Dr Mereweather arrived mid-morning. He appeared more tanned than Julian remembered, nodding absently to Scott and himself, as he listened to the précis Cross presented of the case. He rapped sharply at Pip’s door and entered to examine his patient.
Cross sat on the sofa next to Julian. “Mereweather’s the best at what he does. No one better when it comes to disease of the chest.”
Julian glanced at him. Did Cross seek to reassure him or himself? “Is this because of last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“If he’d slept properly, would Father have needed a doctor now?”
Cross nodded. “Perhaps not today, but no doubt soon. That’s the primary reason we’re here. To get Mereweather’s opinion.”
Julian dug his fingers into the cushion fabric. If he hadn’t followed the cat into the city and stayed behind like he’d been supposed to, none of this would be happening.
The door handle of Pip’s room opened. Julian saw Cross tense out of the corner of his eye.
Dr Mereweather stepped out the door, carefully closing it behind him. “You did the right thing calling me.”
“Then…” Cross paused, as if bracing himself to say the word.
“Consumption,” Mereweather confirmed. “The early stages. I am confident that with proper treatment, we can effect a cure. However, that will mean a stay in my sanatorium in Nice.”
Cross nodded, standing. “I will make the necessary travel arrangements at once.”
“There’s more.” Mereweather did not raise his voice, but something in his quiet tones commanded attention. He waited until they were all looking at him. “To curtail the spread of the disease and to give Mr Leighton the best chance of recovery, I suggest that you place his care entirely in my hands. I have put the case to Mr Leighton, and he has agreed. He will travel to Nice alone.”
As if they would abandon Pip! Julian opened his mouth indignantly. “We’re not leaving him!”
Cross placed a hand on his shoulder. “Surely the presence of his family would be a comfort to Mr Leighton?”
Dr Mereweather’s smile was thin. “Mr Leighton’s fondness for his friends and family may well lead him to exert himself to put on a brave face and obscure his true condition. Alone with me, there is no need for pretence.”
Julian felt like he had the time he’d taken a rugby ball full in his stomach. His mouth hung open, but he could not speak. This blow was all the harder for being so completely unexpected.
“But we need him here.” Scott winced as he found himself the centre of attention. “I mean, dash it all—who else can advise Dawson?”
“Dawson?” Mereweather asked.
“An acquaintance who is currently experiencing some hardship,” Cross said. “Scott is naturally anxious to support his friend at such at time.”
“Mr Leighton’s the only person I can think of who might possibly be able to help him,” Scott said. “The situation is urgent.”
“So is Mr Leighton’s condition.” Mereweather pulled on his coat and gloves. “I must insist that my patient is not worried. The consequences could be disastrous.” He turned again to Cross. “I should like to leave at once.”
“Today?” Julian wrapped his hands around himself.
Cross’s voice was gentle. “The earlier his treatment starts, the better.”
Mereweather looked at Julian. His customary distance faded and he smiled, a strange sad smile. “You care a lot about your father. Well, I promise you he will have the very best of care. Dr Harris and I will do everything we can to have him back to you as soon as possible.”
“Can I go with him? I promise not to worry him.”
Mereweather shook his head. “The sanatorium is for patients only.”
Julian’s shoulders sagged. He ignored every admonition he received about walking in the rain, going out in the cold or staying up late at night, and never got sick. He had no chance of following Pip.
“The blue train leaves at eleven tonight,” Scott said. “If Mr Leighton is to go as soon as possible, he’ll need tickets. Allow me?”
The incongruity of the offer jarred. They were so close to the station that acquiring tickets was no difficulty at all. No, Scott had a different errand in mind. Julian looked to Cross, wondering what he made of the tutor’s request.
He merely bowed his head. “If you would be so kind. I’ll see to his luggage.” As Scott disappeared out the door, Cross rang for the hotel staff. “Is there anything else we must consider, Doctor?”
As Mereweather and Cross discussed arrangements, Julian heard bedsprings creak, followed by rustling cloth. Pip, rising? He stole from the drawing room.
Pip had drawn a robe over top of his nightshirt—a ratty garment he was inordinately fond of—and now sat on the edge of his bed looking out the window. He smiled wanly as he saw Julian. “I suppose Mereweather’s told you? I’m to be his guest for the next little while.”
“I don’t want you to go.” Julian leaned his head against Pip’s shoulder. “You should be here, with me and Lord Cross.”
“Believe me, there is nothing I would like more. But you don’t argue with a doctor like Mereweather. Not at his prices, at any rate.” Pip patted Julian on the back. “Chin up, old fellow. You’ll have a grand old time with Thomas and Scott in Paris. You’ll scarcely miss me.”
Julian frowned at Pip. He couldn’t possibly think that was true.
“Listen to Scott and obey Lord Cross. I want you to be on your best behaviour—your very best behaviour for them. Understood?” Pip looked sternly at him. “I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
Julian felt as though he’d swallowed a knife. An ache settled in the pit of his stomach. “I understand.” His fault.
9
Only the knowledge that well-brought up young gentlemen did not howl kept Julian silent as the Blue train to Calais pulled out of the Gare du Nord. He could not see Pip or Mereweather, nor catch their scent from the handkerchiefs waved from train windows as the engine pulled away from the platform. The moment Pip stepped through the doors into the belly of the train he was gone as completely as if he’d been swallowed up. Julian said nothing, but his heart grieved.
He did not sleep that night so much as toss. The blankets weighed interminably, but he resisted the urge to trample them. His dreams were scattered, vague and uncertain. He could not be certain that he slept at all.
Someone tapped at the window. Was it the window? There were footsteps outside his door, whispers at the end of the hallway. Julian let the sound wash over him. This was worse, even, than that first night at school, lying awake in the dormitory, listening to the other boys sleep, and knowing that Foxwood Court and his fathers were a whole term away.
He did not know when Pip was coming back. If he was coming back. Was this what he and Cross had talked about when they mentioned going away? If he never came back, where did that leave Julian?
A brisk rapping on his door. “No time to waste. The sooner we start your lessons, the sooner we can end them,” Scott said.
Julian blinked. When had morning happened? He sat up, frowning at the sun streaming through the gap in his curtains. “End my lessons?”
“I would like to finish sometime today. Early bird, worms, you know the rest.” Scott’s footsteps faded away.
Julian got up, mechanically going to stand at the wash basin. A quick splash and he began the lengthy process of dressing. As he smoothed down shirt sleeves and buttoned cuffs, Julian wondered again why this was so necessary. ‘Clothes make the man,’ Pip often told him. Julian held out his arms critically. What sort of person did the grey suit make? Would he be a different person if the suit were blue? It was a mystery—and one he was not likely to solve, not with Pip in Nice.
Julian paused.
Dawson’s trousers and jackets did not always match, and he was careless with his ties. The last time they’d seen him, he’d worn a neckerchief instead of a tie. And instead of sending him to his bedroom to change,
no one, not Scott, not Pip, not Cross, had even remarked on it.
Julian eyed his reflection. It was worth a try.
“There you are. I hope you’re not going to take as long over breakfast as you—” Scott paused, cocking his head as he surveyed Julian. “What on earth are you wearing?”
Julian considered his options. ‘Clothes’ was the obvious response, but Scott could see that. “A suit.”
“Around your neck. Did you misplace your tie?”
“I did not. It’s in my wardrobe.”
Scott’s eyebrows raised. “So, this is deliberate? Go and put your tie on before Lord Cross sees you and thinks I condoned this!”
Julian’s shoulders drooped.
Cross stepped through the door of his bedroom. “Before I see what?” He looked paler than usual, his eyes bloodshot. He raised an eyebrow as he took in Julian’s appearance. “Is this a form of protest?”
Why was this so difficult? “I wanted to try something different.” Julian resisted the urge to tug at his improvised neckerchief.
Scott snorted. “You succeeded.”
Cross gave him a stern look. “What is behind this…desire for change?”
Julian nudged the nearest chair with his foot. “Dawson sometimes doesn’t wear a tie. I thought…” How to confess his thoughts without revealing his inability to grasp clothing?
“Ah.” Cross eyed him benignly. “Dawson, is it?” He picked up the newspaper from the table and took it to his preferred armchair. “I think you’ll find that Dawson only wears a handkerchief round his neck when he plans on painting outside. He also doesn’t adopt quite a, shall we say, well-used a handkerchief as you have.”
Julian tugged the handkerchief off. “It was the first I found.”
“Stick to a tie for the time being,” Cross advised. “No, don’t go yet. I’d like to talk to you.” He nodded to Scott over Julian’s head. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
His tutor looked at him with a strange expression. “I’ll get things ready to start our lessons.”
Julian sat on the edge of his chair. Cross saying he wanted to talk to him was the equivalent of the headmaster saying he would see him in his study. He placed his palms flat on his knees and did his best to keep his expression neutral. Had Cross realised that it was his fault Pip was sick? Was he to be sent away—or even worse, sent to school?
“What is your opinion of Mr Dawson?” Cross tugged his beard.
Julian considered the question carefully. “He’s a good artist.”
“As a person.”
Julian frowned. “He doesn’t mind if you talk to him and he doesn’t mind if you just sit there while he works. He doesn’t mind a lot of things.”
Cross coughed. “Do you like him?”
Julian nodded. “He goes for good walks. And he helped me take care of the injured seal and didn’t tell Mr Scott what I was doing even though he probably should have.”
Cross raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. I gather we didn’t get the full story of your Scottish holiday.”
Julian decided it was safer not to reply to that.
Cross reached out, patting him on the shoulder. “I seem to remember you came back from Armadale with a scrawl or two.”
“My sketches, you mean? Dawson taught me that.”
Cross nodded. “Fetch your sketchbook. I’d like to look at them again.”
Julian obediently retrieved his sketchbook.
“No one can say that you aren’t in need of instruction,” Cross said, flipping through the pages. “I wonder…”
Scott rapped at the door. “May I intrude?” On receiving permission, he entered, tugging at his tie. “I don’t know quite how to put this. It appears that a mistake was made when we saw Mr Leighton off last night.”
Cross looked up from Julian’s sketches. “That does not sound promising.”
“No.” Scott licked his lips. Even people who knew him well were nervous in Cross’s presence. “Did you notice the trunk containing Julian’s study materials and my spare clothes was very similar to the trunk that carried Mr Leighton’s collection of books?”
“I begin to have a premonition.” Cross closed the sketchbook and handed it back to Julian. “The wrong trunk went to Nice?”
Scott swallowed. “Yes. I’m afraid—”
“We shall have to do our best with what is available. Since you have no textbooks, you must improvise.” Cross returned to his newspaper.
Julian turned his sketchbook over in his hands. “How do you improvise?”
“A resourceful fellow like Scott will think of something,” Cross continued. “Perhaps the two of you might like to take your books to the Bois du Boulogne and combine a study of the city with some light reading.”
“Of Father’s books?” Julian studied Cross.
“We don’t have anything else to read,” Scott said. “Come along and change your tie. I’ve got a jolly good idea where we can begin your Parisian education.”
The starting point of Julian’s continued education turned out to be Dawson’s godmother’s hotel. Mrs Octavia Fortescue and her husband occupied a suite of rooms rather less grand than Cross’s choice, but perfectly serviceable. Judging from the heady atmosphere of perfume and paint, they’d been there some time.
Julian’s nose twitched. Octavia’s perfume was so strong, in fact, that he had a hard time smelling anything else. The effect was stupefying. He accepted the cup of tea offered him automatically, only remembering his thank you when Scott nudged him.
Octavia snorted. She was a small, stout woman with wrinkled hands and long fingernails curved like claws. She wore glasses with coloured lenses that obscured her eyes, and rings with big, thick gemstones. “Friends of Francis?” she said as she poured tea for herself and her husband. “I am astonished. I wasn’t aware he knew anyone who didn’t smell of turpentine and paint.”
Her husband Max tugged his moustache. It was magnificent, thick and bushy, like a well-groomed terrier. “Charmed. Aren’t we, Octavia? Very pleased.”
Julian stared at it, fascinated. What would happen to the moustache when Max drank?
“After all that I’ve heard about you, it is delightful to make your acquaintance at last,” Scott said. “Frank didn’t happen to mention where he was painting today?”
Octavia’s mouth twitched. “You appear to be very anxious to find my godson. That’s the second time you’ve asked where you might find him.”
“Was it?” Scott said with a carelessness that was very convincing. “I apologise. I suppose I’m a bit preoccupied.”
“You’re the chap who took his paintings.” Max glowered. “No good bringing them back. We don’t want them.”
“I don’t want to return them,” Scott protested. “I just want to talk to him about—” His eyes fell on Julian. “A possible sketching lesson for my pupil.”
Julian kept his smirk to himself. He’d suspected as much.
“You paint then?” Octavia turned to Julian.
Julian shrugged. “I’ve been told I have to master drawing things first.”
“Is that your sketchbook? Show me.”
His sketchbook was getting a proper workout today. Julian passed it over.
Octavia didn’t comment like Cross did. She just looked. What she saw seemed to decide her. “Francis mentioned that he was going to the Maison de l’Art Nouveau. If I know him, he’ll still be there.”
Scott put down his cup of tea. “Much obliged. Come Julian, we can’t intrude on the kindness of our hosts any longer.”
They’d not even had their tea. Julian’s stomach growled as he stood, looking mournfully at the plate of sandwiches.
Octavia held out his sketchbook to him. As she did, Julian caught a scent underneath the heavy perfume, unexpected and at the same time, familiar. He looked up quickly.
Octavia caught his gaze. She deliberately removed her eyeglasses, polishing them on her shawl. “You’ll have to come back again and visit when Francis is here.”
Julian wasn’t sure what he said in farewell. Octavia’s eyes were a tawny yellow, the same shade as a hawk’s rather than a person’s.
Eyes like his.
10
“Well?” Dawson was not living up to his antisocial reputation. He had not seemed surprised when Scott accosted him at the gallery and had taken the suggestion that they retire to a café without demur.
“Nothing yet. But it’s early days yet. Unfortunately, we’ve had a setback. Leighton—”
Julian narrowed his eyes. Was this really Dawson? He had Dawson’s voice, his mannerisms aside from a slightly jerkiness to his movements, and his shape—but shape didn’t always tell the full story. Pretending to reach for another slice of bread, he leaned over, breathing in Dawson’s smell. No, there was no duplicating that combination of tobacco, hair wax and turpentine—turpentine?
“I thought you said you weren’t going to paint.”
Dawson and Scott both turned to him.
Scott heaved a sigh. “And he hasn’t. Didn’t you just hear Frank say he hasn’t picked up a paintbrush since we last saw him painting?”
“I have to admit that the itch was getting pretty unbearable,” Dawson said. “I’m used to working. But I woke up this morning with the most curious sense of calm.”
“There. My cure is already taking effect. I propose we continue it—by hiring a carriage and visiting the Bois du Boulogne.” Scott nodded as if the entire thing was decided. “I’ll settle our bill.”
Julian watched him. Scott was happiest when he was doing three things at once, but this seemed different from his usual drive to organise everyone and everything. Despite the deep shadows around his eyes, his gaze sparkled, particularly whenever he looked at Dawson.
Julian transferred his gaze to the artist. He still looked pale, but there was a restfulness to him that had been absent two days ago. He watched Scott talk to the waiter, a smile playing around his thin lips. His hands, usually busy with his moustache or his pipe, were still.
The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 5