The Hidden Blade: A Prequel to My Beautiful Enemy (Heart of Blade)

by Sherry Thomas

  “Under the cover of night, everything was unloaded into a huge cavern. Then the cavern was carefully sealed, so that it would not be found by the emperor’s soldiers or other thieves and pillagers,” Herb went on. “The monks were sworn to secrecy. And three jade tablets were made and entrusted to the three seniormost abbeys, for the day when it would become either safe or necessary to find and reopen the cave.

  “Almost immediately the legend took root. It was said that grown men shaved their heads and took vows with the sole purpose of trying to locate these jade tablets in the inner sanctums of the greatest monasteries. But time passed—generations, then centuries.

  “From time to time stories would crop up of a lucky goatherd who stumbled upon an ancient silver ingot in his path, something that might have been dropped by the monks in their hurry. Others believe that the treasures were ransacked ages ago, much as the pyramids of the pharaohs had been emptied by tomb robbers, leaving behind only pits of vipers. But still others remain convinced that the treasures are exactly where they had been concealed long ago, and if only all three of the jade tablets can be reunited, the treasures too can be found.”

  The longcase clock in a corner of the library gonged the hour. Ten o’clock. When Mother was home, Leighton was expected to be in bed with the lights out by nine. Father, on the other hand, allowed him to stay up until the first yawn.

  Leighton did not in the least feel like yawning, but he did so anyway—he could sense when the grown-ups wanted to be alone.

  “Am I putting you to sleep?” asked Herb, smiling, his hand on Leighton’s shoulder.

  For a moment everything felt all right—the storm clouds receding, the sun shining in the sky. But then Leighton sensed it again, the underlying tension in the room.

  “I’m just tired.”

  They had rowed for hours that afternoon and walked even longer in the rolling hills that surrounded Starling Manor. Leighton was not actually tired—he could have hiked for miles more—but no one questioned his claim.

  Herb shook Leighton’s hand. “Sleep well, my dear boy. And may all your dreams be marvelous.”

  Leighton was not afraid of the dark—he did not believe in monsters under the bed. All the same, he did not like to lie awake, staring into the blackness of the night.

  It was easier to believe that all was well when the sun fell upon his face. That afternoon, atop a hill that gave onto a wide field of poppies in bloom, Leighton had felt buoyantly happy as he listened to Herb and Father discuss how long it would take to return home. The air had been crisp—almost a little warm; the sky had been pale but blue; and Mrs. Thompson’s apricot jam had never tasted so good, in a sandwich made with sturdy bread and fresh butter churned only that morning.

  But now, as night stretched on and on, he saw that even then Herb had been a little impatient. He also saw that it was odd for Father to have taken them rowing and hiking the moment Herb had stepped off the train. Leighton hadn’t minded, because he loved to be outside. But would Herb have preferred to spend the afternoon resting at Starling Manor?

  Why hadn’t Herb said anything? His presence was what made his visits such highlights, not whether they traipsed over the downs or sat inside and played card games.

  It was almost as if Herb and Father could not speak frankly to each other.

  Leighton pushed aside the bedcover and sat up. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. The idea of either Father or Herb with a chest full of words they could not say…

  A stomachache was preferable any day of the week.

  In the library, Herb had created a special nook for the books and magazines he brought Leighton, everything from penny dreadfuls to The Count of Monte Cristo—and lately scientific romances by Jules Verne. Usually Leighton would discover new books only after Herb’s departure, but tonight a book he had already read would do. Anything would do.

  Light seeped out from beneath the doors of the library. Were Father and Herb still up? It was almost midnight. Leighton climbed up one floor to the solarium: There was another way into the library.

  The manor, built by a man who believed himself hunted by mortal enemies out for vengeance, had a number of secret passages. Some had been bricked over by later occupants, but others had been left alone.

  Leighton slipped into the library and pushed back into place the bookshelf that had swung open to let him through. A gallery wrapped around the upper portion of the room on three sides. He tiptoed forward, crouched down, and looked through the ornamental gaps in the parapet.

  Father sat before the chessboard and stared at the pieces. He was a handsome man, with black hair and green eyes that Leighton had inherited. Compared to Herb, he was quieter, more restrained, yet in some ways far more intense. Sometimes he made Leighton think of strings on a violin that had been pulled too taut. But he never snapped, though sometimes he disappeared into his study for days on end. Nobody had to walk on eggshells when he did that—there was no belligerence or brutality to Father—but the entire house would be so quiet, almost funereal, and every sound seemed to produce a distant echo.

  Herb did not sit opposite Father, but paced. Prowled like a caged wolf.

  All at once he stopped and spun around to face him.

  Father did not look up from the chessboard. But underneath the table, where Herb could not see but Leighton could, Father’s hands clenched and unclenched continuously.

  Herb strode toward Father. Leighton bit his lower lip. They were such good friends; he didn’t want them to be at odds.

  Herb pushed the chess table out of the way. Pawns wobbled; two knights fell over and rolled onto the floor. Father gripped the armrests, his person pressed into the back of the chair.

  Leighton half rose to his feet, a plea emerging.

  Herb leaned forward, took hold of Father’s face, and kissed him.

  Leighton covered his own mouth, spun around, and crouched low. The inside of his head sounded like a battlefield, all exploding ordnance and hurtling shrapnel.

  “You know we mustn’t,” Father said all of a sudden, his breathing labored. “My brother will find out.”

  Sir Curtis, Father’s half brother by a different mother, was fifteen years older than Father. Father always became agitated before one of Sir Curtis’s infrequent visits, as if he were a pupil who had to sit for an examination for which he had not prepared. Mother, too, behaved strangely when Sir Curtis was around, prattling on about her support for missionary work abroad and the fact that Leighton had read the Bible end to end, both the King James and the Latin Vulgate translations.

  Was this why?

  “There is no one here except you and me, Nigel,” said Herb—incorrectly. “All your servants are abed, dreaming their own dreams.”

  “Still, we shouldn’t,” said Father, his voice anguished. “I made a solemn vow that I would never endanger your soul with our friendship.”

  Passages in the Bible that hadn’t made particular sense before now leaped out at Leighton, heavy words avowing eternal damnation to men who consorted with other men. His fingers shook; he clamped them between his knees.

  “You assume that my soul isn’t already damned,” said Herb. “And don’t insult me. Friendship? I love you, Nigel, and you love me. But I can only go on for so long waiting for you to come to your senses.”

  “Herb, please don’t say things like that.”

  “What am I supposed to say, Nigel? It’s been years. Years. Maybe you are meant for platonic love, but I am not. If you fear your brother more than you love me, let me know and I—I—” Herb exhaled, a heavy sound that reverberated in the silence of the night. “Then I shan’t come around to bother you anymore.”

  Leighton dropped onto his knees, his hands braced against the carpet. Still he felt dizzy, as if he had spun around for a solid five minutes and then come to an abrupt stop. They were not friends, Herb and Father. At least, not just friends, but men who desired to be more to each other—Father wanting it no less than Herb, only that he did n
ot dare.

  This was why it had grown tense, Father wishing things would continue as before, and Herb no longer content with that arrangement.

  “It is not my brother I fear,” Father pleaded, “but God.”

  The desperation in his words made Leighton’s throat close. He did not know everything about the facts of life, but he knew enough to understand that in such matters there could be no compromise. Either Father must hold completely to his position, or he must abandon it just as completely.

  “Listen to yourself, Nigel.” Herb sounded as if he were holding back tears. “You don’t fear God. If you did, would you allow your wife to visit her lover with your blessing? You would be on your knees begging her to think of her eternal soul. But not only do you let her go, you let her take Marland to see his natural father.”

  Leighton clamped a hand over his heart. Marland wasn’t Father’s son?

  Father’s reply was barely audible. “It’s only fair, since I can’t be the husband Anne deserves.”

  “But you can be everything to me, Nigel. We can make this arrangement work for all of us.”

  “I can’t. If Curtis found out, he would make it unbearable for everyone involved—you, me, Anne, and the boys. He would put me into an institution and take our children away from Anne. He would punish you too, Herb, in ways I dare not even imagine.”

  “Why do you let him? You are not financially or legally dependent on him. You are your own man.”

  “I am not.” Father’s voice quavered, close to cracking. “Before Curtis I will always be a coward. He is the monster of my nightmares, the wrath of an unforgiving God. He is…he is what I deserve for being who I am.”

  Leighton had never liked Sir Curtis, but for the first time he became afraid of the man. Father’s fear was as heavy as a London fog, seeping into Leighton’s pores, making him shiver.

  There came a long silence. “I am the same as you are,” Herb said, his tone oddly flat. “Do you mean to tell me then that I may never expect any measure of happiness in this life?”

  “That wasn’t what I meant at all, Herb. There is nothing I wish more fervently for than your happiness.”

  “But you won’t lift a finger for it. You want me to exist in a state of desperate chastity so that you may have your cake and your eternal soul too.”

  “Herb—”

  “Please say no more,” said Herb. He took several deep breaths. “I’m sorry for being so overwrought. I’m sorry for asking more. You told me from the very beginning that this was how it would be; it was my fault for thinking I could change you.

  “I can’t live like this, but I’m sure someday you will find someone who can, someone with a soul far loftier than mine. Convey my regards to Leighton and tell him—” Herb’s voice turned hoarse. “Tell him I will miss him with every fiber of my being.”

  Leighton squeezed his eyes shut. No. No. Herb could not simply walk out of their lives.

  The door of the library opened and closed.

  Soft sounds came from below—Father, sobbing.

  A long time passed before Leighton realized that he too had tears rolling down his face.

  Herb had first visited Starling Manor almost three years ago, on a miserable day for Leighton: Mother had left on yet another trip without him.

  She had explained, with a catch in her voice, that the cousin she was visiting was elderly, that they would spend all their time drinking tea and chatting about long-dead relatives, that the only reason Marland was going was because he was too young to be without her.

  But Leighton did not find old people boring, a rail journey by itself would be interesting, and she hadn’t considered Marland too young to be without her when she’d gone for three days to a great-aunt’s funeral.

  She had not taken Leighton because, in the end, she had not wanted to. And that knowledge had weighed like a millstone upon his chest.

  Then Herb had appeared, as if by magic. His first question to Leighton had been, “So, my young friend, what does one do around here for fun?”

  And though Herb had been a stranger to Sussex, he had found more fun things to do than Leighton had known existed under the sun. They explored Arundel Castle, almost as old as the Norman conquest of Britain, hunted for fossilized shark teeth at Bracklesham Bay, and sailed a sloop out of Chichester Harbor into the Solent.

  Even without venturing afield, Herb made his stays the stuff memories were made of. A game of bowling on the lawn, a ride in the surrounding countryside, a rainy evening spent inside, taking turns reading Pride and Prejudice out loud to Father.

  Herb’s joie de vivre had infected Father and Leighton. And in a way enfolded them, almost as if in a cocoon, and made it possible for Leighton to ignore certain cold, hard truths about life at Starling Manor.

  But now that protection was withdrawn. Now there was nothing between Leighton and everything that frightened him.

  Nothing but what a boy two weeks short of eleven could do for himself.

  The cottage, with its small sitting room and even smaller bedroom, had been the home of the groundskeeper until a larger place had been built for the man. When Herb began visiting Starling Manor regularly, he had asked for the use of the cottage to stow the portable darkroom he’d lugged down from London, to take photographs of Leighton and Father around the estate.

  The pungent odor of silver nitrate hung in the air. There were several developed plates in trays of fixers, the images imprinted on the transparent surfaces just visible. Leighton had taken two photographs of Father and Herb—he had become quite adept at the entire process, from the preparation of the glass plate to the final exposure of the albumen paper—and Herb had taken one of Father and Leighton.

  Leighton waited in a corner of the cottage’s sitting room, a lit taper on the table beside him, alternately dozing and starting awake as the mantel clock chimed every half hour.

  “Leighton. What are you doing here?”

  He opened his eyes. Herb, valise in hand, was crouched before him. Leighton glanced toward the clock: quarter past five.

  “I thought you might come here before you go.”

  “How do you know that—”

  Herb stopped.

  An uneasy silence grew between them.

  Leighton got up from his chair, went to the linen closet in the bedroom, and brought back a box. In the box was a book of pressed flowers and two geodes, one with a tiny cave of amethyst at its center, another a walnut-size opal of a blue at once milky and shimmery. “I found the geodes in the attic—I think someone brought them back from Australia ages ago. And Mother said we could give the pressed flowers to Miss Cromwell.”

  Miss Cromwell was the daughter of Herb’s solicitor. She’d lost her twin sister almost two years ago and had been inconsolable. Herb had decided that the best way to cheer the girl up was to send her a monthly box of interesting gifts. Leighton had loved being involved in the process, collecting all kinds of fun miscellany and then, together with Herb, making the final selections for that particular month’s package.

  But there would be no more of that in this future he could not bring himself to think about.

  “Do you want me to help you pack up the portable darkroom?” he asked.

  Herb shook his head. “No, I’m leaving everything for you—you are already quite the accomplished photographer. Just thought I’d check on the plates before I left, to make sure they were coming along properly.”

  Another uneasy silence descended. It seemed to have an outward pressure of its own, pushing Herb and Leighton apart.

  “I’ll walk to the railway station with you,” Leighton said.

  Herb hesitated. He opened his valise, stowed the geodes and the book of pressed flowers carefully inside, and pulled out one of his daycoats. “Put this on then. It will be chilly outside.”

  It was chilly outside—frosty, almost. It was the middle of May, but nothing about the morning felt like spring: the damp, raw wind, the shivering branches, the gray gloom that promi
sed a murkiness even after sunrise—Leighton was glad for the sturdiness of his friend’s daycoat. The wool held a hint of Herb’s French shaving soap, a bar of which he had promised Leighton, as soon as it was needed.

  The house was five miles from the nearest railway station. They walked silently, the only sounds their boots on the dirt path and the occasional lowing of a cow at early pasture.

  The road became busier as they neared the village. After the second time they let a farmer’s milk-laden cart pass, Herb said, “I was going to leave you a note in the cottage, but I take it you already know all is not well.”

  Leighton said nothing. He didn’t want to acknowledge anything aloud.

  “I—I will be in town for a while. If you’d like to write me, here’s my address.” He handed Leighton a calling card. “Would you allow me to send you a birthday present?”

  He had never needed permission to send Leighton birthday presents before. It was as if he had suddenly become a stranger, as if they had never laughed over being caught in a downpour or discussed the possible secret lives of field mice.

  Leighton swallowed a lump in his throat. “I will need to ask Father about the present. And about writing letters.”

  But they both knew he wouldn’t. It would hurt Father too much.

  “Of course. Of course.” Herb smiled weakly—there were dark circles under his eyes. “Maybe I should go abroad for a while—visit India again or something.”

  The three of them were going to visit India together when Leighton came of age, to see all the places that Herb had loved, especially the mountains of Kashmir and the beautiful hill station of Darjeeling.

  “I’m sure it will be a wonderful trip,” Leighton somehow managed to say.

  They fell quiet after that, a silence that lasted until Herb’s train pulled away.

  The next evening, Leighton was back at the railway station to meet Mother’s train.

  When it became clear that Mother would never take Leighton on her trips, he stopped going to the station to meet her upon her return. But this had upset her, so he had resumed the old habit, parking himself on the platform every month, even on the most bitterly cold days of the year.