Nomadic Tribes and Intrigues

By Quintero

In "Shadows of Deception," the protagonist, Valentine Hawkehurst, finds himself entangled in a web of love and deceit as he navigates through life's tortuous pathways. Born into the nomadic tribes of society's castaways, Hawkehurst is no stranger to the art of survival amidst lies, evasions, and prevarications.

Chapter 1: Tangled W

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maria Quintero
• Release date: Jun 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330209507

Book preview

Nomadic Tribes and Intrigues

By Maria Quintero

CHAPTER I.

Tangled Webs

In all the world, few places evoke as much disdain from the refined mind as London in October. Yet, to Valentine Hawkehurst, freshly arrived from Ullerton via the North-Western Railway, the city appeared as a magical and paradisiacal realm. After all, were not the western suburbs, where Charlotte Halliday resided, a part of this murky metropolis? Could he not hope to catch a glimpse of her there?

Indeed, he dared to hope for such a pleasure. As he sped towards London on the swift and economical train, provided by the liberal railway management, he allowed himself to indulge in the delightful certainty of seeing Charlotte. Early the following morning—or as early as societal norms allowed—he planned to make his way to Bayswater and present himself at Philip Sheldon's gothic villa. There, he imagined, Charlotte would be in the garden, radiating brightness and charm, making even the gloomy October morning glorious with her presence. He envisioned her welcoming him with that enchanting smile that rendered her the most captivating of women.

During his journey home, these thoughts occupied his mind more than the daily papers or the consumption of sandwiches by fellow passengers. However, upon arriving in the dreary streets and walking towards Chelsea in the drizzling rain, the vivid image began to fade. Was it not probable that Charlotte would be absent from London at such a dismal season? Was it likely that Philip Sheldon would receive him warmly? Faced with these somber possibilities, Mr. Hawkehurst attempted to push Miss Halliday's image out of his mind and focus on the practical aspects of his situation.

I wonder if that scoundrel Paget has returned to London, he pondered. What should I say to him if he has? Admitting to seeing him in Ullerton might lead to him questioning my own business there. Perhaps it's best to say nothing and let him explain himself. I'm certain he spotted me on the platform that night when we passed each other without acknowledgment.

Horatio Paget was indeed at home when his protégé arrived. Relaxing in domestic comfort, clad in a dressing-gown and slippers, with an evening paper and a modest bottle of liquor nearby, he greeted the weary and weather-beaten traveller warmly as he entered the drawing-room of the lodging house.

So, you've returned from Dorking at last, remarked the Captain. He paused momentarily, his eyes gleaming mischievously. How was the old aunt? Any chance of a significant inheritance, hmm? It seems the only reason one would subject themselves to the isolation of Dorking. How did things fare?

I can't say I know, replied Mr. Hawkehurst, somewhat impatiently, as his suspicions deepened with his patron's demeanor. All I can say is that it was tedious enough.

Ah, indeed! Elderly individuals always tend to be tiresome, particularly when they lack worldly experience. There's a perpetual youthfulness about those well-versed in the ways of the world. The sentimental notion of the purity and freshness of an untainted mind is utter nonsense. Look at Madame du Deffand at eighty or Horace Walpole at sixty—they're as lively as ever. Even Voltaire in his eighties remains delightful. But take Cymon and Daphne from their pastoral surroundings in their old age, and you'll find them nothing but senile bores and feeble-minded individuals. No doubt you found your aunt in Dorking to be a nuisance. Take off your wet overcoat and set it aside, then ring for more hot water. You'll find the cognac quite exquisite. Would you care for a cigar?

With the blandest smile, the Captain extended his elegant russia-leather cigar case. Captain Paget possessed the knack of descending to the lowest depths of social oblivion, only to resurface in an unexpected place, equipped with every luxury and necessity of civilized life, from a wardrobe tailored by Poole to the latest fashionable absurdity in cigar cases.

Valentine Hawkehurst had never seen his patron in a more amiable mood than this evening, yet he couldn't shake off a sense of suspicion.

And what have you been up to while I was away? inquired the young man. Any new ventures?

Well, yes, a bit of provincial business—a novel life and fire insurance scheme. A promising venture, if only we can find investors with the foresight to recognize its potential. But promoting in the provinces is rather dull. I've visited a few towns in the Midland districts—Beauport, Mudborough, and Ullerton—and encountered the same stagnation everywhere.

The Captain's portrayal of himself was impeccable—whether he was playing a role or speaking the truth remained a mystery even to a sharper observer than Valentine Hawkehurst.

The two men sat late into the night, smoking and conversing. However, tonight, Valentine found his mentor's discourse strangely unpalatable. The cynical outlook on life, once deemed wise and experienced, now grated against his newfound sensitivity. The Captain's malicious jibes at respectable society and its conventions, which had once amused him, now struck him as grim and sinister. It was as though he was listening to the discourse of a fallen angel, resigned to eternal damnation.

To believe in nothing, to respect nothing, to hope for nothing, to fear nothing, to view life as a mere opportunity for scheming and deceit in pursuit of material comforts—surely there can be no greater state of misery, no deeper degradation, mused the young man, as he sat by the fireside, smoking and contemplating the conversation. Perhaps it's better to be like Mrs. Rebecca Haygarth—narrow-minded and self-centered, yet always looking towards a vaguely understood future.

He was relieved to finally leave the Captain's company and retreat to his own modest chamber, where he slept soundly after the day's exertions, dreaming of the Haygarths and Charlotte Halliday.

The next morning, he rose early and descended to the sitting-room. There, he found his patron, enjoying the warmth of a cheerful fire as he toasted his copy of The Times. A gold hunting-watch lay open on the breakfast table, while a small saucepan on the hob emitted a pleasant bubbling sound, courtesy of a couple of new-laid eggs.

You're not a fan of eggs, I know, Val, remarked the Captain, as he removed the saucepan from the hob. He remembered the young man's aversion to eggs of foreign origin but suspected that Mr. Hawkehurst had no qualms about rural delicacies from a trusted dairyman, especially at a mere twopence apiece. Even in the matter of eggs, Captain Paget knew how to safeguard his own interests.

Here's some of that Italian sausage you're so fond of, dear boy, he said graciously, gesturing towards a slice of grayish, sausage-like substance. Thank you; I'll pour the coffee. There's an art to it, you know; half the clarity of the coffee depends on how it's poured, he added, filling his own cup with care and solemnity. Whether he was less meticulous with the second cup, allowing some grounds to slip in, went unnoticed by Valentine Hawkehurst.

Do try the Italian sausage, urged the Captain, as he enjoyed his second egg, peeling the crusts from French rolls and offering the crumbs to his protégé.

No, thank you; it resembles what your shop staff might call an old housekeeper. Besides, it's a bit too garlicky for my taste.

You've become quite fastidious, remarked the Captain. One would think you're off to call on some ladies this morning.

There aren't many ladies on my social calendar. Oh, by the way, how's Diana? Have you seen her recently?

No, replied the Captain promptly. I've only just returned from my provincial tour and haven't had time to visit her. She's likely well enough and comfortably situated in Sheldon's house.