Volume II
Nettlefield
22nd August 1854
My dear Topper,
I hear tell you are bound for Sevastopol, which I understand gets ferociously cold in winter so I enclose with this letter some socks. Well, a sock. More of a tube really, as I had no idea how to make the heel. But it is in a very manly shade of lavender and I hope you can find a use for it. Now I consider the artefact in question, it crosses my mind I may be some kind of hitherto unrecognised genius for it occurs to me that it could provide valuable insulation for a particular and intimate region. I think I shall call it the Gentleman’s Muff, it will come in a range of tasteful colours to suit all tastes and inclinations, and perhaps I shall not have to marry an heiress after all.
The Season has come to its close and I am at last released from social bondage to be myself again. I think I may seize my freedom and escape to Cambridge to see our brother. I have barely spoken to him since the Regatta, which I think he only attended to please me in the first place, and I am half-convinced he has not left a library in the last year. He grows paler than aghost, though he does not seem discontent. But then, he never does, does he? I cannot tell if that is his curse or his blessing, while we rail foolishly and flutter our wings like sparrows on birdlime.
The marquess, as usual, is not best pleased with me, for I made something of a spectacle of myself at Lady Cavendish’s fancy dress ball and some of the details got into the scandal rags and, really, far too much has been made of the matter. It could have happened to anyone. You see, our father made the profound strategic error of leaving the matter of my attire in my own hands, which was such an unprecedented degree of liberty that it quite went to my head and, well, the long and the short of it is, that I resolved to attend dressed as a crocodile. A feat that required an extraordinary unification ’twixt tailoring and engineering. History in the making, old boy, history in the making. And, honestly, it gave me more to think about than the rest of the Season taken end to end. Since His Lordship does not permit me to distract myself with painting, I confess I sometimes fear some kind of private, soul-deep atrophy but my dear crocodile awakened me like Galatea. I had such tremendous fun. I only wish you could have been there.
The ball was much as any other. They all said I was terribly original, but with that edge of censure in their voices. The marquess was furious, naturally, but there was nothing he could do about it, not unless he wanted to shout between my teeth. It made me wish I could wear a crocodile suit every day. Eventually, he calmed down sufficiently to introduce me to some nabob’s daughter which was, of course, the whole point of the evening. It is quite abominable of me, butI cannot recall her name, only that she was wearing a vast, pink concoction, with more tiers than our hostess’s chandeliers and as frighteningly wobblesome as a poorly prepared blancmange. The newspapers later reported that it had no fewer than, oh I don’t know, eighty-seven thousand real diamonds sewn into it. Completely lost for what to say to her other than “argh my eyes, my poor eyes,” I asked about her costume. She suggested I guess and, not wanting to respond with “you have come dressed as a monstrosity,” I went with Marie Antoinette, which turned out not to be too far wrong, as she explained she was (wait for it, old boy) a shepherdess. I then enquired if she herded golden fleece, a remark which endeared me to neither our father nor hers. At this point, there was little left for our families to do but glare at each other in silence. Given my crocodile (oh brave crocodile, crocodile the saviour) I was in no position to ask her to dance but, desperate for any escape route, I offered to bring her some lemonade.
This would, I am sure, have been terribly gallant of me but, in the awkwardness, I had quite forgotten my tail. It had been quite the trickiest part of the whole operation, after the mouth, and I had been forced to rely on the reinforcement provided by a light steel girder. I had the misfortune to catch the young lady shepherdess behind the knees and she had the misfortune to topple into the champagne fountain. Of course, being a gentlemanly crocodile, I tried to go to her aid, but crocodiles do not flourish upon highly polished marble floors, so I went in also, taking with me two footmen and a dowager.
You see. It is as I said: it could have happened to anyone.
I am, once again, unworthy of the Montrose name, a blot on the escutcheon, a worthless son and a less than worthless heir. But Cambridge will hold out her golden arms and welcome me. And I will paint, I will paint until my heart is the blank canvas. Come home soon, George, come home safely. I miss you, and the world is waiting. As is your pretty Rosa with her summer golden hair. Do not, please do not, you absolutely must not, fall upon some distant battlefield to sate our father’s damnable pride. Live, dear brother, and I will too. We will both learn to live.
I remain your loving brother,
E.
Chapter 8
It took them two days, at an easy pace and stopping often to change horses, to travel from London to Oxfordshire. Micha had not known the luxury of a private carriage since his time with Isidore, but his strength was not what it had been and he spent most of the journey sleeping fitfully. Sometimes he would rouse to find himself braced against Thomas, tucked against his arm, or—on one particularly unfortunate occasion—half in his lap, while one of Thomas’s pale gentleman’s hands had moved almost absently through Micha’s tousled hair.
Micha had seen very little of Thomas in the handful of days preceding their journey. Not enough to miss him—because why would he?—but enough to feel his absence, in spite of what he had read in the journal. And that made no sense at all. Micha half-suspected Thomas had to be a servant of the devil, rather than the Lord, since knowing what he did of Thomas’s intentions and distinctly profane desires had made less of a difference than Micha would have hoped. Some part of him still wanted to respond to Thomas’s warmth, the mischief in his smile, the concern in his voice. In short, to the lies. But then, who knew better than an opium addict just how worthless truth could be?
Maintaining his supply of laudanum had, in fact, been Micha’s dominating concern. There would likely be a druggist in, or near to, Nettlefield, but getting through the journey was a problem in and of itself. He used laudanum more than he had ever smoked opium, but previously his intake had always been controlled by his finances. Now,tucked safely away inside his coat was more money than he had ever held before in his life. The idea of using it nauseated him, but the idea of going without laudanum hurt him still more. It was no longer even a matter of pleasure. He was merely staving off the misery of going without. But, like so many other things, it mattered little. Micha had no reason to think life would be any better without laudanum than with it. And, if nothing else, it deadened pain and kept the tigers of memory at bay. For travelling made him think too easily of Isidore. How wide the world had seemed at Isidore’s side. And now its horizon was Micha’s own flesh. He dosed himself heavily each morning and let the two days slip away in a dull haze of drifting thoughts and bodily weakness.
“Micha?” Thomas’s voice stirred him at last.
“Mm?”
“We’re here.”
“Oh. Right. Right.” Micha shook himself and tried to ease the stiffness from his limbs as the carriage door was opened by the coachman. Darkness washed in from outside, and silence as deep and thick as a blanket.
Shaking off Thomas’s assisting hand, Micha stepped down, the crunch of his boots on gravel resounding in his ears. Shadowy gardens lay all round him and, in the distance, the inky silhouette of a church tower. He could just about make out the curve of a hill, leading into a speckle of golden light from the village below.
Thomas had disembarked behind him and was giving quiet instructions for the unloading of their meagre luggage. Micha, meanwhile, turned a slow circle. Thomas’s home, what little he could see of it, suggested Georgian symmetry, all canted bay windows and gabled parapets. It felt suddenly quite impossible that he was here.
He drew in a breath of the crisp, cold air, and it felt like the first breath he had ever taken. His heart was thudding hard, as if the cage of his chest had expanded to let it truly beat. He took a few steps into the darkness, and it embraced him like silk. His soul expanded into the vast and beautiful emptiness of the universe like it did after a pipe of opium,but here there were no urban geometries to shape and limit him. He tipped back his head to see a sky infinitely black and full of stars. Silver burned his eyes like tears.
He lost track of how long he stood there.
Then came a light touch on his arm, just below his elbow.
“Micha? Would you like to come inside?” In this softer, wider, more lovely world, Thomas’s voice was honey-sweet.
“Look at the sky.”
“Pardon? Oh ... er. The sky?” Thomas, obliging as ever, glanced up.
“The stars look like someone spilled them.”
