It didn’t arise because he saw nobody he knew, and in particular, he did not see John Martin.
He hadn’t expected immediate success, of course, but it was still a disheartening and exhausting day that made him aware he was seeking not just a needle in a haystack, but one with the power of movement. He wanted nothing more than a hot, deep bath to rest his aching feet, and if he were going home to Staplow, Waters would have one waiting ready for him. He put that thought out of his mind and made his way to probably the eighth and definitely the last inn of the day, the White Hart on the Birmingham Road.
It was busy. He would have to wait for a quiet moment to speak to the ostlers; in the meantime he went inside and attempted to command a room.
The landlord cast an unimpressed glance over him. ‘I might have a bed. Sit you down with a mug of ale and I’ll see. Saloon bar’s over there.’
The Duke didn’t want to sit down with a mug of ale: he wanted to be conducted to a comfortable room without delay. He murmured thanks anyway, wondering if he was being polite or merely weak, and went through to the saloon bar.
It was occupied by a man, who sat opposite a woman wearing a quite remarkable bonnet. He was staring intently at her, and had a sheet of paper with a black patch at its centre in his hands. She was turned sideways to him, clearly posing. The Duke said, ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ the man said without looking at him. ‘Have a seat. Mine hostess will be free to attend to you in just a few moments.’
‘I am having my likeness taken,’ the lady added, casting the Duke a glance and a smile. Clearly she was the landlady; she wore an ordinary day-dress with what looked like her Sunday-best hat. The man was cutting her profile, the Duke realised. He had never seen one done before, only the results. He hesitated, interested but unwilling to intrude.
‘You are welcome to observe,’ the shade-cutter said, still without looking.
The Duke moved closer, and watched with fascination. The shade-cutter had a pair of tiny scissors which he seemed to be holding very still as he snipped, instead moving the paper into the jaws of the blades in a slow but almost continuous turning motion. The scissors cut smooth, confident curves, paring the blackened paper so that the extra material fell away and the landlady’s outline emerged, including the hat. It was a surprisingly quick process. The artist cut the remains of the paper surround free, and made a few additional snips. He took a rectangular card from a leather satchel, pasted the back of the profile from a little pot, placedit neatly on the card, and presented it to the landlady with a bow.
‘Well!’ she said, delighted. ‘Well, good heavens, look at me. See, sir!’
The Duke examined it, looking back and forth between paper and woman. It was a striking likeness, considering it was simply an outline without depth or detail. The artist had been kind to her jawline, and somehow managed to convey a curve to her mouth that radiated the woman’s obvious good humour.
‘That is quite delightful,’ the Duke said. ‘You have remarkable skill, sir.’
The cutter glanced up at him with a glowing flash of a smile. ‘Why, thank you. And thankyou, Mrs Sturridge. Will your good man be having a likeness too?’
‘I can see all I want of him any day.’ She examined her profile again, beaming. ‘That’s worth a night’s lodging to me, and a meal too. And you, sir,’ she added to the Duke, ‘what may I bring you? Ale?’
He agreed reluctantly. A glass of wine would be preferable but he had already learned the unwisdom of ordering any such thing in an inn outside London. He took a seat, while the other man put away his paste-bottle and card.
The shade-cutter was a good-looking fellow with a cheerful sort of face, the kind that looked wrong without a smile. He had a fine pair of brown eyes, and his wavy hair combined bronze, copper and gold like a handful of coins: no silver there yet. His coat gave the impression he’d worn it for rather too long, and that impression was carried through into the rest of his dress, which was well used to the point of shabby. He looked like a pleasant gentleman, but down on his luck.
He also seemed vaguely familiar, especially the bright glinting hair. The Duke had a panicked moment wondering if he was an acquaintance, perhaps someone met in London – but no, not with that sadly worn coat, and in any case this was a professional profile-cutter and he’d never sat for a profile, even to an amateur. No, he couldn’t place the fellow, but all the same, exasperatingly, he was sure he knew him.
The man glanced up, catching the Duke in the act of scrutiny. ‘Unlike the dancing bear, you may observe me at no charge. Or may I serve you? Would you care to have your profile taken?’
‘Thank you, no. No, I was merely . . . I beg your pardon, but are we acquainted?’ the Duke said recklessly. ‘You look very familiar.’
‘Do I? I can’t say the same, I’m afraid.’
That was unsurprising: the Duke knew himself to be entirely forgettable. That was currently a good thing, just as it was good that the shade-cutter wasn’t trying to pin down where they might have met, even if it seemed a rather unfriendly response from a man with a friendly face.
‘Perhaps I was mistaken,’ the Duke said. ‘I beg your pardon. My name is—’ He bitSevernback, reminding himself that he’d settled on his favourite of his many names, one he never got to use. ‘Cassian.’
‘Good day to you, Mr Cassian. Charnage.’
‘Charnage?’ the Duke said. ‘DaisyCharnage?’
He saw Charnage’s smile die, his lips staying curved but without any happiness behind the expression. ‘Daizell, if you please, and yes, the same. I dare say you have had a long, tiring day if you are travelling, so I won’t disturb you.’ He reached into his satchel and took out a book.
The landlady returned at that point with two tankards of ale. The Duke took his with a word of thanks, mind racing.
Daizell Charnage, the bizarre first name pronounced to rhyme with ‘hazel’, usually shortened to Daisy at school. The Duke had been two years behind him at Eton, a fact he was quite sure Charnage wouldn’t remember since he had been just another small boy and a particularly unimpressive one at that. Titled, yes, but many of their peers were peers: Charnage himself was a connexion of the Marquess of Sellingstowe, albeit no longer acknowledged as such. There was no reason he would recognise the Duke.
There were a number of reasons the Duke should have recognised him, and refrained from conversation accordingly.
His name had not been mud during most of the Duke’s school career. In fact, Daizell Charnage had been a highly popular boy. He’d been expelled, granted, but only for running a gambling ring, which was doubtless very bad, but from a schoolboy’s perspective had felt trivial compared to the unpunished cruelty of many of the older boys. The Duke remembered him as that schoolboy might: a glowing, laughing young trickster, to be hopelessly admired from a safe distance.
