Prologue #2
David remained in his seat as the other half-dozen students left the room. He wondered why the tutor wished to speak with him privately.
Keller came and took a seat next to him.
“I have already spoken to a few others on staff. We are all quite impressed by you, Mr. Rochester. It is rare we find someone who grasps mathematical concepts as easily as you do, much less one who has also mastered several languages and writes beautiful poetry.”
The tutor handed David a page, and he recognized a poem he had written last week. Together, they went over it for the next several minutes, Keller praising various aspects, from the meter and structure to particular word choices David had made.
“I look forward to spending the next few years with you, Mr. Rochester. You may go.”
“Thank you for your time, sir.”
He left, stepping from the building and inhaling the clean, cool air of late September as he sauntered back to his rented rooms. When he arrived, he was shocked to find Jaffrey lingering outside his building.
“Mr. Jaffrey. What brings you to Oxford?” he asked the family solicitor.
“Might we have a word inside, Mr. Rochester?”
Though the older man was trying to keep his face blank, David felt his gut tighten, and he prepared for the worst.
Inside the rooms he shared with a fellow student, he asked again, “Why are you here?”
“Bad news should be shared quickly, and that is what I do now. Lord Sheridan is gone. He shot himself.”
David sucked in a quick breath, the room swirling about him. “Dead?” he croaked.
“The coroner gave a favorable ruling, since your father was an earl. The butler testified that Lord Sheridan was cleaning one of his hunting rifles, and it accidentally went off. At the inquest, the coroner declared death by misadventure.”
“So that it would not be marked a suicide,” he said quietly. “Papa could not have been buried next to Maman otherwise.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Jaffrey confirmed. “A suicide cannot lie in hallowed ground. This verdict makes the most sense. I only share with you what truly happened in order for you to prepare yourself when you hear the inevitable gossip.”
“When will the funeral be held?” he asked, trying to get used to the idea that his father was gone.
“They already have been,” Jaffrey said crisply.
“The new Lord Sheridan did not wish to wait. He said a quick burial would end gossip and prevent further talk, magnifying the scandal into more than it was. In truth, the earl was a grieving man, one who never recovered from his wife’s untimely death. I hope he has found peace.”
David sighed. “Thank you for coming in person to tell me, Mr. Jaffrey. That was most kind of you.”
The solicitor winced. “I am afraid that is not the only bad news I bear, Mr. Rochester.”
When Jaffrey hesitated, David said, “Keep to your own advice and tell me. Now.”
“While your fees for university this term are paid for, the new Lord Sheridan is not interested in continuing that arrangement.” The solicitor shook his head. “He seems to loathe you, Mr. Rochester. His hatred of you is . . . unnatural, in my opinion.”
“That is because while Maman loved Claude, with all his faults, she adored me. He could not stand that he was not first in her heart.” He paused.
“My brother has always been a spoiled brat, even if he is an adult now. And since he holds the purse strings, I suppose I will not be able to finish university.”
That hurt him deeply, which David knew was the point of his brother not providing the means for him to complete his university education.
Sighing, he said, “I was to go into the army after my time at Oxford. Papa set aside funds for that. Are they still available?”
“Yes. Lord Sheridan may not touch them. Monies to purchase your commission were designated in the will.”
“Would you purchase my commission for me now, Mr. Jaffrey?”
“Surely, you wish to finish out this term, Mr. Rochester. It would be wasteful not to do so.”
Sadly, he shook his head. “The idea of higher education no longer appeals to me,” he lied, knowing it was better he got on with his life.
“England needs all the good men she can get now, both as officers and soldiers. This Bonaparte problem is not going away anytime soon. I might as well do my part for the cause. How soon can you arrange things?”
Jaffrey considered it. “A week. Possibly less. I will leave Oxford tomorrow to make the arrangements.”
“I will go with you. I see no need to stay longer.”
They made plans to meet tomorrow morning, and David wrote several letters.
Some were to the tutors he had known only briefly, explaining that his father had passed away and that his circumstances had changed, telling them he was leaving school for the army.
The others were to Henry and the duke, letting them know where he would be going and that he would write once his training had been completed and he knew where he would be assigned on the continent.
With a heavy heart, he went and posted the letters. He would have enjoyed his years at university, but he had always been destined for the army as a second son. He would merely start his military career sooner than he had expected.
Two months later, his training done, David reported for his first assignment.
Not as a soldier—but a spy.