desolation.
I thought I could comfort you.
How dare he!
* * *
Fitzroy dressed for his wedding with a quiet and unhurried deliberation. He soaked in a copper tub of hot water and allowed his valet to shave him, the blade of the razor moving with a gentle, firm touch over his jaw and upper lip, and the exposed, upturned curve of his throat.
What a great deal of trust to put into the hands of another human being!
And what greater trust the valet placed in his master, that he would not move suddenly and deliberately thrust his own noble jugular into the wicked blade—
‘Who’ll be chief mourner?’ ‘I,’ said the Dove, ‘I mourn for my love, I’ll be chief mourner.’
He dried himself and stood for a moment before the mirror. He still saw the honed, athletic body of a soldier, vibrant with power and masculine strength, like a pagan warrior in the insolence of nakedness.
Yet a ragged discoloration ran down one thigh, the trace of a saber cut. He had been lucky not to lose the leg. Another scar marked his back, only inches from the heart, as close as he ever wanted to come to death.
Now the warrior had to be transformed once again into a gentleman. An English gentleman in the second decade of the nineteenth century, going to his wedding.
Fitzroy’s mouth twisted into a small grimace. His valet stood at his elbow with his clothes draped over one arm.
Step One: Pull on the linen drawers and shrug the shirt over one’s head: a shirt of cambric, delicately stitched with small ruffles and insets of needlepoint lace.
Two: Slide into the stockings and silk knee breeches, buttoned up each side to fit snugly, then the flat-heeled black shoes.
Three: Don the white waistcoat and have one’s valet help one into a coat cut so tight that it would be impossible to get across the shoulders without tearing out the seams, unless that help was provided.
Lastly: Lift one’s chin like a child, while the faithful valet tied collar and cravat and arranged one’s hair, since the jacket prevented a man from lifting his arms above his waist.
Fitzroy had a sudden fierce longing for the simpler days of the Peninsula. But of course, the last two years there had not been simple. Juanita had seen to that.
Someone scraped at the door. A footman came in with a tray.
“A message for you, my lord, delivered by hand. The man waits for a reply.”
Fitzroy recognized the seal and the signature. Lord Grantley. He tore open the note. It was curt and to the point.
“Drop everything. Return to London immediately. Another man has been killed.”
“Is there a reply, my lord?”
It took a moment to swallow his shock and anger. Which man?
His valet had already opened Fitzroy’s writing case and stood waiting, pen in hand.
Fitzroy strode over to him. He wrote a few words, sanded them, folded the sheet, and sealed it, using his signet ring to make a deep mark in the warm wax.
Fury burned in him like a chimney fire.
Which man this time, for God’s sake?
The footman took the paper, bowed, and walked out.
“My lord,” Fitzroy had written. “I shall be pleased to obey your summons. However, I regret that I am obliged to get married first.”
* * *
In the grounds of King’s Acton, the church of Acton All Saints had stood as an unchanging symbol of eternity since it had first been rebuilt in the twelfth century. Parts of the nave were Saxon and there were a few later improvements, like the rood screen and the Jacobean pulpit, but the square tower and soaring arches of the Normans dominated the building.
Joanna had been driven from the house in the landau, so she would not soil her satin dress and wedding shoes, even though the door of the church lay only a few hundred yards from the east wing of King’s Acton, sheltered by a small grove of trees.
Church and house, oddly juxtaposed together, spiritual and worldly power in each other’s pockets for centuries, and both estates agreeing that men should have power over women, to limit
I thought I could comfort you.
How dare he!
* * *
Fitzroy dressed for his wedding with a quiet and unhurried deliberation. He soaked in a copper tub of hot water and allowed his valet to shave him, the blade of the razor moving with a gentle, firm touch over his jaw and upper lip, and the exposed, upturned curve of his throat.
What a great deal of trust to put into the hands of another human being!
And what greater trust the valet placed in his master, that he would not move suddenly and deliberately thrust his own noble jugular into the wicked blade—
‘Who’ll be chief mourner?’ ‘I,’ said the Dove, ‘I mourn for my love, I’ll be chief mourner.’
He dried himself and stood for a moment before the mirror. He still saw the honed, athletic body of a soldier, vibrant with power and masculine strength, like a pagan warrior in the insolence of nakedness.
Yet a ragged discoloration ran down one thigh, the trace of a saber cut. He had been lucky not to lose the leg. Another scar marked his back, only inches from the heart, as close as he ever wanted to come to death.
Now the warrior had to be transformed once again into a gentleman. An English gentleman in the second decade of the nineteenth century, going to his wedding.
Fitzroy’s mouth twisted into a small grimace. His valet stood at his elbow with his clothes draped over one arm.
Step One: Pull on the linen drawers and shrug the shirt over one’s head: a shirt of cambric, delicately stitched with small ruffles and insets of needlepoint lace.
Two: Slide into the stockings and silk knee breeches, buttoned up each side to fit snugly, then the flat-heeled black shoes.
Three: Don the white waistcoat and have one’s valet help one into a coat cut so tight that it would be impossible to get across the shoulders without tearing out the seams, unless that help was provided.
Lastly: Lift one’s chin like a child, while the faithful valet tied collar and cravat and arranged one’s hair, since the jacket prevented a man from lifting his arms above his waist.
Fitzroy had a sudden fierce longing for the simpler days of the Peninsula. But of course, the last two years there had not been simple. Juanita had seen to that.
Someone scraped at the door. A footman came in with a tray.
“A message for you, my lord, delivered by hand. The man waits for a reply.”
Fitzroy recognized the seal and the signature. Lord Grantley. He tore open the note. It was curt and to the point.
“Drop everything. Return to London immediately. Another man has been killed.”
“Is there a reply, my lord?”
It took a moment to swallow his shock and anger. Which man?
His valet had already opened Fitzroy’s writing case and stood waiting, pen in hand.
Fitzroy strode over to him. He wrote a few words, sanded them, folded the sheet, and sealed it, using his signet ring to make a deep mark in the warm wax.
Fury burned in him like a chimney fire.
Which man this time, for God’s sake?
The footman took the paper, bowed, and walked out.
“My lord,” Fitzroy had written. “I shall be pleased to obey your summons. However, I regret that I am obliged to get married first.”
* * *
In the grounds of King’s Acton, the church of Acton All Saints had stood as an unchanging symbol of eternity since it had first been rebuilt in the twelfth century. Parts of the nave were Saxon and there were a few later improvements, like the rood screen and the Jacobean pulpit, but the square tower and soaring arches of the Normans dominated the building.
Joanna had been driven from the house in the landau, so she would not soil her satin dress and wedding shoes, even though the door of the church lay only a few hundred yards from the east wing of King’s Acton, sheltered by a small grove of trees.
Church and house, oddly juxtaposed together, spiritual and worldly power in each other’s pockets for centuries, and both estates agreeing that men should have power over women, to limit
Similar Books
