forward—and here's this letter, delivered specially by a crisp-looking fellow in a chartered yacht who had me on board to dinner. We had venison pie and lemon pudding and a roasted pheasant. And fresh rolls." He leaned his hands on the windowsill and lowered his head between his arms. "Do you know what fresh rolls taste like? They're soft. They're soft . I could have cried. And then he handed me that letter from my father, and explained all the documents, and I…"
Silence closed in on the room. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and his heartbeat pounding in fury—at himself, who should have known better, at one insane moment of weakness that had taken all his hard-won savings and bought him disaster for life.
"Well," he said, pushing away from the sill, "you can guess the end of this story. The railway is of course a dead issue, the authorizing bill having been thrown out of Parliament. I believe it was determined that the line would disturb the afternoon naps of two spinster ladies in a cottage outside of Crewe. I own the whole of the shambles, since it appears there was a minor clause in the documents which guaranteed I would assume on my loan the shares of anyone who wished to sell. Oh, and yes—here's the best part. My esteemed father also thought it would be a humorous touch to barter my note to a moneylender in St. Mary Axe, who hasn't ceased dunning me since for his four hundred thousand pounds."
Julia gave a little gasp. "Four hundred…"
He smiled. "It really is a vastly amusing tale, don't you agree? But you take your inheritance, Julia, and don't mind me. I won't inconvenience you. My moneylender's still a bit reluctant to press a patriotic figure like myself, but I think I'd best be off directly." He swept up his coat and shrugged into it. "I'll just skulk back to India, steal myself a wooden bowl and sit on a street corner with the rest of the beggars, looking suitably wretched."
She stood still and erect, staring at him thoughtfully. Her figure seemed carved of black-and-white marble. Sheridan grew impatient. He was about to send her to the devil when she seemed to start out of her reverie. She frowned and asked sharply, "Is this the truth?"
"Do you think I dreamed it up?" he exclaimed. "If only! I ain't here to weep because the old bastard finally had the grace to cock up his toes, I'll tell you that. I knew he wouldn't leave me anything apurpose, but I hoped to hell he might have died without a will." He curled his lips and held out his arm in a stiff little bow toward her. "No such luck, apparently."
"No," she said. "No such luck."
"Well." Sheridan shrugged. "Nice of you to stop by for a sympathetic coze. Or was it in the way of an eviction call? I suppose the house is yours, too—although I warn you, it's a damned cold mausoleum full of vicious pranks." He swept a look around the room. "And ugly to boot."
Her fine bosom rose and fell in a sigh. She said slowly, "I imagine this bitterness was to be expected. I'd hoped we might deal together better."
"How kind of you. But I see no reason for us to deal at all, my dear. I do like a wench with experience and style, but not on these terms, thank you. I'll just be collecting my—"
"Sheridan," she said. "Stay a moment and listen. Your father did leave his fortune to you."
He halted in mid-stride. For a moment there was nothing but the jolt of surprise. He stared at her, realized he was gaping and closed his mouth. Then like a spring that burst into a fountain, the relief and elation exploded in him, crashing into his fingers and toes. He made a wordless exclamation. A thousand pictures whirled through his head; the things he could do; the life he could have: comfort at last, peace when he wanted it, hell-raising when he didn't, first-class travel to civilized places—and music…oh, God, the music. He could go to Vienna and hear it—Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn…Lord, he could buy orchestras and composers and commission
Silence closed in on the room. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and his heartbeat pounding in fury—at himself, who should have known better, at one insane moment of weakness that had taken all his hard-won savings and bought him disaster for life.
"Well," he said, pushing away from the sill, "you can guess the end of this story. The railway is of course a dead issue, the authorizing bill having been thrown out of Parliament. I believe it was determined that the line would disturb the afternoon naps of two spinster ladies in a cottage outside of Crewe. I own the whole of the shambles, since it appears there was a minor clause in the documents which guaranteed I would assume on my loan the shares of anyone who wished to sell. Oh, and yes—here's the best part. My esteemed father also thought it would be a humorous touch to barter my note to a moneylender in St. Mary Axe, who hasn't ceased dunning me since for his four hundred thousand pounds."
Julia gave a little gasp. "Four hundred…"
He smiled. "It really is a vastly amusing tale, don't you agree? But you take your inheritance, Julia, and don't mind me. I won't inconvenience you. My moneylender's still a bit reluctant to press a patriotic figure like myself, but I think I'd best be off directly." He swept up his coat and shrugged into it. "I'll just skulk back to India, steal myself a wooden bowl and sit on a street corner with the rest of the beggars, looking suitably wretched."
She stood still and erect, staring at him thoughtfully. Her figure seemed carved of black-and-white marble. Sheridan grew impatient. He was about to send her to the devil when she seemed to start out of her reverie. She frowned and asked sharply, "Is this the truth?"
"Do you think I dreamed it up?" he exclaimed. "If only! I ain't here to weep because the old bastard finally had the grace to cock up his toes, I'll tell you that. I knew he wouldn't leave me anything apurpose, but I hoped to hell he might have died without a will." He curled his lips and held out his arm in a stiff little bow toward her. "No such luck, apparently."
"No," she said. "No such luck."
"Well." Sheridan shrugged. "Nice of you to stop by for a sympathetic coze. Or was it in the way of an eviction call? I suppose the house is yours, too—although I warn you, it's a damned cold mausoleum full of vicious pranks." He swept a look around the room. "And ugly to boot."
Her fine bosom rose and fell in a sigh. She said slowly, "I imagine this bitterness was to be expected. I'd hoped we might deal together better."
"How kind of you. But I see no reason for us to deal at all, my dear. I do like a wench with experience and style, but not on these terms, thank you. I'll just be collecting my—"
"Sheridan," she said. "Stay a moment and listen. Your father did leave his fortune to you."
He halted in mid-stride. For a moment there was nothing but the jolt of surprise. He stared at her, realized he was gaping and closed his mouth. Then like a spring that burst into a fountain, the relief and elation exploded in him, crashing into his fingers and toes. He made a wordless exclamation. A thousand pictures whirled through his head; the things he could do; the life he could have: comfort at last, peace when he wanted it, hell-raising when he didn't, first-class travel to civilized places—and music…oh, God, the music. He could go to Vienna and hear it—Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn…Lord, he could buy orchestras and composers and commission
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