Chapter 3 - MARK—WADE IN THE WATER

Chapter 3

MARK—WADE IN THE WATER

The smell of the Thames had never been good to me. I didn’t visit it often but when I did, this rotten-egg smell awaited and set my nostril hairs aflame.

A few paces from the house on Ground Street, I straightened in my saddle. I no longer needed to play a drunken, speechless fool. Sobered by the woman’s tears and her disappointment in my inarticulate conduct, I needed to be away.

But she was beautiful.

Such gorgeous dark eyes, and like Dido Belle’s, the Mansfield cousin who had caught my heart; her sun-kissed face made me feel so warm. Styled in an emerald coat and silk turban, she was a modern version of Dido. This was a woman to know, a woman I could love.

Yet, the lady was a friend of the duke’s. What good could he say of me?

I was a man without a fortune, with an inability to speak more than a word, a third done sonata. And Torrance already knew of my love for the Kenwood painting.

No, there was nothing to be done to recommend me, not unless I won the Harlbert’s Prize.

Slacking the reins, I approached the swirling water. Rushing the banks, it looked turbulent. The air felt cold like an icy bath.

Whatever the Duke of Torrance had ridden into must be horrible. He looked as if he was about to be dunked in a river of fire.

Maybe I should’ve apologized and stayed.

Yet, exactly how was I to do that? I was a wordless buffoon whose love for an old portrait had me wishing for a stranger to be her.

Goodness. Yes, this woman was easy on my eyes and her voice could be an angel’s.

My brother, Christopher, the navy man, wrote to me of his activities—his intense love affair with a woman he’d met in Bridgetown, Barbados. As much as he wanted to bring her to London, he wasn’t as bold as his commander, Prince William, who escorted his Dorothy to Britain. My brother wouldn’t dare, not with our father’s famous prejudice against foreigners.

Let her be Catholic, or anything but Anglican, and the patron saint of hypocrisy—my father—would be indignant. A hint of color from anything but a summer tan would make him rage.

The cold wind blew. I’d be trapped here on this side of the stinking river because of my inability to assert myself, my lack of prospects, and loss of rational thoughts. Yet, I still wanted to know her and be worthy of her.

Winning the Harlbert’s Prize would redeem me.

My friend Livingston went not to his brothel. He was safe from being seduced of his money and his own free will. I should be home working on my future.

The little man with a pitchfork accused me of being a creditor. Never been called that. I owed my mother everything, even my current living.

My father saw no use for me and my music. I was his spare’s spare.

God forbid anything happened to my two brothers.

My mother’s heart would be broken, and I’d have to turn into a lecherous, ignorant fool to please the father who couldn’t be pleased.

Not me.

I’d rather go down, wade in the water, and drown myself in the foul Thames.