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Authors: Michael Pryor
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sandy hair, George looked every inch
a country bumpkin, but Aubrey knew his friend was no
fool. People don't know how shrewd you are, do they? he
thought.
'Am I that easy to read?' he laughed. He set off again,
striding comfortably. He felt strong, eager and alive, ready
to challenge the world.
'Well, it's obvious that's what you'd be thinking,'
George persisted.
Aubrey stopped and turned. He thrust out his chest,
drew in his chin and looked at George over imaginary
spectacles. 'Obvious, Doyle?' he barked in his best imitation
of the Advanced Magic master. 'Be so good as to
share the obvious with us all!'
George laughed. 'One day, Mr Ellwood will catch you
doing that, Aubrey, and you'll be suspended from his
classes. Then you'll be sorry.'
'You cannot deny an artist his craft,' Aubrey said.
'When the impulse comes on me, the actor comes out.'
He chuckled. 'But I'm still interested in why you think I
was wondering about my father.'
'It's not difficult. When you look particularly thoughtful
and sombre, it's usually your father you're thinking of.'
Aubrey let out a long sigh. 'You've known my family
for too long.' He looked away. 'Perhaps he simply couldn't
ask me face to face.'
'Of course he could. Whatever it is.'
'You know, this is the first time he's ever asked me to
do something official like this. I've been impatient, but
now it's come I'm feeling a little –'
'Anxious? Nervous? Petrified?'
Aubrey glanced sharply at George. 'Anxious will do,
old man.'
He turned away and gazed over the oval. How do you live up to a man like Darius Fitzwilliam? he thought. It was hard enough for the men he commanded in the army. But for me, his only son?
He knew many people simply wouldn't try. Casting
such a bright light makes all others seem pale and insignificant.
Better to turn away, not attempt the impossible.
Achieving even some portion of his success would be a
fine achievement. To others, though, having the bar set at
such a dizzying height meant the challenge was greater.
Aubrey wasn't about to give up. His ambitions were
very, very lofty.
'Well?' George said. 'Are you going to tell me what this
mysterious task is?'
Aubrey considered for a moment. 'How's your aim?'
'My aim?'
'Shooting, George. A country boy like you should be a
crack shot.'
'I do well enough.'
'Grand. You're doing nothing next weekend, I take it?'
'Aubrey, you know very well that I'm stuck at school
every weekend during term time, home being so far
away. What are you getting at?'
George's home may have been far away, but Aubrey
had spent much time at the small farm in the weary old
hills near Green River. George was an only child, and Mr
and Mrs Doyle were always happy to have Aubrey visit –
and it gave Mr Doyle and Sir Darius a chance to reminisce
in the guarded, elusive way that old soldiers often
have. Aubrey remembered lingering in the warm kitchen,
amid the hunger-inducing smells of baking bread and
spice cake, hoping to hear stories of the old regimental
victories, but the two men tended to talk of comrades
and their circumstances, Sir Darius usually providing
most of the details.
'Bertie is hosting a shooting weekend at his estate and
my father has been invited. Unfortunately, he's been called
away, can't be there. He's asked me to deputise for him.'
'Bertie?'
'The Crown Prince, George. The heir to the throne of
Albion. The oldest son of the King. My cousin. You know
the one.'
'Ah. Prince Albert.'
George had never grown used to Aubrey's closeness to
the Royal Family. Prince Albert was only a few years
older than Aubrey and they'd spent much time together
when younger.
Aubrey felt sorry for Bertie. He would have made an
excellent banker or a businessman but instead he was
destined to be a king. Fortunately, he had a strong sense
of duty. He never complained and, in time, Aubrey had
come to the conclusion that Bertie's sense of duty – and
his thoughtfulness – would mean he'd work hard to
become the best king he could.
And that
a country bumpkin, but Aubrey knew his friend was no
fool. People don't know how shrewd you are, do they? he
thought.
'Am I that easy to read?' he laughed. He set off again,
striding comfortably. He felt strong, eager and alive, ready
to challenge the world.
'Well, it's obvious that's what you'd be thinking,'
George persisted.
Aubrey stopped and turned. He thrust out his chest,
drew in his chin and looked at George over imaginary
spectacles. 'Obvious, Doyle?' he barked in his best imitation
of the Advanced Magic master. 'Be so good as to
share the obvious with us all!'
George laughed. 'One day, Mr Ellwood will catch you
doing that, Aubrey, and you'll be suspended from his
classes. Then you'll be sorry.'
'You cannot deny an artist his craft,' Aubrey said.
'When the impulse comes on me, the actor comes out.'
He chuckled. 'But I'm still interested in why you think I
was wondering about my father.'
'It's not difficult. When you look particularly thoughtful
and sombre, it's usually your father you're thinking of.'
Aubrey let out a long sigh. 'You've known my family
for too long.' He looked away. 'Perhaps he simply couldn't
ask me face to face.'
'Of course he could. Whatever it is.'
'You know, this is the first time he's ever asked me to
do something official like this. I've been impatient, but
now it's come I'm feeling a little –'
'Anxious? Nervous? Petrified?'
Aubrey glanced sharply at George. 'Anxious will do,
old man.'
He turned away and gazed over the oval. How do you live up to a man like Darius Fitzwilliam? he thought. It was hard enough for the men he commanded in the army. But for me, his only son?
He knew many people simply wouldn't try. Casting
such a bright light makes all others seem pale and insignificant.
Better to turn away, not attempt the impossible.
Achieving even some portion of his success would be a
fine achievement. To others, though, having the bar set at
such a dizzying height meant the challenge was greater.
Aubrey wasn't about to give up. His ambitions were
very, very lofty.
'Well?' George said. 'Are you going to tell me what this
mysterious task is?'
Aubrey considered for a moment. 'How's your aim?'
'My aim?'
'Shooting, George. A country boy like you should be a
crack shot.'
'I do well enough.'
'Grand. You're doing nothing next weekend, I take it?'
'Aubrey, you know very well that I'm stuck at school
every weekend during term time, home being so far
away. What are you getting at?'
George's home may have been far away, but Aubrey
had spent much time at the small farm in the weary old
hills near Green River. George was an only child, and Mr
and Mrs Doyle were always happy to have Aubrey visit –
and it gave Mr Doyle and Sir Darius a chance to reminisce
in the guarded, elusive way that old soldiers often
have. Aubrey remembered lingering in the warm kitchen,
amid the hunger-inducing smells of baking bread and
spice cake, hoping to hear stories of the old regimental
victories, but the two men tended to talk of comrades
and their circumstances, Sir Darius usually providing
most of the details.
'Bertie is hosting a shooting weekend at his estate and
my father has been invited. Unfortunately, he's been called
away, can't be there. He's asked me to deputise for him.'
'Bertie?'
'The Crown Prince, George. The heir to the throne of
Albion. The oldest son of the King. My cousin. You know
the one.'
'Ah. Prince Albert.'
George had never grown used to Aubrey's closeness to
the Royal Family. Prince Albert was only a few years
older than Aubrey and they'd spent much time together
when younger.
Aubrey felt sorry for Bertie. He would have made an
excellent banker or a businessman but instead he was
destined to be a king. Fortunately, he had a strong sense
of duty. He never complained and, in time, Aubrey had
come to the conclusion that Bertie's sense of duty – and
his thoughtfulness – would mean he'd work hard to
become the best king he could.
And that
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