Prologue – A Day Derailed

Lord Bertram Barnaby Astley, the Earl of Gloucester, sighed as they lowered his wife into the ground. He knew glancing at his pocket watch would be gauche so he abstained, although a not-so-discreet eyeroll could not be stopped as his mother-in-law wailed near him. It must be the northerner in her that carried the Banshee blood, he mused and directed his scowl at the pouring rain currently ruining his best pair of boots.

His only son stood, head bent, a few steps in front of him, still in his uniform. Lord Bertram would scold him for it later,since he felt the lecture delivered this morning had been insufficient and cut unfortunately short by the departing procession for the ceremony.

Had he no pride left, the Earl would be forced to admit himself at a loss as to why the boy would cut his career short for an hour in the mud staring at a box of a woman he had not laid eyes on for the past three years. What was even more astonishing, was the boy’s apparent insistence at travelling overnight with nary a kerchief for luggage to attend the funeral; an unfortunate bout of obstinance (surely inherited from his mother), which had forced him to go from the station to the house on foot this morning.

Lord Bertram had near dismissed him for a beggar when the boy rushed in the sitting room at breakfast, eyes wild, hair dishevelled and demanding answers. Is it true, young Astley asked in the tone of someone begging for lies. How?, the boy demanded with the determination of one drawing conclusions with the speed of a quick draw. Perhaps the military had been a wrong choice for an already disappointing progeny, Lord Bertram thought, already considering ways to remove the boy from whatever corruptive influence had triggered this distasteful display of personality.

The latter question at least had been one Lord Bertram felt more than up to answering.

He raised himself to his full height to better see the extent to which the road had imprinted itself on his son’s uniform. A stain near the left elbow had the vermillion tinge of blood and bore an unfortunate kinship to a splat at his kneecap.

Why didn’t you tell me?, his son’s tone had continued sharpening itself on a clearly inflated sense of righteousness.

“I would have thought it evident,” Lord Bertram, the Earl of G, gestured at the boy he very much feared would be his only legacy and said: “I was trying to avoid this particular display.”

There was a loud squishy thud as the coffin hit the mushy ground underneath.

Lord Bertram Barnaby Astley, the Earl of Gloucester, exhaled with almost surprising relief.

It was done. This sorry circus. A shameful display of weakness masquerading as virtue. He looked, not for the first time, at the substantial crowd, noting at a glance two members of the Royal family. The Earl’s lips pursed. A distant nephew and a disgraced cousin. The snub couldn’t have been more obvious. Unable to stop himself he took out his pocket watch – a day unforgivably derailed. He would need to call on his cobbler for a new pair of boots as well.

He moved forward, a step behind his too eager son, tossing a crumpled note into the hole, along with the spray muddy dirt being shovelled to cover the dearly departed. He paused momentarily, wondering why he had not burned the damned piece of paper the night before in the safety of his study. Perhaps there was some of his own theatrics in his son’s unfortunate being. Lord Bertram shrugged absently and moved away, purposefully blind to the looks he was getting from his son and from another youth, separate from the mourning party and hiding in the rain, he was barely a year older than the heir of the Astley fortune.

This would do. The 1st Earl of Gloucester, moved from the fresh grave with a lightened step relieved at the thought he would never need to glance at his wife again.

Unfortunately for Lord Bertram, he would see her again that very same night.

And for many nights to come.