Part
I
Orlando
received the letter on a Tuesday. He recognised the writing immediately: his
sister's delicate scrawl across the envelope. He read it sitting in the
library, the afternoon sun fighting through the thick, dusty air to illuminate
the words.
It
was to be expected, he supposed. It would not be like his Father to forgive, or
to forget, so quickly. He felt a dull clench in his chest; he had been looking
forward to returning home.
Glancing
out at the wide cobbles of the high street, at the carriages clattering past,
he tried to envisage London. The streets would be wider, he imagined, and
busier. More buildings, more people. Less light drenching the pavements.
He
left the library, tucking the letter into the pocket of his scholars' robe, and
returned to his rooms. The afternoon was waning, seeping into a watery lilac
dusk. In the streets, lamplighters climbed the dark poles of the streetlights,
and they lit up in flickering glow: a row of delicately caged fireflies along
the pavements.
Most
of Orlando's belongings were already packed in his trunks, ready for departure
the following day. The gas lamp by his bedside sputtered its yellow light into
the shadows. Orlando liked the sound they made: a hollow, windy sort of noise,
like putting one's ear to a shell to hear the sea.
He
stared at the light, and thought. He had met Lord Mortensen, he was sure of it.
He had visited them in Northbrook, along with his Mother. Blonde, he had been,
and tall; had an air of nobility about him, as Orlando had supposed all Lords
would. His mother had been splendid, too, regaled in elegant laces and furs.
Orlando had thought his family had been rich, as indeed, they were, but these
were people of an altogether different calibre.
It
had been sunny, and they had sat out in the garden under the cool boughs of the
willow, and his Mother had made iced tea in honour of their American guests.
Orlando had drank it, and thought it wonderful: sweet and cool, and familiar,
yet wildly exotic.
His
sisters had fussed over Lord Mortensen like he was the only man in the world.
He had caught Rose gazing from the drawing room window and humming to herself,
a tune that Orlando now realised had been a wedding march.
He
had thought Viggo the most fascinating man he had ever met. He was an artist, a
poet! He lived in London and had friends who had appeared in plays! He had
travelled the world, and Orlando had imagined he must have ten thousand stories
to tell: of red deserts and dripping forests and insects that shone like
jewels.
Every
word that had left his lips had been a precious pearl, and Orlando had
treasured them in his mind until it felt filled to the very brim. Over time he
had felt them slipping away, back to their mysterious seas.
It
would be strange to see him again, Orlando mused. He wondered if he was still
the same, wondered if he had yet travelled the entire world. If Orlando's
arithmetic was correct, and Orlando assumed it was, Viggo would now be thirty-six.
It sounded awfully old; old enough, almost, to know everything there was to
know, to have collected a veritable library of tales.
He
wondered if Viggo would remember him, would recognise him. Certainly, Orlando
had changed. The pressures of being his Father's only son had not been lost on
him, and he had grown intelligent and ambitious. He was a handsome, honourable
young man, and had many friends and admirers.
However,
he had two downfalls, of which his Father was eager to cure him. The first was
lust, and the second was vanity. These traits were merely the indulgences of
youth; of this, Sir Bloom was sure, as Orlando could also be quite charmingly
naïve. Some time in the City would surely rid him of his boyish fancies, and
initiate him into the world of Men.