Clouds drifted across a placid moon as the Duke and Duchess of Paternoster, accompanied by their entourage stepped from their carriage onto the cobblestone covered entryway. The group ascended the stone steps leading to the entrance of Mott-Vagary Manor.
Men in Royal Gentry attire, fitted with sabers and muskets stood on either side of the ponderous doors, open allowing a gay ephemeral light to escape, accompanied by the sounds of an orchestra.
"Sounds wild in there," remarked the Duke to his wife. He gripped his mustache with a hand and made to pull it as though checking its authenticity. His gloved fingers felt smooth on his cheek and he smiled, grunting in inward protest at having been forced to accept yet another invitation to one of these grand charades.
"Don't pull on your mustache, dear," replied the Duchess. "It makes you look common. Like a smithy or a shepherd."
"I wouldn't touch a sheep if my life depended on it," he said.
The Duchess, adjusting her extensive dress, ran her hands along her hips, feeling the fabric glide beneath her fingernails. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Centered on a singularly disturbing incident that had succeeded in upsetting her entire day.
It had occurred early in the morning. Near sunrise. She had been awakened from sleep by the sound of a bird, a cuckoo's cry in the copse of trees near the rear of the estate. She had risen and donning her night gown descended the winding stairs to the foyer. Pausing at the rear door she listened.
The cuckoo beckoned her on as she tightened her gown and stepped from the door out into the hazy morning light. She tended her way toward the copse of trees and the sound of the bird.
The orchestra began a waltz and the dulcet sounds reached her only partially as she recalled the events of that morning. Absently she Grasped the Duke's arm and ascended, delicately taking the steps one at a time.
Mist settled upon the tiny glade into which she silently walked, her gown rustling gently against the dew speckled grass. The copse was less dense than she remembered and a thin beam of dawn's early light pierced the trees and struck at the center of the glade. There to her chagrin, in the middle stood a tiny man in a velvet waistcoat and frock, motionless, slightly bent as though inspecting something upon the ground. In his right hand he held a chicory cane, the handle bronze in the shape of a musk ox's beveled head. In the other hand he grasped a silver pocket watch held open. He glanced at it intermittently. He seemed not to notice her and continued his scrutiny of the patch of earth.
The Duchess surfaced from her reverie to find the Duke snuffling beneath his hand.
A doorman peered at her with hostility, as though he might bite. "Whom shall I announce, madam?" His eyes bulged like a frog being squeezed.
"Why, the Duke and Duchess of Paternoster of course."
The doorman appeared confused then sniffed his glove and gave a short nod.
A gong sounded and the Duke and Duchess along with their entourage were announced and ushered into the ballroom.
Massive crystalline chandeliers swung from the ceiling above a great orchestral ensemble seated at the far wall. The guests swept across the dance floor in a heat, endlessly passing, sending up a relentless rustle as gowns and dinner jackets mingled and made contact.
"Good heavens," muttered the Duke. "What a circus."
"Simply stunning," replied the Duchess. "The princess has quite outdone herself."
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Who Is Brian Quinn?
कल्पित विज्ञानA world that's slowly filling with water where all books have disappeared and confused survivors read the patterns in scattered birdseed, any answers that exist lie with Brian Quinn, vertically challenged and strangely inspired, he hides between the...
