Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

CHAPTER XIII

"Madness is something rare in individuals — but in groups, parties, peoples, and ages, it is the rule." 

― Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

Harry's true legacy wasn't the Dukedom, it wasn't Somerset, nor the rich farmland he'd inherited. His true legacy was charity.

His father was devoted to many causes, but chief among them was helping the sick and infirm.

Harry was determined to honor this legacy and prepared for his visit to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, the sanatorium his father founded.

He tried to convince himself that he was going for selfless reasons, but the truth was he needed to get away from Warwick and clear his head. Perhaps Charles was right and the Duke was beginning to corrupt him. Or perhaps Harry was already corrupt and the Duke was the only one who could see it?

He climbed into the carriage and smoothed the tails of his coat beneath him, adjusting his hat in the window.

The coachman snapped the leather reins and the carriage rolled away from the house, the view of Warwick swallowed up by trees and shadow.

They picked up speed once they cleared the gate. He was about to draw the curtains when he heard a tap on the glass.

Someone was clinging to the outside of the carriage.

Harry screamed.

Suddenly the door opened and Louis swung inside, his injured arm hanging stiffly by his side. "Pardon me, coming through."

"What are you doing here!?"

"Joining you on your trip to Our Lady of Eternal Misery," said Louis as he collapsed on the seat across from him.

"Perpetual Sorrow," Harry corrected. "And I don't need an escort. I'm Duke, not a child."

Louis crossed one leg over the other and retrieved his monogrammed lighter from his breast pocket. "Let me ask you something. Have you ever seen the inside of a sanatorium?"

"No," said Harry petulantly.

"Then you need an escort." He tapped a cigarette against its silver case before bringing it to his lips and lighting it.

The carriage wheels skipped over rocks and pebbles.

The two Dukes didn't say much on the ride there, the awkwardness of their encounter the previous night hung between them like the smoke from Louis' French cigarettes.

Louis cradled his wounded arm but didn't complain. Harry wanted to ask if he was in pain but was afraid it would rouse last night's feelings. He couldn't risk it.

They arrived at the sanatorium in the afternoon. The Franco-Gothic structure stood on twenty-two acres of parkland. It had a bell tower and pointed arches flanked by weeping stone angels. It reminded him of the architecture on his family's estate. His father had constructed this place in Somerset's image. It felt like home.

Father Michael met them at the gates. The priest was in black robes, a heavy wooden rosary hanging from his hip.

Harry greeted him warmly. "It's good to see you again, Father."

"Welcome! I did not know the Duke of Warwick would be joining us. Two Dukes, what a blessing!"

Louis extended his hand limply. "I've been told my presence is more of a curse."