Henry Richardson chugged down the last of his wine, his eyes red-rimmed and his face sullen. He looked at the empty bottle with equally empty eyes, considering heaving it into the floor and watching it smash into many glittering pieces, but he was a gentleman. Even lost under the haze of alcohol and smothered under the lonely cold of depression, such a thing was below him.

Well, that wasn’t to say he was opposed to behaving entirely against decorum, but when he did do outlandish things it was purely for the sake of humor. Smashing the wine bottle would help him cope with his misery temporarily, but no one would laugh. That was to say, he wouldn’t laugh, and he was the only one is his cramped quarters.

In reality, though, his quarters weren’t actually cramped, but he felt cramped. Constricted, conflicted…cramped. Lonely.

His mind went to that afternoon, when he had visited his childhood friend, Helena Whitman. She had been his constant companion his entire life. Yet she had married that bastard, Ingram Retton.

My own fault, he thought miserably, setting the wine bottle down amongst the other drained glass corpses and raising himself out of the chair to pace the room.

She had placed their newborn child, Angie, into his arms and called him, “Uncle Henry.”

He snarled. No doubt she thought the nickname would amuse him. Normally, she did amuse him, with just a glance from her laughing, deep blue eyes. A toss of her wavy, golden hair. A gesture with her tiny, delicate hands.

He wanted to hate her for leaving him this way. He looked for flaws in her, searching desperately for something to fortify his hate. But she was perfect. She was kind, generous, considerate. And married.

What a fool he was. She considered him no more than a friend. He had asked to be her suitor to make her see him as more, yet when he did so she noticed neither him nor his affections any more than before. He had gone off with another girl, hoping to gain her jealousy, her attention. He figured she would fight his decision to leave, realizing she loved him and not one of the other lowly mongrels her father had selected for her. She was clueless. She was considerate, but she had no consideration for her own best friend. Could she really believe a man could be around her and not feel some sort of attraction, be it physical or mental?

Yes, she could, he mused. She was, after all, a woman.

She was no longer in his reach, and because of this he now had no reason to hope. No need to endure anymore.

He needed to go away. To escape from her invitation to see her admittedly adorable child with her admittedly devoted (though not quite so adorable) husband not far away.

Where? He asked himself. Where can I go?

Relatives. To visit relatives. Why not? He hadn’t had any real contact from any indirect family member for quite some time. If they grew tiresome, he could always flee the house. There were bound to be parties, balls, dances. It would be a holiday of sorts. A holiday from Helena.

The rather notable issue with this impulsive plan was that, not having any contact with them, he didn’t know any relations beyond the boundaries of his immediate family. He could guess, however, that his mother would. She knew everything about everyone. It was her occupation as a married woman with nothing much else to do.

---

“Mother, do we have any relatives who live in town?”

She, with her graying hair, hunched posture, and nosy demeanor regarded him suspiciously. “Your great-aunt Gertrude resides in town, yes. She and that orphan girl she took in to keep her company.”

He nodded, thinking, “Yes,” he considered slowly. “It’s been much too long since I’ve paid her a visit.”

Her brow furrowed in answer as her eyes squinted at his face. “You haven’t ever met her.”

He blinked momentarily. “Yes. Yes, well. All the more reason, no? Will you write her and tell her I’m coming?”

She sat up, her posture improving as soon as she had a puzzle to solve.

“Why this sudden urge to go to London, Henry?” she inquired.

He slumped into a chair across from her. “I find no joy in the country any longer. I need something new, somewhere with excitement.”

Not to mention I’m running away with my own damn feelings, he added in his head.

“Well, if you want to leave me all by myself, I can’t stop you,” his mother told him miserably, her position slumping once more and her eyes downcast.

“Mother,” he began, going to kneel before her. “The object of my leaving isn’t to desert you. I’ll return to you as soon as…” He hesitated. As soon as what? What could he say? “As soon as I find peace again,” he finished, the confusion in his eyes a target to his mother.

“How can you find any peace in such a hectic, busy place as London? Here all is still and calm,” she prodded.

He couldn’t decide whether she was persisted because he actually hurt her feelings or because she simply found pleasure in making him feel incredibly guilty. He had an inkling that it was a mixture of both.

“Mother,” he said, the words suggesting an order but his tone ever-gentle, “I’m going to London. You’ll be here when I return.”

She turned away from him, dabbing her lacy handkerchief to her eyes melodramatically, even though Henry could see no tears there.

“How do you know that?” she asked him pitifully.

Even as he resisted to growl in exasperation, he felt a tug of fault, and even beneath that, worry.

Charm her. That’s what you’re good at. Though a tiny voice nagged, But still not good enough.

“Mama,” he cajoled, reverting back to his childhood name for her. “I shall bring back all the gossip from town. I’ll send you letters every week, detailing the--”

“Weeks?” she exclaimed. “You’re going to be gone for weeks?” She set a fluttering hand to her chest.

Another jab of remorse, a twinge of fear. He willed his tone and manner to remain light.

“I shall bring you back a bonnet, the height of London fashion. You will be the envy of everyone at our next social gathering.” He gave his eyes a twinkle of persuasion even as he searched his mother’s countenance for real tears.

“Will everyone be jealous, do you think, Henry?” She lifted a light hand to her hair.

He nodded, smiling. “Everyone. The women will want to be you, and the men will want to marry you.” He watched her take the bait, a faraway smile crinkling her eyes, and shook his head inwardly. He loved his mother very dearly, but at times he seemed more the parent than the child.

“Just discuss it with your father,” she murmured, her eyes unfocused and her thoughts somewhere else.

“Yes, mother,” he assented readily, if with a touch of bitterness. His father wasn’t one of those who would mind his leaving terribly, nor would he notice his son’s absence at all, if experience deemed correct.

He watched her dreamy face as he quitted the room in search of his father.

The silent, empty halls of his home simply reinforced his resolve to leave. His quiet footsteps echoed in the unvarying, suffocating dim. Here his thoughts consumed him, running in endless cycles that would drive him mad. Town was busy, noisy, hurried. He needed to go where there was room for thought, for feeling. London was that place, he was sure of it. He could feel in him a sense of fate. London would bring something new and exciting into his life.

He opened the door to his father’s study quietly. His father was angled over some papers on his desk, his dark hair shielding his eyes mostly from view. He glanced up from his work fleetingly, then resumed writing.

“You smell of wine, Henry,” he remarked blandly.

And you smell of ink, Henry thought, but I could never say that and make it sound like an insult to him.

“Yes,” he assented. “I do.”

Henry allowed a pause, hoping his father would attempt conversation, but apparently not.

“Father,” he began, but his father interrupted.

“I should have known you’d want something from me.” He shuffled papers, brought a new form to the surface, and bunched over once more. “Whatever can I do for you?” His tone was cold.

Henry matched his father’s tone. “All I need from you, father, is a carriage.”

“You won’t be needing horses as well, then?” His eyes went up, and back down again. “Are you planning on pulling the carriage to its destination yourself?”

Clenching his jaw, Henry avoided answering. He bottled in his sarcastic remark. He had learned long ago that his humor and charm did nothing with his father.

“Then you’re leaving. Where to?”

“London, father.”

The eyebrows rose, and besides that nothing changed. The hand continued and the eyes were cast down. “I see.”

How can you see with your eyes in the wrong direction?

“Yes.”

“If you must go, I won’t stop you. When do you leave?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Indeed?” He held up the paper, donning his glasses and leaning back in his chair. “Well. Go,” he concluded, his eyes never leaving his work.

Henry nodded. “Thank you, Father.” He turned and left the room.

After the door shut, his father sighed, setting his paper down and looking at the door his son had just closed. He ripped the paper he hadn’t really been working on in half.