Catherine Fisher: Darkwater

She stared at him. “How did you know I would?”

“I knew, Sarah. I’ve known for years.”

“Years?” she whispered.

“Oh yes.” He smiled, a lopsided smile of shy pleasure. “Years.”

five

“Take that shawl, Scrab, and get it dried. And bring up tea, for both of us.” He turned to her, suddenly concerned. “Did anyone come with you?”

“No,” she muttered. The man Scrab was taking the shawl from her shoulders in obvious disgust. She saw how frayed and dirty it was. Embarrassment burned her like the fire glow. What was she doing here?

“Sit here, please.” Azrael placed a chair near the fire and another for himself. He waited politely for her, so she perched on its extreme edge, but the cushions were soft and forced her to lean back.

He sat too, the cat jumping up onto his knees. His long hands fondled its fur. There was a slight, awkward silence. The fire snapped noisily, the logs fizzing and spluttering.

She should be in the kitchens. Far below with some greasy cook yelling at her. Perhaps the doubt showed in her face, because he smiled; a dark, sideways smile. She felt annoyed.

“What did you mean, you’ve expected me for years?” she asked hotly.

Lord Azrael rubbed the cat’s back. It arched, purring. Instead of answering he said quietly, “You must hate me.”

It startled her. She wanted to say yes, but it wouldn’t have been true. “I want to.”

“But you don’t?”

“I don’t know you.”

“But I have your estate. All of it. You must feel bitter; the way you have to live now . . .”

“All right.” She shrugged. “But it’s my grandfather, if it’s anyone. I don’t understand how he could be so stupid! Nobody’s ever explained to me how it happened. About your father and him.”

Azrael smoothed the cat’s ears. Then he glanced at her, his dark clipped beard catching the fire-glints. “It wasn’t my father who won the house. It was me.”

She stared, amazed. “You! But it was fifteen years ago. You don’t look . . .” Confused, she stopped.

“Old enough? Thank you, Sarah. But it was me. Has no one really ever told you?”

“I’m not allowed to ask. It drives Papa into one of his fits.”

“Then I’ll tell you. I think that’s only fair.” He pushed the cat down. It sat on the tasseled hearthrug and began to lick itself.

Azrael put the tips of his fingers together. “You never really knew your grandfather. Such a proud man. Old Squire Trevelyan, they called him, and he could recite every one of his ancestors back to Doomsday. Often did, when he was drunk. A loud, roaring, boasting, relentless man. If his tenants couldn’t pay he turned them out. He had no mercy. He once shot a man who’d caught a rabbit on his land. Eight children, and one rabbit to feed them. Shot him dead, Sarah. It’s said the young widow stood up in church and prayed the devil would come for his soul. Like all your family—forgive me—he was heartily despised.”

It wasn’t such a shock. She’d guessed most of it.

Azrael stared into the flames. “One night, it happened that we were both among a shooting party of gentlemen, and the weather drove us indoors, to an inn called the Black Dog, far out on Bodmin Moor. He had drunk too much. All night we played cards. The others in the group gradually dropped out of the game, until only we two were left. I was winning; my luck was good that night, and I was young and thought it was a fine thing. Finally, the squire ran out of money. I told him the game was over.

“What a rage he flew into! Swearing and throwing over tables and threatening all of us with death and hell until the innkeeper begged me to play on. I wasn’t averse. I thought he deserved a lesson.

“First, he bet his horse, and lost it. Then all his horses. Then a farm, his hounds, his fishing rights, his mine. He was desperate by then, face red and contorted with fury. I stood up, but he grabbed my arm and drew a pistol, cocking it and pointing it at my head. For a while I thought he’d murder me on the spot; his cronies were all around him and we were far out on the moor. ‘This time,’ he snarled ‘we bet everything. Winner takes all. Everything we own, estate, house, life, soul. On the turn of a card.’”

He glanced at her. “You think I should have refused.”

“Of course I do!”

“Yes. But remember, the gamble was the same for both of us. Either could have lost everything—I had large estates myself. I was intrigued, and really too scared to refuse. And . . .” Azrael shrugged ruefully. “I was sorry for him. Ruin was staring him in the face. He wanted one more chance. So, I agreed.”

For a moment there was silence in the room, the only sound the tiny rasp of the cat’s tongue on its fur.

Then Azrael said, “The innkeeper brought a clean deck of cards. He shuffled them. Your grandfather was to draw first. All around us the drinkers and packmen and poachers crowded close, the air stifling with cheap tobacco and the fumes of smuggled brandy. His hand shook; he swore a terrible oath, and cut the pack. ‘Let the devil take me and all mine to hell,’ he yelled, ‘if I fail in this.’ Then he turned the card. It was the King of Diamonds.

“Of course, he thought he had won. The crowd roared, clapping and whistling. He pushed the pack toward me, with such a triumph on his face, and by God, Sarah, if I could have turned tail and fled at that moment I would have done it. But a wager is a wager. I reached out, and turned a card.”

“What did you get?” she whispered, knowing already.

Firelight flickered on his face. Quietly he said, “The Ace of Spades.”

With a creak that made her jump, the door opened. Scrab backed in with a large tray, laid it down on the table, and put a kettle on a small stand near the fire. He was muttering peevishly.

“What’s the matter?” Azrael asked.

“Naught you’d care for,” the man said sourly.

Azrael smiled at Sarah. “Really,” he whispered, “he’s got a heart of gold.”

Scrab spat into the fire, and arranged the teacups noisily. They were porcelain, Sarah noticed, incredibly fragile. Azrael sat back, watching; quickly she glanced around the dim room, seeing its marble tables, sculptures, the piano on its dais. The warm glow of the sunset had waned; now Scrab touched a taper to the fire and went around lighting candles, tall white expensive candles in silver holders. Sarah thought of Martha’s scrapings of rushlights and frowned. Heavy red curtains swished shut across the windows, closing out the wet evening. The room was perfect. It enclosed her in warmth and security, like a womb.

“That will do, Scrab,” Azrael said lazily.

When the man had scuttled out she said, “What happened to my grandfather?”

Uneasy, Azrael leaned over and poured tea from the china teapot. “He was found, two days later, at the foot of the cliffs at Newhaven. He may have fallen over in the dark. Or perhaps, the shame . . .”

Sarah stood up so abruptly that the cat turned, eyes wide. “That was your fault.” Suddenly she was so angry, it trembled through her. “You should have told him you didn’t want the wretched estate!”

“I did.” Azrael was calm. “I swore before all of them I wouldn’t take it. I didn’t want his ruin. But he was proud. No Trevelyan, he roared, would ever go back on his word. If he had to start again without a penny, he would! He had courage, Sarah. Just like you. If it had been you, you’d have been too proud to ask for your losses back. You’d rather have died.”

Slowly, she sat. He handed her a cup and she took it, reluctant.

“Try the cakes. The cook is really very good at them.”

They would have choked her, she thought. “No thanks. So you got everything.”