A Season for Honour

Chapter 11

Since arriving at Northleigh, Alex had spent many of his evenings in the library, preparing the next day's lessons for his young charge. That evening, he had selected the first volume of The Works of Virgil by John Dryden and had sat down in one of the comfortable leather chairs that had been strategically positioned to take full advantage of the warmth radiated by the fire. On the side-table next to him, within easy reach, there was a large glass of cognac that glowed with an amber hue as it caught the light from the fire.

It had taken some effort for Alex to find the cognac. When he had first arrived at Northleigh, it had not escaped his notice that there was never any alcohol served. At dinner, there was never wine, and the many glass decanters that he had managed to discover, were empty. The lack of alcohol, for one who had imbibed so much, had been difficult, especially during those first few weeks. Drinking had become an integral part of his life, and he had used the numbing effects of alcohol to dull the memories of his time he had spent in a French prison. The nightmares he had about being shackled to the wall in that cold, dark cellar, with only the painful screams of his fellow prisoners to keep him company, never left him.

Initially, he had had to suppress the irrational cravings he had for a drink. He had found that the most difficult time was at night when the night terrors returned and were more vivid than ever. In order to control them, he would grit his teeth and clench his fists, until they faded away. But when they were finally over, they left him trembling like a child and feeling nauseous in the pit of his stomach. It angered him to feel so powerless over his own emotions. At least when he was drinking, his mind was numbed to the painful memories that had overwhelmed him. Therefore, over the last couple of weeks, his resolve had begun to waver. And today any resolve that he had managed to cling onto had vanished. His longing for a drink had driven all other thoughts from him. After he had acquitted his duty towards Charles, he spent most of the day hunting any type of alcohol that would alleviate his suffering.

Therefore, earlier that evening, he had scoured the house in search of the elusive elixir. When he was about to lose hope of finding any, he discovered a case of cognac that must have belonged to the late Lord Kendall, hidden in an alcove in the cellar. He opened the wooden crate and took out one of the bottles and dusted off the pieces of straw that had been used to protect it during its transport many years ago. He carefully opened the stiff cork stopper and smelt the woody notes of the deep amber liquid and felt a deep sense of relief. Tonight, he would be able to dampen those feelings of guilt and isolation that had hounded him, and then he would be able to have a night of dreamless sleep.

He had not spoken to Lady Kendall for some time. It had been nearly a week since she had left Northleigh to go to Evesham to attend Lady Sommerville, and almost two weeks had passed since the fencing lesson in the gallery. He had not wanted to admit it to himself, but he had missed her. He not only missed their regular conversations they had had about Charles' education, but he also missed seeing her during the day.

Once he had taken his prize from the cellar up to the library, he drank several glasses in succession, before he finally selected Dryden's translation of Virgil and settled into the leather chair by the fire. Years ago, he would have been thankful for the opportunity to sit quietly and read. During his time at Oxford, he had been a diligent student and had enjoyed studying the classics. But, as he sat down in one of the comfortable leather chairs by the fire, the Virgil translation forgotten, he closed his eyes and let the soporific properties of the alcohol take effect. He did not know how long he had been sittings staring at the fire, but by the time he had come to his senses the bottle of cognac was nearly empty and the Virgil translation had been unceremoniously tossed to the floor. The book had subsequently been buried under his discarded jacket and cravat, and the fire that had been roaring in the grate had died away to a pile of glowing embers.