CHAPTER THREE
VICTORIA
I stare up at the imposing mansion on the outskirts of London. I thought I lived in a big house, but this place must be more imposing than Buckingham Palace. You can tell that part of it dates back to Tudor times, but the majority of the brickwork and style is gothic in nature, and thus from the Victorian era. I bet these walls can tell a few stories, and I’d love to hear them.
“Hurry up, Victoria,” my father calls. I scamper quickly to his side, and we enter together through the grand arch of the welcoming chamber.
“Sorry, Father, I was just admiring the house. Who lives here?”
“The Duke of Oakfield,” he replies curtly.
I scan my memory for details on who that is. I’ve heard that name before — I’m sure of it. Yes, he’s the patron of my favorite art museum in London. I’m even more excited for my debut into society because I wonder if he has artwork in his home, which I can study.
The heavy oak doors are opened for us, and we’re shown into a room with several other girls wearing the same linen dress as I am. I smile at one of them, but she just raises an eyebrow at me and walks off after a man who must be her father. Fine, I’ll avoid her then. My coat and my father’s are taken. He's presented with a glass of Champagne. I’m offered one but respectively decline. I want to make sure I remember every moment of what’s about to happen.
“Father.” He turns to me, when I address him, and takes a sip of his drink.
“Yes.”
“Are we to attend a banquet?” I look around the room at the paintings on the wall while I speak.
“There'll be food later.”
“Will gentlemen be attending?”
“Just one.”
“Just one?” I repeat and face him.
“The Duke’s son, Earl Lullington.”
“Oh.”
The conversation stops, and my father nods to another man as he walks near.
“My Lord Linton.”
“Mayfield.”
“Is Lady Joanna ready?” my father asks.
“She's with my wife trying to tame her unruly hair.”
“I’m blessed, Victoria has straight hair even if it's as red as a cherry. It must be the Irish blood in Cecilia.” I take hold of my hair, which is neatly tied back in a French plait. The end of the braid comes down to my waist. When hanging loose, my hair reaches the middle of my back. I’ve always loved it long, and the color I find unique. I’m not ginger but a natural dark red. Nobody knows where it came from even if my father blames my mother’s ancestry.
“I guess I should blame the Celtic blood for Joanna’s curly hair, then. It’s as wild as one of the bare-chested brutes who used to run wild over our lands,” Lord Linton replies with a chuckle. His attention is taken when a girl the same age as me hurries up to him and bows her head low, so he can see the top of it.
“Is this alright Father,” she asks.
He inspects it. Her hair looks fine to me, but then, I don’t see why we all need to be dressed the same and so plainly. I don’t wear a lot of makeup usually, but I do like mascara and a spot of lipstick. I had all of that scrubbed of my face before I left. This isn’t exactly the debut into society I'd dreamed of. I expected lavish gowns, and an evening full of dancing with handsome men. The sort of thing that comes straight from the pages of Pride and Prejudice. Instead, I’ve got no make-up, no underwear, and a dress that looks like a white bin liner. I pray to god that I don’t get it wet because everything will be on display if I do. I can’t let a fashion disaster get me down. I’m out of the house — ok, there are not as many people as I expected, but there are still people to talk to.
Joanna’s father gives her his seal of approval, and she turns to face me.
“Hello, I’m Lady Joanna Nethercutt,” she smiles.
“Victoria Hamilton,” I respond.
“The Honorable,” my father adds. I never use the title that precedes my name. My father is a Viscount — as his daughter, I am not entitled to use ‘Lady’ only ‘The Honorable’. What’s the point? I’m not pretentious. Well having said that, if it were Duchess or Countess, then I’d probably use it.
“Are you excited?” I ask.
“Excited?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Yes, for your debut.”
“We should take our places,” my father interrupts and pulls me away toward the front of the room.
“That was rude,” I exclaim and look back to Joanna with an apologetic nod.
“You don’t need to make small talk and get yourself all flustered. You need to remember your manners and behave.” He raises his voice but not so much that anyone else in the room can hear him.
“Sorry, Father.” I look down at the ground and wish it would swallow me up. Why do I have a feeling that this evening isn’t going to be as much fun as I was hoping for?
My father pulls out his phone and starts to scroll through his emails. I’m dismissed from any further conversation. I take another look around the room that we’re in. It’s some sort of banqueting hall. Swords, armor, and stags’ horns adorn the wood-paneled walls. Any space that isn’t wooden is painted cream. There are three paintings on the wall, and I take a step closer to get a better look at them. My father tuts, but I ignore him.
One is a Rembrandt and another a Caravaggio. I’d read about them being bought by a private collector for millions. Wow, the Cavendish family must be loaded if they can afford these. My attention is drawn to the third. I can’t place the artist at first, I take a step even closer.
“Victoria,” my father admonishes me, but I ignore him again because I can see the signature. Van Gogh’s Poppy Flowers. I smirk, knowing that the original of this painting was stolen in two thousand and ten. This must be a fake. I take another quick look at the Rembrandt and Caravaggio. Nothing distinguishes them as fakes at this distance, but given the Van Gogh must be then I’m sure the others are too. The residents of Oakfield Hall aren’t as affluent as they like to portray. I stand back and smile, knowingly. It’s then that I feel the heat of eyes burning into me.
I turn towards the source of this overwhelming sense of being observed and find a gentleman staring at me. He's tall, about six foot three, and wears a three-piece suit with a crisp white open-necked shirt. His brown hair is long but brushed and neatly gelled in place. His eyes are a cerulean blue like the sky, but a shade darker. He's looking directly at me. My heart flutters, and my breath quickens. I’ve not seen many men, due to a life spent in relative solitude, but I know instantly that this man screams sex, and by the way he’s looking at me, I’m the next delicacy on his menu. I can feel my cheeks heat and want to look away, but I can’t. He's captured me in his spell and taken my breath away. He winks and directs his attention back to an older gentleman at his side. They have a similar look about each other, I surmise they must be father and son.
“Victoria, come here,” my father orders, and I snap to attention this time. A gong rings out in the room, and the older gentleman steps up onto a makeshift stage. I hadn’t noticed before, as I was too interested in the walls, but a fire pit sits on the staging. I can’t help but think that a little odd.
“Welcome everyone,” the man speaks. “Are we all ready to begin?”
The crowd murmurs a resounding ‘yes’, and I wait for the music to start.
“For those who don’t know me, I’m the Duke of Oakfield and the leader of this society. We're here today to continue traditions our forbearers have handed down to us, for generations.” He steps toward the fire pit and pulls out a metal rod. A couple of the men in the room cheer. I look at my father, but he pales and refuses to meet my eyes. “Bring the first one up.”
Two men jump down from the stage and take one of the girls by the arms. She screams, “No”, but is manhandled onto the stage with little effort. I can feel a heated gaze on me again, and I look to the man who was watching me before. He's watching me again. He smiles — though this time it isn’t the sweet one from before but an arrogant one. He steps forward and takes the rod from his father and, without hesitating, brands the screaming girl with a sickening sizzle of burning flesh. I stumble backward, trying to catch my breath, but my father grabs me and causes the world that I know to collapse when he says,
“Your turn.”