“I should have offered you condolences, had I been aware,” I ventured to Mr. Thornfield.
“Are you offering ’em now, or merely filling uncomfortable silences?”
It would have been easy to take offence at this, but the master of the house took no pleasure in the dig himself. His long white hair was neatly tied, his collar and jacket perfect, his slab jaw smooth—but he ought to have been regaling our houseguest over tales of my clumsiness, and instead he appeared almost frightened.
Augustus Sack began to nod as if a profound point had been made. “Miss Stone, Thornfield here values discretion to the point that he errs on the side of secrecy. Mr. John Clements was my assistant, as I mentioned already—he was most instrumental in helping Thornfield regain his health following the Battle of Sobraon. Four of us, in fact, were close as brothers during the first war, serving at the behest of the Director: Thornfield, myself, Clements, and a David Lavell, who was Sahjara’s father.”
When I turned to her in surprise, Sahjara’s face was angled downward. “I don’t remember him at all. It’s shameful.”
“That’s the least shameful facet of your character, you magnificent nitwit.” Mr. Thornfield rapped his knuckles twice against the table. “Sack, I must suggest that, having conveyed your best greetings, you now—”
“It pains me to think how few of us remain from the small set of British in Lahore before the regime fell.” Mr. Sack affected an air of wisdom, but it looked merely as if he were about to sneeze. “Matters were so confused—who was friend, and who foe? Who amongst the Khalsa did not scheme, and who amongst the Company did not plot?”
The master of the house pushed back his chair. “We aren’t discussing this here,” he said, but it was his teeth speaking, pressed tight with rage.
“Of course, your . . . unusual closeness to Sikh affairs rendered your own judgement so much more nuanced than that of the other members of the British regime. I know the Director always thought so.”
“Stop talking in riddles, it’s nauseating. I don’t have what you’re after, so what more do you want from me, damn you?” Mr. Thornfield’s fist clenched as it struck the table, but a distressed sound from Sahjara caused him to soften a second later.
“Want?” Mr. Sack swivelled his pink countenance, smirking. “Only to reminisce—poor John Clements’s death, oh, you’ll find it excessively sentimental, but I couldn’t bear to think your own call to immortality might come, Thornfield, with so much left unsaid between us.”
“Mr. Sack, your carriage has been brought round front.”
Mr. Sardar Singh stood at the end of the dining table with his hands clasped behind him, wearing a sympathetic frown as if he were the bearer of unfortunate news. Sahjara shifted, eyes darting anxiously, whilst Mr. Thornfield’s expressive face set in a look of quiet determination.
“Ah, there you are,” Mr. Augustus Sack purred. “What’s this talk of carriages? No indeed, I’ve a great deal to discuss with you both.”
“Your coachman is under unequivocal instructions to take you wherever you should care to go.”
“Of all the—whose unequivocal instructions, you scoundrel?” Mr. Sack snarled. “Confound it, you’re the entire reason I—”
“Mine, sir.”
The already stifling tension twined about our necks. Mr. Sack spluttered, then emitted a laugh which sounded like the yapping of a wild fox.
“Thornfield, any man who once juggled so many export concerns is doubtless most effective at household management, but is this really your idea of a proper butler? His joke is in decidedly poor taste.”
“Do you know, Sardar hardly ever jokes,” Mr. Thornfield replied, shaking his head sadly. “A deficit in foreign breeding, I’ve always assumed.”
“I am remiss in the arena of humour more than any other.” Sardar Singh placed one hand regretfully over his heart.
“That man could run an empire, but when it comes to puns? Satirical drolleries? He’s positively dismal.”
“After many fruitless attempts at improvement, I have abandoned hope.”
“What the hell are you two playing at?” Mr. Sack snarled.
A natural unspoken understanding crackled among Mr. Thornfield and Mr. Singh and Sahjara, fast and ferocious as a thunderstorm, and I felt a surge of irrational jealousy.
“A brick,” said Mr. Thornfield, the glimmer of a wicked smile now lurking behind his mouth, “could be on display in the warm glow of the stage footlights and garner more chuckles than Mr. Sardar Singh.”
“You will rue the day you ever dreamt of mocking me,” Mr. Sack growled, lurching up.
“No, no, that’s the crux of the thing!” Mr. Thornfield cried. “When Mr. Singh says that your carriage is ready—”
“And that you are about to travel away in it,” the butler added, idly examining his fingernails.
“Then it’s absolutely inevitable.”