Chapter Three #2
Alistair’s gaze strayed to the documents on the desk, his mind racing to assimilate the news and the emotions that news raised.
Something he’d been ambivalent about a few moments ago had become tinged with anger—at himself for having let it come to this and at his father for having made plans without his consent, like this trip, only on a much larger scale.
‘That’s what is in those papers? A twenty-eight-year-old pact?
’ Perhaps he should have steamed the letter open and risked his father’s wrath.
The pact sounded horribly medieval as did the knowledge that he’d toted his own fate across Europe.
It was somewhat like digging one’s own grave.
He could hear his father’s voice in his head: Not grave, Alistair, opportunity.
You are digging your own opportunity. Alistair remembered how that voice had sounded—exhausted, desperate, worried.
I would settle for having you do one thing, his father had said.
He remembered, too, his own desire in those moments to try for his father. But this?
He had so many questions. Where to start? ‘I am to be an art curator? I know nothing about art. I studied history at Oxford.’ And he’d enjoyed it, but perhaps Thomas Rose had forgotten. The only thing he knew about art was that he liked it more when it involved nudes.
‘I’m not talking about art that comes in frames and hangs on walls.
I am talking about artefacts. I think your background in history will serve you well, but that’s not your greatest asset, to me.
’ Sir Thomas waved a dismissive hand. ‘You know people, Alistair. That’s the skill that shines through in all of your father’s letters when he writes about what you’ve been doing.
That talent will be far more valuable to me.
All else will come in time, and I still have some of that to give even though your father and I are not young men anymore. ’
Sir Thomas leaned forward and reached for his wife’s hand.
‘Margaret and I knew after Ismay was born that there would likely be no more children for us, no son to leave my work to.
But your father, my best friend, offered me his.
He had no title to protect, no primogeniture to ensure.
He and I decided if you turned thirty-two without an endeavour of your own, I would take you on.
It filled both our needs. My need for a son, and his to offer you occupation.
‘I dare say it fulfils your needs, too, Alistair. A man must have purpose in his life. This can be yours. You will be good at it. Your father says you’re an excellent critical thinker, a man with vision who just needs to cultivate his follow-through.
He says you have more persuasive talent than the great Demosthenes himself.
Especially when it comes to women, eh?’ Sir Thomas gave a wink and earned a playful glare from his wife while Alistair shifted uncomfortably.
He’d prefer not to be so openly discussed.
He might need to have a word with his father about that, among other things.
The letter he’d be writing would be long indeed.
Thirty-two. The pieces were starting to settle.
Thirty-two was the age his father had married; the age at which his father often remarked he’d finally felt settled in life.
His father must have put these plans in motion shortly after his birthday in December.
This was why his father had wanted him in Naples by the fall, so that all would be secure before his thirty-third birthday.
Sir Thomas was beaming, either genuinely unaware of Alistair’s own shock or consciously choosing to run roughshod over it, flatten it into oblivion with his own exuberance until Alistair had no choice but to accept it.
‘Tomorrow, we’ll go to my warehouse down by the harbour, and I’ll show you around. ’
Hell’s bells! What a day this had been. Alistair tossed back the remainder of the rucolino and grimaced. It was definitely not for gulping. But neither was this sudden news. It, too, would need to be parsed in pieces and in private. He needed some time in which to digest this latest turn of events.
Sir Thomas stood, signalling the end of the interview.
‘Margaret, my dear, show Alistair to his chambers. He’ll want to freshen up before supper.
His trunk should have arrived by now.’ He was still beaming.
‘Tonight will be a celebration. We are having a few close friends to supper. It will be the perfect time for the announcement.’ Sir Thomas rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation and carried on as if acceptance was assured—much like his own father had done the night he’d unveiled the Italian trip.
Once again, he was left with no opening.
He could not protest without interrupting or upsetting Sir Thomas and Lady Margaret’s happiness and plans.
‘We’ll have so much to celebrate.’ Sir Thomas glowed with fatherly affection, an indecipherable look passing between him and his wife.
Was there something more than taking on a partner?
Alistair wondered. Sir Thomas clapped him on the shoulder.
‘I am glad you’re here, dear boy. You’re the answer to our prayers.
’ But perhaps, Alistair thought uncharitably as he followed Lady Margaret up the marble stairs, he wasn’t the answer to any prayers as much as he was the answer to two old men’s problems.
* * *
Those problems had now become his, a reality that not even the opulence of his chambers could obscure as Alistair’s anger reached a full boil.
That anger had been held at bay downstairs by the simple shock of the news and attempting to process the enormity of what it meant.
There’d been time for questions but no time for anger. Now there was.
Around him, a footman and a valet he’d apparently been assigned, along with his new purpose in life, began unpacking his trunks with all the obeisance due a visiting monarch. ‘How would you like your shirts? Folded or hung?’
‘Folded is fine. However you decide to arrange the clothing is suitable to me.’ Alistair moved towards the balcony.
If he stayed in here, he’d be besieged with a thousand questions about his garments that would delay the real thinking he needed to do.
He had mental unpacking of his own to accomplish, starting with What just happened downstairs?
and ending with What am I going to do about it?
He stepped outside and was momentarily rendered speechless by the view of the Bay of Naples with Mount Vesuvius in the distance: stunning, regal and perhaps just a bit menacing.
Not unlike Sir Thomas. Of course it was.
Alistair laughed out loud, his anger dissipating.
It seemed everything this afternoon was an attempt to keep him speechless: his first view of Vista Sulla Baia; Sir Thomas’s strategic glee designed to prevent him from protesting; and now this extraordinary view.
By Jove, Sir Thomas knew how to make an argument.
Alistair gripped the stone balustrade of the generous balcony—one of many that lined the backside of the house.
Each guest chamber seemed to have one. He was careful to keep his gaze fixed on the mountain on the horizon and not to look down.
He was only afraid of two things in life: failing and falling, two things that were not entirely dissimilar if one thought about it.