He studied the man surreptitiously. Edmund reminded him of his brother James. James had worn a full beard as well.Edmund’s shoulders were a little stooped, however, like those of an older man. The man’s gaze was often fixed on objects, like the corner of his desk, or his fingers rather than looking a man in the eyes.
The one word he would use to describe Edmund Kerr was average. His height was average, the tone of his voice neither deep nor high-pitched. His appearance was neither noticeable nor memory-invoking.
“I thank you for your concern, Your Lordship. I’m very well compensated by the estate.”
“I suppose that goes along with it, doesn’t it?”
“What is that, Your Lordship?”
“Being Your Lordshipped to death.”
Another faint smile. The man retreated into expressions when words would have done just as well.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Gardiner, was the opposite, being as voluble as Edmund was deferentially silent.
She was responsible for the room in which he spent most of his time. The room was decorated in what he imagined was Gentleman’s Library motif. Because of Mrs. Gardiner, he’d settled into London with less trouble than he’d imagined. Mrs. Gardiner, and to some extent, Edmund, had furnished the house and installed other creature comforts in his new home.
When the housekeeper had unveiled her efforts to set his library to rights, she’d patted her hands together like a child excited at the idea of a candy, reminding him of Aunt Penny. Aunt Penny, before she’d learned of both her husband’s and son’s deaths at Antietam. From that day until her death a scant two years later, she’d worn a sweet and somewhat vacant-looking expression. Everyone had understood that Penelope had simply gone away, and only the shell of the woman remained.
A richly patterned carpet in shades of emerald and ivory covered the mahogany floorboards. Thick velvet draperies of acolor reminding him of the forests around Gleneagle hung on either side of the two floor-to-ceiling windows. Bookcases lined the wall to his right, while to his left was a large fireplace, its white marble mantel heavily carved with fruits and trailing vines.
Mounted above it were four paintings of English countryside pursuits. Braces of hares were slung over the shoulders of aristocratic hunters while pursuing hounds dodged the steps of prancing horses. Country houses with smoke curling from their chimneys lured the visitor to stand and study the scene.
Opposite the desk where he sat, below the windows, was a long credenza. When he’d first seen the room, a stuffed owl sat there, entombed in a glass case. He’d removed it when Mrs. Gardiner wasn’t looking and claimed he’d accidentally broken the dome. When she’d assured him it would not be difficult to procure a replacement, he’d convinced her it wasn’t necessary.
Evidently, the penchant for all things stuffed was an English trait.
For all its show of wealth, the room revealed nothing about him. He’d only had one small valise when he’d arrived in London. The sum of what was left of his life, it contained a change of clothing, a letter from President Lincoln thanking him for his service to his country, notes Montgomery had made about his navigation system, a pistol, and two silver brushes, the last physical items to tie him to his home, his past, and his boyhood.
He could not hold a daguerreotype in his hand to fuse the image of a loved one in his mind. He couldn’t touch an object his father had collected or his grandfather had prized. Anything he carried was tucked away in his heart, memories of Alisdair and James and Caroline, laughter he recalled at odd moments, love, affection, a feeling of belonging that never tarnished regardless of the passage of time.
The longer he was away from home, the farther away those times seemed. The separation pulled at him, but it was more than physical distance. Even if he returned to Virginia, walked the earth of Gleneagle within the month, he’d feel the same discordance in his mind, the same yawning cavity of grief.
Nothing would ever be the same.
Montgomery pushed aside memory in favor of a more pressing topic.
“I visited the Society of the Mercaii last night,” he said.
“Indeed, Your Lordship,” Edmund said. “How did you find it?”
He smiled, the expression not fueled by humor. “Interesting. I’m due to be married.”
Edmund stared at him.
“Married, Your Lordship?”
He sat back in his chair and watched as Edmund paled. He’d had much the same reaction to the idea.
“The Society might be interested in the occult, Edmund, but last night they were attempting to indoctrinate, if that’s what you want to call it, an unwilling young woman when I intervened.”
Edmund sank into a chair in front of his desk. “They were recommended to me as a group that studied oddities, bizarre events, and such.”
“The only oddity I saw was the leader of the society attempting to rape a young woman. One thing led to another, and now I’m about to be married.”
Edmund stood, walked to the far wall, and perused the titles on the bookshelves. Montgomery had not picked a single volume himself. Mrs. Gardiner, again, no doubt selecting what she considered to interest a peer of Scotland. Or perhaps she’d simply ordered the books by the pound.
The bookshelves contained a variety of books on gardening and husbandry, sheep, cattle, and the occasional novel. He’dbeen intrigued to find a book by Jules Verne and had set it aside to read when he had a chance.
