6. A Dutchman in Brussels #2
The melancholy Englishman was coaxed for more of the lady’s history and his reply was listened to intently, with only occasional observations that were both pointed and comforting.
Until he said: “You English have such a talent for self-beating. Why not consider forgiving yourself? It’s a rather liberating experience, I assure you.
” Seeing the Englishman’s shoulders slump again, he added, “I sense a deep regret for how things turned out with this lady. It may not be too late for reconciliation.”
“No, she is lost to me—and rightly so.” Alex dragged a hand over his face.
“I repulsed her. A drunken misstep, a fumbled kiss…God, I was a fool. Twelve months adrift in regret have not washed away the shame of it. And yet—” His voice roughened.
“—I cherish the memory of her. Too late, as always.” A firm hand settled on his shoulder.
The Dutchman gave a considering hum. “A year of remorse for you…but who is to say it was not also a year of longing for her? If she means half as much as you claim, you owe it to yourself—to both of you—to try.”
“I cannot!” Alex retorted. “If she had wronged me as I did her, I would not forgive her! Why should I expect any kindness from her?”
The count paused; “Either the brandy is speaking, or perhaps you do not love the lady. Was it her pretty face you lament or had she a fortune?”
“Lucinda Harrington is no mere prize to be won, sir!” Alex became indignant. “She is… she is…” He paused, the fervor in his tone giving way to a softer note. “She is lovely, and though it has taken me an age to realize it, I do believe I love her.”
“ Yah , well, as far as I am aware, sir, love is inclined to believe all things.”
“Does it?”
“Especially the readiness of a lady to forgive a remorseful man.”
Alex gave up a reluctant grin. “You mean to give me hope, sir. Yet it might end up being a cruelty to do so.”
“Tonight, yah , you are sad and lost,” he said softly. “But if you would let yourself see it, you are a man who possesses a heart full of love and compassion.”
Alex looked down into his empty glass. “What, pray tell, has led you to that impression?”
“Because without exception, sir, every man is made in the Almighty’s image.”
Noticing that brandy had been drained to its dregs, The Dutchman brought his large hands together with a clap.
“This will not do. I know of a cellar tavern said to boast the oldest brandy in Europe. It costs a king’s ransom, naturally, but when sorrows demand drowning, no price is too dear. Shall we?”
Alex paused, deliberating only a moment, before nodding. “Why not!”
The city of Brussels lay hushed beneath a waning moon, save for the occasional clatter of a cart or the distant toll of a clock tower.
The Dutchman’s long legs, capable of a brisk pace, happily adjusted to the Englishman’s contemplative gait.
He had the rare gift of listening and he gave his attention generously to Alex’s soul-searching ramblings.
In one of Alex’s pauses, his companion observed, “What an extraordinary talent for brooding the English have. It approaches the level of high art.”
Startled from his reverie, Alex laughed. “And you Dutch seem to excel at poking your noses into matters that scarcely concern you.”
He was unabashed. “True, true, it is a gift, yah . But allow me to ask: will you wallow in your failures, or will you muster the courage to address them?”
The question brought Alex to an abrupt halt. He turned to face his companion, with uncertainty. “I…I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s a deal easier said than done, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is,” he said, resting one hand on Alex’s shoulder.
“But, my friend, nothing worth doing is ever easy.” He fixed his companion with a stare.
“To become a man, my dear fellow, is not about age or experience. It is about facing the hard truths of life and embracing them with a strength that comes from within, yah . It is about shouldering burdens, righting wrongs, and standing tall in the face of adversity.” He leaned in closer still, his voice solemn.
“It is the mark of a true man to meet challenges head-on with courage, and emerge stronger for it.”
Alex absorbed the Dutchman’s words as they continued their walk. The night air was cool, but the fire within him burned brighter with each passing moment.
When they’d reached the legendary cellar tavern, housing Europe’s oldest brandy, the Dutchman passed the establishment without comment, perceiving his companion needed the momentum of walking to purge his soul.
Pouring out came the Englishman’s growing acquaintance with the Rainier family, which, unknown to him, impressed the Dutchman.
He spoke of Louis’s measured journey toward sobriety and the extraordinary kindness with which his family met his struggles.
Listening keenly, his revelations left their mark on his companion.
As dawn broke, they found themselves in a bustling square where tradesmen and women were setting up their stalls.
The count steered them toward a quaint coffee house nestled between a milliner’s shop and a bookbindery.
The swinging signboard above the door said, Café Lumière .
Inside, the aroma of roasting coffee beans invited them to shed their weariness.
With a naturalness, the proprietor was addressed in flawless French, requesting two cups of their finest brew, earning him a look of admiration from Alex. “Do you speak every language with such ease?” he asked as they settled into their seats.
“Only the ones worth knowing,” came the reply with a wink.
As they sipped their coffee, the count leaned back in his chair, exhaling.
“You know,” he mused, “sometimes I think my sisters conspired against our father. He was determined I should live a sensible, settled life—an advantageous marriage, an orderly estate, a string of healthy heirs. And perhaps I would have—had my sisters not had other ideas.”
Alex arched a brow. “They had no wish to see you respectably wed?”
“Oh, on the contrary. They wished me married—just not to her.” He traced the rim of his cup with his thumb.
“Picture it—a house full of women, all cleverer than I, nudging me toward adventure and away from the life our father intended. They saw what I would not—that she was charming, yah , but hollow. That I was infatuated, not in love. And so, through means I have never fully uncovered, they contrived to pry me loose.”
Alex considered this. “She married another?”
The Dutchman gave a slow nod. “It was expected. It was right. She found a good man to replace me, and she will be content.” He exhaled, half a sigh, half a laugh. “But sometimes I wonder, if I had behaved better, where we would be now.”
Alex murmured, “I know the feeling.”
The Dutchman then asked after the Englishman’s lady love, at which point Alex confessed: “She was too lovely to remain unclaimed for long. I expect by now, she has long since moved on. Perhaps she is even married.”
“It stings does it not?”
Alex exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I have gambled, cavorted, and traveled far to forget that moment, and yet it clings to me. I used to resent being obliged to propose to her. But now, I regret that I asked her so poorly.”
His companion gave a slow nod, watching him with the quiet understanding of a man who had learned to live with his regrets.
Glancing at the glistening cobbles outside, the Dutchman was reminded of the hour.
“Oh! But how could I forget! It is Sunday, yah ?” He shook his head and rose to his feet.
“My family will expect to see me at church. If I hurry, I might just make it.”
“I suppose a man cannot escape family obligations.”
“Nor should he, if he’s wise.” The Dutchman extended a hand. “This evening has been most memorable. I ought to have mentioned it sooner, but I am Count Johannes van de Meer—Johan, to my friends.”
Alex took the offered hand with a smile. “Lord Alexander Sinclair. Call me Alex.”
The count’s brow furrowed. “Alex? No, no, that will not do. Alexander is a name with weight. Let it remind you of the man you are.”
Alex chuckled. “As you wish, Johan.”
The Dutchman had strode for the door but turned back. “Before I go—meet me for dinner tonight, seven o’clock, at The Obsidian Club. Do you know it?”
“On Rue des Sables? I’m not a member.”
“They know not what they’re missing.” Johan winked at his new friend and departed with a warmhearted threat. “Dare not keep me waiting, Englishman.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he called out.
With a last wave, the count disappeared into the bustling street, his long stride purposeful and quick.
Alex lingered, watching the city spring to life around him. He hadn’t been seeking anything when he wandered downstairs last night, but somehow, he had stumbled upon a kindred spirit. For the first time in a long while, he did not feel alone.