proved faithful correspondents. But the handwriting on both letters was unfamiliar. One was a white business envelope, addressed with a clerk’s neat, economic hand, and with my bank’s seal on the flap. The other was of heavy cream parchment, thick and expensive. The ink was very black and the hand most definitely that of a gentleman, educated to be an art unto itself. My name was inscribed in letters so exquisite the envelope should be framed somewhere.
I turned it over. The seal was embossed in a metallic silver wax. A ship, sails bellied out, and… I squinted. The letters encircling the ship were tiny, but yes, there they were— errant in aeternum .
Well, hell. In fact, hellfire and damnation. What the blazes did they want?
Cousin Agnes knew about this. Or perhaps had recognized the seal. I glanced at her window, where a shadow lurked behind the lace panel, and made a point of tipping my hat to it. The lace quivered with agitation.
I slipped both letters, unread, into the breast pocket in the lining of my greatcoat. The cold wind twisted insinuating fingers under my waistcoat, and, shivering, I did up the buttons and walked quickly on. I needed coffee. If it weren’t so damned early in the day, I could have done with a brandy. It would help me face my correspondence.
Ensconced in my favorite chair before the fire and refreshed with coffee and several of Will Somers’s exquisite pastries, I braved my post. The letter from the bank was brisk and businesslike: the bank’s compliments to Captain Lancaster, this is to notify you we are in receipt of the sum of… blah blah…. Her Majesty’s Paymaster General… blah blah… paid to your account at our Trafalgar Square branch… blah… await your instructions re investments… blah blah… I remain, sir, yours truly… signed Henry Frith Esq. on behalf of Drummond and Co.
Well, that was that, then. The British Imperium Armed Forces had washed its hands of me. At least they’d paid over the gratuity on time.
I watched the flames flicker in the grate for so long my coffee got cold. So. It was over. It made everything else seem insignificant, even the other letter. And if it were insignificant, why hesitate so long to read it? Sliding the blade of my penknife under the glittering silver seal on the second letter was the work of a second. I extracted a thick invitation card.
“Good. God.”
I must have said it aloud.
“Is everything all right, Captain Lancaster?” Mr. Pearse looked up from the notebook he was studying, frowning.
I must have said it aloud very loudly. I repeated the sentiment. “Good God. I’ve been summoned to Stravaigor House for Christmas Day.”
“Ah.” Mr. Pearse’s mouth curved up. “You look rather as if you expected that card to explode in your hand.”
“Well, it’s from the House, isn’t it? Of course it’s going to explode in my hand, if only metaphorically. It’s what the Houses do.” I turned the card over, to read in the thin spidery writing that bore the signature of the Stravaigor himself, a personal hope that I would accept the invitation. I tried for some variation in expressing astonishment. “Good. Grief.”
Mr. Pearse shook his head. He closed his notebook and tied it with tape before slipping it onto some shelf or other under the counter. “I don’t hold with the Houses.”
“The thing is, my House doesn’t hold with me. I didn’t think I was in good enough standing with the senior members of the family to merit an invitation. In fact, I didn’t think I had any standing with them at all.”
“I know that feeling,” said Mr. Pearse.
I went to the counter for a refill. Mr. Pearse and I were on excellent terms after more than a month’s acquaintance, and I could be honest. “What’s more, that state of affairs suited me down to the ground. It’s safer being unnoticed by the House. I like being beyond the pale.” I waved the invitation at him. “This is a surprise. I didn’t think any of
I turned it over. The seal was embossed in a metallic silver wax. A ship, sails bellied out, and… I squinted. The letters encircling the ship were tiny, but yes, there they were— errant in aeternum .
Well, hell. In fact, hellfire and damnation. What the blazes did they want?
Cousin Agnes knew about this. Or perhaps had recognized the seal. I glanced at her window, where a shadow lurked behind the lace panel, and made a point of tipping my hat to it. The lace quivered with agitation.
I slipped both letters, unread, into the breast pocket in the lining of my greatcoat. The cold wind twisted insinuating fingers under my waistcoat, and, shivering, I did up the buttons and walked quickly on. I needed coffee. If it weren’t so damned early in the day, I could have done with a brandy. It would help me face my correspondence.
Ensconced in my favorite chair before the fire and refreshed with coffee and several of Will Somers’s exquisite pastries, I braved my post. The letter from the bank was brisk and businesslike: the bank’s compliments to Captain Lancaster, this is to notify you we are in receipt of the sum of… blah blah…. Her Majesty’s Paymaster General… blah blah… paid to your account at our Trafalgar Square branch… blah… await your instructions re investments… blah blah… I remain, sir, yours truly… signed Henry Frith Esq. on behalf of Drummond and Co.
Well, that was that, then. The British Imperium Armed Forces had washed its hands of me. At least they’d paid over the gratuity on time.
I watched the flames flicker in the grate for so long my coffee got cold. So. It was over. It made everything else seem insignificant, even the other letter. And if it were insignificant, why hesitate so long to read it? Sliding the blade of my penknife under the glittering silver seal on the second letter was the work of a second. I extracted a thick invitation card.
“Good. God.”
I must have said it aloud.
“Is everything all right, Captain Lancaster?” Mr. Pearse looked up from the notebook he was studying, frowning.
I must have said it aloud very loudly. I repeated the sentiment. “Good God. I’ve been summoned to Stravaigor House for Christmas Day.”
“Ah.” Mr. Pearse’s mouth curved up. “You look rather as if you expected that card to explode in your hand.”
“Well, it’s from the House, isn’t it? Of course it’s going to explode in my hand, if only metaphorically. It’s what the Houses do.” I turned the card over, to read in the thin spidery writing that bore the signature of the Stravaigor himself, a personal hope that I would accept the invitation. I tried for some variation in expressing astonishment. “Good. Grief.”
Mr. Pearse shook his head. He closed his notebook and tied it with tape before slipping it onto some shelf or other under the counter. “I don’t hold with the Houses.”
“The thing is, my House doesn’t hold with me. I didn’t think I was in good enough standing with the senior members of the family to merit an invitation. In fact, I didn’t think I had any standing with them at all.”
“I know that feeling,” said Mr. Pearse.
I went to the counter for a refill. Mr. Pearse and I were on excellent terms after more than a month’s acquaintance, and I could be honest. “What’s more, that state of affairs suited me down to the ground. It’s safer being unnoticed by the House. I like being beyond the pale.” I waved the invitation at him. “This is a surprise. I didn’t think any of
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