Aubrey weighed in his hand. He’d always felt that pearls were warmer than other gems.
It was small, but could it be the way to stop a horrible war?
Aubrey was a student of history. He knew that wars were rarely caused by simple events. They were complex, chaotic affairs and were most often caused by the interplay of many, many incidents, some trivial, some significant, some outrageous. Economics, trade, deep-seated jealousies, misunderstandings, famines, intolerance, all played a part as nations lurched toward conflict. Wars weren’t caused by one person, no matter how powerful, simply jumping up and saying, ‘Right. This time I really mean it.’
But – and Aubrey’s mind often threw up buts – perhaps it was different this time. Everyone thought war was inevitable. From the man in the street to the decision-makers in Parliament, Albionites were adamant that they didn’t want war, yet were seized with a collective resignation that it was just around the corner – but was this the case? Holmland’s ambitions, the tensions in the Goltans, all could be solved, perhaps, if it weren’t for the machinations of one man.
Dr Mordecai Tremaine. He could be the pivot, the balancing point that the future of nations moved on. With his power, his influence and his maniacal vision, he could nudge the world into war.
Without him, could it be different? If he were removed, would that make the difference, slow things down so cool heads could prevail, so dialogue could ensue, so common sense could be given a chance?
He stared at the pearl. I’m rationalising, he thought.
He could use the pearl. He could use it to lure Dr Tremaine out of Holmland. Aubrey had been intrigued by the display of the Gallian crown jewels in Trinovant, and he imagined a similar display of unusual items, the centrepeice of which would be the Tremaine pearl. Plenty of publicity and Aubrey was confident that Dr Tremaine couldn’t help himself. He’d vowed to regain the pearl and an opportunity like this would be irresistible.
For the beginnings of a plan, it was a good one. Some rough edges to be polished up, but it had the flavour of an idea with potential.
Then why did he feel uneasy about it?
He touched the pearl with his fingertip. The folds and wrinkles made it look like a miniature brain.
He bit his lip. He knew why he was uneasy. He loved his family.
Aubrey’s mother and father were great puzzles to him at times, and great sources of inspiration at others. He was proud of them, for all the exasperations they caused him. When his mother had herded him around the Albion Museum in the middle of the night, saving him from the gunmen he’d enraged, he’d been achingly proud of her. And his father? A man who had risked his life many times for others? The man who led the nation? Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was an impossible epitome, but the one man whose esteem and good opinion Aubrey was most desirous of.
So how could he use Dr Tremaine’s familial love as the bait in a trap? Dr Tremaine loved his sister – Aubrey had heard it from the man’s own lips. Aubrey felt that there was something grubby, something cheap about using such a feeling as a trick.
But then there was that chance to save the world from war...
Aubrey weighed his choices, felt the options, understood ends and means and how rationalising worked. He slipped the pearl back into the velvet bag and drew the string tight.
He’d go ahead with his plan, but that didn’t mean he felt good about it.
It was hunger that brought Aubrey back to the world of Maidstone. Delicious aromas from downstairs had bypassed his brain and talked directly to his stomach. He stretched, taking his appetite as a good sign of his renewed constitution, and decided he deserved a bite to eat.
He’d clattered down the main stairs only to find Harris waiting for him. The butler held out the good silver tray, which meant that the envelope resting on it was important.
Aubrey read it, gazed at the ceiling for a moment as he worked through its implications, and then slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘Is the place neat and tidy, Harris?’
‘Sir?’
Aubrey stifled a smile. Harris was capable of uttering that single word in a multitude of ways, as a master woodworker can turn a lump of wood into just about anything. This time, Harris pitched the word to tell Aubrey he was affronted at the question but confident that Maidstone was in tip-top shape. As it always was.
‘Good, good. I wouldn’t want the Prince to be presented with a smeary glass or an unpolished banister.’
‘Sir.’ Not in this, or any other, world would such a thing happen. But I’ll humour your little game.
‘Splendid. Three o’clock, the Prince will arrive.’
‘Sir.’ I knew that, the butlers’ network being what it is. The preparations are already well under way.
Aubrey was surprised to find his mother at lunch. He’d expected her to be at the museum again.
She was picking at a fillet of fish in lemon butter. It was one of her favourite dishes, but she had hardly eaten any of it.
She looked up at his approach. ‘Aubrey. Good.’
‘I strive to please.’ He took the seat opposite.
‘Then you’ll be a useful audience while I try to sort through something. Just nod and make approving sounds as I talk, will you?’
‘With pleasure.’
A plate was put in front of Aubrey. His mouth actually watered at the appetising aroma that rose from the fish. A small bowl of green salad was placed nearby and the whole arrangement made Aubrey extremely happy to be united again so he could enjoy it.
His mother, dressed in light green, had her hair tied back loosely in the sort of absent-minded way that most women laboured for hours over, but without Lady Rose’s confidence – or the scrap of old string she’d used. Although the room was the somewhat dark main dining room, her face caught the little light that filtered through the diamond-shaped window panes, and Aubrey, without any embarrassment, could see what made Lady Rose one of the foremost beauties in the land, and why so many tried hard to catch ‘the Fitzwilliam Look’. But Lady Rose’s combination of natural grace and innate scepticism about physical beauty meant that these efforts were doomed to failure. How can one use art to be artless?
He took his glass of ice-water and sipped at it while his mother found words to articulate whatever problem she was wrestling with.
Finally, she looked him in the eye. ‘I have to go to Holmland.’
It was only with great effort that Aubrey didn’t spray his mother with a mouthful of water. It took some time, and several napkins tendered by anxious staff, before he managed to control his choking. ‘You have to go to Holmland?’ he repeated as he dabbed his eyes. ‘What? As head of an invading army?’
‘Don’t be silly, Aubrey. I’ve been invited to a symposium to give an address on the specimens I brought back from the Arctic.’
‘Ah, yes. Seabirds.’ Aubrey doubted he’d ever fully forgive himself for the actions that had precipitated that expedition. Or, more precisely, Caroline’s accompanying his mother on it.
‘The Holmland ornithologists are keen to hear what we found about albatrosses. They’re a vocal lot and have agitated with the organisers of this gathering to include me.’
Aubrey ran his fingers through his hair. ‘This is the thing in Fisherberg?’
‘At the Fisherberg Academy. It’s a prestigious occasion, a chance for Holmland to show the world that it isn’t just a continental bullyboy. It’s a home of arts, and sciences. Learning and culture.’
‘I’m sure Chancellor Neumann is all in favour of it,’ Aubrey muttered. He crossed his arms on his chest and stared at his fish. He wasn’t as hungry as he had been. ‘And what does Father have to say about this?’