Lord Henry Whitridge was used to being master of his own world. He wielded effortless command over any milieu in which he found himself, whether it was among his family, his Cambridge classmates, or the tenants of the estate he had inherited from his father. He possessed all the traits a gentleman ought to have--beauty, strength, wit, wealth--all in perfect proportion. His beauty was not so dazzling as to outshine his intelligence. His intelligence, in turn, was never so virtuosic that it distracted from the sturdy symmetry of his figure or the healthy vigor of his athleticism. And, of course, every body can be made more beautiful, and every mind can be made to appear sharper, if one possesses a large fortune and a title. The four letters that preceded Lord Whitridge's name were as beautiful as any chiseled muscle, as impressive as any feat of strength. The sum of his bank account made any statement he made the pinnacle of wit.
Could one blame the young Henry if he thought much of himself? His manner was always dominant, but never domineering. He ruled his cohort at King's College with the easygoing entitlement of one whose supremacy had never been questioned. He was captain of the cricket team and received frequent invitations to exclusive dinners and societies. He was a man with whom one wanted to be acquainted, an advantageous connection for all those lucky enough to associate with him. All the world seemed to be made for Henry's enjoyment, and he molded the wills of those around him like soft dough in his sturdy hands.
That is, until Enzo entered his cohort.
Vincenzo Negri transferred to Cambridge in Henry's second year. The drama of his backstory conferred on him an automatic aura of mystery. He had originally been a student at the University of Bologna, but he had fled Italy after Mussolini came to power. Rumor was he had only narrowly escaped imprisonment for his political opposition by stowing away on a fishing boat headed for Albania. Enzo himself neither confirmed nor denied the rumor.
Enzo was, in many ways, a perfect foil to Henry, in body and in spirit. In contrast to the perfect symmetry of Henry's figure, Enzo's body was disproportionate. He was too thin. His nose and cheekbones were too pronounced. The matte of black hair on his head stood out in every direction. Whereas Henry projected a sturdy English stoicism, Enzo seemed to feel everything too deeply. He argued with his classmates and spoke back to professors passionately and boldly. He was an outspoken communist, and the vehemence with which he opposed the status quo attracted the attention of many. If the world was made for men like Henry to mold, Enzo seemed determined to oppose the mold, to rub against it, to unsettle its boundaries.
Henry introduced himself to Enzo as soon as he arrived, with the intention of impressing upon this newcomer that he was a power to contend with. He knocked on Enzo's door and offered him a gift: an expensive tie pin with the name of the college inscribed on it. "I brought you a welcome gift," he explained when Enzo opened the door.
Enzo took the box, opened it, and ran his finger over the small gold pin. "This looks expensive," he commented. Henry noticed a musical lilt in his Italian accent. His expression conveyed neither approval nor disapproval.
Henry took the opportunity to make sure Enzo understood his position. "Lord Henry Whitridge," he said pointedly.
Instead of being impressed, however, Enzo simply raised one eyebrow. "Tell me," he responded coldly, "how does it feel to be part of a dying caste of aristocrats?"
Henry found himself unable to think of a satisfactory response. No one had ever spoken this bluntly to him before or questioned the unequivocal virtue of his nobility. He gaped at Enzo, who stared back at him with cool intensity. Finally, to break the silence, he laughed uncomfortably as if it were a joke.
"I don't need this," Enzo said, handing the box back to Henry. Before Henry could protest, he shut the door in his face.
It was the first crack in the foundation of Henry's primacy.
