Dante!
Before I leave for Italy, I will give you (my one or two readers, hi!) this brief interlude of Dante...
Chapter 4- Knightsbride
Knightsbridge Hall, ancestral home of the Smith family.
Laid out around a vast lawn, with a garden and greenhouse behind the Hall, overlooking the fine countryside of Hampshire. A majestic place.
Approaching the Hall from the front, Dante sucked in his breath and held it for a long moment, taking in the pillared facades, the symmetry of the building, the contrast of green lawn and pale grey stone.
He stopped the blue Cadillac- imported, customized just for him- at the head of the drive and slid out of the car. The shell paving crunched under his feet, the fountain bubbled inconspicuously from the center of the drive.
Removing his hat and coat, he threw them across the hood of the Cadillac. No need for formality. It was time to cast off the overcoat with its ballistic lining, the pretense and the guise of Dante. He was home.
“Lord Smith!” Louis scampered down the front steps, his round little body dwarfed by the long lines of the shallow steps.
“England's still in one piece, I see.”
“Welcome back, Sir,” Louis grabbed the coat and hat, then moved to get the bags from the trunk.
The great oak doors of Knightsbridge Hall were flanked by statues of chess knights. Each door bore the Smith family crest, and the family motto. The symbols of the family and their sacred duty to protect the Crown, their legacy of honor and service to England. Now the dynasty was at an end, and he, Sinclair Smith, was left alone with a fortune and a double life.
Smith Hall sat empty in the North, a colder and darker castle full of his mother's beloved walnut wainscoting. After her death, Smith Hall seemed so shadowed. The ghost of Sinclair's father seemed to lurk around every corner. Too much to live with day in and day out. Sinclair had moved permanently to Knightsbridge in 1946, to greater comfort and proximity to London.
He skipped up the last few steps and swung the doors open, arms wide.
The entrance hall of Knighstbridge was covered in marble below his feet, while pure white stucco covered every wall. The chandelier overhead could have held a hundred candles. But modernization had crept into the décor, and little electric lights gleamed from its brass arms.
One wall held the ancestral portraits, arranged in line with the sweeping staircase. The other wall was devoted to memories of Sinclair's own life.
First, a photograph, taken Christmas of 1936. Lord and Lady Smith, in their old-fashioned clothing. Beside them, a teenaged Sinclair, grinning rakishly at the camera. Aunt Mabel stood beside Lady Smith, muffled in fur. Beside Lord Smith was Sinclair's old tutor, Rafael Espinoza. Espinoza came to England in hopes that the air would be better for his health than the heat of the Caribbean. He had died two months after the picture was taken. So the family portrait was the last image of that slender scholar from the West Indies. Beside the black-clad tutor stood his daughter. The photograph couldn't capture her vibrancy, her energy, the warmth that seemed to boil outward from her.
The Espinoza girl, who had vanished all those years ago. The picture showed her well enough- thick black hair, round face, a body too womanly for a girl of fourteen. He remembered how she could shoot from impossible distances, how she could charm anyone, how she couldn't confine her grand dreams to the realm of possibility. He remembered their games of pretend. The only children at Smith Hall, they invented vast adventures for themselves and played the parts of soldier, spy, queen, assassin.
The name and character of Dante had been born then.
But enough, he thought, turning away from the photograph. Enough memories of the Espinoza girl.
Beside the old family portrait was the map of the British Empire. Done in archaic style, it showed His Majesty's land holdings in red. Maps couldn't do justice to the world- its vastness, its wealth of color, the way the thickness in the air changed from place to place. The smallest line on a map could indicate a place of crushing vastness, a journey of days, a place of unspeakable majesty. Each place had its own flavor, its own tinge to Sinclair's memories.
Three words about Suez: Dry, gritty, imperial.
Three words about Delhi: Majestic, pungent, crowded
Next to the map hung a prayer flag from the East. Once, it had fluttered outside his window while he slept in an ancient monastery that clung to the side of a mountain as if by the will of God. Occasionally, it had served as his pillow while he wandered the desolate hills of India.
Three words about Bihar: Pinnacles, emptiness, death.
Next to the flag was a framed scroll covered in oriental script. Sinclair couldn't read it, but he knew the contents by heart. A gift from a stoic swordswoman named Lihan. Lihan with her trousers and her peaceful courage and her strange proverbs.
Beside the scroll were his military medals, all arranged in a nice case. Awarded by the Vicount Wavell, then Viceroy of India, for his work in that dark temple of secrets evils. More medals for his service in Force 136, and another for the wound he sustained in Burma.
Three words about Rangoon: Vicious, filthy, wet
After the medals hung another photograph. His wedding day. It had been a small ceremony, in the Temple Church. The Church's roof was destroyed in the bombing of London, dust and rubble had to be swept away from the floor in preparation for the bride's delicate white shoes.
The two of them smiled, hands clasped together. Again, it couldn't do justice to the reality. The vastness, the impact of that moment in the ruins of Temple Church. Adele was the heroine he had always longed for, the intoxicating woman at the soul of every real adventure. And she loved him.
Knightsbridge was a home for both Sinclair and Dante. The subtle memorabilia, echoing the birth of Dante, Dante's training, Dante's rise alongside Sinclair's. Dante- his mask, his shadow.
Sinclair crossed the hall and went out the back door, hearing Louis' feet pattering behind him.
Behind Knightsbridge, the greenhouse sat like a great emerald across the lawn. And leaving the greenhouse, coming toward him, was Adele.
She hadn't noticed him yet, and she walked along with her face to the wind, unpinning her hair as she went. Each strand was the color of flame. The wind fluttered her hair and dress like pennants. The most dangerous woman in Paris, Sinclair thought, now the most dangerous woman in England. And the most beautiful. And she's mine.
Adele looked up, saw him, and darted up the back steps. Sinclair took his hands off his hips, slowly wrapping his arms around her.
“How was Paris?” she asked.
Three words about Paris: Dark, inscrutable, mannered.
“The same,” Sinclair told her, “And here I am, returned to you in one piece.”
Her face was even with his, and he sucked in his breath, holding it for a long moment. The world seemed to stop, and he held the sight of her face in his mind, admiring her swooping eyelashes, porcelain skin, angled cheekbones, slender body.
Later, he could tell her all about Saboteur and their joust in the archives. For the moment, it was good enough just to be Sinclair.
Chapter 4- Knightsbride
Knightsbridge Hall, ancestral home of the Smith family.
Laid out around a vast lawn, with a garden and greenhouse behind the Hall, overlooking the fine countryside of Hampshire. A majestic place.
Approaching the Hall from the front, Dante sucked in his breath and held it for a long moment, taking in the pillared facades, the symmetry of the building, the contrast of green lawn and pale grey stone.
He stopped the blue Cadillac- imported, customized just for him- at the head of the drive and slid out of the car. The shell paving crunched under his feet, the fountain bubbled inconspicuously from the center of the drive.
Removing his hat and coat, he threw them across the hood of the Cadillac. No need for formality. It was time to cast off the overcoat with its ballistic lining, the pretense and the guise of Dante. He was home.
“Lord Smith!” Louis scampered down the front steps, his round little body dwarfed by the long lines of the shallow steps.
“England's still in one piece, I see.”
“Welcome back, Sir,” Louis grabbed the coat and hat, then moved to get the bags from the trunk.
The great oak doors of Knightsbridge Hall were flanked by statues of chess knights. Each door bore the Smith family crest, and the family motto. The symbols of the family and their sacred duty to protect the Crown, their legacy of honor and service to England. Now the dynasty was at an end, and he, Sinclair Smith, was left alone with a fortune and a double life.
Smith Hall sat empty in the North, a colder and darker castle full of his mother's beloved walnut wainscoting. After her death, Smith Hall seemed so shadowed. The ghost of Sinclair's father seemed to lurk around every corner. Too much to live with day in and day out. Sinclair had moved permanently to Knightsbridge in 1946, to greater comfort and proximity to London.
He skipped up the last few steps and swung the doors open, arms wide.
The entrance hall of Knighstbridge was covered in marble below his feet, while pure white stucco covered every wall. The chandelier overhead could have held a hundred candles. But modernization had crept into the décor, and little electric lights gleamed from its brass arms.
One wall held the ancestral portraits, arranged in line with the sweeping staircase. The other wall was devoted to memories of Sinclair's own life.
First, a photograph, taken Christmas of 1936. Lord and Lady Smith, in their old-fashioned clothing. Beside them, a teenaged Sinclair, grinning rakishly at the camera. Aunt Mabel stood beside Lady Smith, muffled in fur. Beside Lord Smith was Sinclair's old tutor, Rafael Espinoza. Espinoza came to England in hopes that the air would be better for his health than the heat of the Caribbean. He had died two months after the picture was taken. So the family portrait was the last image of that slender scholar from the West Indies. Beside the black-clad tutor stood his daughter. The photograph couldn't capture her vibrancy, her energy, the warmth that seemed to boil outward from her.
The Espinoza girl, who had vanished all those years ago. The picture showed her well enough- thick black hair, round face, a body too womanly for a girl of fourteen. He remembered how she could shoot from impossible distances, how she could charm anyone, how she couldn't confine her grand dreams to the realm of possibility. He remembered their games of pretend. The only children at Smith Hall, they invented vast adventures for themselves and played the parts of soldier, spy, queen, assassin.
The name and character of Dante had been born then.
But enough, he thought, turning away from the photograph. Enough memories of the Espinoza girl.
Beside the old family portrait was the map of the British Empire. Done in archaic style, it showed His Majesty's land holdings in red. Maps couldn't do justice to the world- its vastness, its wealth of color, the way the thickness in the air changed from place to place. The smallest line on a map could indicate a place of crushing vastness, a journey of days, a place of unspeakable majesty. Each place had its own flavor, its own tinge to Sinclair's memories.
Three words about Suez: Dry, gritty, imperial.
Three words about Delhi: Majestic, pungent, crowded
Next to the map hung a prayer flag from the East. Once, it had fluttered outside his window while he slept in an ancient monastery that clung to the side of a mountain as if by the will of God. Occasionally, it had served as his pillow while he wandered the desolate hills of India.
Three words about Bihar: Pinnacles, emptiness, death.
Next to the flag was a framed scroll covered in oriental script. Sinclair couldn't read it, but he knew the contents by heart. A gift from a stoic swordswoman named Lihan. Lihan with her trousers and her peaceful courage and her strange proverbs.
Beside the scroll were his military medals, all arranged in a nice case. Awarded by the Vicount Wavell, then Viceroy of India, for his work in that dark temple of secrets evils. More medals for his service in Force 136, and another for the wound he sustained in Burma.
Three words about Rangoon: Vicious, filthy, wet
After the medals hung another photograph. His wedding day. It had been a small ceremony, in the Temple Church. The Church's roof was destroyed in the bombing of London, dust and rubble had to be swept away from the floor in preparation for the bride's delicate white shoes.
The two of them smiled, hands clasped together. Again, it couldn't do justice to the reality. The vastness, the impact of that moment in the ruins of Temple Church. Adele was the heroine he had always longed for, the intoxicating woman at the soul of every real adventure. And she loved him.
Knightsbridge was a home for both Sinclair and Dante. The subtle memorabilia, echoing the birth of Dante, Dante's training, Dante's rise alongside Sinclair's. Dante- his mask, his shadow.
Sinclair crossed the hall and went out the back door, hearing Louis' feet pattering behind him.
Behind Knightsbridge, the greenhouse sat like a great emerald across the lawn. And leaving the greenhouse, coming toward him, was Adele.
She hadn't noticed him yet, and she walked along with her face to the wind, unpinning her hair as she went. Each strand was the color of flame. The wind fluttered her hair and dress like pennants. The most dangerous woman in Paris, Sinclair thought, now the most dangerous woman in England. And the most beautiful. And she's mine.
Adele looked up, saw him, and darted up the back steps. Sinclair took his hands off his hips, slowly wrapping his arms around her.
“How was Paris?” she asked.
Three words about Paris: Dark, inscrutable, mannered.
“The same,” Sinclair told her, “And here I am, returned to you in one piece.”
Her face was even with his, and he sucked in his breath, holding it for a long moment. The world seemed to stop, and he held the sight of her face in his mind, admiring her swooping eyelashes, porcelain skin, angled cheekbones, slender body.
Later, he could tell her all about Saboteur and their joust in the archives. For the moment, it was good enough just to be Sinclair.