Though rain pattered a steady rhythm against the walls, it was quite cozy inside. A fire crackled in the corner, illuminating the book-lined walls and rich brocade draperies framed the windows. The library was his favorite room at the club. Well, it was his only room at the club. His Mother would have been crushed had she known that his “social connections” consisted primarily of men like William Shakespeare and William Blake. As they’d long been in the grave, their acquaintance would likely do little to promote the Brown family’s social aspirations. After nearly a month away, he should have felt a terrific comfort to find himself sliding back into his routine. He’d been back for a few days now. Why did he feel such an overwhelming sense of disquiet? Of unease? A light smattering of raindrops struck the window, pulling his attention away from his book. For some inexplicable reason, he’d forgone his usual poetry in favor of Mark Twain’s The Innocents Abroad.
