And that’s the root of the problem.
Richard gave up, momentarily, thinking about the cursed flecks of wine on the carpet, and slumped back toward the chair he’d been occupying for much of the morning. While his guests were arriving and the revelers began making merry, he’d determined to closet himself away here in the library until he could steel himself to be happy about this marriage. But as he’d already finished the entire bottle of claret, and the clock was yet to strike noon, his plan wasn’t going very well.
As he tumbled into one of the smooth, brown leather armchairs, he reached for the scrap of paper he always kept in his left front pocket. This sheet of parchment had been with him since he was at Eton. He’d had a professor there encourage him to make a list of accomplishments he’d wished to attain by the time he was thirty. This assignment, while given to each young man in the class, had made a particular impact on Richard’s life as he, unlike the other boys, not only took the task seriously, but all these years later, he still held onto the paper.
Now, returning to the list even though he’d memorized it long ago, he surveyed the progress he’d made in the last fifteen years.
Read and analyze the complete works of William Shakespeare
Read the works of William Wordsworth
Read the works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Discern whether other “Lake Poets” are worth reading
Graduate from University
Visit Italy
Visit America
Master the pianoforte
Occupy a respectable position in the House of Lords
Find a wife and marry her
Have three children
Over the years, Richard had added small notes to the list, giving clarity to vague ideas, but never once did he modify his original goals. When it occurred to him that America was a rather large country, he’d been forced to narrow this goal—writing in the details of how his journey would start in New York City and perhaps take him to Boston as he was sure anything worth seeing in the Americas would be in either of these two lively cities. Similar notes were made about the works of poetry by Wordsworth and Coleridge. At first, he’d contented himself with reading the combined works of the two men that were available in “Lyrical Ballads,” but then, he’d discovered further poems and continued reading those works published by these romantic authors. Of those things he’d set out to achieve when he was three-and-ten years old, he’d scratched off all but the final two.
With this weekend, I’ll be moving much closer to attaining all I ever dreamed possible.
He thought of Miss Loery with her fair hair that sparkled like champagne when she wore it in tight curls atop her head. She was almost statuesque in her beauty as she stood very tall, and her eyes were an icy blue which intrigued Richard. Whenever he brought a picture of her to mind, he focused on those crystalline eyes as they were often so unreadable. He felt, very much, that she spent her days studying his movements and evaluating if he would in fact prove to be a proper husband. He sincerely hoped he held up underneath her weighty scrutiny. But as she had agreed to be his wife, he figured that he must have done something right—at least thus far.
Thinking of Miss Loery filled Richard’s entire being with a mild sense of grief.
I want her to love me…just as I wish I could love her…but—
There was no conclusion to that thought. The grand finale was less than desired. Richard knew that most marriages weren’t built on love. He understood how many of his friends had not even been given the same luxury as he was to choose his own bride as several fellows had been matched up years ago by their parents. So, he knew he ought to be grateful to his mother for allowing him the time and leisure to select his own bride, court her, and marry her during this lavish wedding weekend. But he would have liked it if there was some affection between them.
He sighed despairingly, refolded the list, and tucked it back into his pocket where it belonged. He reached for the empty claret bottle and tipped it upward, seeking the taste of even the most meager amount of alcohol but finding none. Then, he stood and patted his jacket, feeling the weight of the list there.
Almost done…almost complete.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself by holding one hand against the back of the armchair. Then, he left the room, searching for the nearest housemaid who might be able to do something about the mess he’d made in the library. He gave a quick glance around the hall, noting the flurry of carriages that were accumulating out front, and he switched course, not entirely ready to face his guests just yet. He steered toward the staircase and had just turned so that he might step upward when he ran straight into Leticia.
Their foreheads touched, and Leticia sprang backward at once. “Bottled spider!” she breathed, making the Shakespearean insult sound most natural. “Plague sore.” Her hands flew to her head, and she clutched there. When he was fourteen, he and Harry had begun reading several of Shakespeare’s great plays. When they were home on holiday, they taught the young Leticia, who at the time was only eight years old, several choice insults which she ran about the house shrieking hysterically anytime either of them did something to displease her like leave her out of their tomfoolery.
Richard’s hand went to touch the tender spot on his own forehead, and he whispered, “Some things never change, thou poisonous bunch-backed toad.”
Leticia’s hands dropped away from her forehead now, and her hazel eyes grew wide with astonishment. “I didn’t expect to run into you.”
“Nor I into you.”
She gave him a look of discomfort and reached up to touch her hairline once more. Her delicate fingers wove into the tendrils of brown locks near her temples. “What were you doing running about? Aren’t you supposed to be greeting your guests?” She grimaced, but using her free hand, she waved toward the front entry way.
“And what about you?” Richard asked, avoiding her question entirely. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs with your aunt?”