Author #1:
The rain sounded heavily as it jumped off the glass, casting small light-piqued shadows over the room. The steam of hollow tapping rang out prominent in the room, which sat silently, aside from the low ticking of a deep wooded grandfather clock that stood watching over the stillness from a corner. A dusty air hung in the stillness, echoed in the rows of leather-bound books positioned proudly on the bookcases that lined the walls, and in the droves of ornaments and adornments afforded space on the dozen or so lacquered-brown table tops that edged the room.
This stillness was shattered as the door was pushed open carefully, revealing an immaculately dressed man balancing a silvered tray on his right hand. His face was stern, though not harshly so - more washed with a certain greyness, and accented by a kempt chestnut moustache that was streaked silently with pepper-grey hairs. He strode brazenly over to a table and placed the tray down conservatively, before proceeding to lift from the tray, with equal care, a crystal decanter, setting it down on a small end table that stood quietly between two high backed chairs. The man stepped over to the side of the room, his hands touching behind his back, as he was followed into the room.
William entered casually, smiling as he nodded a discreet greeting to his valet. He was smartly dressed, suited in a well-cut, dark jacket that lay closely over a duck-egg blue waistcoat and crisp white collared shirt. Around the collar, a deep, Prussian blue cravat was tied expertly, hanging comfortably above the waistcoat He cut a sharp figure as he walked purposely over towards one of the chairs, lowering himself steadily onto the green buttoned leather. He poured himself a drink from the decanter, staring out of the neatly painted sash window onto the rain-lacquered street.
"I've always hated the rain," William said perfunctorily without shifting his gaze.
"I'm sorry, sir?" The valet's reply was nonchalant, with all the verve of his master's initial statement.
"The rain, Garton," William repeated as if answering everything, turning in his chair to face the middle-aged man, "I was just saying how I had never cared for it." Garton cocked his head slightly in an inquisitive manner.
"I see, sir," the valet answered in a manner that verged on curtly lackadaisical. Garton's clipped baritone was left hanging stationary in the dusty air, William engaging himself in the reading of one of the morning's broadsheets. It was the kind of silence that made the valet uncomfortable. "Might I ask why, sir?"
"I'm sorry, Garton?" William's voice was superficially measured - very deliberate, the calm figure wishing to hide his annoyance at being interrupted.
"I apologise if I have overstepped myself, sir," Garton backpedalled coolly, "I merely asked if you might elaborate on why you think of the rain in such a manner." The valet's explanation stretched out unbearably, Garton speaking as if he knew the response halfway through the sentence. In truth, he probably did, having worked for his master since before he was even the Duke of Clarence. Garton knew what each subtle contortion of William's expression or posture meant. He therefore needed no telling that he had been too forward. His question was met with silence. Precisely the silence he had wished to avoid. It was a silence that could be heard in the short gaps between the rain's marcato hammering. In the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock. In the stillness of the drink in the decanter. As William spoke once more, the valet felt the nervous relief of a man told the prospect of his imminent death was only ever an elaborate joke.
"Holcoate shall be arriving soon, Garton," began William, turning once again to meet his valet's eye, "would you see to it that the Phaeton is readied?"
"Of course, sir." His master's tone told him all he needed to know. Yes, you were wrong to bring up the topic in such a manner. No, there wouldn't be any more conversation this morning. Garton was unsure, but, hidden within the nuances of the phrase he was sure he heard 'I may tell you another time,' yet the hint was so well hidden the valet suspected he was being optimistic. Garton left the room with a silently relieved alacrity.
Francis Dudley sat busily on a bench at one end of The Mall. The rain had intensified, and was now bouncing violently back from the dusty clay-red bricks in front of him. Around him, a handful of top hat-clad gentlemen went urgently about their business, looking to escape the downpour. Francis smiled, running his hands through his dishevelled mess of black hair, which was speckled with crystal water droplets. He seemed oblivious to the weather, his eyes wide and sheened - not feral, but verging scarily close.
He let out a short, guttural laugh. Vituperative rain. Perfidious rain. Perfidious Albion. Perfidious rain over perfidious Albion. Francis brushed a small cluster of droplets off his sleeve with a disarming brusqueness. It had rained too long. Three years was short for a good rain, but for a poor one - a merciless rain that afforded no aid to the soil and halted busy streets, turning unclouded skies into dour grey affairs. Three years was already far too long. Francis had decided long ago that he could take not one month more of rain.
Arthur Adair Holcoate arrived at Clarence House at twelve minutes past eleven o'clock. A young liveried footman showed him through to the drawing room, where William had now been reading for half an hour. A brief knock announced the pair's entrance, the footman tentatively shuffling into the room slightly ahead of the visitor. The young man spoke, William not looking up from his broadsheet.
"The Earl of Holcoate, sir." He announced with as much volume as he could manage. William looked up, curving his mouth into a curt, apologetic smile.
"My apologies, Addison, I hadn't noticed you enter. You may leave now." Addison gave a small bow, leaving the two men alone in the room. William gestured for his visitor to take a seat next to him, folding his broadsheet neatly in half and placing it back on one of the side tables. To his right, Holcoate had sat himself down somewhat awkwardly on the other chair, upholstered in the same buttoned leather.
"Good morning Arthur," William started with a sincere warmth. "I trust the journey from Westminster was not too arduous?"
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I took the Landau, so I was sheltered from the rain at least." The Earl turned towards the window as he spoke, following the cascading droplets with his eyes.
"That is good to hear. This rain is quite damnable. One can hardly believe it is May." William gestured towards the crystal decanter, smiling to himself. "Might I offer you a drink?" Arthur smiled, shaking his head.
"Thank you, but I must decline - not before midday. Though I would be much obliged if you would allow me a quick cigarillo." Arthur reached preemptively into his jacket, unnoticed by William, who was pouring himself a tumbler of bourbon.
"No drink before midday? Anyone would think you a Tory, Arthur." He noticed the visitor's hand halfway under his lapel.*"Please," he waved acceptingly,*"feel free." Arthur gave a thank you, taking out a silvered cigarillo case and lighter. The orange glow of the lit tip contrasted starkly with the room's muted palette, giving some warmth. A thin, light grey smoke quickly began to float rhythmically towards the ceiling. It smelled rich. William spoke.
"What time are we to leave?" He said it almost as small talk.
"We have a good twenty minutes yet, sir." Arthur shifted his focus to William's tumbler, smiling. "You'll have time to finish your drink."
Francis was still sat in The Mall, his left hand absentmindedly sliding its way over his now sodden jacket. It rose and fell as it hit a well-concealed bump. Francis smiled as he felt his fingers over the undulations, made less prominent by the jacket's thick material, completely obscuring any shape. He took his hand off his lap and clapped suddenly, rubbing his hands together as if waiting impatiently. He was waiting impatiently. Waiting for the rain to end. Waiting to steal a glimpse of Fate.
Arthur and William sat opposite each other as the Phaeton turned left out of Stable Yard Road, Arthur watching as St James' moved backwards into the distance, William greeting The Mall as they turned another left. The two sat in silence, the rain sending a muted drumming through the chassis as it rebounded off the carriage's cover, acting as a sort of countermelody to the steady sound of the horses' hooves hitting the road.
Arthur shuffled in his seat, his eyes catching a rain-sodden man sat on a bench as he turned.
"What a peculiar thing to do," he muttered to himself. William turned his focus towards the Earl attentively.
"I'm sorry?" Arthur gestured to the man, who sat running his hands compulsively*through his dripping hair.
Francis stiffed excitedly, Fate pulling closer towards him. He reached into his jacket, rain wetting his waistcoat as his hand delved into an interior pocket. He was still smiling as he brought his hand out of his jacket, clasping the dark wooded grip of a pistol. Using his other hand, he brought out a single bullet, cupping it in his hand to try and shield it from the rain. He pressed it carefully into position, lifting the gun to Fate.
Now the rain ends.
A ugly bang cracked through air, sending the two horses into panic, the Phaeton swerving towards the middle of the road. William went towards the carriage floor, his hands covering his head protectively. Arthur watched on incredulously, seeing the gunman's face change to a look of deadly seriousness. He shouted something to the driver, who reined the horses to an abrupt halt. He reached down to William, who was still sat with his head pressed under his hands.
"William?" The King retook his straightened position conservatively, visibly blanched.*"Are you alright, Your Majesty?" William patted himself down, colour gradually returning to his features.
"It would seems so." He turned to face the gunman, who hadn't moved from his firing position. Without warning, he dismounted the carriage, moving boldly towards him. Arthur was quick to follow. The gunman stared passively as William stood before him, not flinching as Arthur twisted his arms behind his back.
"And so the rain continues."
The rain sounded heavily as it jumped off the glass, casting small light-piqued shadows over the room. The steam of hollow tapping rang out prominent in the room, which sat silently, aside from the low ticking of a deep wooded grandfather clock that stood watching over the stillness from a corner. A dusty air hung in the stillness, echoed in the rows of leather-bound books positioned proudly on the bookcases that lined the walls, and in the droves of ornaments and adornments afforded space on the dozen or so lacquered-brown table tops that edged the room.
This stillness was shattered as the door was pushed open carefully, revealing an immaculately dressed man balancing a silvered tray on his right hand. His face was stern, though not harshly so - more washed with a certain greyness, and accented by a kempt chestnut moustache that was streaked silently with pepper-grey hairs. He strode brazenly over to a table and placed the tray down conservatively, before proceeding to lift from the tray, with equal care, a crystal decanter, setting it down on a small end table that stood quietly between two high backed chairs. The man stepped over to the side of the room, his hands touching behind his back, as he was followed into the room.
William entered casually, smiling as he nodded a discreet greeting to his valet. He was smartly dressed, suited in a well-cut, dark jacket that lay closely over a duck-egg blue waistcoat and crisp white collared shirt. Around the collar, a deep, Prussian blue cravat was tied expertly, hanging comfortably above the waistcoat He cut a sharp figure as he walked purposely over towards one of the chairs, lowering himself steadily onto the green buttoned leather. He poured himself a drink from the decanter, staring out of the neatly painted sash window onto the rain-lacquered street.
"I've always hated the rain," William said perfunctorily without shifting his gaze.
"I'm sorry, sir?" The valet's reply was nonchalant, with all the verve of his master's initial statement.
"The rain, Garton," William repeated as if answering everything, turning in his chair to face the middle-aged man, "I was just saying how I had never cared for it." Garton cocked his head slightly in an inquisitive manner.
"I see, sir," the valet answered in a manner that verged on curtly lackadaisical. Garton's clipped baritone was left hanging stationary in the dusty air, William engaging himself in the reading of one of the morning's broadsheets. It was the kind of silence that made the valet uncomfortable. "Might I ask why, sir?"
"I'm sorry, Garton?" William's voice was superficially measured - very deliberate, the calm figure wishing to hide his annoyance at being interrupted.
"I apologise if I have overstepped myself, sir," Garton backpedalled coolly, "I merely asked if you might elaborate on why you think of the rain in such a manner." The valet's explanation stretched out unbearably, Garton speaking as if he knew the response halfway through the sentence. In truth, he probably did, having worked for his master since before he was even the Duke of Clarence. Garton knew what each subtle contortion of William's expression or posture meant. He therefore needed no telling that he had been too forward. His question was met with silence. Precisely the silence he had wished to avoid. It was a silence that could be heard in the short gaps between the rain's marcato hammering. In the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock. In the stillness of the drink in the decanter. As William spoke once more, the valet felt the nervous relief of a man told the prospect of his imminent death was only ever an elaborate joke.
"Holcoate shall be arriving soon, Garton," began William, turning once again to meet his valet's eye, "would you see to it that the Phaeton is readied?"
"Of course, sir." His master's tone told him all he needed to know. Yes, you were wrong to bring up the topic in such a manner. No, there wouldn't be any more conversation this morning. Garton was unsure, but, hidden within the nuances of the phrase he was sure he heard 'I may tell you another time,' yet the hint was so well hidden the valet suspected he was being optimistic. Garton left the room with a silently relieved alacrity.
Francis Dudley sat busily on a bench at one end of The Mall. The rain had intensified, and was now bouncing violently back from the dusty clay-red bricks in front of him. Around him, a handful of top hat-clad gentlemen went urgently about their business, looking to escape the downpour. Francis smiled, running his hands through his dishevelled mess of black hair, which was speckled with crystal water droplets. He seemed oblivious to the weather, his eyes wide and sheened - not feral, but verging scarily close.
He let out a short, guttural laugh. Vituperative rain. Perfidious rain. Perfidious Albion. Perfidious rain over perfidious Albion. Francis brushed a small cluster of droplets off his sleeve with a disarming brusqueness. It had rained too long. Three years was short for a good rain, but for a poor one - a merciless rain that afforded no aid to the soil and halted busy streets, turning unclouded skies into dour grey affairs. Three years was already far too long. Francis had decided long ago that he could take not one month more of rain.
Arthur Adair Holcoate arrived at Clarence House at twelve minutes past eleven o'clock. A young liveried footman showed him through to the drawing room, where William had now been reading for half an hour. A brief knock announced the pair's entrance, the footman tentatively shuffling into the room slightly ahead of the visitor. The young man spoke, William not looking up from his broadsheet.
"The Earl of Holcoate, sir." He announced with as much volume as he could manage. William looked up, curving his mouth into a curt, apologetic smile.
"My apologies, Addison, I hadn't noticed you enter. You may leave now." Addison gave a small bow, leaving the two men alone in the room. William gestured for his visitor to take a seat next to him, folding his broadsheet neatly in half and placing it back on one of the side tables. To his right, Holcoate had sat himself down somewhat awkwardly on the other chair, upholstered in the same buttoned leather.
"Good morning Arthur," William started with a sincere warmth. "I trust the journey from Westminster was not too arduous?"
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I took the Landau, so I was sheltered from the rain at least." The Earl turned towards the window as he spoke, following the cascading droplets with his eyes.
"That is good to hear. This rain is quite damnable. One can hardly believe it is May." William gestured towards the crystal decanter, smiling to himself. "Might I offer you a drink?" Arthur smiled, shaking his head.
"Thank you, but I must decline - not before midday. Though I would be much obliged if you would allow me a quick cigarillo." Arthur reached preemptively into his jacket, unnoticed by William, who was pouring himself a tumbler of bourbon.
"No drink before midday? Anyone would think you a Tory, Arthur." He noticed the visitor's hand halfway under his lapel.*"Please," he waved acceptingly,*"feel free." Arthur gave a thank you, taking out a silvered cigarillo case and lighter. The orange glow of the lit tip contrasted starkly with the room's muted palette, giving some warmth. A thin, light grey smoke quickly began to float rhythmically towards the ceiling. It smelled rich. William spoke.
"What time are we to leave?" He said it almost as small talk.
"We have a good twenty minutes yet, sir." Arthur shifted his focus to William's tumbler, smiling. "You'll have time to finish your drink."
Francis was still sat in The Mall, his left hand absentmindedly sliding its way over his now sodden jacket. It rose and fell as it hit a well-concealed bump. Francis smiled as he felt his fingers over the undulations, made less prominent by the jacket's thick material, completely obscuring any shape. He took his hand off his lap and clapped suddenly, rubbing his hands together as if waiting impatiently. He was waiting impatiently. Waiting for the rain to end. Waiting to steal a glimpse of Fate.
Arthur and William sat opposite each other as the Phaeton turned left out of Stable Yard Road, Arthur watching as St James' moved backwards into the distance, William greeting The Mall as they turned another left. The two sat in silence, the rain sending a muted drumming through the chassis as it rebounded off the carriage's cover, acting as a sort of countermelody to the steady sound of the horses' hooves hitting the road.
Arthur shuffled in his seat, his eyes catching a rain-sodden man sat on a bench as he turned.
"What a peculiar thing to do," he muttered to himself. William turned his focus towards the Earl attentively.
"I'm sorry?" Arthur gestured to the man, who sat running his hands compulsively*through his dripping hair.
Francis stiffed excitedly, Fate pulling closer towards him. He reached into his jacket, rain wetting his waistcoat as his hand delved into an interior pocket. He was still smiling as he brought his hand out of his jacket, clasping the dark wooded grip of a pistol. Using his other hand, he brought out a single bullet, cupping it in his hand to try and shield it from the rain. He pressed it carefully into position, lifting the gun to Fate.
Now the rain ends.
A ugly bang cracked through air, sending the two horses into panic, the Phaeton swerving towards the middle of the road. William went towards the carriage floor, his hands covering his head protectively. Arthur watched on incredulously, seeing the gunman's face change to a look of deadly seriousness. He shouted something to the driver, who reined the horses to an abrupt halt. He reached down to William, who was still sat with his head pressed under his hands.
"William?" The King retook his straightened position conservatively, visibly blanched.*"Are you alright, Your Majesty?" William patted himself down, colour gradually returning to his features.
"It would seems so." He turned to face the gunman, who hadn't moved from his firing position. Without warning, he dismounted the carriage, moving boldly towards him. Arthur was quick to follow. The gunman stared passively as William stood before him, not flinching as Arthur twisted his arms behind his back.
"And so the rain continues."