn’t dying. Are you?” he inquired, seeing that Grey was awake.

“No.” Some kind soul had wetted his lips again; the word came out in a whisper, but it was audible.

“Good. Don’t,” Hal advised him, then looked up. “Byrd, go and guard the door. No one is to come in here until I say so. Do you understand?”

“Yes, me lord!” The hand on Grey’s shoulder lifted and he heard Tom Byrd’s boots hurrying across the floor, the opening and closing of the door.

It occurred to Grey, with complete calm and utter clarity, that it would be extremely convenient for a number of people—not least himself—if he were to die as a result of his injuries.

Percy? He felt no more than a dim ache at thought of Percy, but retained that odd clarity of thought. Most of all to Percy. Custis was dead. If he were to die, as well, there would be no one to testify at the court-martial, and such a charge could not be pressed without witnesses.

Would they let Percy go on that account? Probably so. His career would be finished, of course. But the army would vastly prefer to dismiss him quietly than to have the ballyhoo and scandal of a trial for sodomy.

“Do you suppose it was my fault, as he said?” he asked his father, who was standing beside the bed, looking down at him.

“I shouldn’t think so.” His father rubbed an index finger beneath his nose, as he generally did when thinking. “You didn’t force him to do it.”

“But was he right, do you think? Did he only do it because I couldn’t give him what he needed?”

The duke’s brows drew together, baffled.

“No,” he said, shaking his head in reproof. “Not logical. Every man chooses his own way. No one else can be responsible.”

“What’s not logical?”

Grey blinked, to find Hal frowning down at him.

“What’s not logical?” his brother repeated.

Grey tried to reply, but found the effort of speaking so great that he only closed his eyes.

“Right,” Hal went on. “There are fragments of metal in your chest; they’re going to remove them.” He hesitated, then his fingers closed gently over Grey’s.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” he said, low-voiced. “I don’t dare let them give you opium. It’s going to hurt a lot.”

“Are…you under th-the im…pression that this is…news to me?”

The effort of speaking made his head swim and gave him a nearly irresistible urge to cough, but it lightened Hal’s expression a bit, so was worth it.

“Good lad,” Hal whispered, and squeezed his hand briefly, letting go then in order to fumble something out of his pocket. This proved, when Grey could fix his wavering gaze on it, to be a limp bit of leather, looking as though the rats had been at it.

“It was Father’s,” Hal said, tenderly inserting it between Grey’s teeth. “I found it amongst his old campaign things. Ancestral teeth marks and all,” he added, making an unconvincing attempt at a reassuring grin. “Don’t know for sure whose teeth they were, though.”

Grey munched the leather gingerly, just as pleased that its presence saved him the effort of further reply. The taste of it was oddly pleasant, and he had a brief memory of Gustav the dachshund, gnawing contentedly at his bit of beef hide.

The picture reminded him of other things, though—the last time he had seen von Namtzen and the bitter smell of the chrysanthemums, the still more bitter smell of Percy’s sweat and the night-soil bucket—he turned his head violently, away from everything. And then there was a looming presence over him, and he shivered suddenly as the sheet was lifted away.

His attention was distracted by a snicking sound. He turned his head and saw Hal checking the priming on the pistol he had just cocked. Hal sat down on a stool, set the pistol on his knee, and gave Longstreet a look of cold boredom.

“Get on, then,” he said.

There was a sudden chill as the dressing on Grey’s chest was lifted, and he heard the sharp-edged hiss of metal and the surgeon’s deep, impatient sigh. Hal’s fingers tightened, grasping his.

“Just hold on, Johnny,” Hal said in a steady voice. “I won’t let go.”

Chapter 30

A Specialist in Matters of the Heart

In early September, he returned to England, to Argus House. Once well enough to leave the field hospital at Crefeld, he had been sent to Stephan von Namtzen’s hunting lodge, where he had spent the next two months slowly recuperating under the tender care of von Namtzen, Tom Byrd, and Gustav the dachshund, who came into his room each night, moaned until lifted onto the bed, and then settled down comfortingly—if heavily—on Grey’s feet, lest his soul wander in the night.

Shortly after his return to England, Harry Quarry came to call, keeping up an easy flow of cordialities and regimental gossip that demanded little more of Grey than the occasional smile or nod in response.

“You’re tired,” Quarry said abruptly. “I’ll go, let you rest a bit.”

Grey would have protested politely, but the truth was that he was close to collapse, chest and arm hurting badly. He made to stand up, to see Quarry out, but his friend waved him back. He paused at the door, though, hat in hand.

“Have you heard much from Melton? Since you’ve been back, I mean?”

“No. Why?” Grey’s arm ached abominably; he could barely wait until Harry departed and he could have Tom put the sling back on.

“I thought he might have told you—but I suppose he didn’t want to hamper your recovery.”

“Told me what?” The pain in his arm seemed suddenly less important.

“Two things. Arthur Longstreet’s back in England; army surgeon—you know him?”

“Yes,” Grey said, and his hand went involuntarily to his chest, the left side of it crisscrossed with barely healed weals. Tom, seeing it, had remarked that he looked as though he’d been in a saber fight. “What—did he say why Longstreet’s here?” Why would Hal not have told him this?

“Invalided out,” Quarry replied promptly. “Shot through the lungs at Zorndorf; in a bad way, I hear.”

“Ah. Too bad,” he said mechanically, but relaxed a little. Longstreet was no threat, then—if in fact he ever had been. Grey would like to go and talk to him, but doubtless Hal had assumed there was nothing urgent in the matter, and wanted to wait until he had returned from campaigning himself.

“Two things, you said.” He recovered himself abruptly. “What was the second?”

Quarry gave him a look of profound sympathy, though his voice was gruff in reply.

“They’ve moved Wainwright back to England. The court-martial’s not yet scheduled, but it will be, soon. Probably early October. I thought you should know,” Harry added, more gently.

It was warm in the room, but gooseflesh rose on Grey’s arms.

“Thank you,” he said. “Where…where is he now, do you know?”

Harry shrugged.

“Small country gaol in Devonshire,” he said. “But they’ll likely move him to Newgate for the trial.”

Grey wanted to ask the name of the town in Devonshire, but didn’t. Better if he didn’t know.

“Yes,” he said, and struggled to his feet to see Harry out. “I—thank you, Harry.”

Quarry gave him a grimace that passed for a smile, and with a small flourish, donned his hat and left.

“You all right, me lord?” Tom, who had never been farther than six feet from his side since Crefeld, came in with the sling for his arm, examining Grey with a look of worry. “Colonel Quarry’s tired you out. You look pale, you do.”

“I daresay,” Grey said shortly. “I haven’t been outdoors in three weeks. Here,” he said, seized by sudden recklessness. “I’m going for a walk. Put that on, and fetch my cloak, please, Tom.”

Tom opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the look on Grey’s face, shut it and sighed.

“Very good, me lord,” he said, resigned.

“And don’t follow me!”

“No indeed, me lord,” Tom said, fastening the sling with a little more force than strictly necessary. “I’ll just wait for the rag-and-bone man to bring you home, after he picks you up in the street, shall I?”

That made Grey smile, at least.

“I’ll come home on my own two feet, Tom, I promise.”

“Pah,” said Tom.

“Did you say, ‘Pah’?” Grey inquired, incredulous.

“Certainly not, me lord.” He swung Grey’s cloak round his shoulders. “Enjoy your walk, me lord,” he said politely, and stamped out.

The impetus of this conversation was sufficient to carry Grey as far as the edge of Hyde Park, where he leaned against a railing, waiting for his breath to come back. The wounds in his chest had healed fairly well, but any exertion made him feel as though his lungs were still riddled with bits of hot metal, and might fill with blood at any moment.

Early October. A month. Maybe less. Concerned with his own survival, he had managed not to think about anything for a time. And Minnie, Olivia, and Tom had gone to great lengths to be sure he was not exposed to anything upsetting; if Hal hadmentioned Percy in any of his letters, he was sure Minnie had carefully suppressed the news.

He drew a shallow breath, breathed deeper, alert for rattling sounds in his chest, but there were none. Well, then. He straightened, taking his weight off the supporting railing. His arm was throbbing, despite the sling, but he ignored it. He had no idea what awaited him in October—but he would, as he’d promised Tom, go to it on his own two feet. Slowly, he began the journey round the park, the thought of Percy like iron fetters on his feet.

The christening of Cromwell Percival John Malcolm Stubbs took place a week later, within ten feet of his birthplace. Olivia, displaying the same streak of stubbornness—some called it perversity—that characterized the family, had insisted upon the child’s name, and as her husband was not there to stop her, it was done.

“Do you mind?” she had said to Grey. “I won’t do it, if you do. Melton would disapprove very much, I’m sure—but he isn’t here to forbid it.”

“Are you asking me as de factohead of the family?” he’d asked, smiling a little, in spite of the circumstances. She’d come to find him in the garden, where Tom forced him out to sit every afternoon, on the theory that it disturbed the household to know that he was still lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Of course not,” Olivia had said. “I’m asking you because—well, because.”

He probably should have tried to stop her. It was a private christening, with just the family and a few close friends—but people wouldtalk. Lucinda, Lady Joffrey, was the child’s godmother; Sir Richard stiffened visibly when he heard the vicar pronounce the child’s names and shot a sharp look at Grey.

Grey was proof against looks, though, and speech, as well. He walked in a protective blanket of soft gray fog that muffled everything and made him feel invisible.

Now and then, something unexpected would penetrate the fog, sharp and wounding as the bits of shrapnel left in his chest, which worked their way one by one to the surface. Last week, it had been Harry’s visit. Today, it was the light.

It had been cloudy outside, but now the sun burst through, and a flood of colored light from a stained-glass window fell over the christening party in soft lozenges of red and blue and green.

The space at his side had been no more than an empty expanse of floor slates. Suddenly, it was an abyss.

He looked away, heart pounding and palms sweating, and saw Olivia looking at him, wearing an expression of concern. He nodded at her, forcing a smile, and she relaxed a little, her attention returning to the infant in Lucinda’s arms.

He spoke the words of the baptismal vows automatically, not hearing them. The air shook around him with the echo of organ pipes and clashing swords, and sweat ran down his back.

Lucinda removed the child’s lacy cap, and Cromwell Percival John Malcolm Stubbs’s head protruded from the christening robes, round as a cantaloupe. Grey fought back an inappropriate urge to laugh, and in the same instant, felt the piercing pain of being unable to turn to Percy and see the same laughter in his eyes.

It wasn’t even the right name. He’d thought of telling Olivia that, but hadn’t. It might not be the only secret Percy still possessed, but it was the only one Grey could keep for him.

The date for the court-martial had been set: 13th October, at eleven in the morning. If they hanged Percy—on Grey’s testimony—ought he to insist they do it as “Perseverance”?

Lucinda kicked him in the ankle, and he realized that everyone was looking at him.

“Say, ‘I do believe,’” Lucinda said under her breath.

“I do believe,” he said obediently.

“I baptize thee, Cromwell Percival John Malcolm, in the name of the Father…”

The splash of water came to him, distant as rain.

I should have told her it was “Perseverance,”he thought, in sudden panic. What if it’s all that should be left of him?

But it was too late. He closed his eyes, and felt the soft fog come to wrap its comfort round him once again, the gray of it tinged with the light of saints and martyrs.

You don’t look well, John.” Lucinda Joffrey circled round him, looking thoughtfully over her fan at him.

“You surprise me, madam,” he said politely. “I made sure that I appeared the very picture of health.”

She didn’t reply to that feeble retort, but closed the fan with a snap and tapped him in the chest with it. He flinched as though she had stabbed him with a brooch-pin.

“Not. Well.” She tapped him with each word, and he backed up sharply, to get away from her. The christening party was being held in the garden at Argus House, though, and his escape was prevented by the fishpond behind him.

“Look at him, Horry,” she ordered. “What does he look like?”

“The Duchess of Kendal,” Horace Walpole replied promptly. “When I last saw her, two days before her unlamented demise.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walpole,” Grey said, giving him a look.

“Not but that your lordship has much better tastethan my lady Kendal.” Walpole gave him back the look. “The color of your face, however, is not what I would choose myself, to complement the shade of your suit. It is not quitethe complexion of one of my darlings”—he nodded toward a sherry decanter on a nearby table, in which he had brought several small goldfish from his house at Strawberry Hill, as a present for Minnie—“but approaching that hue.”

“You must see a doctor, John,” Lucinda said, lowering the fan and giving him the benefit of her lovely eyes, set in open distress at his condition.

“I don’t want a doctor.”

“There is a very good man of my acquaintance,” Walpole said, as though struck by inspiration. “A specialist in weaknesses of the chest. I should be more than delighted to provide an introduction.”

“How kind of you, Horry! I am sure anyone you recommend must be a marvel.” Lucinda opened her fan in gratitude.

Grey, who was not so far gone as to be unable to spot gross conspiracy and very bad acting, rolled up his eyes.

“Give me the name,” he said, in apparent resignation. “I shall write for an appointment.”

“Oh, no need,” Walpole said cheerfully. “Dr. Humperdinck expresses the keenest interest in making your acquaintance. I’ll send my coach for you, at three o’clock tomorrow.”

“And I,” Lucinda put in swiftly, fixing him with a gimlet eye, “will be here to ensure that you get into it.”

“Short of drowning myself in the fishpond, I see there is no escape,” Grey said, with a sigh. “All right.”

Lucinda looked flabbergasted, and then alarmed, at this sudden capitulation. In fact, he simply hadn’t the strength to make more than a token resistance—nor, he discovered, did he really care. What did it matter?

“Mr. Walpole,” he said, nodding toward the table, “I fear that my nephew Henry is about to drink your fish.”

In the excitement occasioned by the rescue and subsequent ceremonious installation of the fish in their new home, Grey was able to make an inconspicuous departure, and went to sit in the library.

He was still there, an unread play by Moliиre open on his knee, when a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see the Honorable Horace Walpole again. Walpole was a slight man, and much too frail in appearance to loom over anyone; he simply stood by Grey’s chair.

“It is a terrible thing,” Walpole said quietly, all affectation gone.

“Yes.”

“I spoke with my brother.” That would be the Earl of Orford, Grey supposed; Walpole was the youngest son of the late prime minister, and had three brothers, but only the eldest had any influence—though a great deal less than his father had had.

“He cannot help before the trial, but…if”—Walpole hesitated, ever so briefly, having obviously made a split-second decision to substitute “if” for “when”—“your…” A longer hesitation.

“My brother,” Grey said quietly.

“If he is condemned, the earl will make what recommendations he can toward clemency. And I do have…other friends at court, though my own influence is not great. I will do what I can. I promise you that, at least.”

Walpole was not at all handsome, having a receding chin and a high, rather flat brow, but he was possessed of intelligent dark eyes, usually alive with interest or mischief. Now they were quiet, and very kind.

Grey couldn’t speak. It was a risk for Walpole to be connected in any way with such an affair. He lived quietly, and his own affairs never came to public notice, nor ever would. For him to sacrifice his discretion so far as to involve himself in what would be a notorious case was a remarkable gesture, and Grey was not a personal friend, though Walpole’s father had of course been a close friend to the duke.

He doubted that Walpole knew or suspected anything regarding his own nature, let alone his relationship with Percy. Even if he did, he would never speak of it, no more than Grey would mention Thomas Gray, the poet who had been Walpole’s lover for years.

He put up his hand, and gripped Walpole’s for an instant in thanks. Walpole smiled, a sudden, charming smile.

“Do go and see Humperdinck,” he said. “He will do you good, I am sure of it.”

He had felt the name “Humperdinck” vaguely familiar, but had not at first recollected its associations, and was thus surprised to find himself face to face with the gentleman he had last seen in a state of prostration on the sofa at White’s, half frozen and wig askew, suffering the effects of some seizure.

Dr. Humperdinck was now pink and healthy, showing only traces of his misadventure: a slight hesitation of speech, a drooping left eyelid, and a dragging left foot that caused him to walk with a stick. He laid this object aside and sat down in his consulting room, bidding Grey do likewise.

“Lord John Grey,” he said, looking his new patient over with thoughtful, clear blue eyes. “I know you, do I not? But I cannot recall the occasion of our meeting. I hope you will pardon my lack of manners—I suffered an accident last winter, an apoplexy of sorts, and since have discovered that my memory is not what it once was.”

“I recall the occasion,” Grey said, smiling. “It was on the pavement outside White’s.”

The doctor blinked, astonished.

“Was it? You were present?”

“Yes, my brother and myself.”

The doctor seized his hand and wrung it.

“My dear sir! I am so happy to meet you again. Not only for the natural pleasure of the occasion, but because I doremember you! I had thought all memory of the evening of my accident quite gone—and here is a piece of it after all! Bless me, sir, you have given me hope that perhaps other memories may also return in time!”

“I’m sure I hope they will,” Grey said, smiling. The doctor’s patent joy at remembering eased his own melancholy for a moment—though there were many things he would himself prefer to forget.

“You do not recall where you were going that night?” Grey asked curiously, taking off his coat and unfastening his shirt at the doctor’s request. Humperdinck shook his head, fumbling in his pocket.

“No, I have not…” He straightened up, a small sharp instrument of some sort in his hand and a look of astonishment on his face.

“White’s,” he whispered, as though to himself. Then his gaze sharpened, returning to Grey with renewed excitement.

“White’s!” he cried, seizing Grey’s hand once again and disregarding the presence of the instrument in his own hand.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir, have I cut you? No, no, all is well, no more than a slight nick, a bandage will fix it…. They told me I had been found outside White’s Chocolate House, of course, but hearing you speak the name, in your own voice—White’s!” he exclaimed again in glee. “I was going to White’s!”

“But—” Grey caught himself in time from saying, “But you are not a member there,” for if he had been, Holmes, the club’s steward, would have recognized the doctor at once. “Were you meeting someone there?” he asked, instead.

The doctor pursed his lips, thinking fiercely—but gave it up within a moment as a bad job.

“No,” he said regretfully, fishing a clean bandage from his drawer. “I suppose that I must have been, but I have no recollection of it. But if so, surely the gentleman I was going to meet would have recognized me? Ah, well, I must just let it be; perhaps more memories will return to me of their own accord. Patience is a great virtue, after all,” he said philosophically.

Half an hour later, he had finished his examination, conducted with the most cordial and attentive questions, and returned to his earlier statement of principle.

“Patience, Lord John,” he said firmly. “Patience is the best medicine, in almost all cases; I recommend it highly—though it is surprising how few people are able to take that particular medicine.”

He laughed jovially. “They think that healing must come from blade or bottle—and sometimes it does, sometimes it does. But for the most part, I am convinced that the body heals itself. And the mind,” he added thoughtfully, with a sideways glance at Grey that made him wonder uncomfortably just how much of his own mind the doctor had perceived in the course of their conversation.

“So you do not feel that the remaining fragments are dangerous?” he asked, buttoning his shirt.

The doctor made a moue of professional equivocation.

“One can never say for certain about such things, Lord John—but I think not. I hope not. I believe the occasional pain you suffer is only the result of an irritation of the nerves—quite harmless. It should pass away, in time.”

“In time,” Grey muttered to himself, on the way back to Argus House. That was well enough, so far as his body was concerned. Being assured that he was likely not about to die had worked wonders; he felt no pain at all in either chest or arm. But as for his mind…there, time was growing very short indeed.

Chapter 31

Nota Bene

Grey found himself improved in spirits after his visit to Humperdinck, but still at loose ends. Not yet healed enough to return to his duties, and lacking any useful occupation, he drifted. He would set out for the Beefsteak, and find himself wandering round the edge of Hyde Park or suddenly among the shouts of costermongers in Covent Garden. He would sit down to read, and come to himself an hour later to find the fire burnt down to embers and the book on his knee, still open at the first page.

It was not melancholy. That abyss was still visible to him, but he resolutely looked away from it, back turned to its beckoning verge. This was something different; a sense of suspended animation, as though he was waiting for something without which he could not continue his life—and yet with no idea what that something might be, and no notion how to find it.

His daily correspondence these days was scanty; those friends who had expressed sympathy and extended invitations upon his return had been discouraged by his continued refusals, and while a few stubborn souls continued to call or write—Lucinda Joffrey, for one—they left him alone for the most part.

He therefore looked at the letter the butler laid beside his plate with a faint curiosity. It didn’t bear an official seal, thank God, or have the look of anything pertaining to the regiment. If it had, he reflected, he should have been tempted to put it into the fire. He daily expected notification of Percy’s court-martial—or his death—and feared to read either one.

As it was, he waited until the meal was finished, and took the letter with him out into the garden, where he finally opened it beneath a copper beech. It was from Dr. Humperdinck; he caught sight of the signature, and would have crumpled the letter in disgust, had he not also caught sight of the opening sentence.

I have remembered,it began simply.

Grey sat down slowly, letter in hand.

My dear Lord John—

I have remembered. Not everything, assuredly; there are still considerable lacunae in my recollection. But I recalled quite suddenly this morning the name of the man I was to meet at White’s. It was Arthur Longstreet, and I have it firmly in my mind that I was called to a medical consultation with him.

My mind is unfortunately still a blank, though, with regard to the matter he desired to consult me upon, and also to his occupation and address.

I think I have not met him, as I have no face to attach to this name, and thus must have been summoned by letter—though if that be the case, it is not among my correspondence.

Are you by chance acquainted with Mr. Longstreet? If so, I should be very much obliged if you would send me his direction, that I might write and explain matters. I hesitate to impose upon you, but since I have the impression that it was a medical matter, I did not wish to make inquiries at White’s and thus perhaps expose Mr. Longstreet’s privacies inadvertently. Of course, if you do not know the gentleman, I shall do that, but I dare to presume upon our acquaintance and your good nature to begin with.

With my greatest thanks, I remain

Your obt. servant,

Henryk van Humperdinck

Grey was still sitting under the copper beech when one of the footmen came out with a tea tray.

“My lord? Mrs. Stubbs says you will take some refreshment.” Grey was preoccupied, but not so much so as not to notice the firmly directive phrasing of this particular statement.

“Does she?” he said dryly. He picked up the cup and sniffed cautiously. Chamomile. He made a face and poured it into the perennial bed.

“Do thank my cousin for her kind solicitude, Joe.” He stood up, picked up one of the pastries, discovered it to be filled with raspberries, and put it back. Raspberries made him itch. He took a piece of bread and butter, instead.

“And then have the coach brought round, please. I have a call to make.”

Longstreet’s house was a modest one. Men of means did not become army surgeons, and while Longstreet’s cousin was evidently able to place twenty-thousand-pound wagers, Grey noted, the doctor’s branch of the family must be significantly less wealthy.

He had never heard whether Longstreet was married. A middle-aged female servant admitted him, looking surprised, and pottered off in search of the doctor, leaving Grey in a small, neat parlor whose walls, shelves, and cases held the souvenirs of a man who had spent much of his life abroad: a set of German beer steins, a trio of French enameled snuffboxes, a series of case knives inlaid with elaborate marquetry, four grotesque masks, garishly decorated with paint and horsehair, whose origin he did not recognize…. Evidently, Longstreet liked matched sets.

Grey hoped this tendency implied a desire on the doctor’s part for completeness.

A halting step and a wheezing breath announced the arrival of the artifacts’ owner. Longstreet was diminished physically, Grey saw, but still himself. Normally lean, he was thinner now, the bones of face and wrist sharp as blades, and his skin gone a strange shade of gray that seemed faintly blue in the rainy light of the window. The doctor leaned heavily on a stick, and his housekeeper watched him with a certain tenseness of body that suggested he might fall, but she made no move to help him, though from her face she would have liked to.

The eyes, though, were unchanged: clear, a little angry, half amused. Not at all surprised.

“How are you, Lord John?” he asked.

“Well, I thank you.” Grey inclined his head. “And I dothank you,” he added politely. “I gather that you are in large part responsible for my survival.” Whether you meant to be or not,he thought.

Longstreet nodded, and eased himself down into an armchair, from the depths of which he surveyed Grey sardonically.

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