Because while common sense revealed that life was short, life still always caught folks off guard.
Every. Single. Time.
One
The bloodred wax shone from its place on the envelope. Pressing the seal into the pliable form, Quinton took a long and purposeful inhale, resisting the belief thathewas the Duke of Wesley now.
It had been six months.
Six months since he’d seen his brother’s face.
Heard his brother’s voice.
He wasn’t the only one bearing the inescapable burden of loss.
Every one of his best friends had suffered the same horror. Each one of their mothers had wailed, retiring to her room, refusing to leave for days.
Six months hadn’t dampened the pain, just made it possible to keep surviving in the middle of it.
The suffocating pressure was constant. On top of the mourning, Quinton now had the weight of the title of duke and head of his family, the title and heritage bearing down upon him every moment of every day.
He had been content to be a professor of politics and history at Cambridge. He’d loved it, each moment.
But life didn’t always turn out the way one expected.
After all, no one had suspected that Wesley and his friends would getthatdrunk, or fail to keep the rug away from the fire. Life had promised that they were young men, with their lives ahead of them…and in a few hours that had all been stolen, reduced to a pile of ash and rubble.
Quinton rose from the desk and walked away, emotionally leaving the weight behind him. He needed to get out, to get away, but there was no escaping the truth.
He took in the familiar view of his study. He’d miss this place, desperately. Cambridgeshire was his heart’s home, but duty called him to London. For a time he had attempted to do both: handle the dukedom and teach. But both the title and his teaching had suffered, forcing his hand. A resignation letter had been dispatched earlier, very reluctantly, to the Fellows at King’s College at Cambridge University. It was an abominable time to walk away from the university, with enrollment increasing at such a pace as to outrun Oxford for the first time in the university’s history. But there was nothing to do be done for it; he was now the Duke of Wesley and needed to be in London to attend to the matters left behind by his brother.
In thinking of his brother, a wave of grief crested within Quin. Would it be better or worse, returning to London? Leaving one place didn’t mean the pain was left behind as well.
As he quit his study, he called to his butler, “Please have the carriage prepared. I’ll be out front shortly.”
The butler nodded, gave a rather spry bow for his seventy years, and went to arrange Quinton’s request.
Bittersweet emotions fought within Quin as he considered his destination. He had spent countless hours in the Cambridge University library. For a brief moment, he had peace of mind. Memories flooded him of a simpler time when books held all the answers and all one needed was time. Quinton straightened his back. His footsteps echoed softly on the polished hardwood floor of the hall as he made his way to the front of the town house.
For a few hours, he would enjoy the peace and quiet of the library and then he would be on his way to London and his waiting mother.
Quin swayed with the movement of the carriage as it bumped over the cobbled stones of the jumble-gut street. His mind wandered as he moved past the scattered colleges throughout Cambridge, each one distinct in its field of study yet unified under the common university. Though he’d made the trek between Cambridge and London many times before, this one had a ring of finality to it that the other trips had lacked. They turned onto Trinity Lane, the ashlar buildings quiet sentinels of knowledge and study, housing ancient tomes of literature and history. The grand old buildings absorbed the twilight as people walked along the street beside them.
The tension melted away as the carriage drew nearer, then came to a stop just before the entrance to the library. Several Fellows nodded in recognition as they glimpsed his opening carriage door and the man within. Quin returned the gesture, feeling at home. In London, the simple social interaction would be far more formal.
“Return in two hours,” Quinton instructed as he alighted from the carriage. He lifted his eyes to the tall height of the stone structure. It wasn’t as tall as the British Museum, but what it lacked in grandeur it made up for with knowledge.
He took the steps and pressed a hand on the cool wood of the door. The welcoming scent of old dust, history, and ancient artifacts greeted him. His lips turned upward, but the sensation was utterly foreign.
The silence greeted him, his footsteps the only noise except for the delicate flip of pages by a few lingering students. The stone arches wound in circles above his head, directing the eye up to heaven, as if beseeching the Almighty for answers not yet known.
But sought.
Tall wooden bookcases lined the main aisle, each one holding eight shelves divided into three sections, the bookcases bending into an L shape to line the interior wall of the aisle as well. The library was peaceful, beautiful, and inviting for a man who had long preferred the company of books to people.
Quin directed his steps down the main lane till he found a passage that led to an alcove he’d often used in researching history. Few used it, since it was off the main path, and he’d often enjoyed hours of privacy there. Selecting a modest wooden chair, he drew it out from the desk and took a seat, relaxing. A lamp illuminated the wooden desktop, exposing its grain and the way the finish had faded with use. It was one of the more private areas, tucked behind one of the shelves, where one could seek answers, dive into the depths of some book, and be lost for hours. Scholarly pursuits were simple that way. Have a question? Seek the answer. Read about it, research it if no one had dared to ask it yet, build upon the ideas of others, and grow the pool of ideas and knowledge. It was beautiful, known, and in many ways predictable.
The opposite of life.