Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

CHAPTER V

Warning: Harry has absolutely no chill in this chapter.

After being mistaken for a surgeon Harry was humiliated and overcome with shyness. The bold and dignified introduction he'd hoped to make had been completely ruined. Now he would be branded with the grotesque nickname, "the Surgeon" for the duration of his stay.

Instead of joining the men for a late supper—because every event at Warwick House was hours late—he retired for the evening.

The room he was assigned had once belonged to Louis' eldest brother. The walls were, of course, red. Harry missed the cool grey walls of his bedroom at home and its unassuming Georgian furnishings. Louis' taste was an ornate Rococo nightmare, with gold moldings, garish carvings and marble tabletops.

Harry was fairly certain the room was haunted and thought the ghost of Louis' brother, who had apparently burned to death in that very room, would keep him up all night, but he could scarcely hear his own thoughts over the noise downstairs. The men drank and gambled until dawn.

Charles was shocked when he came into Harry's room to dress him in the morning. "Are you ill, your grace?"

"No, tired. I didn't get a wink of sleep," he moaned as Charles buttoned his shirt. "How could you sleep through that dreadful racket last night?"

Charles slipped on his breeches, left leg and then right like he'd done every day since Harry was little.

"The servants' quarters are in the west wing. I slept like a log. Theodore looked frightful though. He retired late, with his master, and had to rise early to ensure the race starts on time. The Duke of Warwick is a terror," he tsked.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed while Charles fastened his riding boots.

"Are you sure you're prepared for this, your grace? I don't want to speak out of turn but you've never raced before..."

"Charles, I've studied physics since I was four. I could recite Newton's laws of motion before most of these men could ride. If there's one thing I know it's velocity and speed."

♞

The race was not the Derby, the Ascot or the Goodwood, but rather an informal match among Bilsdale club members at the track in nearby Weatherby. However small, it had all the flare and pageantry of a society event.

They were running an hour behind schedule.

The men were on the track with their with farriers and handlers, attending to hooves and saddles. Harry searched the crowd for Louis' red tailcoat. He thought he caught a glimpse of him but it was just Frederick brushing and primping his chestnut stallion until his fur shone like his owner's bronze hair.

Ladies were in attendance, watching from the lawn on picnic blankets in their finest fall frocks and fur-lined pelisses. They looked bored and miserable.

Harry heard a loud neighing in the distance. He knew before looking that this must have been Achilles.

Two men were using all their strength to drag him by the reins onto the track.

Despite his unseemly behavior, he was an extraordinary sight, a black dahlia among English roses. The ladies clapped and the men congratulated Harry on owning such a fine specimen. Even Frederick and Roy came around to examine him.

"The Surgeon truly has the finest stallion this club has ever seen," Roy noted gruffly. "Who would have thought?"

"No horse is finer than my Belvédère, but he is divine, isn't he?" Frederick said, reaching out to pet Achilles then quickly thinking better of it.