Bronwyn Scott
For Monsieur Rouse, high school French
teacher extraordinaire: Votre ardeur pour la langue insuffle mon fil. Merci. (Je regrette, I have not conjugated ‘to inspire’ for some time. I hope the form is correct on insuffle!)
And for Ro and Brony—we will see the City of
Light (La Ville Lumière) together soon
Dover docks—March 1835
There were no pleasures left in London. One could only hope Paris would do better. Haviland North turned up the collar of his greatcoat against the damp of the early March morning and paced the Dover docks, anxious to be away with the tide.
All of his hopes were pinned on France now and its famed salle d’armes. If springtime in Paris should fail to stimulate his stagnant blood, the rest of Europe awaited to take its turn. He could spend summer among the mighty peaks of the Alps, testing his strength on their crags, autumn among the arts and graces of Florence, winter in Venice feasting on the sensuality of Carnevale and another spring, if he could manage it. This time in Naples, basking in the heat of southern Italy with its endless supply of the ancient. If those destinations did not succeed, there was always Greece and the alluring, mysterious Turkey.
The exotic litany of places rolled through his mind, a mantra of hopefulness and perhaps a mantra of fantasy. His father had promised him six months, not a year or two. It would all have to be managed very carefully. In truth, Haviland preferred it not come to that simply because of what the need for such lengths indicated about his current state—that at the age of twenty-eight and with everything to live for: the title, the vast fortune that went with it, the estates, the horses, the luxuries other men spent their lives acquiring—he was dead inside after all.
He’d had to fight hard for this Grand Tour, abbreviated as it might be. His well-meaning father had relented at last, perhaps understanding the need for his grown son to spread his wings beyond London and see something of the world before settling down. Haviland had won six months of freedom. But it had come at a great cost: afterwards, he would return home and marry, completing the plans that had been laid by two families three generations ago.
He could hear his father’s voice, see him behind his massive desk in the estate office as he delivered his verdict.
‘Six months is all we can spare. You’re different than your friends. They don’t have your expectations. Even Archer is a second son and when it comes down to it, his duties are different than yours. They can be gone for years. We can’t possibly spare you that long. The Everlys are eager to see the marriage done, and why delay? You’re twenty-eight and Christina is twenty-one. She’s been out for three Seasons, which is very respectable at this point, but to make her wait any longer will arouse unnecessary suspicions where there are none.’
His marriage, like everything else in his life to date, had been arranged for him. Everything had been accomplished for him. He simply had to show up. He often thought it was the very idea that there was nothing to turn his hand to, nothing that required his effort that had spawned this dark yawning gap in him. He’d struggled for nothing, been denied nothing, not even good looks. He’d managed to snare the lion’s share of the family’s handsome genetics along with the fortune. Perhaps that was why fencing appealed to him so intensely—it was something he could work at, something he could personally excel at on his own merits.
Excel he had. Haviland touched his booted toe to the long, slim case lying at his feet to assure himself it was still there, the one piece of luggage he hadn’t allowed to be stowed out of his sight: his rapiers, specially made for him from the fit of the grips to the weight of the thin blades. There wasn’t a gentleman in London who could touch him in the art of the foil and still it wasn’t enough. There was more to know and he hungered for the excellence that would come with new knowledge. He would go to Paris and study. With luck, he’d move on to the Italian masters in Florence. He knew six months wouldn’t see him to Italy. It wasn’t near enough time. He would need a miracle, but anything could happen if he could just be off.
Haviland took out his gold pocket watch, a gift from his grandfather upon completing Oxford several years ago, and flipped it open to check the time: quarter past five. His companions should have been here by now, which meant they’d show up any moment. None of them were extraordinarily concerned with punctuality but all of them were as eager as he for this journey, for reasons of their own. He closed the watch, his thumb running over his grandfather’s carefully chosen, although not highly original inscription: tempus fugit. He’d wasted enough time already. This journey was a chance for the clock to start again, however briefly, for his life to start again.
Haviland’s gaze strained in the lifting gloom,