Labyrinth Gate (41 page)

“I’ve had no time to check,” said Maretha, “but I suppose that my father’s journals and all my notes and catalogs were taken as well.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, a little stiffly, as if compassion did not come easily to him.

Maretha shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My father’s theories were basically wrong, and in any case, I can read the hieroglyphs now. I’ll simply come back next year, if we aren’t all dead by then.”

“Dead?”

She met his gaze. “I mean, my lord, that I intend to stop the Regent. If she is as powerful a mage as I have heard it rumored, I don’t know if I will be able to.”

“There is no doubt that you have the power. It is the mastery of it that you lack.”

“Well then,” she replied, “I will have to do what I can. It can hardly matter to you if I die trying.” She waited, staring at him until he looked away. Then, as if the victory had been hollow, she sighed and frowned. “And I have to do
something
with Charity before we can leave.”

The earl had moved to stand by his table, where his papers and books lay as neatly as they ever had, the only objects in the camp not ransacked. “Isn’t it usual in such cases to have the—sinning parties marry?”

“But he’s a common laborer!” She paused. “You don’t suppose,” she said slowly, “that he’s the least bit ambitious. He seems so austere, so—I don’t know, so above such things. After all, if he married Charity, it would be a great step up in the world for him, and especially for his children.”

“One might well suppose it. Even clergymen have their vanities.”

“But he isn’t a clergyman.”

“He could be made one. I still have power enough, of position, at least, to do that much.” His voice was bitter, but he looked at her as he spoke. “But don’t be so foolish as to mistake it for a—a kindness, for Miss Farr or Southern. If you mean to meet the Regent, I cannot let you be burdened by such concerns.”

“You cannot let me …” Her voice trailed away in astonishment. She merely stared as he rummaged in one of his trunks, lifting out a coat, and in a few efficient minutes made himself more or less presentable. He was, she realized, vain of person—it would never have occurred to her before to ascribe any such human failings to him.

When he had done, he offered her his arm. “We shall go to see Miss Farr.”

Outside, they saw Kate, Julian, and Chryse standing in the entrance of Julian’s tent in intent conference with Mistress Cook. In Charity’s tent, it was dim. A tiny, bundled shape lay on Kate’s bed, stirring now and again in infant sleep. Charity lay on white sheets, her hair spread out around her head like a halo. She looked tired, but still beautiful. Thomas Southern sat in a plain wooden chair beside her, reading in a low voice a passage from an old, worn copy of the scriptures.

“‘Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I
am
desolate and afflicted. The troubles of my heart are enlarged;
O
bring thou me out of my distresses. Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins.’”

“‘Consider mine enemies,’” said the earl, “‘for they are many; and they hate me with cruel hatred.’”

Charity moved her head on her pillow, her eyes widening. Southern stopped reading and stood up.

“My lord,” he said. “My lady.” He inclined his head.

The earl escorted Maretha to a chair, returned to stand at the foot of the bed.

“I am not remotely interested,” he began in a cool voice, “in the particulars that led to this turn of events. But in the interest of Miss Farr, and for the sake of my wife’s peace of mind, I am prepared to settle a sizeable dowry on Miss Farr—” At this, Charity’s face lit with an expression of mingled hope and triumph. “—contingent on her marriage to Mr. Southern.”

Like an alchemical transmutation, Charity’s expression changed to shocked outrage, while Southern’s face took on the look hers had previously held.

He knelt beside her, grasping one of her hands in his. “It’s what we always wanted, my love.”

Charity was not even looking at him. “You must be mad! He’s a common laborer! I am a gentlewoman’s daughter.”

“Such dowry,” continued the earl, “to be used for the necessities of life and upkeep, and to provide the wherewithal to buy Mr. Southern an education and a position in the church. In which case, Miss Farr, you will not be married to a common laborer but a respectable clergyman.”

Southern was so stunned that he released Charity’s hand and stood up. “My … my lord!” he breathed.

“I take it your great wish is to become a minister in the church,” said the earl drily. “It is as well you have made some effort to educate yourself, because with your background you will not be easily accepted in such a position. However, if you are diligent, I feel sure you will succeed.”

“My lord,” said Southern, a little hoarse with emotion. “I do not deserve such a blessing, or such generosity.”

The earl examined him with a combination of skepticism, amusement, and straightforward appraisal. “I shall not even attempt to make
that
judgment.”

“I refuse,” said Charity. When everyone looked at her, she repeated it, louder. “I refuse. Completely. Maretha, surely you cannot expect me to marry him.”

“But Charity. How can you say that? Why else would you—” She faltered, blushed.

“It is my fault,” said Southern quickly. “I am weak. The sins of the flesh held too much temptation for me. I ruined you, Charity. It is only right that you let me bear the responsibility.”

The earl spoke before Charity could reply. “Ruined her? I think it more likely she ruined you. She was certainly no virgin when I met her last spring.”

The silence this statement produced was so profound that they could all hear the infant’s snuffling and panting on the other bed.

“Charity—” Maretha began.

“Very well,” said Charity in a tight voice entirely uncharacteristic of her. “I may as well admit that it is true. I don’t know how you found out.”

“Like recognizes like,” said the earl, cold and cryptic, “and unlike, as well. I have—had—certain gifts.”

“Charity—” Maretha shook her head, unable to go on. Southern was evidently too stunned to attempt speech.

Charity was quite pale, but her eyes bore the intensity of an old and deep anger. “Don’t think I wasn’t grateful for your and your father’s charity, Maretha. Lady, how I learned to hate that word—‘charity.’ Uncle always thought his sister was a saint, but the truth is my mother isn’t dead, as far as I know. She ran off with a discharged navy captain when I was fourteen, leaving me with Father, who for all I ever knew was not my father at all. At any rate, he had no compunction about using my beauty to make a living for himself. I must have been sold as a virgin ten or twelve times before Uncle traced us, and Father, thank the Lady, died in that carriage accident, and I came to live with you. I’m not proud of it. I meant to live cleanly and decently, but without any dowry at all what hope had I of a good marriage? I thought I might at least have some pleasure out of my life.” Her eyes strayed to Thomas Southern, who was, Maretha saw clearly, the kind of man who is most handsome when he is suffering. But there was a calculation in Charity’s eyes that Maretha had never seen there before, meek and gentle as she had always seemed at Farr House and throughout their travels, and it gave her cause to wonder.

“Why did you take the cup?” she asked.

Charity hesitated, came to a decision. “To buy a dowry for myself.”

“I wonder,” said the earl, “where you expected to sell such a thing, Miss Farr. Or how Colonel Whitmore came to suspect that you had it in your possession. And whether it was a struggle that sent you into labor, or the simple act of taking the cup—which is, indeed, a thing of magical value, and thus tends to act upon its possessors in ways they cannot necessarily predict.
”

“Wait a moment, my lord,” said Southern. “What are you accusing Miss Farr of?”

“Collusion. How do you think the Regent found us so easily?”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Maretha. “There were over one hundred laborers, a good half of whom were hired in Heffield.”

“Few of whom can write. And none but Mr. Southern knew our destination.”

“Is this true, Miss Farr?” said Southern in a stiff, distant voice.

“I told her nothing but unimportant things,” said Charity recklessly. “How was she to know the difference? She could have had us followed easily enough in any case. I never saw that that was any great secret. And she had a man amongst the laborers. I can’t remember his name—Tagmill, or something. I would give him messages.”

“Oh, Charity.” Maretha clutched the arms of her chair tight in her distress. “How could you have done it? It’s terrible.”

“So is poverty.” Charity’s voice was heavy with exhaustion, her face drawn and lined with it. “The treasure and a little information, and she would provide me with a dowry and the means to marry well. What other way had I to provide that security for myself, having no other resources? You would never have understood, Maretha. You always had your father’s work.”

“I would have helped you.”

“I suppose you would. I never meant to hurt you. But I’ve no choice now, have I?” Her gaze shifted to rest with loathing on the earl. “You’ve trapped me.”

“You have trapped yourself,” replied the earl. “I believe that is what most of us do.” He looked at Thomas Southern, who stood at the opposite end of the bed, one hand so tight around the bedpost that it seemed that his grip was the only thing holding him there. “Do we not, Mr. Southern?”

“The Son is merciful,” said Southern, “and forgives us even as we sin. I would ask a boon of you, my lord.”

“You may ask.”

“For your—your generosity,” he continued, very formally, “we would ask that you allow us to name our son after you.”

“No!” cried Charity. “I will not—”

“Charity. You will.” He did not look at her, but his tone silenced her. “My lord.” He waited respectfully.

“I am not used to receiving compliments,” said the earl, a trifle aloof. He put out his arm for Maretha to take, and pushed aside the tent flap. “But if you wish it, you may call your son John.” Behind, as they left, Thomas Southern sank to his knees beside the bed and began to pray.

Outside, Maretha had to blink several times until her eyes adjusted to the bright late-morning light. Across the way, Julian had crouched to bid farewell to a tearful Mog and Pin, had even gone so far as to hug each in turn, for once heedless of his cravat.

“John,” Maretha said, musing.

The earl began to answer, stopped, perhaps self-conscious, perhaps offended.

She risked a glance at him, but he was impossible even now to read, and she reflected that his eyes were still black—enchanter’s eyes. She shuddered. “It just seems so ordinary and common a name.”

His smile, in answer, was cool and ironic. “Have I never told you? I too am named after a saint. St. John, the Martyr, who gave his life that another might live.”

Sanjay had fallen asleep on the parlor’s only couch when the innkeeper brought the tea trays in and poured tea for his guests. Julian stood by the window, staring out at the lowering dusk. In the three chairs that surrounded the table on which the tea was laid out sat the three women, talking, a low, soothing sound that, like rain, seemed to blend into the background.

“I wish,” said Kate, not for the first time, “that your Gates hadn’t been taken as well. We could have at least tried to use them to get to Heffield in one magnificent jump.”

“Using you to test the idea?
I
wouldn’t have tried it.” Chryse frowned, took a sip of tea to hide her real worry over the loss of their cards. She and Sanjay had discussed it only once on the journey, and that discussion had ended in an argument—not because either blamed the other, but precisely because neither was to blame.

“But you know that they are capable of transporting over greater distance—you yourself came over the ocean from Vesputia with those cards.”

“Oh, Kate. Please.”

“Sorry. Just like me to keep reminding you of it. What are you dreaming about, Maretha?”

Maretha had been watching the fire with a distant, considering expression. She started, smiled self-consciously as she picked up her tea. “Nothing important. I was remembering just that—what I was dreaming about last night. It’s that strange dream I’ve been having this entire trip.”

“What, the one about turning into a rose bush?”

“A climbing rose, actually,” said Maretha. There had been a slowly perceptible change about her since that last day on the site: she had grown more subtly attractive, not so much in looks but in magnetism, as any person does who has gained inner self-confidence. “Leaves and shoots budding out of my limbs, my body slowly turning to wood. Except,” and here she looked puzzled, “that it wasn’t me, but someone else. I don’t know who. Someone like me, but the connection—” She shrugged. “It’s gotten more vivid, stronger, as we’ve gotten closer to Heffield, and last night—” She trailed off.

“Last night we had quite a windstorm.” Kate grinned. “And we’re only a half-day’s ride from the city tonight. Well then, Maretha. You’d better stay up all night with me, gambling. I’ll take some of your husband’s fortune off your hands. I’m destitute.”

“But Kate,” said Chryse. She glanced at Sanjay. He was dozing lightly, mouth a little open. “But I thought there was a remedy for that.” She looked across the room at Julian, but he was now gazing at Kate’s back with a look both pensive and slightly angry.

Kate made an impatient gesture with one hand. “Bloody hell, Chryse. Give me some time to get used to the idea.”

“She’s had about seven weeks, hasn’t she?” said Chryse to Maretha. “I can’t believe how bad the roads have been.”

“And you haven’t been forced to ride next to old prim and proper for all that time, either,” retorted Kate. “Lady! You’d never guess someone could change so fast overnight.”

Chryse shared a smile with Maretha. “Oh, I rather think he’s always had a tendency that way.”

“Is that so?” asked Kate with a dangerous gleam in her eye. “Did you know that he’s decided to adopt the children? Not as legally his, obviously, but he’s going to give them a home, educate them for a good trade. Can you imagine? Julian, after all!”