Circles of Time by Phillip Rock Page B

vermouth. “To your health, sir.”
    â€œAnd to yours, Martin. It’s been donkey’s years since we had a drink together.”
    â€œIt was down at Abingdon—and the drink was port.”
    â€œYes, about all one drank in those days, except for a glass of Highland malt. Although, to tell the truth, I rather enjoy these new cocktails—I find them quite challenging to prepare.” He savored another small swallow. “I never had the chance to congratulate you on winning that …”—he groped for the name of it—“Pulitzer thing.”
    â€œI was surprised to get it.”
    â€œI’m quite sure you deserved it, Martin. How do you like your new job?”
    â€œVery much, so far. Quite a challenge.”
    â€œYes, I’m sure it is, but then you’re so bloody good at what you do. I read all of your Versailles sketches in the Guardian , by the way. Bang on the mark. The one on little Orlando still sticks in the mind. I suppose the poor fellow is out the back door now that this chap Mussolini is running things.”
    â€œYes,” Martin said, gazing down at his martini. “Yesterday’s news.”
    â€œFate trips up fools, doesn’t it? What a Caesar he thought he was.” He turned toward the French doors. “It’s beastly hot in here. Might as well take our drinks into the garden and wait for your aunt to join us. We’ll be dining alfresco, which should be pleasant. Do you know it was over eighty today? Think of that. It’s more normal for an English July to be struck by hailstones than sun.”
    It was seven o’clock and the sun still had a bite to it. The roses seemed overblown and soggy with heat. Petals littered the ground, and the earl crushed their perfume into the warm soil with the toe of his shoe.
    â€œPlays havoc with the gardening. I was down at Abingdon for a couple of days. The landscapers are there and all that rain we had has been baked out of the ground.”
    â€œAunt Hanna told me you were rebuilding the place. How’s it coming along?”
    â€œNearly complete,” he said moodily. “Be fit for habitation in a month.”
    â€œAnd you’ll be moving down there?”
    â€œI suppose we will. Your aunt’s not overjoyed at the idea. Did she mention that?”
    â€œNo.”
    He touched a rose, the petals flaking away in his hand. “She’s—concerned about the size. It’s a big house and we’re not exactly the largest family in the world. Still, what with guests and all, we won’t be rattling around in it like two peas in a colander as she fears. I’ll be getting the stables and kennels up to snuff and reactivating the Abingdon hunt. The district’s swarming with foxes. There’s been no hunting since the war. Did you ever learn to ride, Martin?”
    â€œNever had the chance.” Again he suppressed a smile. “What with one thing or another.”
    â€œPity. But the war’s behind you now. Time to learn the pursuits of peace. There’s a joy to riding to hounds that’s difficult to explain. Still, whether you ride or not, you’ll always find a room waiting for you at the Pryory.” He drained his glass and reached for Martin’s. “Let’s have a smahan more, shall we?”
    Martin watched him carry the glasses toward the house. The smell of the roses and the earl’s mention of the Pryory sent his thoughts reeling backward. Abingdon in the summer of 1914, the kindness of his aunt as she told him there would always be a room for him at the house. He had come to stay for a few days, part of his vacation plans. A week in England, three weeks in Germany and Italy, and then home to Chicago and his job on the Express. A visiting relative. The son of Hanna’s favorite, and long dead, brother William. Something of a curiosity to Charles and Alexandra. Their American cousin, and the only Rilke they had ever