The Beauty of Coincidence | manxman | (Historical Fiction)

VII - Chance of a Lifetime

Reynold was thrilled when he awoke on this morning. He hadn't any more projects lined up after finishing the last the night before. Though his back suffered from a few slight aches, they were overshadowed by his excitement to finally see Lord Victor again after four days. As he sat there in the nude at the foot of his bed, he thought on what the topics of their conversations would venture. Since he'd handed over one of his journals, he was certain the Lord would have a great many things to say about his entries. When he was but a seventeen year old boy, he hadn't been the greatest when it came to writing poems, but that was the time in his life when he practiced the most. So, while he knew the majority of them weren't any good, he at least hoped Lord Victor enjoyed them for what they were: the writings of a boy still in the midst of becoming who he was.

After a quick bath, Reynold dressed for the day as finely as he could. He hadn't much of a wardrobe, and he didn't know why he wanted to dress in a more presentable manner for Lord Victor, but...he tried anyhow.

When he was clean and his hair air-dried, Reynold stepped back into his bedroom and adorned dark black trousers, an olive green shirt, braces, his best leather boots, and an overcoat. Studying himself in the mirror of his bedroom, Reynold drove his fingers back into the dark tresses of his hair. It was always a hassle in taming, so he allowed it to part naturally after shaking his head. It still looked rather nice considering he didn't attempt to style it in any way. After properly fixing an apache scarf around his neck, Reynold left the bedroom and headed for the office down the hall.

He could hear Evie talking downstairs with Frank and smell the breakfast she'd cooked, but before heading down himself, he stepped into the office and filed through the bottom shelf of one pushed up beside a window overlooking the street below. On the spine of each, he'd scribed the year he'd filled them, but when Reynold caught sight of one with the year 1812 on it...he furrowed his brow and took it from the shelf. He thought this one was the one he'd given Lord Victor, a journal filled with numerous of his attempts at writing poems for the first time. He hadn't been very good, but that had certainly been the one he'd meant to give.

When he opened the leather journal, however, he realized the very one he'd wanted to give Lord Victor was sitting right in his hands. Confused, Reynold stood with the childish attempts at poetry hugged against his chest. He thought for a moment. He knew he had given the Lord one of his writings from 1812, but...

Reynold could have sworn his heart stopped beating when he finally understood what he'd done. So fixed on giving Lord Victor a journal from a pleasant year, he hadn't realized he'd handed over the one he'd used as a personal diary. He knew exactly what it was filled with; his fond tellings of his growing love for Christopher Adley. That was what many of the pages were filled with. It had been four years before he and Christopher seperated due to - conflicting desires, four years before any relationship he'd had with his parents and sister disappeared.

Reynold sighed and tucked the journal into a pocket on the inside of his coat. Even though he was aware of Lord Victor's similar preferences, he couldn't help feeling somewhat embarrassed. His writings of that time were happy, to say the least, but his feelings toward Christopher were anything but the same. They'd been each other's first love, first everything, and had ultimately ended up being their first heartbreaks as well. Reynold didn't like to think back on their past together, and now he'd gone and accidently shared it all with Lord Victor.

Suddenly his excitement to see Lord Victor had diminished, but he couldn't avoid it forever, especially since he'd need to get the journal back. Upset with himself for making such a foolish mistake, Reynold tried to put it aside and finally headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, Evie was just sliding freshly cooked eggs onto three plates for herself, Frank, and Reynold. The two associates looked toward him, seeming to notice the storm cloud thundering above his head. "There are no projects for today," Frank said, his voice a bit dry, "Given that, I will be heading to the main Deighton residence to speak with your father."