EXCERPT FROM ‘A MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM’
23rd of December 1871
London
The baron was dead. Long live the baron.
Those had been Kingsley’s exact words when his master received the news that his dearly despised father had finally kicked the bucket. The new baron was properly addressed as “Lord Stearns,” “my lord,” or, after acknowledging the title, as “sir.” Yet, Kingsley and the new baron had known each other—intimately and biblically—since the ages of sixteen and seventeen respectively, and therefore when Kingsley addressed the newly minted Baron Stearns, he did so in his usual manner.
“Søren,” Kingsley hissed, then gently kicked the new baron in the shin.
The new baron—“Søren” to his intimates, as it was the name his beloved mother, not his detested father, had given him—lowered his copy of the Times just enough to peer at Kingsley over the top of it.
“We’re back in England,” Kingsley said.
Søren glanced out the train window and said, “What do you know? We are back in England. This is why I keep you in my employ. To remind me what country I’m in at all times lest I forget.”
“Also to beat me and bugger me.”
Søren held up his newspaper. “Yes, also that.”
“Søren,” Kingsley said, kicking the new baron in his other shin.
“As you reminded me,” Søren said, “we are in England again. You’ll have to at least pretend to respect my rank while we’re here.”
“Yes, my most honored and gracious lord and master.”
“Better. Now what do you want?”
“Will we be paying a visit to Lady Claire while we’re in town?” Kingsley asked. Town meaning London, of course. “Or returning to Paris immediately?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Lying sodding bastard.”
Søren lowered his newspaper again and arched his eyebrow at Kingsley.
“I mean, lying sodding bastard, my lord.”
Søren carefully folded his paper and set it on the empty seat at his side. They sat across from each other in a first-class train compartment, which would deliver them to London in now—Kingsley checked his pocket-watch—eight minutes.
“Valets who wish to keep their tongues firmly attached to their bodies will refrain from speaking when it is clear their master wishes them silent,” Søren said. “In other words—shut it, Kingsley.”
“You’re more rude than usual now that you’ve got the title,” Kingsley said. “And that’s saying something. You were a high-handed knob to start with.”
“You should be nicer to me,” Søren said. “My father’s just died after a long and difficult illness. I’m in mourning.”
They met eyes. Kingsley looked at Søren. Søren looked at Kingsley.
They both burst into laughter. A train conductor walked past, and Søren kicked Kingsley in the shin.
Kingsley fell sideways onto the train seat, cradling his leg.
“You kick much harder than I do,” Kingsley said. Søren merely stared out the window until their train pulled into the station.
They both stood, donned their overcoats and hats, and found the nearest empty cab.
“Mr. Fitzsimmons’s office, Surrey Street,” Kingsley instructed.
London somehow managed to be both frigid and clammy that December 23rd, and soon Kingsley was both shivering and sweating as the cab made slow progress to Mr. Fitzsimmons’s office.
Søren, however, looked the picture of perfection, as always. Grey suit, grey waistcoat, tie white as new-fallen snow, shoes impeccably polished, and not a single strand of his golden hair was out of place.
“You’re staring, Kingsley,” Søren said. “Stop it.”
“Trying to picture you with a beard. Look,” he pointed out the window at the men of business on the sidewalks. “We’ll have to grow enormous mustaches to fit in now.”
“We’ll just have to be unfashionable.”
“Suits me,” Kingsley said. “I’ve yet to meet a girl who ever got wet from a walrus. Unless one splashed her.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Søren said, glaring. “I’m attempting to look bereaved for our meeting. Is it working?”
“No,” Kingsley said. “Try to think about how much your father suffered. Does that help?”
“It makes me want to break out into song. Are there any songs about evil men dying of syphilis? If not,” Søren said, “someone should write one.”
“Won’t be me,” Kingsley said. “I can never remember how to spell ‘syphilis.’ Never know where to put the Y and if there are two Ls or one.”
“I’ll give you a dictionary for your Christmas gift,” Søren said.
“I’d rather you just give me what you gave me last year.”
“What was that again?“
“A beating and then you buggered me. That’s also what you gave me for my birthday. And your birthday two nights ago. And the Catholic feast days, all two-hundred of them.”
“Yes, well,” Søren said. “I’m very devout, as you know.”
The cab lurched to a stop in front of Mr. Fitzsimmons’s impressive offices. Kingsley paid the driver enough to wait for them. This was sure to be a short meeting.
Mr. Fitzsimmons, a man as round as he was tall, greeted them heartily as they entered his private office, bowing and scraping to Søren and calling him “my lord” so many times, Kingsley thought for a moment they were in church.
“My deepest sympathies upon the death of your father, my lord,” the rosy-cheeked solicitor said, hand over his heart.
“Shallow sympathies will more than suffice,” Søren replied.
Mr. Fitzsimmons blinked. “Yes, of course. Shall we begin then?”
The solicitous solicitor indicated a large leather armchair. Kingsley stood behind Søren, waiting attendant as Mr. Fitzsimmons sat at his desk.
“I won’t beat around the bush, Lord Stearns,” Mr. Fitzsimmons began once he’d perched his spectacles on his nose, “you know as well as I do that your father was a very wealthy man. Investments he made paid off handsomely. The estate is free of all debts and the yearly income stands at…”
Mr. Fitzsimmons cleared his throat and mentioned a figure so large Kingsley’s knees nearly buckled.
Søren only sighed, however. “He was as covetous as he was cruel. Did my father leave anything to my half-sister, Lady Claire.”
“She’ll inherit forty thousand on her twenty-first birthday.”
“Better than nothing,” Søren said. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I assume the rest of the estate goes to the Crown?”
“Not quite,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said. “You, Lord Stearns, are also a beneficiary.”
“Of what?” Søren asked, scoffing. “A one-pound note wrapped around a rock thrown at my face?”
“Your lordship inherits the title, of course, free and clear. As to the remainder of the estate,” Mr. Fitzsimmons continued. “The townhouse at Regent’s Park, the family seat, Edenfell, and the accounts…all yours, my lord.”
“I don’t believe that,” Søren said. Neither did Kingsley. “My father would rather have left his fortune to a one-eyed tabby cat in Yorkshire than to me.”
“He did insert a condition which you must fulfill in order to inherit. And...unfortunately, in order for your sister to inherit, as well.” Mr. Fitzsimmons coughed.
“Go on,” Søren said.
“You will have to marry to inherit,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said. He coughed again. Then he said something that sounded like, “Today.”
Kingsley blinked.
Mr. Fitzsimmons coughed a third time.
“Today?” Søren repeated. “I have to marry—today?”
“Or tomorrow morning, sir. You must marry within one day of the reading of the will. If you do, you and your sister will inherit. If not, then it’s all to the Crown.”
“That can’t possibly be legally binding,” Kingsley said. “Banns have to be read.”
“Not if a license is procured—easily done if one has rank and wealth. And I understand Lord Stearns is a Catholic,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said with some barely concealed distaste. “You’ll simply need an official present at your ceremony to validate it.”
“Can’t Lord Stearns contest the condition?” Kingsley asked. “His father was mad as a hatter.”
“I wouldn’t risk it,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said. “In the event Lord Stearns does not fulfill the condition, the Crown inherits. The courts routinely side with the testator’s final wishes, no matter how eccentric, and they will have a vested interest in ruling against his lordship. Your father was…”
“Evil,” Søren said.
Mr. Fitzsimmons replied, “I would have said ‘cunning.’”
“Yes, that as well.” Søren rubbed his temple and Kingsley couldn’t stop himself from reaching down and squeezing his shoulder to comfort him.
“Forgive me, Lord Stearns,” Mr. Fitzsimmons went on, “but it’s now half noon. I don’t mean to rush you along, but for your own sake…”
“Of course.” Søren rose quickly from the chair to his full and impressive height. Mr. Fitzsimmons rose as well, at once. “Good day, Mr. Fitzsimmons. We’ll be in touch, I’m sure. Come along, Kingsley.”
Kingsley followed Søren out of Mr. Fitzsimmons’s office and onto the street where their cab waited.
“Death by syphilis,” Søren said, “was too good for the man.”