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rumoured, a sizeable chunk of his fortune to defuse. Word had reached Quincey’s ear that Lord Godalming had come within a hair’s breadth of disowning his son, but had been talked out of it by his friends, Quincey’s father included. Instead, the shame had hung round the neck of the Holmwood family for almost five years, until the spring of 1914, when Albert turned twenty-one, and something strange happened.
Almost overnight, he changed; the boy who appeared incapable of taking anything seriously disappeared, replaced by a young man who, in quick succession, married Jane Lindley, became a doting father to Alexandra, five years old at the time, and took a position in the War Office, where he remained to this day. Quincey could see Jane in the distance, twirling the now alarmingly grown-up Alexandra across the dance floor as the girl’s grandfather watched in open delight.
Standing beside him was a man whose upbringing and circumstances had been as different as could be imagined from the future Lord Godalming’s, but whom Albert Holmwood now referred to both privately and publicly as his brother. David Morris was born in 1892, the product of a brief liaison between Quincey Morris, the larger-than-life American after whom Quincey Harker was named, and a prostitute by the name of Jenny Lincoln. After David’s birth, she had dragged herself free, with the help of Arthur Holmwood, of the lifestyle that she had sunk into as a teenager. He had found her work as a kitchen maid in a respectable house in Kensington, and asked her to send her son to see him when he turned eighteen.
Jenny’s employer, the wife of a plain-speaking Yorkshireman who had made a fortune in the cotton mills of Preston, had taken a liking to her and had permitted David to be educated alongside her own children, an act of kindness that his mother would never cease to be grateful for. She raised her son to be fiercely proud of the father he had never met, and despatched him to the Holmwood townhouse on Piccadilly on his eighteenth birthday with the belief, burning in his chest, that he was the equal of any man.
From there he had gone to Sandhurst, his place secured and his bills paid by Arthur Holmwood, and across the Channel to Europe in late 1914. He was gassed at Ypres in the April of the following year, and returned to his regiment in time to survive both Verdun and the churning nightmare of the Somme. By the end of 1916, he had begun to be viewed as something of a lucky charm, having survived four of the most devastating battles of the war, and was beloved by his men, whom he never treated as anything other than equals. His run of luck finally came to an end in April 1917 at Vimy Ridge, when a bullet found its way into his knee and stayed there. He was still recovering in a field hospital fifteen miles behind the line when Quincey Harker led his Special Reconnaissance Unit into Passchendaele, and saw out the final months of the war at General Headquarters in Montreuil, before returning to London and the War Office, and taking up his role as a member of the Holmwood household.
Quincey Harker was immensely fond of David Morris, who had a streak of independence inside him that bordered on the aggressive: he refused to see anyone as his better, regardless of background or education, and it was this characteristic that had made it easy for him and Albert Holmwood, a man to whom rebellion and lack of respect for convention and authority had always come naturally, to become first friends, and then brothers in all but blood.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “A happy new year to you both.”
“And to you, Quincey,” said Albert Holmwood. “I suspect it is going to be an extremely interesting one. For all three of us.”
Harker frowned. “What do you mean, Albert? I’ve had enough interesting to last me a lifetime, believe me.”
“Wait and see, my friend,” smiled Albert Holmwood. “Just you wait and see.”
Quincey told his father what Albert
Almost overnight, he changed; the boy who appeared incapable of taking anything seriously disappeared, replaced by a young man who, in quick succession, married Jane Lindley, became a doting father to Alexandra, five years old at the time, and took a position in the War Office, where he remained to this day. Quincey could see Jane in the distance, twirling the now alarmingly grown-up Alexandra across the dance floor as the girl’s grandfather watched in open delight.
Standing beside him was a man whose upbringing and circumstances had been as different as could be imagined from the future Lord Godalming’s, but whom Albert Holmwood now referred to both privately and publicly as his brother. David Morris was born in 1892, the product of a brief liaison between Quincey Morris, the larger-than-life American after whom Quincey Harker was named, and a prostitute by the name of Jenny Lincoln. After David’s birth, she had dragged herself free, with the help of Arthur Holmwood, of the lifestyle that she had sunk into as a teenager. He had found her work as a kitchen maid in a respectable house in Kensington, and asked her to send her son to see him when he turned eighteen.
Jenny’s employer, the wife of a plain-speaking Yorkshireman who had made a fortune in the cotton mills of Preston, had taken a liking to her and had permitted David to be educated alongside her own children, an act of kindness that his mother would never cease to be grateful for. She raised her son to be fiercely proud of the father he had never met, and despatched him to the Holmwood townhouse on Piccadilly on his eighteenth birthday with the belief, burning in his chest, that he was the equal of any man.
From there he had gone to Sandhurst, his place secured and his bills paid by Arthur Holmwood, and across the Channel to Europe in late 1914. He was gassed at Ypres in the April of the following year, and returned to his regiment in time to survive both Verdun and the churning nightmare of the Somme. By the end of 1916, he had begun to be viewed as something of a lucky charm, having survived four of the most devastating battles of the war, and was beloved by his men, whom he never treated as anything other than equals. His run of luck finally came to an end in April 1917 at Vimy Ridge, when a bullet found its way into his knee and stayed there. He was still recovering in a field hospital fifteen miles behind the line when Quincey Harker led his Special Reconnaissance Unit into Passchendaele, and saw out the final months of the war at General Headquarters in Montreuil, before returning to London and the War Office, and taking up his role as a member of the Holmwood household.
Quincey Harker was immensely fond of David Morris, who had a streak of independence inside him that bordered on the aggressive: he refused to see anyone as his better, regardless of background or education, and it was this characteristic that had made it easy for him and Albert Holmwood, a man to whom rebellion and lack of respect for convention and authority had always come naturally, to become first friends, and then brothers in all but blood.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “A happy new year to you both.”
“And to you, Quincey,” said Albert Holmwood. “I suspect it is going to be an extremely interesting one. For all three of us.”
Harker frowned. “What do you mean, Albert? I’ve had enough interesting to last me a lifetime, believe me.”
“Wait and see, my friend,” smiled Albert Holmwood. “Just you wait and see.”
Quincey told his father what Albert
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