The Bird has got wings

– So you're getting married soon? – Victoria jumped up and down in anticipation of her uncle's marriage to the mysterious girl from his drawing.

– I'll do my best to make sure it happens," Anthony smiled. – And I promise you'll be the only one allowed to sit in the front pew of the church, next to your grandmother Beatrice.

– Yes, yes!" Victoria laughed merrily. – And I promise to wear my prettiest dress to your wedding!

– But, my dear, remember that you will not be allowed to outshine my bride with your beauty! – Anthony winked at his niece, and the girl's gleeful laughter once again filled the spacious workshop.

Later, as he left the workshop, Anthony was eager to return to his chambers, sit at his desk and write a letter. A letter to Charlotte. But as he picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink, his mind failed to tell him the words with which it would be appropriate to begin the letter, so only a black blot fell on the clean white paper. Frowning, Anthony crumpled up the ruined paper, threw it on the floor, picked up a clean one, and stepped back to the window, thinking deeply.

It was not difficult for him to confess his love for Vivian: the words just jumped out of his throat. Anthony remembered that at that important and emotional moment his mind had betrayed him. But now, as he wished he could write to Charlotte to confess his feelings to her and beg her not to mock them, the young man's mind seemed to deny him that favour.

"What if I frighten her away? No, no, I must not disturb her peace so suddenly… Vivian. She will help me. She knows her friend, and, besides, she and I have a pact… which, however, she herself has broken. Now Vivian is rich, she doesn't have to honour her word. Still, I'm sure she won't be cruel to me and will help me win Charlotte. I must go to her… but Kitty… My poor little Kitty! My leaving so soon would break her heart… But I must ask her if she can let me go: my mother will stay here. But not today. In a couple of days. No, a week. It would be cruel of me to leave so soon," decided Mr. Cranford, and returning to his desk, he put the paper away, took the letters he had received today out of the drawer, and opened the letter from Vivian, sealed with the Salton family crest. He quickly read the two pages, which were covered with his cousin's beautiful, somewhat sharp handwriting, but he found no hint of her decision to marry Jeremy Wington, which again led him to think that Vivian was hiding her affair with his friend from him. And once again a shadow of displeasure and disappointment slipped across Anthony's face.

Putting the letter aside, Anthony picked up the second, tied with a thick thread, and cut the thread with a letter opener. But as his fingers unfolded the letter and the unfamiliar handwriting caught his eye, there was a loud knock.

– Anthony, are you busy? – came Lady Cranford's voice from behind the door.

– No, mother, come in," Anthony answered reluctantly, and laid the letter on the table.

His mother entered the room unheard. She walked with a smile to the table and stood beside it, for her son had been slow to offer her a chair far enough away for Lady Cranford to move it herself. The rudeness hurt her, but the woman decided not to give away her true feelings and hid the offence behind a calm smile.

– I have just had a conversation with Agnes," the Countess began, looking intently into her son's face. – She said that her younger sister Alexandra had recently made her debut. I hope you remember that girl? As beautiful as her sister. And she's young: she's seventeen years old… .

– Have you come to ask her to marry me? – Anthony interrupted his mother in a bored tone and, rising from the table, went to the window and stood with his back to her to let her know that he was not in the least interested in the conversation about Alexandra.

– Her father is giving her an eighteen thousand dowry…" Taking advantage of the fact that her son was not looking in her direction, Lady Cranford glanced furtively at the letter Anthony had printed but never read and ran her eyes over it. The brevity of what was written told her that it was only a note. – This girl would be beautiful…" When she had read the note in full, she suddenly faltered, turned pale, and looked at her son with incomprehension. But he did not hurry to turn round to her. The woman grabbed the note from the table with trembling hands. – Ah, here's where my correspondence with Mr. Brown has gone! – she exclaimed in a false cheerful tone, clutching the paper to her chest. – It seems to have come to you by mistake, my dear, but I take it back.

– As you wish," Anthony said in an indifferent tone.

– Well… Please think of Alexandra… But I have urgent business to attend to… Good day to you, my dear. – Lady Cranford turned round and hurried out of her son's room, taking with her and wishing to conceal from him the contents of the note which she had crumpled convulsively in her hands.

On entering her chambers, the Countess straightened the paper, carefully re-read the message, crumpled it up again, and threw it into the burning fireplace. The woman's face was dead-white, and one could easily read the very true disgust in it.

Chapter 2

Darkness was falling on London, and the revelry was in full swing in the magnificent, huge Wingtons' mansion, and it seemed that the best-dressed ladies and gentlemen had no intention of sleeping that night. Musicians played tune after tune, the waxed parquet clattered under a hundred heels, and the air shook with the clinking of crystal glasses and plates. The house, lit by hundreds of candles, was stuffy, and all the windows were open wide. Servants dressed in beautiful livery swept through the corridors and between the dancers, bringing expensive golden champagne, wine as scarlet as blood, aged wine, and whiskey and brandy to the many guests invited to the ball. A ball given by the young Wington couple in honour of the consummation of their marriage.

In spite of the sudden and overwhelming news that Jeremy Wington, now the owner of a vast fortune, the desired groom even for the daughters of noble titled families, was married to the Countess of Cranford's well-known niece, that beautiful girl with hair the colour of flame, the rich ladies and gentlemen did not hesitate to send congratulations and presents to the young couple. All wished to show their attention and honour to young Wington and his lovely wife, for they remembered that not long ago they had treated the waif Vivian Cowell with disdain and even contempt, but hoped to erase this fact from her memory by expensive presents, flattering phrases, and false smiles. And when from the Wingtons came the elegant, gilded invitations to a ball (the very first that was organised in their rich house, because the late old man Wington, that miser, did not want to spend money on balls and preferred to go to balls and evenings arranged by others), the upper class could not refuse. The reasons were several: to establish good relations with the young rich man Wington, to see his huge, luxurious house, and, of course, to gaze at the red-haired upstart who had managed to twist the poor young man round her finger, who must not have noticed that he had fallen under her spell.

That Jeremy Wington was crazy about his beautiful wife was as evident as the fact that she was already well into her role as the life partner of an untold rich man, and was enjoying it: the dress in which she had given the ball was magnificent, embroidered with patterns, and sat on her beautiful figure as if it were a perfect fit. The young Mrs. Wington looked like a real model of modern fashion: her hair was braided into a beautiful plait, which in turn was fastened at the back of her head with an antique comb, and her beautiful white forehead was framed by fiery twisted strands, which gave her the appearance of a Greek goddess, and her emerald eyes shone proudly, as if to say, "Now I am one of you, and you dare not refuse to accept it!". And she was right: the recent waif had become too rich for high society not to accept her and treat her favourably, but still with some apprehension.

Vivian had received so many compliments when she met her guests that she was disgusted by the overt flattery, but her husband quietly reminded her that this was the real face of London's upper class-it was full of poison and sweetness at the same time. Jeremy squeezed the palm of his wife's hand, clad in a white glove above the elbow, and encouraged her with smiles and quietly mocking jokes at the arriving guests.

Until a month ago, Jeremy's thoughts had been free of Vivian and her beauty, and he had no intention of marrying her. Yes, he was dazzled by the fire of her hair, her white skin, her witchy green eyes, and her bright, most beautiful smile, but his mind wouldn't let him think about her. Besides, content with his bachelor life and his amusements in the Lair, the young man didn't even think of marrying at all. "Why should I marry so young, if I am soon to inherit all my sullen father's fortune?" – he thought, and preferred to give his younger years to alcohol, friends and girls who he knew were not trying to pull him into the bondage of marriage, namely prostitutes and residents of London's brothels. But the morning he had picked up Miss Cowell in one of the noisy squares, sick and tired, and the day he had spent with her, so pale, haggard, but still angelic, had made his heart and soul inflame with passion and love for her. He brought Vivian to his father's house, even though the latter was clearly displeased and even against it. Jeremy was ready to tear his strong heart out of his chest and offer it to the poor girl in place of her weak one. She charmed him with her illness, with her helplessness, as a fragile flower suddenly charms a knight long since calloused in body and soul. He fell at her feet. He desired her. When she asked him to take her to the Saltons', Jeremy was surprised at her request, for he thought it his duty to notify the Cranfords that Vivian was in his house, but she insisted, and Jeremy had no choice but to fulfil her wish…