Bitter Bloodline

by Jackson Marsh

  ‘I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to get back to work.’

  ‘With that bump on your head and you feeling dizzy? Not a chance.’

  James slid from the bed and rang the bell.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Thomas was shocked. ‘We don’t ring for staff.’

  ‘We don’t sleep in the guest bedrooms either,’ James said. ‘But look at where you ended up. Don’t worry, I’ve done it before and no-one downstairs is going to say anything, they’re all too concerned about you. Barnaby hasn’t stopped asking after you and wants to come and see you.’

  ‘Barnaby? What on earth for?’

  ‘He’s worried. Got a bit of a crush if you ask me. Now…’ James began tucking in the sheets and tidying the bed. ‘Someone will be up in a moment to take the trays. I’m going to check on our guest, then I’ll be right back. You stay where you are.’

  ‘I need the bathroom.’

  ‘Oh.’ James thought on his feet. ‘I’ll bring you a pot.’

  The look that came back from Thomas told him that a pot was not what was needed, and there was no way he would use one in a guest bed in any case.

  ‘Right, here we go then.’

  Having helped him from the bed and into one of Archer’s dressing gowns, James supported Thomas as he limped to the bathroom. Having made sure he was safe, he left him there as a knock on the bedroom door heralded the arrival of Mrs Baker and Iona.

  ‘Can you take the trays?’ James asked, nodding towards them.

  Mrs Baker glanced at the bed, confused. James saw and tilted his head towards the bathroom.

  ‘Ah. How is he?’

  ‘He’s going to be fine, Mrs Baker. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘And the stranger?’

  ‘Him too. Is His Lordship back yet?’

  ‘He’s just ridden up with Mr Hawkins.’

  Iona stacked the trays and left, Mrs Baker closing the door behind her.

  ‘Your new friend wants to see you,’ she said.

  ‘My new…? Oh, the lad?’

  ‘He’s a bonny boy. You’d think he would be shocked into silence after what he’s been through, but he’s happy enough to ask after you. Mind you, that’s all he has said.’

  ‘Do we know who he is?’

  The housekeeper was tidying the bed James had just made as if criticising his work, but he said nothing.

  ‘No. He will only talk to you. His hero, he called you.’

  James blushed. ‘It was Mr Andrej who found him, but I’ll go up as soon as someone comes to take my place here. Excuse me.’

  He left Mrs Baker mixing the doctor’s prescribed sleeping powder and knocked gently on the bathroom door.

  ‘Everything alright?’

  ‘Everything is as it should be, thank you, Mr Wright,’ Thomas replied.

  His mildly prissy tone told James that he was feeling more like his normal self, and smiling, the valet continued past the dressing room into the second bedroom.

  Smith was still asleep and snoring gently. The water by the bed had not been touched, and the handbell was in the same place, standing beside a note which Archer had left. It instructed Smith to ring when he woke, to alert James in the next room. It was signed, “Your servant, Viscount Clearwater.”

  The room had grown stuffy, and now that night had completed the dusk, James opened the window further and left the curtains slightly parted. He attended to the fire, stoking it to counter the cold, and was about to dim the lamps when Thomas appeared in the doorway.

  The light caught his copper hair, burnishing it, and Archer’s silk dressing gown fit his elegant frame perfectly, shimmering in the firelight. James had lost count of the number of times he had looked at Thomas and his heart had skipped, but the excitement of seeing him never faltered or lessened. He found it even in briefly snatched glances; as Thomas crossed the servants’ hall in his black and whites, or when James followed him up the back stairs, sat beside him at the table, or even when Tom was giving him instructions, the man never failed to fire his heart.

  Thomas watched the sleeping stranger thoughtfully if a little sadly.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ James whispered as he crossed the room to tuck in a sheet.

  Thomas shook himself. ‘I was just reliving a moment,’ he said, and returned to the other room.

  James tidied the covers silently around the guest before retreating, leaving the connecting door ajar. When he joined his lover, Thomas was alone and slipping back beneath the sheets.

  ‘Mrs Baker said to remind you that your boy was calling for his hero,’ he smirked.

  ‘My boy now, is he? I’ll go up when Silas comes.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Jimmy.’

  ‘You might be, but what about the assassin next door?’ James widened his eyes dramatically. ‘He could be after you for all we know.’

  ‘Hardly. We only spoke about the Hall and wine.’

  ‘Well, I’m not leaving you alone,’ James took his seat as before and put one arm around Thomas’ shoulders. The other reached for the bedside table. ‘Your medicine,’ he said, passing it. ‘And no arguments.’

  Thomas obeyed, and they held hands, saying nothing. Within a few minutes, Thomas’ eyes were sagging.

  ‘Lie down,’ James whispered, and when Tom was comfortable, kissed his forehead. ‘You’re my hero, Tommy Payne,’ he said and sent his lover to sleep with a smile on his face.

  The clock had just delicately chimed nine when Archer and Silas arrived. Washed and wearing clean clothes, they crept into the semi-darkness of the room where only the fire threw out a glow.

  ‘How are they?’ Archer whispered.

  ‘Both sleeping.’

  ‘Doctor Penhale will be pleased.’ The viscount beckoned the others into the sitting room where the three could speak more easily.

  ‘How is it in the village, Sir?’

  ‘Fifteen now dead, thirty injured.’ Silas imparted the news succinctly and without emotion.

  ‘Do they know what caused it?’

  ‘No, Jimmy,’ Archer said. ‘But it looks like the driver might have suffered a seizure, or the regulator failed in some way.’

  ‘So, an accident.’

  ‘Of course, What else could it be?’

  Archer had sat, and invited James and Silas to do the same. They brought chairs together, and Silas sat on a backwards-facing upright, where he leant his arms on the backrest and his chin on his hands.

  ‘It’s just that Thomas told me something,’ James explained. ‘Mr Smith spoke just before the train left the tracks. He said… What was it?’ He thought hard. ‘Strange words… “I am Eshuat”, or something.’

  ‘Was it, “Am eșuat”?’ Archer asked, pronouncing the words with an accent.

  Surprised, Silas raised his head. ‘You know what it means?’

  ‘I do. It’s Romanian for “I have failed”.’

  ‘How do you know this shit?’ Silas was impressed.

  ‘Because I read books. And because I’m a quarter Romanian on my grandmother’s side. My mother’s mother’s side of the family were Rasnovs, generations back, hence the Boyar Musat-Rasnov thing, and why she stays there a lot. Bunica used to teach me Romanian words when I was little.’

  Silas was gigging. ‘Booze-knicker?’

  ‘No, Silas, Bunica. It’s Romanian for grandmother.’

  ‘Makes sense to me,’ James said. ‘My grandma was once done for nicking gin.’

  ‘Yes, alright, boys,’ Archer tutted. ‘It’s just another language.’

  ‘At least you know who your grandmothers were,’ Silas said, resting his chin back on his hands and pouting until Archer swiped his fingers through his hair and kissed him.

  Thinking it best to return to
the subject, James said, ‘So, Smith said he’d failed. You reckon he knew the train was going to crash? Was there someone on it he wanted to assassinate?’

  Archer laughed. ‘Calm down, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘For someone so bright, you’re being extremely dim. For a start, there are cleaner ways to kill someone. Secondly, the order of the Protectorul regalității Râșnov has not been active in centuries, so his inked skin is probably only for decoration. Thirdly, why put himself at risk by, somehow, crashing the very train he was riding in? And how?’

  Silas and Archer looked at James with smirks on their faces.

  ‘Yeah, alright,’ James conceded, mildly irked. ‘But why get yourself painted with something obsolete?’

  ‘Probably a family thing,’ Archer reasoned. ‘Keeping history alive, the same as my honorary Boyar title.’ He tapped the arms of his chair. ‘Anyway… It looks like both patients will sleep through until morning. I don’t know about you, but I am going to have supper, a bath and an early night.’

  ‘And I must go and see the boy,’ James said, standing. ‘Any news on his family?’

  Archer shook his head. ‘Everyone is accounted for apart from our two guests,’ he said. ‘It looks like the boy was travelling alone, or his parents are among the dead, poor thing. If you’re going up there, Jimmy, find out as much as you can. Mrs Baker said he had nothing on him apart from a few shillings. If he had luggage, it perished in the fire.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’ Turning to Silas, James said, ‘I’ll be back later so you can get to bed.’

  ‘Happy to stay here,’ Silas offered. ‘Someone’s got to be around in case Smith wakes up, and I want to ask him about his tattoo.’

  ‘There is a book about the Protectorul Order in the library if you’re interested.’ Archer yawned and peeked into the second bedroom. ‘I doubt you’ll hear from him until morning.’

  ‘Shall I see to you before I go upstairs, Sir?’

  ‘No, Jimmy. You do what you have to do. The delightful Mr Saddle is waiting for me. And you, Mr Hawkins, don’t stay up too late.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’ Silas poked his tongue out and ducked a playful swipe as Archer and James left.

  Alone, he prepared himself for a restless night keeping watch over the injured. It might have been the breeze that hissed about the casements, or the unexpected cracks from the fire-logs, perhaps because he was suddenly alone, but he was far from easy. His mind was drawn back to the image on Smith’s back, and combined with Archer’s words, ‘A Rasnov assassin,’ they made him nervous. It shouldn’t have mattered, not if the order was no longer operating, and yet it did. Only that morning, Archer had been awake and worrying about Quill. Now Silas knew how he felt. It might not be Quill, but some kind of trouble was out there in the dark, approaching stealthily across the moors. Something told him it was already with them in the house, and its name was Smith.

  James was unused to the female corridor on the servants’ floor, but Mrs Baker had given him permission, and the maids knew he would be there. All the same, he knocked loudly and called before he stuck his head around the door. The empty corridor was a direct reflection of the men’s quarters he had just walked through, except here, the names in the placeholders belonged to the girls. He knocked and waited to be called in before entering Lucy’s room where the maid sat reading a magazine.

  The boy was sitting up in bed, also reading, and apart from a dressed cut on his head, showed no signs of having been in an accident.

  Lucy stood as soon as James entered, and the boy put down his book.

  ‘He’s been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Wright,’ Lucy said with her usual polite charm before addressing the boy. ‘This is the man who saved you.’

  ‘Actually, all I did was help Mr Andrej get you out of the wreckage,’ James explained. ‘Then carry you to the doctor. How are you?’

  The boy simply smiled.

  ‘He doesn’t say much,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s been asking for you, but that’s it.’

  ‘Shy or shocked?’ James sat at the end of the bed.

  ‘Both, perhaps. Excuse me, Mr Wright…?’ Lucy was hovering by the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you mind if I nipped downstairs? Sally’s forgotten to bring me a tray, and I’m starving.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ James waved her from the room, saying, ‘I’ll be here until you get back.’

  Once they were alone, he studied the lad. The boy had a serious, downturned mouth, but an expectant enthusiasm in his tree-bark eyes which were highlighted by a pale complexion. The ears were at right angles to his face in the way that Thomas’ were, and James found them just as adorable, though for a completely different reason. On Thomas, they were alluring; on the lad, they were comical. His hair was reddish brown and cut in a short back and sides reminiscent of an army man.

  ‘Hello,’ James said, putting on what he thought was an older-brother kind of smile. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Why am I wearing these?’ the boy asked. He was well-spoken with a hint of an Irish accent and was pulling at his pyjama top. ‘Who’s A R?’

  ‘Tell me your name, and I’ll tell you his,’ James countered.

  ‘Who are you, Sir?’

  ‘I’m the one you wanted to see. I just said.’

  ‘Your name, silly.’

  The lad was confident, but covering it with mistrust.

  ‘Well…’ James moved up the bed a little and tucked up one leg to appear informal. In fact, he was unused to conversations with young people. His sister, now fourteen, was the only younger person he socialised with, and then, only when she deigned him worthy of her company. ‘Most people in the house have to call me Mr Wright because that’s my proper name, and I am his Lordship’s valet. But you, you can call me James if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ the boy beamed.

  ‘And you are…?’

  The enthusiasm in the boy’s eyes turned temporarily to concern and darted about the room, finally settling on his hands which he clasped together in his lap on top of the covers.

  ‘Jerry,’ he said.

  ‘Jerry what?’

  ‘O’Sullivan, Sir.’

  ‘Do you not want to call me James, Jerry?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. Habits.’

  He was a strange lad, but now that he had engaged, an affable one.

  ‘Habits?’

  The concern returned to the lad’s face, but he shrugged it away and pulled at the pyjama jacket again.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ James said. ‘Did anyone explain where you are?’ The boy nodded. ‘And did they say what happened?’ The boy wagged his head from side to side. ‘Just some of it, eh?’ A nod. ‘Well, you are at Larkspur Hall, home of Lord Clearwater, and you are a very special young man.’

  ‘All the others are dead, Sir?’

  The question’s directness took James by surprise and, at first, he wasn’t sure how to answer.

  ‘Who were you travelling with?’ he asked, thinking it best to be cautions.

  ‘No-one.’

  ‘No-one? How old are you, Jerry?’

  ‘Nine, Sir. Last December.’

  ‘And you were travelling alone?’

  ‘Yes. But that’s all I remember.’

  The boy had banged his head and had been through a horrific experience. James decided to return to his questioning later.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Well, the train crashed, and you ended up under the last car. You’ve had a bit of a bashing. My friend, the big, blond man… Do you remember him?’ Jerry shook his head. ‘Well, he found you first, and then I picked you up and took you to the doctor. There’s nothing broken or damaged, apart from that cut.’ He tapped the side of his own head, and Jerry felt the injury on his temple. ‘But you have to stay in bed for a while. The doctor
ordered that, so we have to do what he says, correct?’ Jerry nodded, now listening attentively. ‘We brought you here because no-one down there knew who you were, and there wasn’t anything on you to tell us who you belonged to.’

  ‘So why A and R?’

  The lad cut through the gentility and came straight to the chase.

  ‘Because, before he became Lord Clearwater, his name was Archer Riddington, and those were his pyjamas when he was young.’

  He didn’t explain that Archer’s mother had kept most of Archer’s childhood clothes in trunks in the attics all these years. It was, Archer had said, one of her more disturbing traits; to hold on to everything from her children’s past in an attempt to halt her own ageing, something neither James nor Archer understood.

  ‘They are made of silk,’ James said. ‘Which makes you a very special young man indeed. ‘Where do you live?’ The tacked-on question was intended to catch the boy off guard. James was convinced he was not telling the whole truth.

  The boy thought for a moment and appeared to be trying very hard to recall the facts, and for a moment, it seemed he genuinely couldn’t remember.

  ‘I am not sure,’ Jerry said. ‘Sorry. What will happen to me?’

  ‘Now that’s a good question, and to be honest with you, I don’t rightly know. But, tonight, you are to sleep up here where that nice lady, Lucy, can look after you. Tomorrow, I expect you will meet His Lordship, and he will decide. Maybe the police will have found out something about you by then.’

  ‘Police?’

  Jerry’s concern, until them only appearing in brief moments, was intense. It stayed on his face until James calmed him.

  ‘You’re not in trouble,’ he said. ‘But we do need to find out who you belong to. Your parents must be very worried.’

  Jerry said nothing, just yawned.

  ‘You need to get to sleep,’ James said. ‘It is getting late, and you have had a horrible day.’

  ‘Will you stay with me, Sir?’