A Moment Too Soon
Sir Ribald chuckled as he stepped further into the drawing room, stirring up little flurries of dust as he went. His eyes quickly grew accustomed to the dim light. A cache of international treasures cluttered the study's tables and cabinet shelves. A mid-seventeenth-century Qing Dynasty sabre; the cartographer's compass of Marc Lescabot himself; every Farmer's Almanac published between 1885 and 1900; all manner of curious collectibles. Lady Ashton's former husband had a flair for the eclectic, and the old house still reflected his eccentricities.
Ribald stepped over a box of African spear-heads and took a seat in the arm chair next to his hostess. From his jacket, he produced a ripe cuban cigar, which he lit with his brushed-gold Zippo. The windproof lighters were new to the market, and he was very proud to own one. With a little flourish, Ribald snapped the lid down and sat contentedly inhaling the smoke.
"Still smoking those wretched things?" asked Lady Ashton, clucking in facetious disapproval. She was a fair-skinned beauty, with hair the color of spun gold and eyes that glowed with passion. Her smoldering gaze fixed on Ribald's face, and while the lady's mouth did not move, those eyes were smiling. "Never mind. I have something to show you."
She rose like a Valkyrie from the armchair and picked her way through the battlefield of expensive knick-knacks and collectibles, graceful and deft. Her stiletto heels were silent on a thick persian carpet, but they made her a formidable figure, as tall as any man. Sir Ribald could not help but admire his company, as Lady Ashton--oblivious--made her way to a tall bookshelf and carefully scanned the contents. From it, she selected The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.. Its leather binding was worn, the embossed name of the author barely visible: Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Sir Ribald straightened with curiosity.
Lady Ashton held the book at arm's length as she approached the armchair. It was a modest book, no larger than the tiny day planner Ribald kept in his breast pocket. He took it delicately from her hand and opened to the inside cover. There was an inscription. "It's my husband's handwriting," Lady Ashton said with surprising candor. Alistaire's death nearly a year ago--the result of a tragic kite incident--had left her distraught, and she had since been reluctant to even mention his name.
Ribald placed his reading glasses on his nose and held the book up for closer inspection.
May 10, 1931:
My curse draws to its end, I fear. A strange thought,
to mourn the loss of such a burden, to regret its passing
and fear that when I am gone, so shall it die with me,
and no other will take up that which I alone have carried
these thirty-five years. I was wrong to believe I could
shoulder this burden alone. I will try to make amends.
I pray there is time left . . .
~ Alistaire Ashton, NKT
Page 31, 586-590
Baffled, Ribald removed his spectacles and blinked up at his hostess. "I see," he lied. "And how queer, it's dated a year ago, today--just before the accident. What do you suppose it means?"
"That's just the thing," Lady Ashton replied. "I really can't make heads or tales of it. But there's more." She took the book from him and flipped through its brittle pages. Clearing her throat, she began to read aloud. "I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; the moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: to him, my tale I teach." Her eyes closed as she finished the verse, and for a moment, Ribald was so taken by the look of woe on her face that he himself very nearly burst into tears. But the sadness passed as quickly as it had come, and Lady Ashton was once again candid and cheery. "See here?" she asked, pointing to the page once more. "He's written something next to it."
Ribald squinted at the cursive. Cairo, Egypt. May 17, 1932. "I see," he said again. "But it appears as though he mis-printed the date. See here, it's listed as a week from today, this year."
Lady Ashton shook her head as she extracted The Ancient Mariner from his hands. "But darling," she murmured. She closed the tiny book and placed it tenderly atop a desk, nestled between an indian shrunken head and an old dictaphone. "Darling, tomorrow is the anniversary of his death. Alestaire died on the 11th."
Ribald stepped over a box of African spear-heads and took a seat in the arm chair next to his hostess. From his jacket, he produced a ripe cuban cigar, which he lit with his brushed-gold Zippo. The windproof lighters were new to the market, and he was very proud to own one. With a little flourish, Ribald snapped the lid down and sat contentedly inhaling the smoke.
"Still smoking those wretched things?" asked Lady Ashton, clucking in facetious disapproval. She was a fair-skinned beauty, with hair the color of spun gold and eyes that glowed with passion. Her smoldering gaze fixed on Ribald's face, and while the lady's mouth did not move, those eyes were smiling. "Never mind. I have something to show you."
She rose like a Valkyrie from the armchair and picked her way through the battlefield of expensive knick-knacks and collectibles, graceful and deft. Her stiletto heels were silent on a thick persian carpet, but they made her a formidable figure, as tall as any man. Sir Ribald could not help but admire his company, as Lady Ashton--oblivious--made her way to a tall bookshelf and carefully scanned the contents. From it, she selected The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.. Its leather binding was worn, the embossed name of the author barely visible: Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Sir Ribald straightened with curiosity.
Lady Ashton held the book at arm's length as she approached the armchair. It was a modest book, no larger than the tiny day planner Ribald kept in his breast pocket. He took it delicately from her hand and opened to the inside cover. There was an inscription. "It's my husband's handwriting," Lady Ashton said with surprising candor. Alistaire's death nearly a year ago--the result of a tragic kite incident--had left her distraught, and she had since been reluctant to even mention his name.
Ribald placed his reading glasses on his nose and held the book up for closer inspection.
May 10, 1931:
My curse draws to its end, I fear. A strange thought,
to mourn the loss of such a burden, to regret its passing
and fear that when I am gone, so shall it die with me,
and no other will take up that which I alone have carried
these thirty-five years. I was wrong to believe I could
shoulder this burden alone. I will try to make amends.
I pray there is time left . . .
~ Alistaire Ashton, NKT
Page 31, 586-590
Baffled, Ribald removed his spectacles and blinked up at his hostess. "I see," he lied. "And how queer, it's dated a year ago, today--just before the accident. What do you suppose it means?"
"That's just the thing," Lady Ashton replied. "I really can't make heads or tales of it. But there's more." She took the book from him and flipped through its brittle pages. Clearing her throat, she began to read aloud. "I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; the moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: to him, my tale I teach." Her eyes closed as she finished the verse, and for a moment, Ribald was so taken by the look of woe on her face that he himself very nearly burst into tears. But the sadness passed as quickly as it had come, and Lady Ashton was once again candid and cheery. "See here?" she asked, pointing to the page once more. "He's written something next to it."
Ribald squinted at the cursive. Cairo, Egypt. May 17, 1932. "I see," he said again. "But it appears as though he mis-printed the date. See here, it's listed as a week from today, this year."
Lady Ashton shook her head as she extracted The Ancient Mariner from his hands. "But darling," she murmured. She closed the tiny book and placed it tenderly atop a desk, nestled between an indian shrunken head and an old dictaphone. "Darling, tomorrow is the anniversary of his death. Alestaire died on the 11th."