The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “I fought beside Colin O’Rourke in his last moments,” Val said.

  “You were with Colin?” Kristine turned abruptly towards him.

  “So, you were Colin’s fiancée, Miss Kristine.” Val studied Miss Kristine with an elevated interest. Sweet-tempered, hilarious Colin had loved a fire-eater. He felt a sudden compassion for her, knowing how much she had lost.

  But if she was successful in hurting Alita, that’s where his compassion ended. He glanced at Alita, who appeared to be holding up well. “If I can tell you anything about Mr. O’Rourke which might prove to be a comfort, I would wish to. Colin O’Rourke died with honor, lived with honor, and loved you as life itself.”

  “What difference would it make to tell me of him?” Kristine clenched her fists. “He is gone.”

  “With the fire in your heart, there are unlimited possibilities, Miss Kristine.”

  “There are no possibilities. There is positively nothing myself nor anyone else can do. Nothing.”

  “There is no greater pain than losing a loved one. Being alive without him is the greatest torture. You feel in every moment you wish to die,” he replied somberly. “How well I know. But you might start with being the woman Colin loved.”

  “You have no right!”

  “You are mistaken. I have earned that right alongside you, Miss Kristine. You and I have suffered much—war has done that to us—but attempting to inflict that suffering on others will never heal you. Express it, state your truth, but use the fire in your soul for warmth rather than destruction.” He bowed to her. “My best wishes for your health and happiness.”

  Val took Alita’s arm and they moved toward the dance floor, leaving a stunned Kristine Tutt in their wake.

  “Val, look! An old friend.” Alita waved happily at a couple who had just entered the ballroom. He turned to see William Priestly with a glowing platinum blonde boasting the same sublime blue eyes as her companion’s.

  No doubt she was his equally irksome sister. They were of the same cut—polished, appropriate to a fault, revoltingly friendly, pleased with everything they saw, and gorgeous.

  And exultant to see Alita. Damnation! They were moving this way.

  “Delighted,” he muttered.

  He surveyed the dazzling William Priestly and his old jealousies resurfaced. Indeed, he had nursed no small amount of resentment these many months for this gentleman. His advice so easily given to the heartbroken was soon to be tested.

  Never a moment’s respite.

  “Oh, they have waved but are heading another direction,” she said with disappointment. “Father Bartholomew has captured their attention.”

  He took Alita’s hand in his, holding onto it possessively. “Alita, my love, if I might beg the pleasure of a dance? I particularly like this tune.”

  Light she was and like a fairy…The words to the tune circled in his head as his eyes rested on his petite angel. His angel. They could call on the flawless William Sherwood and his unblemished sister after he and Alita were married.

  Good. A tall lanky gentleman had waylaid the couple, and they were chatting politely with him, even as Sherwood glanced in Alita’s direction.

  It’s too late. You can’t have her. She’s mine.

  Alita looked up at her soon-to-be husband quizzically, disbelief written across her face.

  Oh, my darling, Clementine?

  And her shoes were number nine.

  “One of my favorite tunes.” It was becoming uncomfortably clear that married life with Alita was going to require more honesty than he might have bargained for.

  Herring boxes, without topses,

  Sandals were for Clementine.

  He loved sandals. And how many songs even mentioned them? He did adore this melody, whatever his insightful fiancée might mistakenly believe.

  “That is Father Bartholomew speaking with William and Charlise. I believe he is officiating at their wedding.”

  “Their wedding?” Social norms had certainly changed.

  “Yes, they are very well suited.”

  “I would think so.” Val swallowed. “So they’re…first cousins?”

  “They aren’t related. William Sherwood and Charlise Noel.”

  “And they’re really getting married?”

  “Of course. Why would I say so otherwise?”

  “You do and say many things I don’t comprehend, my love.”

  “I hope Krissy allows herself to feel love again.” Alita’s lips formed a shaky smile as they danced.

  Oh, no, the dreaded potential. Placing his hand firmly around her waist, he shook his head in disapproval.

  “You cannot live another’s life, my love. All you can do is to state the truth. She will make her own choices.”

  “Like you did, my lord?” She smiled up at him, her eyes full of love and promise.

  “Not a bit of it,” he refuted. As he whirled her round the dance floor, holding her near to him, her shimmering pale-lavender gown with a silver spray glimmered in the candlelight. Her emerald-green eyes glowed as they alighted on him.

  “Whatever do you mean, Val?”

  He pulled her closer, knowing that, if he should die in this moment, he would have known pure bliss. “I could never have chosen anything this wonderful for myself.”

  56

  Wedding Breakfast

  It was the morning of the ensuing nuptials of Miss Alita Jane Celeste Lawrence Stanton and Valerius Gregory Christopher Huntington, the 5th Earl of Ravensdale. The preparations were complete, and the couple’s much-anticipated wedding was to be that evening. Already seated at the breakfast table were the groom, Dr. Stanton and his two younger children, and Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Yarbury, who wore a self-satisfied smirk indeed.

  Lady Elaina advanced directly to her daughter’s bedroom, and the two embraced in unconcealed anticipation.

  “Such a lovely complement to your eyes.” Lady Elaina examined Alita in an aquamarine silk tea-gown with a small train and three tiers of ruffles along the hem. “It looks more like a ball dress than a wrapper on you, my love.”

  Midway down the spiral staircase as they proceeded to the breakfast table, their butler Queensbury opened the door in response to some truly obnoxious knocking and shouting. “Whoever could that be?” Alita murmured.

  “Whom do you think?” asked Lady Elaina, her lips quivering in mirth.

  Queensbury opened the door with a shudder.

  “Queenie!” Oroville exclaimed. The butler raised his eyebrows in a pronounced censure.

  “Uncle Oroville! Aunt Jane!” Alita bounced down the remaining steps, throwing her arms around them.

  “Blimey! Ain’t you a fetching sight, Lita.” Oroville hugged his niece while smiling from ear to ear. He gazed at all the ladies present in astonishment. “I never saw so much beauty in one room ’afore.”

  “Your timing is impeccable, Uncle Oroville, as usual. We’re all just sitting down to eat.” Lady Elaina smiled broadly as they entered the dining room, in stark contrast to her mother, who had the expression of one who had swallowed a glass of vinegar water following indigestion.

  “Oroville has a gift for arriving minutes, sometimes seconds, before meals are served,” explained Jane, laughing even as she spoke. Jane was slim but shorter than her younger sister Marvella—and even a touch more fashionable if that could be imagined.

  Jane wore an elaborate satin traveling suit in alternating rose-cream-brown stripes with a cuirasse bodice reaching to the thighs, satin bows flowing all along the bustle into a train. Her blonde-white hair formed a braided loop in the back of her head, and she wore a rose-pink satin hat, which stood a good eight inches above her elegant coiffure.

  “When did you arrive in London, Aunt Jane? It’s a long journey from Somerset,” mused Lady Elaina.

  “We arrived in London yesterday afternoon, to be sure. We stayed at the Dolphin & Shakespeare last night and awoke early, as is our custom. I told Oroville we should eat first, they have a nice breakfas
t, but—”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you didn’t, Aunt Jane,” interrupted Alita, hugging her.

  “Whoo-whee, Elaina! If this house don’t just take the biscuit.” Oroville looked about, whistling as his eyes alighted upon a medieval knight’s armor centrally displayed. “It sure looks to be Notre-Dame’s naughty younger sibling.”

  Oroville Lovett, in contrast to Jane’s fashionable presentation, wore a hunting costume of sorts, a red coat, gilt buttons, blue stockings, white breeches, top-boots, and a black top hat. His long white moustache was curled at the ends, and his short white hair was slicked back on his head. Mischief was permanently etched into his pale blue eyes.

  “I presume you refer to the gothic influences, Uncle Oroville?” Lady Elaina giggled, even as she directed the servants to transport their luggage upstairs.

  “Oh, no. This ain’t a decorating style. It’s a moral code by which all who enter must live,” Oroville pronounced. “Or be banished to the dungeon.”

  “Come have a seat, Uncle Oroville,” managed Lady Elaina, laughing. “Everyone will wish to see you immediately.”

  “Well, almost ever-one,” Oroville’s eyes alighted upon Marvella.

  “You’ve growed up into quite a beauty, Lita,” Oroville remarked, beaming from ear to ear as he took Alita’s hand and allowed her to lead him to a chair. “But she still don’t look old enough to be married, Janie.”

  “Tell your husband to be quiet, Jane,” Marvella commanded curtly as they entered the room. “Or he shall have to eat with the servants.”

  “Now don’t throw a wobbly, Velly. I’d rather eat wif’ you, bein’ as how ye’re me favorite sister-in-law, but I’m sure I’ll enjoy me breakfast either way.” The inviting scent of Alita’s favorite dishes wafted to add credence to his words—salmon and cream-cheese omelet with fresh chives, strawberries with almond meringue, chilled asparagus in dill, cranberry-orange scones, bacon, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and Turkish-roasted coffee and cream.

  “I don’t think Orv is ever quiet,” considered Jane, clearly having no need to maintain a ladylike solemnity free of laughter. “Even when Oroville sleeps he snores, talks, chuckles. Sometimes he even sings.”

  “Hardly appropriate conversation, Jane Celeste,” Marvella remarked under her breath, as if she were the older of the two.

  “Is that coffee I smell?” asked Oroville, clearly undaunted by the insults to his person.

  “Alita acquired a taste for Turkish coffee on her recent journey to Egypt,” Lady Elaina explained. “We also have tea if that is your preference, Uncle Oroville.”

  “Tea? Naaah! That would destroy me digestion if I were’s to start drinkin’ tea. I’ll have coffee or ale.”

  Dr. Jonathan Stanton stood at the first glimpse of his wife, as was his custom, claiming her hand to kiss it. Lady Elaina felt her heart warm as she beheld the shared happiness in her husband’s eyes. What could give a parent more joy than to see their children so happily in love with their prospective partners?

  “Good morning, Elly.” Jon held the seat next to him for her. They did not hold to the custom of sitting at opposite ends of the table.

  “Good morning, Lady Elaina and Miss Alita,” the groom offered cordially before fixing his eyes on his affianced bride. Marvella smiled approvingly.

  Introductions were made, and all were quickly seated.

  “Glory be,” exclaimed Oroville, studying the dining room as he stuffed food into his mouth. “Stone floors, an oak table as big as the Loch Ness hisself, even a circular iron chandelier with candles. When will Sir Lancelot be joining us?” He looked down at the leather chair he was sitting in. “I hope I don’t have his chair. I’m too old to fight him for it.”

  “Uncle Oroville, you and Jane don’t look but five years older than you did at my wedding,” Lady Elaina observed.

  “Clean living.” He winked, pulling from his jacket a gold-filigree and blue-Chinese-porcelain whiskey flask, hand-enameled, proudly displaying an intricately designed gold dragon and the initials “OWL.”

  “Oroville! Not in front of the children!” Marvella exclaimed, aghast.

  “Jus’ for flavorin’.” Oroville returned the flask to its padded home but not before adding a touch to his coffee. “That black sludge is bitter without it an jus’ right with it.”

  “As I consider the matter, I do believe you are wearing the same…um…outfit that you wore to my wedding, Uncle Orv,” Lady Elaina considered.

  “Ain’t it just tickity-boo? But don’t you worry, Elaina. I know what is expected of me. I have a proper suit for this London weddin’. Jane made sure o’ that.”

  “He’ll be the handsomest man there.” Jane nodded to the tea service being offered “with the possible exceptions of the groom and your husband. But Oroville will draw more attention than either of them, I daresay.”

  “Without a doubt,” Val inclined his head as he gracefully conceded to his vanquisher.

  “I even brung fancy men’s perfume to cover up the smell of the whiskey. Purchased at Harrods of London, so you know it must be good.”

  “You’re wearing perfume?” asked Julianne, curious.

  “I thought smoked fish would do just as good. Either way it’s coverin’ up one bad smell with another, as I told the showy department-store lady and the two managers who came to assist me with me selection, which I thought was tolerable nice to have three people helpin’ me when everyone else just had one store clerk.”

  “They are exceptionally helpful at Harrods,” Lady Elaina agreed.

  “Ain’t they?” reiterated Oroville. “Well, I suppose they have to be when they don’t have nothin’ anyone in their right mind would want. I couldn’t find where there was any fishin’ poles or worms, even mouse bait. Or liquor,” he added in a whisper audible by all.

  “And what men’s cologne did you decide upon, Uncle Oroville?” Alita asked, stifling a giggle.

  “What? Oh. Well, first I wuz shown Eau du coq, that means water of cock, don’t you know, in French, no less.”

  “What?” Harvey opened his mouth with his mouth still full of food. “Water of what? Is that like saying piss of the cock?—”

  “Harvey Trenton,” Lady Elaina warned her son. “Please keep your conversation civil at the table.”

  “I don’t see what else it can mean,” Oroville said. “An’ why are you pickin’ on Harvey? He didn’t name it.”

  “Uncle Oroville, I don’t think it means—” Alita managed.

  “Well then why did they name it what it don’t mean? And that’s what it smelled like. So that must be right. Didn’t it, Janie?”

  Jane nodded in agreement as she stirred the cream into her tea.

  “This is most unsuitable conversation for a wedding breakfast, Oroville Lovett,” Marvella objected. “Please show some decorum until Captain Lord Ravensdale has pledged his vows or you might scare him off from this family.”

  “That won’t happen,” Val said instantly, his eyes caressing Alita.

  “They’re going away,” Julianne said sadly.

  “We’ll be back, Jules. And Ma-ma may allow you to visit.”

  “Don’t you know your French, Lita?” Oroville asked with concern, directing his attention to the bride-to-be as he resumed his assessment of the Herrod’s perfume counter.

  “It’s not perfect…” Alita appeared unable to answer.

  “Marvella isn’t much for educating the girls, Oroville,” Jane cautioned in a whisper. “And Alita never took to her studies.”

  “Yes, I know, lovey, but I thought French was acceptable. We’ve a strange relationship wif the French,” Oroville considered, shaking his head. “Always talkin’ bad about ’em, wanna t’ be just like ’em.”

  “Uncle Oroville, that’s not right,” interjected young Harvey, appearing somewhat inflamed. “Alita is smart. She just don’t try.”

  “Now don’t get your feathers in a ruffle, son! Lita’s like me—smart but not edeecated! ’An I ain’t nobody’s fool! We�
��re right proud of her.”

  Harvey nodded happily, glad to have vindicated his sister, while Alita placed her hands quietly in her lap.

  “An’ if other people want to waste a lot of time gettin’ formal learnin’, and it makes ’em happy, I don’t pay no never mind. Though I can assures ye, there is a bucket load o’ gormless educated fools out there. I’d rather spend that time makin’ money and enjoyin’ meself. You have to learn, son, don’t get me wrong, so takes yer pick. But I kin learn ever thing I need to out in the world.”

  “So did you select the Eau du Coq, Uncle Orv?” Harvey asked.

  Dr. Stanton shook his head at his son.

  “What? I just asked, Papa. If it’s at Herrod’s, it must be alright.”

  Elaina cleared her throat, presuming this display was something akin to what occurred at the perfume counter of Harrods.

  “Oh, no! I smell bad enough without that! That’s when the first manager came to help—was his name Mr. Petry, dearheart?”

  “Mr. Palmer, I believe,” Jane replied. “A nervous sort.”

  “Yep, that’s ’im,” agreed Oroville. “Terrible case of the nerves. He seemed all right, and then he started talkin’ wif’ us, and the next thing you know—” He slapped his hands together, sending one of his spoons flying, which just missed Harvey’s head. Marvella rolled her eyes.

  “Mr. Palmer struck me as a perfect candidate for nerve tonic.” Jane slid a spoonful of strawberries with almond meringue into her mouth, a blissful expression crossing her face. “Possibly we should pick up a bottle of Pastor Koenig’s Nerve Tonic Remedy for him, dearest?”

  “Naaah! Mr. Palmer is not the sort who should have an indoor job. It’s that simple,” Oroville’s pronouncement was grave. “A full day’s work would do him a world of good. Now this young fellow here who Lita is soon to make an honest man of—he’s known a day or two of work in his time, I’d wager.”

  “Useful work?” Val considered. “Unlikely. Physical labor, yes.”

  “And he looks right calm.”