“You should have let her speak instead if just dismissing her like a child. If this story went public, it would look as if TK had hidden the truth from the clan to protect you, a commoner. He would have to shun you to defend his reputation, which means I would have to divorce you, and that means you would...” Her right hand made a fluttering gesture as to suggest a dispersion of mist. “You would vanish into the Nameless Gone.”
Donald rolled his eyes at the ludicrous ingenuity of clan gossip to devise crises out of thin air. At the back of his mind was nevertheless a growing trickle of worry.
“That’s absurd.”
“Things are tetchy inside the Krossington clan just now. I don’t know why—something serious has happened. There’s a lot of posturing about so-and-so being seen with so-and-so. It’s a sign of jostling.”
“I’m seeing TK on Wednesday. I’ll discuss it with him then,” he said.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t even dream of mentioning this to TK. If she was telling the truth, TK will not hesitate to act. My guess is he’ll banish you to be a gardener on some eastern manor. You’ll simply disappear from town and I’ll be able to remarry.”
Within the Lands of Krossington, manors lying along the eastern border were looked down upon as being the most ignorant and insular. Lavinia had still more steam to blow off. She continued:
“There’s no escaping that we’re from different worlds. Your world works one way and mine works another. I’ve never known any marriage of a sovereign to a commoner that worked. Don’t imagine for an instant I don’t respect your intellectual industry—I’m amazed by it—but however admirable your court victories are, my world is family, friends and foes, not briefs and brains. Our marriage has lasted on borrowed time and I think it has now run out.”
Once upon a time, Donald had been a cocky twenty-six-year-old of perfect qualification, too expectant of triumph to perceive ambition. The hard grind of raising a family was as yet far over the horizon of his blasé habits. Lavinia had fitted perfectly what he wanted—an attractive, not overly demanding young lady of sovereign birth with which to appear in society. It was not the basis of a successful marriage—it was never meant as more than a vehicle by which an ambitious lawyer could build his sovereign clientele whilst looking for a more enduring companion.
The day after Donald learned she was pregnant, Father drew him into his study, put a whiskey in front of him and became very man-to-man. Donald was twenty-six. It was time he ended this playboy frivolity and got serious. If he wanted respect, he had to be a full man, not just a smart counsel; it was time he got married and raised a family of his own. Lavinia is an absolutely charming girl and she comes from a prominent manor in the Lands of Krossington. I want you married and I want grandchildren. Do you understand? As Father detected a profound reluctance, his mouth closed to within an inch of Donald’s right eye.
“Her family is close to Krossington. You will marry her because you have to—if you want a future in this town.”
There is no truth like that spoken with brutal simplicity. Marcia was born seven months later, to be joined by Cynthia two years later. Yet marriage had not given Donald a future. At best, it had launched him adrift on an ice floe. Sooner or later, every ice flow melts. Lavinia had just spoken aloud what both of them had known for years; from her point of view, his best option was to disappear to the Nameless Gone.
He felt very alone. He longed to know what had really happened to Lawrence.
Chapter
7
On the following Wednesday, Donald met His Decency Thomas Thomson Krossington at the Palace of Westminster. This immense building was an heirloom of the Public Era. Prior to the Glorious Resolution, it was the seat of government of the old nation state of the United Kingdom. Now it was the most exclusive club on the Island of Britain.
Like the raving babble of a madhouse, a hundred conversations boomed off the golden ceiling of the Lords Chamber. Donald gazed overhead, awed by the impression of a roof drooling gold, the panelled walls carved in a density of shields and frescoes reminiscent of St Paul’s Cathedral on the occasion of his father’s funeral. In his admiration, he bumped the shoulder of his host.
“My apologies, Your Decency,” he said.
Tom Krossington was a stocky man wearing a pin-striped suit. His shoulders were broad for his height, his head large, appearing larger due to the vigour of his curly grey hair. The suit fitted neatly about a trim form, for he was ascetic and, despite being now in his late fifties, athletic. He was known to all as TK. He made a peculiar overhead sweep with one hand, as if trying to catch a moth.
“It was the British Empire back when this place was built,” he said. “The greatest empire there ever was in history. Yet despite all this leaf and flourish, the Glorious Resolution happened just the same and they all went to the Nameless Gone.” TK looked back sharply at Donald. “That’s why we must keep a better guard than they did.”
The noise level dropped as members filed into the Lords Chamber and settled down. TK pointed out his ‘dearest neighbours’; other sovereigns with lands around the Great Ring Drain of London. Together with the Krossingtons, they were known as the Big Seven. They were envied by the other members due to the extent and wealth of their lands. A tall and brown-skinned man with disarrayed white hair was Frederick Dasti-Jones—the host of Donald’s recent internment. Another man with thick black
