Affair of Pretense

One

"And, after all, what is a lie?
'Tis but the truth in Masquerade."
-Lord Byron

Dusk was already setting in when a carriage entered the drive of Stanfield Park. It ran at a breakneck pace, for the drive seemed to stretch out interminably amidst a very expansive and well-trimmed lawn. A thick throng of elms and oaks clustered on the west side of the lawn, and beyond it was a heathen path leading to a cliff that overlooked the Sussex coast. Since no picturesque view could be afforded from where the vehicle moved its sole occupant hardly looked out of the window, and was instead lounging leisurely on his seat, his sleepy eyes fixed somnolently on the squab opposite him. Indeed, his mien was hardly that of a man bound for a very somber occasion, one in which a kin was near to death's door. Not the slightest hint of apprehension could be detected in him; if he ever evinced any sign of emotion, it was of slight dissatisfaction: a fleck of dirt had made its way somehow on his otherwise high-polished top boots.

Taking out a snowy white handkerchief, he wiped the offending dirt and examined his handiwork. Satisfied, he finally turned his gaze to the window, and caught a glimpse of the imposing house far ahead. The sight of uneven patches of ground, muddied by last night's rain, made him wince. He sighed, and wondered for perhaps the tenth time of the day why in heavens name did he even consented to go. After all, it was not often that Lord Denver answered summons from his grandfather; and had it not been for the deathbed on which the old Duke was probably fighting for his last-drawn breaths at present, he would have had refused him as he did several times before. The letter Denver had received was brief and peremptory, but there was a sense of urgency that prevented him from consigning it to the fire, as he usually did when having received some correspondence from his relatives. Therefore he came, albeit half-heartedly, with the only consoling thought that if ever the old man would turn up his toes eventually, no one could accuse him of not putting up an appearance when his presence was most exigent.

With a jolt, the carriage came to a standstill at last, and the coachman hurriedly opened the door, saying fretfully: "Beggin' yer lor'ship's pardon! That's a nasty one down there, pretty nasty!"

"No need to distress yourself on my account, Peter. As you see, no damage has been done," he answered suavely and alighted from the coach with easy grace, but as he glanced down on the ground, an incoherent grunt escaped him. As though an afterthought, he told his coachman of what seemed like a rather insignificant fact: "The damage, I daresay, is to my boots, more's the pity," and then started to the house, leaving his coachman shaking his head in caustic amusement.

Although situated in the wilderness of Sussex, Stanfield Court was not without its charms. An original Tudor structure, it was renovated during the reign of William III and had been transformed into a magnificent Baroque building, the prevailing architectural style of the day. The present duke's grandfather, the 6th Duke of Montmaine, was an ambitious man. With an enormous wealth at his disposal, he had hired an architect that could render him a creation reminiscent of no less a parsonage than Bernini, and and impressive garden that could beat that of the king's palace in Holland. Thousands of tulips had been imported from the Dutch country, and the duke had even sought the advice of the king's gardener.

Indeed, this extreme extravagance could have been his undoing; it nearly bankrupted the family's coffers, and had it not been for a riding accident that almost killed him, his obsession would have eventually crippled them financially. His son, a more sensible man than his father ever was, ordered to put a stop to all the estate renovations after the duke's death. He never saw his palatial garden finished, nor would it ever be. There was just one solace upon his death, however; Stanfield Court stood as the most magnificent country estate in all of Sussex, with its protruding cupolas, ornate colonnades and frescos a la Rome: a place fit for the Royal Family. But the grandeur of the old days had long since gone. Revolution had considerably shaken the world and its old order; and just when things couldn't have been more worse, that upstart Napoleon came, and saw and tried to conquer, but at last was finally beaten at Waterloo only a few weeks earlier.