Wingless Bird
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– Of course, my dear. Rest, was her reply.
– Thank you, dear aunt. – Vivian sat down in a deep bow and left the gazebo.
The exciting event was only a week away, but in anticipation of it, Vivian had lost sleep and appetite, and she had a great deal on her mind, the most immediate of which was a complete overhaul of her wardrobe according to the latest London fashions.
Fortunately, Anthony Cranford did not have to drench himself in sweat sitting in his open carriage under the searing summer sun: the sky was suddenly covered with heavy grey clouds, and the streets of London were filled with the stuffiness that usually sets in before a storm. There was no doubt: it was going to rain soon, and the young aristocrat thought wistfully that he had done wrong in choosing this particular Cranford carriage, bought only five days ago.
"I wish I could make it to the Lair without getting wet. Lovely weather, I'll say!" – he thought with a chuckle as he looked up at the cloudy sky.
As if to mock the young man's hope, a loud clap of thunder suddenly pierced the air.
– Thomas, speed it up! – Anthony said to his coachman with a light laugh.
– Yes, sir! – The coachman replied, and, with a little shriek of his whip, spurred the white horses.
The carriage rolled swiftly down the stone-paved streets, nearly knocking down the common people crossing the road. But soon Anthony's luck changed, and his carriage got stuck in a traffic jam. It was as if God had decided to mock the people of London: in an instant it rained so hard that it was difficult to see anything at arm's length.
"Devil! That suit was delivered only yesterday! What bad luck!" – He was soaked to the skin, as were all the others who were in the open streets and squares at this time. It was the elegant dark blue suit he had wished to show off to his friends. Alas! The suit and hat were irretrievably ruined. Only the black leather shoes were intact.
Young Cranford's mood had waned, but the downpour had distracted him from the strange and unnecessary thoughts that had been troubling him all the way: thoughts of how lovely his young cousin Vivian was. He saw before him her embarrassed smile and big green eyes like emeralds. And she was so touchingly defenceless, this girl....
– Here we are, sir! – suddenly he heard the loud bass of his coachman.
"I must have forgotten myself again. Only to fall in love with a penniless cousin, however beautiful she may be!" – Anthony thought to himself with mockery.
– Go home and pick me up at six o'clock tomorrow," he commanded the coachman: the young hustler did not wish to be late for breakfast at Greenhall, knowing how his absence from the table would upset his mother. The young man loved and respected his mother very much, even though she disapproved of his late-night revels with his friends at the Den.
"The Den" was a small two-storey house that Anthony and his two friends rented almost on the outskirts of London. The purpose of this place was: drinking hard liquor, having fun with corrupt women and playing cards for money. However, it was not something blatantly obscene: almost all the young aristocrats of London partied as if these were the last nights of their lives. Anthony Cranford was one of them, and not even his mother could stop him from going out drinking with his friends! Youth, what can you take from it? Its desires are only to be resigned to, or looked down upon.
– Ah! Cranford! – There was a loud shout as Anthony crossed the threshold of the Lair. – Caught in that dreadful downpour, mate? How lucky you are!
His best friend, Jeremy Wington, the only son and heir of a wealthy banker, came out to meet the newcomer. This young gentleman could not boast of aristocratic origin, but, thanks to his father's millions, Jeremy was among the friends of almost all the young aristocrats of London. With Anthony Cranford he was associated with a particularly strong friendship: when and how these two met, as well as how they found a common language so different in character and thinking gentlemen, it seems, will forever remain a mystery. However, Lady Cranford, who disliked Jeremy because of his 'pernicious influence on her son', suspected that Anthony had had the misfortune to meet Jeremy Wington at one of the student parties when they were both at Oxford University.
Jeremy Wington was a jolly fellow with a pleasant, even handsome appearance: he was tall, with shoulder-length dark hair and brown eyes, and his face never showed a hint of vegetation-he was always smooth-shaven. The banker's son was always tastefully dressed, had a talent for writing love poems, was a good dancer and could drink a bottle of whisky in a quarter of an hour. Jeremy was loved in the world for his cheerful character and future millions, which will bring happiness to one of the London aristocratic beauties. The only person who had to smile a false smile at this brave gentleman was the Countess of Cranford.
– The damned rain has spoilt my new suit! – said Anthony, with a light laugh, as he took off his wet coat and threw it into a corner of the small, sparsely furnished anteroom. – I shall not catch a cold after the Thames has poured over me!
– You're right, my friend, not another word! – Jeremy clapped his hands together and shouted, "Eddie! Get me a glass of brandy, and a full one at that! And don't you dare drink half of it on the way, you moustache! – Then he turned to Anthony again: "You're soaked to the skin! Well, take off your rags and we'll dry them by the fire. We won't be needing clothes tonight anyway: Mrs.Bree's whorehouse is waiting for us upstairs.
– It's going to be a busy evening," Anthony grinned, and suddenly a beautiful woman's face appeared before his eyes, causing him to ask, "Any redheads?
– Since when did you start liking redheads? – Jeremy chuckled at that. – You're lucky, though: there are two redheaded girls at our little gathering. And Eddie's already got his eye on two blondes.
– If there are two redheads and two blondes, how many girls have you ordered? – Anthony laughed. – Half a board? Am I right?
– What do you take me for! – Jeremy exclaimed hotly. – All the girls of the brothel are at our service, and no less!
That night Anthony was having fun with the two red-haired, corrupt brothel girls of Mrs.Bree's, imagining that his beautiful, fiery-haired cousin Vivian was in his bed. The heroine of his fantasies slept on silk sheets under the protection of Greenhall, but she never dreamed and had no idea that her cousin had already fallen at her feet.
Stately Greenhall slept, and only one person took the time to put out the candle in her large, cold bedroom: Lady Cranford held a small portrait in her slightly trembling fingers, and her lips moved in silent muttering.