6. A Dutchman in Brussels
A Dutchman in Brussels
The early morning storm lashed against Alex’s windows, the street blanketed in rain.
Lightning forked through the sky, its light briefly illuminating his room before thunder rattled the windowpanes.
Alex slept fitfully in a worn armchair by the hearth in his rented rooms in Brussels.
In his dream, the storm transported him back in time, to a long-forgotten memory.
He was thirteen again, drenched to the skin, and stumbling through the dense woods near Harrington Manor.
Rain lashed at his face, and the ache in his arm throbbed with each step.
His horse had thrown him and bolted after a lightning strike, leaving him stranded in the storm, disoriented, injured, and shivering.
He pressed on, the tall trees looming in the gray gloom.
He was almost certain he was lost when a voice cut through the downpour.
“Alex! Is that you?”
The sound was like a lifeline. His heart leaped as he turned toward it. Emerging through the rain was Lucinda, just eleven years old, her fiery red hair plastered to her freckled face.
“Lu!” Relief broke over him. “Thank God it’s you. How far are we from home? Did you see my filly bolting?”
Her gaze dropped to his arm. “Never mind the horse, you’re hurt. Come along. Jackson’s barn is close and will do for now.”
Before he could argue, she had seized his uninjured arm to guide him through the tall, sodden grass.
Her steps were sure despite the mud, and Alex marveled, even through his discomfort, at her sense of direction.
Inside, the scent of hay and damp wood greeted them as Lucinda ushered him to a dry spot near the bales.
Without hesitation, she kneeled beside him, assessing his injury.
“This might sting,” she warned, peeling his sodden coat sleeve from his shoulder.
Alex grimaced. “I didn’t know you’d become a regular sawbones, what are you trying to do?”
“What you don’t know about me, Alex could fill a library.” Lucinda shot him a playful look, searching the barn floor as she walked off.
“Gammon! I’ve known you since you escaped your leading strings. Where are you going?” Alex called after her, his patience wearing thin. Reappearing from behind some bales, she approached with a twig between her teeth and a curious expression. “Pray, what are you about, now?”
“You shall scarcely believe it, but this twig has the flavor of sugar plums.”
“Lord, have you taken leave of your senses, Lu? Spit it out at once! Heaven knows what manner of creatures have frequented this place!”
“Jackson only uses this barn for hay, Alex. Truly, it’s sweet. Here.” She held out another twig, her expression guileless.
Alex sniffed it dubiously. “It smells like wood.”
“Well, it is wood,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery. “The flavor’s in the bite.”
Muttering something about insanity, Alex bit down, only to wrinkle his nose. “It tastes like—AARGH!”
Lucinda had seized his injured arm with a swift, decisive pull. The agony was blinding, and Alex toppled backward, spitting out the twig as he howled.
“What in blazes have you done?” he exclaimed, clutching his arm in pain. Sitting back up, he let fly a barrage of boyish curses at her.
“You are most welcome.” Lucinda replied, standing by the barn door and gazing out at the rain. “How does it feel now?”
Alex regarded her with dark resentment. “Better,” he grumbled.
“I daresay you were unaware that Papa instructed me in the art of realigning minor fractures?”
“Or to lie through your teeth—sugar plums indeed!”
Lucinda giggled and refrained from chiding him for gullibility. “You can keep your gratitude pocketed for now; the realignment will merely hold till the doctor can see you. Will you let me fit a splint?”
“You shall keep your distance, you red-headed scamp! Taking a chap by surprise like that just isn’t fair, Lu.”
“I beg your pardon—but had I asked, you would have refused me.”
“You’re right about that!”
“And yet…the pain is better, isn’t it?”
Alex grudgingly conceded the point with a nod. Seeing Lucinda ripping her skirt to make bandages for a splint, he urged her to find his missing horse, hoping to distract her, but she disregarded him.
As her hands worked, he looked up at her—really looked—but when he did, his breath caught.
The eleven-year-old girl had vanished. In her stead knelt a young woman of remarkable beauty.
Her hair, inexplicably dry and arranged becomingly, framed a face he hardly recognized—except he did: it was seventeen-year-old Lucinda.
The white muslin of her gown was unsullied, and the scent of roses drifted from her, dizzying and familiar.
When she smiled, his gaze dropped, helpless, to the curve of her lips.
“Thank you,” he said softly, surprising even himself.
“You’re a terrible patient,” she teased.
“And you’re a rogue,” he replied with a faint smile.
Thunder boomed over Brussels’ old town, jolting Alex bolt upright.
“Sugar plums!” he said aloud.
His heart raced, and his chest heaved. The room was dark save for the glow of dying embers in the fireplace.
Doubling over, he raked his fingers through his disheveled hair, giving a frustrated tug at the roots.
Lucinda was no longer the freckled girl who had raced him through meadows and stole his best quill for her sketches.
She wasn’t merely the neighbor’s girl who had patched him up in barns and debated literature with him at country dances.
She was more than that…She was everything—his constant, his equal, his match.
Another lightning flash lit up his room, and with its thundering report, clarity descended on Alex.
How could he have been so blind? What a despicable act it had been to propose under the influence of drink!
A groan escaped him as he recalled the disgraceful manner in which he had imposed himself upon her.
The sting of her reproach still fresh in his mind: “I thought we loved each other?” Her words echoed, holding him to account.
She was right, of course; love does not seek to impose itself, and he owed her an apology for his selfishness.
He glanced at his bed, where he ought to be at this hour, but could not bear the thought of returning to the torment of his dreams. So he threw a cloak about his shoulders and left his room for the dim tavern below, heavy with the smell of stale beer and pipe smoke.
“Bottle of brandy,” he said to the barman, his voice hoarse.
The request was met with a nod, and soon a glass and bottle were set before him.
“Much obliged,” Alex muttered. He settled at a table farthest from the entrance, where shadows congregated.
In the solitude of this dimly lit sanctum, his thoughts drifted unbidden to Lucinda.
Had she been before him at that moment, he would have willingly thrown himself down, pleading for forgiveness.
The tavern door creaked open, admitting a gust of cool night air and a tall figure shaking the weather from his many capes.
Count van de Meer, with his broad shoulders and amiable smile, stepped inside, looking unbothered by the ungodly hour.
His keen blue eyes swept the empty room before landing on the barman.
“It is a mercy from heaven you are still in attendance! A glass of brandy, if you would be so kind,” the Dutchman requested, his words flowing in his native tongue.
The innkeeper shook his head. “Sold my last to the English lord.” He indicated with a thumb gesture to a patron unseen.
He scanned the room in dismay—until he spotted a brooding silhouette. His grin returned. Signaling the barman for a glass, he approached the English lord with effortless grace, clasping the vessel behind his back.
“Englishman,” he called, his accent lilting. “You have deprived me of a drink!”
Alex lifted his own in a half-salute. “A grave offense. My apologies.”
A broad set of neat teeth flashed. “ Yah , the English! Always so polite. You may yet redeem yourself, sir. Would you share?” Without waiting, he pulled out a chair. “You English are said to be hospitable, are you not?”
Despite himself, Alex smiled. “So they say.” He nudged the bottle toward the stranger. “Help yourself.”
The Dutchman poured generously and raised his glass. “To Englishmen and fine brandy.”
“To not being awake at three in the morning,” Alex added dryly.
In the tavern’s dim glow, they traded stories and shared amusement, forging a bond that asked no formal introduction.
The Dutchman’s wit needed no translation.
His dry remark about the drowsy barman sent Alex into silent convulsions of laughter.
Between them hung the unspoken certainty that their paths might never cross again—and that such fleeting encounters carried their own peculiar charm.
“So what keeps you from your bed?” the count asked, meandering to more personal matters.
Leaning back in his chair, his gaze was shrewd but not unkind.
“It seems this city is where every melancholy Englishman stalls in his journey homeward,” he tilted his head, studying him.
“Are your nightmares of legacies, debts, or perhaps—a woman?”
“Is it that obvious?”
The Dutchman’s eyes showed understanding. “Only to someone who has been where you are.”
Alex gave his companion a sidelong glance. “You too?”
“My friend, Jules, tells me: Women are a miracle of divine contradictions.” He shrugged, uncertain of the wisdom he dispensed. “But, tell me of this affaire de coeur . What exactly happened?”
“Lu and I were destined for matrimony, but it matters not anymore, I botched it all!” He gulped his brandy, glad for the burning of his throat to distract from the pain of heart he was experiencing.