Coming around Piccadilly, however, the tone of the city shifted swiftly. Suddenly there was no visible squalor; all the bricks seemed to stack just right and all the lamp posts were evenly spaced, cleaned, and operating.
“It is another world.” Kenneth mumbled, thinking of Leah's brutal descriptions surrounding criminal life. He had seen it himself, several times. In the spirit of his bill, he had made his way down around White Chapel and other such slums of ill repute.
“A better one, I should say, Your Grace.” Daniel offered, glancing ahead to see their destination closing into sight.
“Perhaps.” Kenneth uttered. Already he was thinking of Leah, despite this trip meant to distract him from her.
“Here we are, Your Grace.” Daniel gave him a glance that Kenneth could have interpreted as worry, but instead he paid it no mind.
They disembarked the coach at the big blue doors belonging to Kenneth's family business. It was a fine building, newer than most surrounding it, and stretched up three stories.
The blue entryway had been his uncle’s idea, for Kenneth cared not at all about the color of doors.
There was, in fact, very little about this building that Kenneth cared for. Even as he pulled his boots up the smooth stone stairs, he looked distastefully at the shoe scraper beside the door. The ugly, wrought iron head was crusted with flakes of mud, and it seemed to gape up at him, piercing into his soul, looking through his social disguise just as she had.
The Duke shrugged this strange feeling aside as he entered the business. I will not be dominated by this uneasiness.
“Morning, Thompson.” Kenneth bobbed his head to the respected office clerk as the front desk came into sight.
“Your Grace, good morning.” Thompson looked surprised to see him, which struck Kenneth as odd.
“Was my arrival forgotten by the agenda?” Kenneth asked with a bit of a joke in his voice, but Thompson's nervous glances at the schedules confirmed his suspicions.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, I had not heard of it.” Thompson said finally, looking up from the pages.
“It is no matter.” Kenneth waved his hand. “It is not as if I require the attendance of tea to my entry, hmm?” He raised his eyebrows at Thompson, who returned the friendly expression. “Now where is the esteemed Lord Wilson?”
“Lord Wilson is in his office.” Thompson gestured towards the oaken double doors that stood imposingly against the east wall.
“Of course, he is,” Kenneth murmured, and swung open the grand slabs that were once trees in the Americas.
Cornelius Wilson looked up from his papers and smiled as Kenneth entered with gusto, taking up the whole of the passage with his grandiose stance.
“Uncle,” Kenneth said, approaching the desk. “good morning.”
“It is not morning any longer.” Cornelius mentioned, shifting several papers aside. “But a good day to you nonetheless.”
“I have brought the licenses.” Kenneth made a gesture with his head, and Daniel stepped forward, drawing several documents out of a leather-bound carrying case.
“Very good.” Cornelius took them and began reading them over briefly, thumbing between the corners. “This all seems to be in order.”
“Why would it not be?” Kenneth mused.
“Why indeed.” Cornelius muttered, and he shuffled at the papers into a neat stack, which he then directed into the bowels of his desk, comprised of many drawers.
“Was that all?” Kenneth looked dumbly at his Uncle. “Why did you simply not take the documents back with you from Worthington?”
“Because, dear nephew, we are both needed today for a hearing.”
“There has been a claim?” Kenneth sat up, suddenly interested. It had been over six months since a claim had been filed. While it was good that few were reported, for a claim only surfaced if a ship was lost, Kenneth took great excitement in processing the claims when they did appear.
There was a story in each one, some drag of excitement from the far side of the world; it was material he fed upon to sustain his overly-active and ambitious imagination.
“There has.” Cornelius finished sorting the rest of the documents on his desk. “A merchantman that went down 'round the horn.”
“Who did she belong to?”
“Who do you think?”
“The East India Company, then.”
“Correct.” Cornelius let out a sigh as he pushed his pencils into their proper place. “If there is one company I truly detest giving money to, it is the largest of them.”
“They are our largest customer.” Kenneth pointed out.
“And our largest expense.” Cornelius shook his head. “In the past three years, they have claimed six, now seven, ships stove in a storm. And while it is true that their payments comprise some forty percent of our income, it is also true that they have exacted over eighty percent of our reimbursement budget.”
“Are we low on funds?” Kenneth asked, worriedly. He seldom thought of money, but he always assumed there would be more than enough. It was the way his life had always been.
“No, not even near to dished up.” Cornelius waved his hand. “But I could see how we might become so if they continue to lose their silk ships in this manner.”
“So, you would have us deny the claim? That seems unfair.”
“No, no.” Cornelius cautioned. “Never may we judge a case before hearing it. I am only complaining, never mind me. The hearing will be here at two o'clock.”
“Very well.” Kenneth said, rising. “I will see you then.”
“Off for a meal?”
“Or at least a pint.”
“Try the new ale house, two doors down from Hatchard's.”
“The bookseller?”
“Yes, two doors down, there's a lovely new ale house, the Ten Drums, I think it is.”
“Ten Drums, alright then.” The Duke bobbed a friendly goodbye to his Uncle, as was only polite, and did the same to Thompson as he skipped out the stairs.
“Daniel, make use of your own time.” Kenneth said to his manservant, who would gladly attend to his own business in London rather than watch Kenneth eat and drink.
“Of course, Your Grace, when shall I return?”
“I shall meet you after the hearing.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” and he was off into the city.
The Duke walked around the corner onto Piccadilly, and soon located the Ten Drums. He was pleasantly surprised by the cozy interior; the new alehouse had been furnished to accommodate the wealthy gentlemen of London in all their decadence, yet the lighting was shallow and warm. All told, the space was very pleasing and comfortable, and Kenneth enjoyed a pint of ale along with a roasted hen.
Just as he was beginning to feel completely content, his comfort was uprooted by the voice of the Marquess of Winchester.
“Worthington,” he announced, pulling over the seat across from Kenneth. “I did not think to see you in London so soon.”
“And why is that, my good Marquess?” Kenneth sat back, pushing aside his plate. The Marquess irritated him, and his words gave Kenneth plenty of indication concerning what he wished to discuss.
“Well, on account of the commotion last week, of course.” the Marquess huffed, gesturing for a pint of ale.
“I am afraid I do not know what you mean.” the Duke said with a low tone. He did not wish to talk to this man, much less about Leah.
“Oh, come now.” the Marquess kicked his chair out to sit at a leisurely lean. “It is all the talk of London.”
“Which is why, Winchester, I do not live in London.” Kenneth drained his pint and made to stand.
“Wait, come now, Worthington, I apologize, I mean no offense.” the Marquess stammered. “I meant only to say you're a bit of a celebrity.”
“It has happened before,” Kenneth dismissed. “Everyone will forget about it when something else occurs.”
“True enough.” the Marquess admitted. “May I inquire as to the wellbeing
of the young woman?”
“Why? So, you might dawdle at the printers?”
“My dear Worthington you do me no credit.” the Marquess was clearly offended, or at least appearing to be.
“It is yet my turn to apologize.” Kenneth let out a long sigh, idly poking at his empty flagon. “Of late I have been most occupied in my mind, and I have felt weight like never before.”
“Is business well? What has you so distraught, my friend?”
Kenneth pondered the thought for a moment, and realized, much to his disgust, that he and the Marquess were indeed, friends. Out of all the rich men in London with a desire to play the game of galas and dining rooms, he hated the Marquess the least. In fact, he spent more time with the Marquess than any of his peers, initially only due to the man's political support. Yet the more time they had spent with each other, the more they had come to know each other's company, and the Duke realized that he could trust this person before him.
“I have an East India claim to hear today,” Kenneth began. “And the woman, her name is Miss Benson, she is recovering well. She is attended by a doctor of good repute. Yet I cannot help to feel as if I am wrong in everything I set to. The vote approaching on the bill is also a cause for concern. In truth, I have never had so much to think about at once.”
“Ah, I know these troubles.” the Marquess acknowledged, drinking from his pint. “It can all be too much for a man. One must simply put one thought before the other.”
“How so?”
“You hear a claim this afternoon, you mentioned?”
“I do, a merchantman out of Kolkata.”
“Then think of nothing but that. Allow it to dominate every aspect of your thought, push everything else aside. When you have dealt with it accordingly, move to the next thought.”
“You speak as if it is so simple to catalog one's own mind.” Kenneth raised his eyebrows. “I am not so sure.”
“It is practice and discipline, nothing more.” the Marquess replied. “Control over one's emotions, or at least, the expression of them.”
“Are you a practitioner of such methodology?” Kenneth challenged playfully.
“I confess.” the Marquess chuckled over his ale. “Never could I master the art.”
“Ah! The truth wins out!” Kenneth laughed, and the two toasted their flagons, then downed them.
The two lingered in the new alehouse, ignoring the looks of other reputable gentlemen who filtered in and out of the Ten Drums. They shared pleasant conversation, and the Duke found himself pleasantly distracted from the turbulent thoughts that troubled him. For near an hour, he thought not at all of Leah and her striking eyes, her indomitable wit, and her rough charm.
Finally came time for him to make his way back to the office for the hearing, and so he bid the Marquess a fond farewell. Exiting the Ten Drums, he turned right and began to stroll down Piccadilly, but he was halted in his tracks in front of Hatchard's, the bookseller.
He peered into the windows at the shelves of intricate leather spines, and once again Leah came tumbling back into his mind the way she had initially collided with his person. Kenneth entered the bookseller.
The small bell jingled overhead as he pushed through the glass-paned double doors. The shop was not busy, and he found a glimpse of peace in the quiet.
The room smelled of paper well cared for, lauded over with meticulous precision.
“Is there anything I can help you with, Your Grace?”
Kenneth turned to see the gentle old book vendor approaching from behind the counter.
“You know who I am?” Kenneth asked, surprised. He took a nervous look around the room but saw that besides the merchant, he had retained his anonymity.
“Oh, don't you worry, Your Grace, I know everybody about town,” the old man said. “Was there something I could help you find, or were you just here to browse?”
“Well, yes actually.” Kenneth realized why he had entered the book store. “Frankenstein, do you have it?”
“But, of course.” the bookseller smiled wide. “Not too many people around here asking for it, though.”
“No, I don't doubt that.” Kenneth smiled.
“Have you read it, Your Grace?” the vendor went to a shelf nearby and retrieved a copy of Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus.
“I cannot say that I have.” Kenneth replied, taking the novel in his hands.
“A wonderful read, truly.” The old man shook his head with bewilderment. “Whoever wrote it has done something special here, something new, but the snobs about town won't look past the subject material, if you don't mind me saying, Your Grace.”
“Not at all.” Kenneth paid for the novel. “The snobs tend not to like me much regardless.” He winked to the bookseller, tipped his hat, and went back into the street.
Kenneth went back to the office with the novel, which in all truth was three novels, tucked clumsily into his vest pocket, protected against whatever elements decided to show their face that day.
Upon rejoining his uncle, the two of them took their places in the conference chamber. They sat at a long, polished table in front of the room. Facing them were several other tables, set up almost like a courthouse, where the captain of the lost vessel would present his testimony. Officials from the East India Company were also present.
“In the matter of the merchant seaman Esmeralda, we shall hear testimony to determine the legitimacy of this claim.” Cornelius announced after clearing his throat. Thompson, the clerk, sat by with pen and paper as a scribe, to record every word said.
“Captain Bowridge, were you in command of the Esmeralda on the day she was stove?”
“I was, Lord Wilson.” the gruff seaman responded. He had clearly been combed for the occasion by his employers and stood out clearly as a man accustomed to hard labor in comparison to the other occupants of the room.
“And what was the cause of this event?” Cornelius asked. “In your professional opinion.”
“Sunk by a storm, Lord Wilson, off the Horn.”
“And you are in fact referring to Cape Horn in Southern Africa, is this correct?”
“Yes, Lord Wilson. It's a right nasty bit of water down there, always a hardship.”
“How many times have you made the journey around the horn, Captain Bowridge?” Cornelius asked.
“This would have been my eighth trip round, Lord Wilson.”
“And what was different, this eighth time?” Kenneth asked. His uncle glanced over, evidently surprised to hear Kenneth speak in this setting.
Kenneth was surprised as well. Usually he sat by and absorbed everything said, watching patiently from the table, imaging Krakens and Sea Serpents writhing up out of the depths and dragging match box vessels down to darkness.
But today he chose to speak. Perhaps it was his conversation with the Marquess, perhaps it was the controversial novel in his possession, perhaps it was Leah's intense stare boring down into him constantly, haunting him like a ghost with no specific purpose, or perhaps it was a little bit of all of it, that caused Kenneth to include himself in the proceedings.
“Bad weather, Your Grace.” the sailor went on. “Worse than I ever seen. Kept us stuck against the coast for a week.”
“Why did you not put into port to avoid the storm?” the Duke went on.
“At the time, Your Grace, that was impossible.”
“And so, what did you do?”
“We made a run for the turn in a lapse of weather, Your Grace, but we couldn't make it.”
“Describe the events of the capsizing.” Cornelius said, reasserting control over the hearing.
“Made a run Sou' by Sou' West, Lord, through the gales come up from Nor' East. We were pullin' on maybe fifteen knots, couldn't keep her on course, wind was whippin' us every which way, and I–” Kenneth saw the captain catch himself, choking back what may have been a tear, or a howl of frustration. “I couldn't keep her on the way she was supposed to, we was dodging the icebergs, see, and I
saw a big flash, I mean a real great flash of lightning come up, lights up the whole sky, the whole sea, everything, I tell you. Then I see it in that light, the rogue wave coming up starboard broadside. The Lord gave us that one last glimpse I suppose, just to hold onto somethin'. Wave took us over, Lord, wave took us over,” he trailed off, staring down at the table made of planks before him. “The wave took us over, and the ship was lost.” he concluded firmly.
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