No single action meant a thing, by itself. But taken together, could they add up to something more?
So she was disappointed to answer his summons to the Great Solar early one morning, only to find the chamber filled with what looked like every house-slave at Kyneston. One of her friends from the kitchens explained that it was the annual pre-Christmas deep clean. Everyone mucked in. Abi was reluctantly collecting a duster when Jenner appeared at her elbow.
‘Not you, Miss Hadley, if I may? I was hoping you might help me in the library.’
He led her there then dithered over whether or not to shut the door. Abi wasn’t much of an expert at ‘reading the signs’, as a flirty schoolfriend had once termed it. But the situation seemed somehow promising.
To hide her confusion, Abi turned to look at what was laid out on the table. Resting on a cover of thick grey felt were three paintings and an unframed canvas, several document cases and some custom-made book boxes.
‘I thought you’d enjoy this more than dusting,’ said Jenner, having eventually closed the door and joined her. ‘With my brother’s wedding to Bouda Matravers at the end of March, as well as the Third Debate, Mother suggested we show off some family treasures to our guests. It’s only once a generation that the heir marries, after all. I’ve been digging out a few possibilities.’
Abi studied the paintings, all portraits. She recognized the subjects of the largest two canvases, but had no idea about the other two sitters. One was a long-necked young woman wearing a dress the same bronze colour as her hair. She petted a large lizard that nestled in her arms. The other, unframed, was a wistful, black-eyed boy aged seven or eight.
‘This is Cadmus Parva-Jardine, the Pure-in-Heart,’ she said confidently, touching the largest picture in its gilded frame shaped like a laurel wreath. Jenner nodded.
Her fingers trailed onto the next. She knew what this man had done. Was it only that knowledge which made his likeness seem both proud and vicious, or did his deeds truly show in his face?
‘Cadmus’s father, Lycus Parva. Lycus the Regicide. He killed Charles the First and Last.’
She shuddered. Lycus had used nothing but Skill to kill the Last King, and the histories said that Charles had taken four days to die on the scaffold at Westminster. It was written that the spectacle was so terrible that pregnant women watching miscarried, and men went mad.
‘This is Cadmus’s mother, Clio Jardine,’ Jenner said, pointing to the woman in the bronze dress. ‘It was painted to mark her marriage to Lycus. You see the walled garden behind her? That’s the Jardine family emblem. And she’s holding a salamander, the Parva heraldic device. Our coat of arms today combines both, although the Parva motto has dropped out of use. Silyen’s fond of it, but it’s a bit too self-effacing for Jardine tastes.’
Abi looked at the painted banner. Uro, non luceo. I burn, not shine. An appropriate match for the salamander, that legendary creature said to breathe fire and renew itself in flames.
Clio gazed sideways out of the canvas. Her face was framed by artful ringlets, her eyebrows painted in bold arches. Her features and colouring, though, Abi had seen before. They were like those of the young man standing beside her.
Abi looked from Clio to Jenner, and it was as if a wall as impenetrable as Kyneston’s own had reared up between them. He might not have the Skill, but he had the blood. These impossible names from history books were his ancestors. His family. His great-great-greats.
Jenner hadn’t noticed her reaction, and continued his tale.
‘Clio was the only offspring in the Jardine direct line. This was before female succession was permitted, so she couldn’t inherit Kyneston. The house was due to pass to a male cousin. But when her son Cadmus’s incredible Skill became apparent as a teenager, he was co-opted as the Jardine heir and given the double surname Parva-Jardine.
‘Cadmus was a scholarly man and lived a quiet life. He married young, and when that first wife died he was grief-stricken and buried himself in his research. You know what happened next: the Revolution. Lycus, the father, killed the king. Cadmus, the son, restored peace. He tore down the palace and built the House of Light, in the Great Demonstration. And after becoming our first Chancellor, he married again. It was the eldest son from that marriage, Ptolemy Jardine, who next inherited Kyneston. But it shouldn’t have been.’
‘Why not?’ said Abi, mesmerized by the unfolding story. ‘Who should it have been?’
‘Someone we never talk about,’ said Jenner. He pointed to the final picture. ‘Him.’