7. A Plea From Home
A Plea From Home
Along the Rue de Namur , Alex ambled, lost in thought.
He had just departed from the Royal Park, where he had bid farewell to Louis van Rijn and his son basking in the sunshine.
He never spent time with the van Rijns without feeling an uneasy awareness that his outlook on life direly needed revision.
Aimless but content, he wandered through the warren of streets, allowing Brussels to swallow him whole.
Since forging the acquaintance of the Rainiers, the van Rijns, and Count Johan, Alex had forsaken his humble lodgings above a smoky tavern, accepting Johan’s gracious invitation to reside as his guest. For three months now, the quiet elegance of the Count’s townhouse on the Rue Ducale , opposite the Royal Park, had enveloped him.
The transition had been subtle yet transformative; each day spent in Johan’s company, each discussion at the Obsidian Club, had awakened a curiosity about human nature he had not known he possessed.
Lost in these musings, Alex failed to notice two governesses approaching, surrounded by a swarm of children.
With seconds to spare, his gentlemanly instincts prevailed, and he stepped aside to let them pass.
Providence dictated that the embrasure he leaped into belonged to a shop, its gilt sign proclaiming it as Le Vestiaire Noble.
Before he could collect himself, a booming voice from within shattered his reverie.
“Alexander! Is that you?”
Turning, he beheld Count van der Meer, draped in fine fabrics, while a diminutive man scrambled to rescue the swatches falling from his shoulders.
Alex stepped inside the shop’s richly scented interior. “Johan! Is this where you’ve been all day? You were nowhere to be found when I awoke.”
“The time a gentleman devotes to his tailor, Alexander, should never be hurried.”
The tailor, a wiry little Frenchman with the preening air of a peacock, clasped his hands together as if greeting royalty.
“ Monsieur ! By the cut of your coat, I perceive you are English, oui ? I am Henri Verdelle, and I assure you, there exists no finer tailor in all of Europe. Ask le Comte! He will tell you.”
Unbothered by the cloth still draped over him, Johan made the introductions. “Alexander, meet Henri Verdelle, magician with needle and thread.” This pronouncement earned him a beaming smile. “Henri, this is Lord Sinclair, a wandering Englishman in dire need of your styling.”
“Am I?” Alex asked, amused.
The tailor clasped his hands to his heart. “ Mais oui, monsieur! A lord must have garments that announce his presence before he utters a word.”
Johan nodded. “It is universally acknowledged that a man of distinction must have an impeccable wardrobe. A well-tailored coat, a perfectly matched waistcoat—these things speak volumes.”
Alex chuckled, fingering a bolt of fine burgundy wool. “I suppose my current attire cries mediocrity?”
“Well, it lacks a certain… je ne sais quoi .” He bent his substantial frame to meet the height of his tailor. “ Henri, mon cher ami a besoin d’un ensemble entièrement nouveau ! ”
“A what?” Alex inquired, entertained by his friend’s flamboyant peacock.
“He needs to be utterly English,” Johan said intelligibly again, “with just a whisper of French elegance, yah? A statement to all who behold him that the boy who left to tour the continent has returned a man of culture and consequence. What do you say, Henri?”
The tailor kissed his fingertips. “ Absolument ! Henri knows exactly what to do.” His eyes lit.
“Allow me to work, as le Comte calls it, my magic, monsieur , and you shall be the envy of Brussels.” Before Alex could protest, the tailor’s insistent hands guided him toward an armchair, his objections drowned by Johan’s hearty laughter.
“But,” the tailor interjected, wagging a finger, “only after le Comte has completed his fitting, s’il vous pla?t ! Do not bewilder poor Henri.”
Resigned to his fate, Alex settled back, watching the proceedings with amusement. If nothing else, he thought, the afternoon promised entertainment.
Johan turned to Alex, a teasing light in his eyes. “It astonishes me that you have never thought to invest in a wardrobe befitting your successes.”
“Successes?” Alex echoed.
“Come now,” Johan said as Henri adjusted a cuff. “I know very well how many guilders you have won at the gaming tables. I daresay you could purchase half of Brussels with your winnings.”
Alex chuckled. “If I’m honest, my friend, the thought has crossed my mind.
But I confess I hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin.
” He gestured around the shop. “Until now, that is. Tell me, Henri, could you have something ready by the end of the week? I have a ball to attend at the Rainiers’, and I ought not to arrive looking shabby. ”
Henri froze mid-stitch, clutching a spool of thread. “The end of the week?” he echoed, aghast. “ Mon Dieu , monsieur, you ask for the impossible!” Such artistry cannot be rushed. Each stitch must be a poem, each buttonhole a sonnet!”
Accustomed to his tailor’s dramatics, Johan waved a hand. “Calm yourself, Henri. You may put aside all my orders until the Englishman has his ensemble for the ball. You want the Archduke’s guest of honor to be dressed in a Henri Verdelle masterpiece, non? ”
The little tailor gasped, his indignation melting. “ Le Comte is correct—and most generous,” Henri murmured, bowing. “Very well, monsieur ,” he said to Alex, “I shall do what I can. But you must promise not to breathe a word if the coat is not quite a perfect.”
“I am certain it will be nothing short of magnificent,” Alex said, suppressing a grin as Henri muttered to himself in rapid French, already darting about the shop in search of the perfect fabric.
“Henri! Henri, you rascal,” Johan called. “First, remove all the pins from your favorite customer, yah? ”
“A million apologies, monsieur! ” the little Frenchman exclaimed, snapping back to reality. “ Oui, oui, le Comte is Henri’s favorite.”
Emerging from Le Vestiaire Noble some hours later, Johan cast a satisfied glance at Alex. “By the end of the week, you shall have transformed from a middling philosopher into the very epitome of elegance. All that remains is to refine your waltz.”
“My waltz? And what, pray, is wrong with the way I dance?”
“Nothing,” Johan allowed, “if you intend to partner a chair. Should you aspire to impress the ladies, however, I strongly advise a few lessons—or a miracle.”
Their laughter lingered as they made their way to The Obsidian Club, where the warm glow of lamplight and the low hum of conversation welcomed them.
Familiar nods and murmured acknowledgments marked their arrival, as members lounged in deep armchairs or clustered about tables, cigars trailing ribbons of smoke into the air.
From around the great black stone table anchoring the room, a voice rang out. “van der Meer! Sinclair!” A member lifted his glass in greeting.
“Shall we?” Johan inquired.
Alex shrugged, obliging without hesitation. They wove through the room to join the table, where port circulated freely and cigars glowed in the dim light. Among their company sat a retired general, a diplomat, and a financier, each a man of influence in his own right.
Mr. Weatherall, the financier, turned to Alex as he settled into his chair. “So, what paradox, my lord, has been preoccupying our English philosopher of late?”
Alex smiled, flattered by the regard of men whose decisions shaped armies and courts. “I hesitate to intrude upon so lively a discussion,” he said modestly.
The diplomat cast a dry glance at the general. “A change of topic will be most welcome, sir. Anything to halt the General’s reflections on Waterloo.”
“One might argue that the contemplation of human frailty is a subject well worth our time,” Alex remarked, his gaze sweeping the table. “For in it lies the essence of our nature—the paradox of our existence.”
“Spoken like a true philosopher,” Johan murmured, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
Though one or two gentlemen looked skeptical, Viscount de Rochefort, already one burgundy too deep, banged the table in hearty approval. “Human frailty—an excellent theme! Proceed, Lord Sinclair. Enlighten us.”
Acknowledging the viscount with a slight nod, Alex allowed the silence to stretch before he began.
“It strikes me that we too often overlook the small kindnesses that sustain the human spirit. Not out of malice, but through ignorance—or perhaps arrogance. Until recently, I confess I was guilty of the same failing.”
He paused, recalling the night he had met Louis.
“During my time in Brussels, I witnessed something that has stayed with me: the resilience and equal fragility of mankind. I have seen men brought low by hardship and circumstance, their dignity preserved by the simplest mercies—a kind word, an extended hand. These gestures, so easily given, may be the difference between despair and hope.”
The lively hum of debate had given way to a thoughtful hush. Johan, seated to his left, inclined his head in approval.
“Human frailty, my friends, is not a thing to be scorned but understood. If my travels have taught me anything, it is that strength is not found in conquest or acclaim. True strength reveals itself in compassion. It is the man who recognizes another’s suffering and seeks to ease it.”
He turned to Johan, resting a hand on his shoulder in quiet tribute to the source of his wisdom. “It is the man who meets difficulty head-on, who looks upon a fellow sinner not with judgment, but with mercy.”