Part II

By liquidglitter

The carriage arrived after luncheon, after Orlando had watched his fellow scholars leave, one by one, their black robes billowing triumphantly; flags of the educated, Orlando thought wryly.

It was driven by two horses, both chestnut brown. Orlando's trunks were loaded into the carriage. Orlando climbed in, a book in hand to wile away the journey.

The carriage set off with a jerk, and he leant back into the richly lined seat and listened to the dull percussion of hooves on a cobbled road. It was impossible to sleep in the wretched things, he reflected, and opened his copy of Hard Times, which his tutor had assured him was a classic. Lord Mortensen would surely be well read, so he supposed that to appear knowledgeable about the literary world would be most favourable.

When he awoke in central London, book in hand, it was after nightfall. The air was different; this was the first thing he noticed. It was thicker, and the dust was bitter. The streets were cobbled; he could tell by the particular way the carriage rattled.

The houses here were grand indeed: smaller than country manors, but no less splendid. Three, or four storeys high, with elaborate stonework and wrought iron balconies and gates. Streetlamps stood amongst trees, casting mottled light across the pavement.

The carriage pulled to a halt by a tall, pale stone house. It had stone pillars, and the gate was intricately woven with metal vines and glossy fruits. The carriage was opened, and Orlando was escorted to the door of the house. It was dark red, the colour of good port, with a gold knocker and a tasselled bell-cord.

The door was opened by one of the maids.

"Good evening, Sir," she said, curtseying. "You must be Mr. Bloom. Lord Mortensen is in his studio. You are to come with me."

Orlando's hat and robe were hung up, and he followed the maid through the hallway and up the luxuriously carpeted staircase. The house was awash with the buzzing glow of lamps, and the air tasted of perfume and rich spices.

"In here, Sir," she said, stopping beside the doorway at the end of the passage. Orlando nodded, and she curtseyed and hurried away through the shadows.

He walked in, the smell of turpentine and oils thick in his throat. Lord Mortensen had his back to the door, standing in front of an enormous canvas. He was wearing only a shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare. Orlando coughed softly,

"Lord… Lord Mortensen?"

He turned, and walked over to greet Orlando. He looked almost exactly as Orlando had remembered him. A little more weathered perhaps, but his eyes had lost none of their light. His shirt was undone, and smudged with an entire rainbow of colours. A pale blue streak swept across the fabric, onto the tanned sliver of flesh that was exposed.

"Orlando," he said, looking him up and down. "My Lord, what a fine young man you have become. Congratulations are in order, I believe. Your family must be very proud. And please, call me Viggo."

Orlando smiled. "Father's always dreamt of having an Oxford scholar in the family. With three sisters, I suppose I was his only hope."

Viggo laughed, and Orlando noticed a paintbrush in his hand. "May I see what you are working on?" he asked.

Viggo nodded and led him to the canvas. It was enormous, larger indeed than the bay windows in the breakfast room back home. Upon the canvas was the form of a lady, half-clothed. Red silks pooled delicately around her waist, and waves of long, dark hair tumbled over her pale shoulders. Her eyes were blue, and she was smiling.

Orlando's eyebrows rose, "Do you know this fine lady?"

"She is my fiancée," Viggo replied, a slight smile curving his lips. "I believe I know her rather well."

"She looks like a splendid woman," Orlando said, struggling not to stare at her breasts. "I would love to meet her."

"As, no doubt, you will. Nevertheless, for now: come, let us celebrate."

Orlando followed Viggo out of the room and down the dark passage. Upon reaching the staircase, Viggo paused,

"My study is downstairs, one door from the morning room. Lucy can escort you if you get lost. I must change out of these clothes. Emily, my housekeeper, would have me hanged if any trace of paint should appear outside my studio," and he turned, and disappeared up the sweeping staircase.

Orlando walked downstairs and stared blankly at the row of doors.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

"I'm trying to find the study," Orlando replied.

"It is the second door to your right, Sir," the maid said, and took her leave.

Orlando nodded and walked to the heavy oak door. The brass handle was cool in his palm, and he entered cautiously. Tall bookshelves ran along the walls, filled with the colourful, rich spines of books. Novels, encyclopaedias, dictionaries … the room was thick with the smell of them. A musky, familiar scent; it made Orlando think of Oxford, and long nights spend in the Trinity library.

At the far end was a desk of dark, glossy wood and by it, a drinks cabinet glittering with crystal decanters and tumblers. The chair behind the desk was padded with dark leather, and the same upholstery had been applied to the settee and recliners.

Orlando seated himself in one of the recliners and looked up at the bookshelves to see if he recognised any of the titles.

Not a moment later, Viggo appeared in the doorway dressed in a clean shirt and black dinner jacket. It fitted him well, and Orlando could not stop his eyes from wandering. An extraordinarily attractive man, Viggo was. Rather a pity that he was engaged; although Orlando had to admit that this had not been an obstacle to him in the past.

Viggo walked to the drinks cabinet and withdrew a decanter holding a warm, amber liquid, the colour of rich, polished walnut.

"Whisky?"

Orlando nodded. He didn't care much for the drink, but in his experience, liquor had often preceded sex and was therefore rather a necessary evil.

He accepted the tumbler, and it was cool and heavy in his hands. His fingers slid comfortably into the ridges of the crystal. The whisky tasted foul, as he had known it would, but Orlando forced it down his throat and smiled as it began to warm him, like delicate fire, from the inside.

Viggo sat in the recliner opposite him, drink held casually in hand.

"Orlando," he said, "I know why you are here. Though your Father states adamantly that it is to initiate you into the working world, I believe his true motive is otherwise. I have heard," and here, Viggo paused, fighting a smile. "I have heard about your little … encounter with the Minister's boy, and though I think it quite deliciously scandalous, your parents do not see it in the same light."

Orlando grinned and took another sip of the whisky, watching with delight the way Viggo's mouth curved around the words.

"Nonetheless, they want me to show you the city, and that I will do. The circles I travel in are, I am sure, precisely not what your Father wishes you to associate with. Therefore, tomorrow I will introduce you to a dear friend, Mr. Dominic Monaghan. He is an actor, but primarily a lawyer, and will be a most suitable companion." He paused, and brought the tumbler to his lips. "Further than that…a few weeks from now, and London season will be over. We will spend a week or so yachting at Cowes, and then, come August, it will be time to head to Scotland for grouse shooting. Rather a tedious sport, but it is a particularly beautiful country. If you are still with me in September, it will be time to venture south again, for hunting and country balls at Parkland Manor. But – we will see."

Orlando nodded. "Sounds delightful," he said. "I must admit I am glad that you appear to take no particular interest in 'curing' me, as my sister so delicately put it."

Viggo laughed, "Rightly so. I could not, in all good conscience, turn you away from a lifestyle that so closely resembles my own."

Orlando's eyebrows rose.

Viggo's smile slid wicked, "Do not underestimate me, Mr. Bloom. Though I am now marrying, I have not always been so … traditional in my affairs."

"What ever can you mean?" Orlando asked innocently, swirling the whisky around in his glass.

Viggo did not answer; he took a sip from his tumbler and swallowed, his gaze locked levelly with Orlando's as the liquid trickled down his throat. Orlando watched, and licked his lips, and waited.

Viggo cleared his throat. "You are an attractive young man, Orlando," he said, after a pause. "But to pursue this any further would be folly. I am sure you will find many handsome ladies – and gentlemen – who would gladly quench your desires. Doubtless, Mr. Monaghan will know where to find them."

Orlando felt a defensive clench in his chest, and he snorted, "I am not looking for a prossie, Viggo. And do not be overly flattered by my attentions, it is a long while since I last laid eyes on any man other than the crusty Oxford Fellows. I fear my judgement may be somewhat clouded."

Viggo laughed, "Very well. I will put this down to the whisky, nothing more, and let us forget it ever happened."

Orlando nodded, tilted his head back and gulped down the rest of his glass.

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