The Phoenix Of Love. Susan Schonberg

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СКАЧАТЬ He thought of blankness and dark, empty fields. He rolled his shoulders and settled more deeply into the chair.

      It wasn’t working. His body still felt like a tightly coiled spring. Without opening his eyes, he fumbled for the decanter of brandy he always kept handy by the chair. Keeping his eyelids closed, he poured himself a glass of the fiery cheap liquid, miraculously not spilling a drop. He winced in pleasured pain with the first gulp, his muscles relaxing just a fraction. With another two swigs, he emptied the glass, his free hand automatically reaching for the decanter.

      Four glasses was the absolute minimum required for Traverston to reach the mind-numbing state he was seeking at the moment. Unsurprisingly he had plenty of time for reflection until he got there.

      After several more hearty swigs from the grimy glass, Traverston cracked open his eyes and glanced around the room. With something akin to surprise, he noticed for the first time in several years what had happened to his surroundings.

      The library was filthy. Cobwebs hung from the top of the bookcases to the corners of the ceiling. Dust a quarter of an inch thick covered most surfaces up out of the marquis’s immediate reach, and it only thinned to an eighth of an inch further down. The rug was torn and smeared with something that looked like lard, and the mirror over the fireplace was so tarnished, it was impossible to get a clear look at what it reflected. Great threadbare and rotting husks of velvet hung at odd angles from the tall windows on the far side of the room.

      In short, the library was a disaster area.

      No doubt Mr. Babcock had been horrified at the room’s condition when the marquis had led him here. For some reason that thought pleased Traverston, and he smiled a little even as he took another drink.

      Slowly he got up from the chair and poured himself another glass. Without consciously meaning to, he walked over to his only remaining possessions of any value, the books lining the walls of the room. Despite all of his other attempts to strip the house over the years, the marquis was unwilling to part with his books. Books, as well as drinking brandy from a glass, were the only remnants of a gentleman’s life that he had allowed himself to keep. He didn’t even own a horse anymore.

      Tiredly his eyes sought a place of rest among the busy shelves, and so he began browsing through the titles. Poetry he mentally shrugged off without even pausing to absorb the titles. Shakespeare flickered into the corner of his vision and then immediately skittered out again. And then he was there. Among the great literary titles he saw a small collection of books. His eyes absorbed fairy-tale titles and, without meaning to, Traverston began to reflect on his childhood.

      No one could have called his early days happy, but before his mother died, there had been some good times. His fingers wandered over the leather book covers, stopping on the gold stamped title of Robinson Crusoe. Just for a moment, Traverston could feel the gentle touch of his mother’s hand on his brow and he closed his eyes, lingering over the remembered sensation. Frowning, concentrating, he cast his mind back…and—ah! It was there—her soft, delicate voice, reading to him by the last light of sunset.

      Physically shaking his head clear of such thoughts, the marquis dragged his limbs back to the decanter and poured himself another drink. Hoping to break his suddenly maudlin mood, he walked over to one of the long windows and pulled back its dusty drape, the tattered soft material long since faded from its original forest green. The action scattered a few spiderwebs and created a dust cloud, but the marquis stood his ground. He felt desperately in need of some sunlight.

      Staring through the filthy panes, Traverston felt numbed by the sight of the mansion’s grounds. For some reason he didn’t understand, the grass outside the window was waist high and the garden overgrown with weeds. Directly outside the window, a rosebush seemed determined to choke out all available sunlight defiantly filtering through the leaves.

      With another shake of his head, Traverston’s memory came back. Of course. He himself had neglected these grounds for years. Why was the sight of them now such a shock?

      As he stared down into his brandy glass, he wondered how he had let himself come to such a pass. He had been bent on self-destruction, it was true. But was this sorry state really what he had planned so many years ago?

      With a sudden movement so quick it surprised him, Traverston pulled back his arm and threw his glass across the room. The glass exploded into a thousand shards in the fireplace. No! In his mind the thought was so loud, so sudden, it was almost as if someone had shouted the word.

      A few seconds later, Traverston realized that he had indeed spoken aloud. No. This was no answer. Killing himself and destroying his family’s estate and heritage had seemed the perfect solution to his problems five years ago, but now Traverston knew he couldn’t finish what he had started. Who could in light of this second chance at life?

      The marquis laughed aloud, the bitter sound ceasing on a curse. “Damn you, you bastard!” he shouted to the empty room. “Why couldn’t you have left me alone?”

      

      Gateland Manor, as the house was optimistically called by its occupants, was a shambling estate that marched alongside the Marquis of Traverston’s own home, Norwood Park. Locally the saying went that the two houses were like two generations of humanity—parent and child—where the fruit had fallen not far from the tree. Norwood Park was the run-down father, while Gateland Manor was the shabby, good-for-nothing offspring.

      Riding up on a borrowed nag to the front door of the smaller house now, Traverston was pleased to note that the rumors were true. Gateland Manor appeared to be in no better condition than his own estate. Peeling white paint decorated the once pristine columns on the Queen Anne-styled home. The red brick walls, while engaging from a distance with their aged and mellow beauty, were covered almost completely with ivy, and where the bricks could be seen at all, they were crumbling and falling apart.

      Traverston smiled to himself. The state of the house’s interior, if it were anything at all like the exterior, would bode well for him. The marquis needed Gateland Manor’s owner to be in dire need of funds if he was going to win his objective this day.

      The door of the manor was answered by an old man so bent over with arthritis that he could hardly look up into the face of the visitor. The ancient’s appearance was neat but threadbare, his black and gold livery was antiquated. But even so, the servant appeared to take great pride in the uniform.

      When no greeting seemed to be forthcoming from this relic of humanity, Traverston took it upon himself to take the initiative. “If you would be so kind, my good man,” he commanded, adjusting his tone to a shout, “please inform Mr. Wentworth that the Marquis of Traverston would like an interview with him.”

      It was a few moments before the man replied. When he did, the sound was so much like a groan, Traverston didn’t have a clue as to his reply. It was only when he saw the old man shuffle away, leaving the door open behind him, that he decided it would be best to follow.

      After what seemed to Traverston an interminable amount of time, the butler finally led him to a huge pair of double doors. It was another few moments before the marquis realized that he was expected to open the doors, the servant not having the required strength to do so.

      As it turned out, the doors led into the manor’s library. This surprised Traverston as he had thought he would be shown into a parlor to await his host. Then realizing that, like Norwood Park, the library was probably the best room in the house, the marquis made his way over to the fireplace, silently gloating over the fact that Mr. Wentworth’s penury was indeed as bad as his own.

      The library doors closed with a loud boom, СКАЧАТЬ