Page 23 of Atone, Adonis

“And now?” she asked.

Now?

Now his skin felt so tight and hot, his lungs so constricted, that he thought he might be having a seizure of the heart. He clutched at his chest and gasped, trying to get enough air in.

“Fred?” She was staring at him. “Fred, are you alright? Shall I get the nurse?”

“I’m alright,” he managed, fighting for every word, every breath. “I’m alright.”

He turned and stumbled blindly for the door. He swung it open and the cold air that spilled into the kitchen was a boon for his sanity if not for his lungs. He paused, gulping it in until he could speak again.

“Goodnight, Miss Farrow.”

And then he escaped into the night as he had so often before.

Chapter

8

THE LOCAL ADONIS RETURNS—AND WITH A BRIDE WHO BEGS BELIEF!

The Poisoned Quill – April 5th, 1860

Printed on Cheap Paper for the Dearly Interested

Dear Readers (and most of you are dearer for your discernment),

Dust off your smelling salts and clutch your pearls, for we at The Poisoned Quill bring tidings so astonishing, so positively cataclysmic in their implications, that the very rafters of Dorsetshire Society may yet come crashing down.

After a decade of whispered disgrace and pointed absences, Mr. Frederick Sedgewick, once dubbed the “Darling of Dorset” and the “Local Adonis,” now known as the Earl of Chester, has returned. Here. To the very county from which he once fled in infamy.

And not, as one might hope, to seek atonement at the graves of the departed. No, his Lordship has returned to announce his betrothal.

To whom, you ask?

Take a seat, gentle reader. And perhaps a small brandy.

To Miss Julianna Farrow, that’s who.

Yes, that Miss Farrow, now twenty-two. We have it on good authority that a wedding license has already been requested by the not-so-young couple.

And while we can’t know for sure if the young woman was educated in piano, French, or watercolors, she is apparently a prodigy in the art of forgetting.

To Miss Farrow, we extend cautious congratulations. To Lord Chester, welcome home, sir. We hope you find the ghosts friendly, the horses steady, and the whispers ever at your back.

Ever Yours in Disgust & Delighted Alarm,

E.S. Mallory

Editor-at-Large, The Poisoned Quill

The icy rain fell in fine, needling sheets as Fred descended from his carriage and mounted the stone steps of the diocesan residence. His boots, his best and most ceremonially appropriate, struck the flagstones with crisp authority. He did not wait to be announced.

The papers had already trumpeted his intention to secure the wedding license, and he doubted the Bishop would relish being the last to know. Cursed scandal rags. He imagined setting The Poisoned Quill alight again. At the very least, his solicitor had been instructed to deliver a letter of the severest censure to its editor, this E. S. Mallory.

He shook off the annoyance and made his way to the Bishop’s study. It was dimly lit, the fire in the grate burning low. Books lined the walls but were thick with dust, much like the room itself. Dorset was not keeping its Bishop in the style to which the man surely aspired.

Good, Fred thought.