I was told, in no uncertain terms, what I should expect from my marriage, and from then on . . . What is it, dear?”
Roland looked up to see Philip scampering in from the lakeshore, eyes huge with excitement.
“Mama!” He waved a rock in her face. “I’ve struck gold!”
“Oh, let me see!” She rose from the ground in a graceful motion and took the rock from Philip. “Look at that! Astonishing! See how it sparkles!”
“Is it real gold, Mama? Is it? Like those chaps found in California?”
She looked at the rock closely, and then held it up to the sunlight, turning it this way and that. Her brow knit with deep concentration. “Why, yes, Philip,” she said. “I believe it is. I can’t think what else it would be. A great vein of it, too! You’ve made our fortunes!”
His face shone. He turned to Roland. “Look, your lordship! Gold!”
Lilibet smiled and handed him the rock. “See?”
Roland took the rock and turned it about. A seam of sparkling pyrite ran through the center and along one side. He looked up at Philip’s eager face, at his dark eyes, the same shape and shade as Somerton’s. Not an especially handsome fellow, Somerton: rough-hewn bones, olive skin, dark features. Philip favored his mother, for the most part, but those eyes were unmistakable. They reminded Roland of the last time he’d seen Somerton, at his club. The earl tended to keep to a few cronies, as hard-drinking and hard-whoring as he was, who would have been blackballed if they hadn’t been peers. As it was, they were pariahs, gambling together in a private room long into the night, invisible to most members, and then disappearing to whatever low den would take them in.
But this particular night, not long after the New Year, most of the club’s members had been buried at their country estates, and Roland had been sitting in the leather-scented gloom of the library, tucked behind a newspaper, sherry at the ready, waiting for a colleague to meet him for a confidential chat. He’d felt a looming presence before him and unfolded the newspaper to find Somerton glaring down at him with those cold midnight eyes.
Can I help you, old man?
Roland had inquired politely, and Somerton had looked him over.
No
, he’d said, and set himself into a wing chair at the other end of the room with a neatly ironed copy of the
Times
, malevolence crackling the air around him. MacDougal had appeared soon after, and Roland had managed to exchange his information with the necessary discretion, but the unsettling weight of Somerton’s black eyes had lurked in the background throughout, until the man had risen and left a quarter hour later.
“Sir?”
Philip’s voice pierced Roland’s reverie. He blinked a few times, attempting to dispel Somerton’s image from his head, while the boy’s uncanny eyes fastened on his face. “Yes, lad?”
“The rock, sir! What do you think?”
Roland glanced down at the object in his hand and spoke without thinking. “Afraid it’s pyrite, old fellow. But keep looking. Persistence, that’s the ticket.”
Philip’s eager face drooped before him. Lilibet’s gasp came from his left.
“I see, sir. Thank you.” Philip turned and trudged back to the lakeshore.
Oh hell.
He glanced at Lilibet and wished he hadn’t. The blue flame in her eyes could have melted down the stone in his hand, pyrite and all. She whirled around without a word and went after Philip.
Roland threw himself back in the grass and stared up at the blue Tuscan sky. If his aching loins could speak, they’d have moaned with despair.
No luck tonight, that was certain.
* * *
W hen Lilibet returned to the picnic at last, pockets full of promising pyrite-streaked rocks and Philip’s equilibrium restored, she found it had all been tidied up. The food and utensils were packed away in the basket, and the white cloth lay folded atop. Roland stood leaning against an olive tree, arms crossed against his solid chest, watching them
Roland looked up to see Philip scampering in from the lakeshore, eyes huge with excitement.
“Mama!” He waved a rock in her face. “I’ve struck gold!”
“Oh, let me see!” She rose from the ground in a graceful motion and took the rock from Philip. “Look at that! Astonishing! See how it sparkles!”
“Is it real gold, Mama? Is it? Like those chaps found in California?”
She looked at the rock closely, and then held it up to the sunlight, turning it this way and that. Her brow knit with deep concentration. “Why, yes, Philip,” she said. “I believe it is. I can’t think what else it would be. A great vein of it, too! You’ve made our fortunes!”
His face shone. He turned to Roland. “Look, your lordship! Gold!”
Lilibet smiled and handed him the rock. “See?”
Roland took the rock and turned it about. A seam of sparkling pyrite ran through the center and along one side. He looked up at Philip’s eager face, at his dark eyes, the same shape and shade as Somerton’s. Not an especially handsome fellow, Somerton: rough-hewn bones, olive skin, dark features. Philip favored his mother, for the most part, but those eyes were unmistakable. They reminded Roland of the last time he’d seen Somerton, at his club. The earl tended to keep to a few cronies, as hard-drinking and hard-whoring as he was, who would have been blackballed if they hadn’t been peers. As it was, they were pariahs, gambling together in a private room long into the night, invisible to most members, and then disappearing to whatever low den would take them in.
But this particular night, not long after the New Year, most of the club’s members had been buried at their country estates, and Roland had been sitting in the leather-scented gloom of the library, tucked behind a newspaper, sherry at the ready, waiting for a colleague to meet him for a confidential chat. He’d felt a looming presence before him and unfolded the newspaper to find Somerton glaring down at him with those cold midnight eyes.
Can I help you, old man?
Roland had inquired politely, and Somerton had looked him over.
No
, he’d said, and set himself into a wing chair at the other end of the room with a neatly ironed copy of the
Times
, malevolence crackling the air around him. MacDougal had appeared soon after, and Roland had managed to exchange his information with the necessary discretion, but the unsettling weight of Somerton’s black eyes had lurked in the background throughout, until the man had risen and left a quarter hour later.
“Sir?”
Philip’s voice pierced Roland’s reverie. He blinked a few times, attempting to dispel Somerton’s image from his head, while the boy’s uncanny eyes fastened on his face. “Yes, lad?”
“The rock, sir! What do you think?”
Roland glanced down at the object in his hand and spoke without thinking. “Afraid it’s pyrite, old fellow. But keep looking. Persistence, that’s the ticket.”
Philip’s eager face drooped before him. Lilibet’s gasp came from his left.
“I see, sir. Thank you.” Philip turned and trudged back to the lakeshore.
Oh hell.
He glanced at Lilibet and wished he hadn’t. The blue flame in her eyes could have melted down the stone in his hand, pyrite and all. She whirled around without a word and went after Philip.
Roland threw himself back in the grass and stared up at the blue Tuscan sky. If his aching loins could speak, they’d have moaned with despair.
No luck tonight, that was certain.
* * *
W hen Lilibet returned to the picnic at last, pockets full of promising pyrite-streaked rocks and Philip’s equilibrium restored, she found it had all been tidied up. The food and utensils were packed away in the basket, and the white cloth lay folded atop. Roland stood leaning against an olive tree, arms crossed against his solid chest, watching them
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