The Gates of Rutherford Read Free

more stubborn and outrageous characteristics, now appeared to be settling into a respectable life. William liked Michael Preston, and admired him for his stoicism in the face of his terrible injuries. One would hardly credit that the man was blind; his face bore no sign other than a few discolored lines around the forehead. He carried himself with dignity, and he was intelligent and modest. Such qualities might carry him far, William thought. He had even wondered if he might introduce Michael to those whom he knew in government when the war was over.
    William stood now at the entrance to the large dining room and looked about himself. He and his daughter Louisa had arranged the wedding on Charlotte’s behalf. Or, rather, Louisa had done the majority of the arranging and he had done all of the paying. It showed in the room. The table displays were opulent, the flowers in full bloom despite it only being April. Each table bore its white damask cloths, its silver and glass and decorations of silk and ribbon, like stage sets. He saw that, in among the color on the high table, Charlotte looked rather lost.
Dear girl
, he thought. Something had overwhelmed her robust personality at last. She seemed to be very small there among the sea of society faces, and rather pale. He caught a waiter as the man walked past. “Take a glass of champagne to the bride,” he murmured. “And make sure she is served first.”
    He smiled with pride. Louisa sat to Charlotte’s left, looking terribly pretty. Far to the right sat Octavia, Charlotte’s mother. He saw that she and Louisa briefly exchanged a glance of satisfaction, and he supposed that Louisa’s immaculate organization of the day perhapshad much more to do with his wife than he had supposed. Well, what did it matter? Octavia was largely shunned by society, but she had probably found a way to help her daughter. Women were subversive creatures, he thought. One never really knew. Never really knew at all.
    He walked up to the top table. It took him some time; matrons of the beau monde would tend to leap up as he passed, and press him engagingly to their breasts as if he were an abandoned child. Over the last year, he had grown used to brushing them off with politeness. He was not abandoned, in his opinion. He was merely put aside for a while. Octavia—he was determined about it, determined to the point of being almost convinced—that Octavia would return to him once the American had grown tired of her. She would leave the little house in Chelsea and return to Rutherford where she belonged. He gritted his teeth and turned his face away in the meantime. She would come home. It was surely inevitable. Men like John Gould wouldn’t look after another man’s wife indefinitely. As for his own heart . . . he didn’t like to consider it at all. He had been brought up not to linger on the subject of feelings. He would present an equable face to the world, no matter how many nights he laid awake and wondered what the hell had happened to his marriage.
    As he passed the final table before he sat down, he noticed a familiar face. It was Caitlin de Souza, his son Harry’s friend. She sat unmoving, her hands clasped in her lap, dressed in a somber outfit of pale brown with a lace collar.
    â€œCaitlin, is it?” he said, and held out his hand.
    â€œIt is, your lordship.”
    â€œOn leave?” Caitlin was a nurse at the front.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGrim as ever, I take it.”
    â€œIt is terribly grim, yes.”
    â€œHeard from Harry?”
    It was typical of William to talk in such abbreviated sentences. He saw no need to pontificate. He loathed small talk. Caitlin smiled, and at once he remembered why Harry, who was presently serving with the Royal Flying Corps, was so attracted to her. “He writes very often,” she murmured.
    William lowered his face close to hers. “Persuade the old fellow to do the same