Read Online Heart of Gold by Michael Pryor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Pryor
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Waving his hands with excitement,
Duval explained that his mother had been an Albionite
and he had spent some years there, when younger. 'Now,
times are not good,' he went on. 'The Continent is alive
with suspicion and fear, so I asked myself, "What can I
do?"' He clapped his hands together. 'The answer came
to me and I began the Albion Friendship Society to
encourage camaraderie between our two nations. We
have held lectures and soirees, and now we embark on
our first dramatic production. Ivey and Wetherall! So
fine, so Albionish!'
'Well, yes. Both of them.'
'And your name,' Duval asked Aubrey. 'What is your
name?'
Aubrey hesitated. Would it be better to go incognito in
his time in Lutetia? Or was his presence in the city well
enough known already? 'Fitzwilliam,' he ventured.
'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'
A stick-thin young woman stared at him. 'You are not
related to the Prime Minister of Albion? Sir Darius
Fitzwilliam?'
Aubrey shrugged. 'I have that honour. I am his son.'
'No,' Duval said, clutching at his chest. 'It is our
honour! This will be an event that will be talked about
for years.'
Possibly , Aubrey thought, but perhaps not for the reasons you think . 'You're too kind.'
'Now.' Duval gestured grandly. 'We must celebrate the
grand alliance of our nations. Friends forever!'
'What about the auditions?' Aubrey asked.
Duval shrugged. 'We will continue them another
time.' He eyed Aubrey and his companions. 'How long
have you been in our city?'
'George and I arrived yesterday.'
'Impossible! We must show you Lutetia!'
Duval and his friends would hear no objections.
Aubrey, George and Caroline were swept up like driftwood
in a flood. The chattering, laughing Gallians bore
them out of Tontine Hall and into the city.
What began as a high-spirited promenade through the
nearby parks and gardens turned into lunch at a café on
the edge of a small lake. While couples rowed past and
children sailed toy yachts, Gallian–Albionish relations
were advanced on several fronts via the avenues of food
and drink, with miscommunication simply adding to the
hilarity. The sun shone through the trees. The fragrance
of wisteria rolled over the café from a nearby arbour
where the mauve flowers created a pastel-coloured
tunnel. A small band in a corner of the café played dance
music.
Aubrey pushed aside his second slice of lemon tart and
wondered if he'd ever need to eat again. He looked down
the long table and saw George explaining something to
two young Gallian ladies. By their expressions, they were
baffled by the conversation, but entertained nonetheless.
Duval was sitting on Aubrey's left, with Caroline just
to Duval's other side. Duval was chatting in animated
fashion, slipping between Albionish and Gallian when it
became clear that Caroline was at ease with the language.
Aubrey waited until Duval drew breath, which took
some time, and squeezed himself into the conversation.
'Duval, most grateful for your hospitality. Wonderful
place.'
With an effort, Duval tore himself away from Caroline.
'Thank you, Fitzwilliam. This café is owned by my uncle.
He is famous for his duck.'
'I see.' Aubrey groped for another topic of conversation.
'And how would you say things are between our
two countries?'
'We are allies. We are good friends.' Duval's gaze fell
to the small glass of coffee he was rolling around in his
hand. 'We need to be, of course.'
'Holmland,' Caroline said.
'Yes. The Holmlanders have ambitions. The Housel
River is broad, but not so broad that the Holmlanders
cannot see across it to Lower Gallia. Coal mines, iron
mines . . . it is a rich land, especially if you have large,
growing industries.'
Aubrey revised his opinion of Duval. The man was no
empty-headed dilettante. 'And is everyone in Gallia afraid
of Holmland?'
A shrug. 'Many are. Some dislike Albion more than
they hate Holmland. Some do not know what to think;
others ignore the obvious.' He sighed. 'The Giraud
government is foolish. Prime Minister Giraud tries
Duval explained that his mother had been an Albionite
and he had spent some years there, when younger. 'Now,
times are not good,' he went on. 'The Continent is alive
with suspicion and fear, so I asked myself, "What can I
do?"' He clapped his hands together. 'The answer came
to me and I began the Albion Friendship Society to
encourage camaraderie between our two nations. We
have held lectures and soirees, and now we embark on
our first dramatic production. Ivey and Wetherall! So
fine, so Albionish!'
'Well, yes. Both of them.'
'And your name,' Duval asked Aubrey. 'What is your
name?'
Aubrey hesitated. Would it be better to go incognito in
his time in Lutetia? Or was his presence in the city well
enough known already? 'Fitzwilliam,' he ventured.
'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'
A stick-thin young woman stared at him. 'You are not
related to the Prime Minister of Albion? Sir Darius
Fitzwilliam?'
Aubrey shrugged. 'I have that honour. I am his son.'
'No,' Duval said, clutching at his chest. 'It is our
honour! This will be an event that will be talked about
for years.'
Possibly , Aubrey thought, but perhaps not for the reasons you think . 'You're too kind.'
'Now.' Duval gestured grandly. 'We must celebrate the
grand alliance of our nations. Friends forever!'
'What about the auditions?' Aubrey asked.
Duval shrugged. 'We will continue them another
time.' He eyed Aubrey and his companions. 'How long
have you been in our city?'
'George and I arrived yesterday.'
'Impossible! We must show you Lutetia!'
Duval and his friends would hear no objections.
Aubrey, George and Caroline were swept up like driftwood
in a flood. The chattering, laughing Gallians bore
them out of Tontine Hall and into the city.
What began as a high-spirited promenade through the
nearby parks and gardens turned into lunch at a café on
the edge of a small lake. While couples rowed past and
children sailed toy yachts, Gallian–Albionish relations
were advanced on several fronts via the avenues of food
and drink, with miscommunication simply adding to the
hilarity. The sun shone through the trees. The fragrance
of wisteria rolled over the café from a nearby arbour
where the mauve flowers created a pastel-coloured
tunnel. A small band in a corner of the café played dance
music.
Aubrey pushed aside his second slice of lemon tart and
wondered if he'd ever need to eat again. He looked down
the long table and saw George explaining something to
two young Gallian ladies. By their expressions, they were
baffled by the conversation, but entertained nonetheless.
Duval was sitting on Aubrey's left, with Caroline just
to Duval's other side. Duval was chatting in animated
fashion, slipping between Albionish and Gallian when it
became clear that Caroline was at ease with the language.
Aubrey waited until Duval drew breath, which took
some time, and squeezed himself into the conversation.
'Duval, most grateful for your hospitality. Wonderful
place.'
With an effort, Duval tore himself away from Caroline.
'Thank you, Fitzwilliam. This café is owned by my uncle.
He is famous for his duck.'
'I see.' Aubrey groped for another topic of conversation.
'And how would you say things are between our
two countries?'
'We are allies. We are good friends.' Duval's gaze fell
to the small glass of coffee he was rolling around in his
hand. 'We need to be, of course.'
'Holmland,' Caroline said.
'Yes. The Holmlanders have ambitions. The Housel
River is broad, but not so broad that the Holmlanders
cannot see across it to Lower Gallia. Coal mines, iron
mines . . . it is a rich land, especially if you have large,
growing industries.'
Aubrey revised his opinion of Duval. The man was no
empty-headed dilettante. 'And is everyone in Gallia afraid
of Holmland?'
A shrug. 'Many are. Some dislike Albion more than
they hate Holmland. Some do not know what to think;
others ignore the obvious.' He sighed. 'The Giraud
government is foolish. Prime Minister Giraud tries
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