“Besides,” Ruthven went on inexorably, “isn’t Agnus a vegetarian? Rather tiresome of him, I think. It took us forever to agree on a restaurant.”
Sarah glanced from brother to brother in alarm, wondering if Albert’s eyeballs might actually detach from his head as he wound himself into an apoplectic froth. She didn’t need to look at her father to know what his expression would be.
For she could easily trace the thread of the conversation back to its source. Anyone without experience of Sir Adrian might have thought he had played a passive role in the conflict, with Ruthven the aggressor and Albert the easily aggrieved. An outsider might have been forgiven for thinking her father’s look of bafflement genuine: the hapless parent, mystified by the cutthroat, murderous dislike among his children, in spite of his own best efforts as peacemaker.
How, she wondered, did Father always so easily ignite the spark that led to a full-fledged conflagration?
“You have no right to say anything to me,” Albert was saying now.
“Oh, really. And you have rights?” Once again, Ruthven couldn’t be bothered to look up from his meal, which only pushed Albert nearer the edge.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Yes, I do have rights, dammit to hell.”
But Albert, catching the plea in Sarah’s eyes at that moment, with a monumental effort held his tongue.
“Don’t be tedious,” said Ruthven. “I was only trying to help.”
“I’ve had enough of this-this Happy Meal,” said Albert. For the second time that day, he stood and stormed with great dignity out of the room, only slightly spoiling the effect by tripping over the carpet fringe and nearly landing on his head.
Into the deadly silence that ensued Sir Adrian, having turned Cain against Abel once again, said:
“My book is going well. Quite well indeed. My publisher, that slave driver, will be very pleased. Would you like to hear a brief synopsis?”
“No.” This from several voices in unison. Only Violet said, “That would be lovely, dear. I confess I am rather curious.”
Only Natasha noticed when Sarah crept away from the table, missing her favorite pudding, in search of Albert.
She found him in the bottom of the garden, in the boxwood maze, sitting on the cold stone bench in the center. This bitterly cold night the plants wore a dusting of ice that sparkled under the moonlight like broken glass. The back of the house rose in the distance, a thin, undisturbed coat of snow resting like sifted sugar atop its crenellated towers and across its vast formal lawns. The wind that had shredded the sky earlier in the day had dropped, allowing thick, snow-laden clouds to lour overhead; a light powder fell in a steady perpendicular curtain. It all looked more than ever like the enchanted garden that had been part of their make-believe games as children.
Albert wore a heavy coat against the cold, along with padded mittens like boxer’s gloves. She was surprised he’d had the presence of mind to protect himself from the weather. He clenched and unclenched his fists in the outsized gloves, whether in anger or in an attempt to keep warm, she couldn’t tell. His face in the moonlight was planed in shadow and light, more like marble than flesh.
“I’ll kill that shit some day,” was all he said.
“Which one?”
Albert emitted a harsh laugh, shaking his head.
“You could always make me laugh, Sarah. Sometimes even intentionally. My God, I am afraid for you sometimes. The world will tear you to pieces.”
“Don’t worry about me, Albert. I may be tougher than you think.”
He eyed her doubtfully.
“Which one, you ask? Such a wide field to choose from, isn’t there? But at the moment, Ruthven. The world would be such a better place without him.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve often thought so myself. Him or George. At least, the universe would register that an irritant had been removed, somewhat like getting a cinder out of one’s eye.” She tapped an index finger against her upper lip meditatively, like a housewife trying to decide whether to paint or wallpaper the sitting room. Ruthven or George? George or Ruthven?
“I really didn’t mean George, at the moment,” said Albert.
“One of the great romances, there,” said Sarah.
“George and Natasha? You must be joking. And now, baby makes three. Great God. A little niece or nephew for us all. I don’t suppose Father will waste any time changing the will again, now there’s a Beauclerk-Fisk dynasty in the offing.”
“I actually was speaking of George’s love for himself. Now, there is a love that will last ’til the end of time.”
“Ha! Quite right. Still, Natasha seems to have got a leash on him, for the moment. At least, she seems to know how to play against his ego.”
“It won’t last,” said Sarah sadly. She traced a heart in the snow on top of the stone bench, then roughly obliterated it. “George is too unstable. The child will only make things worse, and I think Natasha knows it. But-it’s Father who is the center of the storm, as usual. Playing us off against each other, playing with us. It’s so silly, this whole charade about the marriage. Why does he play these stupid games?”
Albert tore his gaze away from the house, which seemed to have held him spellbound.
“I’ll kill that shit some day,” he said again.
“Albert, you mustn’t even think such a thing, much less say it. About any of them.”
“Why not? What difference does it make?”
“I don’t know. I suppose because-because people may believe you mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
“No! Whether you mean it or not, you mustn’t say it aloud.
People mustn’t know, don’t you see? I mean, if anything were to happen to Ruthven, or George, or Father, you’d be blamed. Don’t you see the danger?”
Albert looked at her closely, at the lines of anxiety furrowing her brow. She was frightened, he could see that. But why? Did she seriously think he was going to kill someone? Or was it simply frightening to hear him vocalize her own wishes and desires?
“Sarah,” he said gently. “The thought doesn’t necessarily become the deed, you know. But I agree, it doesn’t pay to let people into one’s mind too much. Look, anything said between you and me goes no further, right? Like when we were kids?”
Sarah nodded, putting on a brave smile.
“Like when we were kids. You tried to protect me, Albert. From Ruthven and Father both, and from George. Whenever they remembered I existed, that is. All in all, I was happiest when they forgot I did exist. I haven’t forgotten what you did.” Her voice rose in intensity. “I’ve forgotten nothing.” She wrapped her arms tighter against the cold. “Maybe, some day, I can repay you.”
A faint alarm sounded in the farther reaches of Albert’s brain.
“Sarah, exactly what is it you have in mind?”
10. ONE HEIR LESS
ALBERT SAT AT THE desk in his room in the small hours of the next morning, a frown of concentration distorting his handsome features. He’d slept only a few fitful hours, disturbed by a recurring dream in which he stood frozen onstage, in full costume and makeup, staring blankly at a hostile, hooting audience, lines forgotten. His fellow actors hissed at him from the wings. Suddenly he would realize he was in the wrong play altogether, but he couldn’t move off the stage: Someone had nailed his shoes to the boards.
Around four o’clock he’d given up hope of getting back to sleep. Remembering the manuscript, he put on a dressing gown against the chilly room and stoked the fireplace back to life, thinking he may as well spend the long hours until breakfast attempting to find out what the old man was up to.
“‘As soon none hive owl,’” he read aloud. “No, that can’t be it. This is worse than Chaucer. What the devil is he trying to say? ‘Nearly damaged bug loot, he went-’ No, wait, it’s ‘Nearly deranged by lust, he went-’ Went where?”