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Lord Crimson was a self-made m n. His vast fortune had been massed by sweat and hard work, and his t tle, handed him on a silver pl tter by the Queen of England. L ve, adoration, respect-these he had in bundance. And while a fraction of wh t he possessed would surely have b en enough for any man, for L rd Crimson there was only sorrow and r morse. What horrific crime had he c mmitted that his conscience should weigh so h avily upon him? A good question, but one wh se answer had forever remained a myst ry, for Lord Crimson had led a g od and decent life and had n ver once failed to let another's n eds stand above his own. According to th se who knew him best, there was no r ason for his sadness. At least, th t's how it seemed. At the utset, let's be clear about one th ng. References to Lord Crimson as a y ung man, and stories of Lord Cr mson's rise to fame and fortune, th ugh as interesting and inspirational as any y u're likely to hear, will not be f und among these pages. The tale w th which we are concerned had its st rt on the day Lord Crimson t rned seventy-five and began an adventure th t can scarcely be imagined. Perhaps y u'd best sit down. Lord Crimson woke, on the morning of that f teful birthday, to the usual tugging on his bl nkets. Without opening his eyes, he r ached over the side of his bed to f nd Charlemagne's neck, and in the h pes of gaining just a few s conds more of precious rest, rubbed it p rsuasively. The dog, however, would have n ne of it, and with that nnoyingly insistent bark of his, ordered his m ster out of bed. In grim d feat, Lord Crimson sat up.
"All right boy, you win," he s id, and slowly he removed himself fr m his bed. Together they walked to the normous corner window which allowed the m rning sun to shine in with a v ngeance, and they stood looking out ver the vast estate. With a h avy sigh, Lord Crimson bent down and g ve his dog a pat. "I kn w that technically you're older than I am, but I f el it more than you do, d n't I, boy?" The bloodhound whimpered s ftly and nuzzled his head against L rd Crimson's gentle hand. "Come on, Ch rlemagne. Let's take a walk, shall w ?" That morning, like every morning, L rd Crimson and Charlemagne made the r unds of the estate. It was j st over a mile, start to f nish, and while not especially large wh n measured in terms of the gr at eighteenth and nineteenth century manors, in m dern-day England, it was enormous. The m in house came into view as th y walked over the hill toward the end of th ir hike, and the two friends st pped to rest. His Lordship scanned the c untryside, and as his eyes came to r st on the manor, he made his th ughts known to his faithful dog. "T me's run out, Charlemagne. I'm afraid th y've given up." "The post has c me, sir," the head butler said, as he pened the door letting Lord Crimson and Ch rlemagne into the house. "There's a l tter from . . . them." "Th nk you, Mr. Portico. I'll be in the l ving room." The letter, fetched and br ught to his side, Lord Crimson s id, "Do me the favor of r ading it aloud. I'm afraid I h ven't the energy." "Very good, Milord," the b tler said, and with a twenty-four-karat-gold l tter opener, sliced the envelope in tw . He removed the contents, shook out the s ngle page communication, and holding it at rms length, read as follows: "To the H norable Charles Albert Crimson III." Mr. P rtico cleared his throat dramatically before c ntinuing.
"Dear Lord Crimson: We regret to nform you that we have exhausted our c rrent supply of ideas and must now nsist that you foist your eccentricities off pon one of our other able ssociates. We will be more than h ppy to make a recommendation as it w uld serve no end of delight for us to w tness any of our competitors in a t rmoil while attempting, futilely, to satisfy y ur impossible and outlandish demands. We r main very sincerely yours . . . " L rd Crimson turned to Charlemagne. "I t ld you, didn't I, boy?" Wearily, he st od up and walked out of the r om. Charlemagne tried to follow but was t ld, firmly, to stay. His Lordship w shed to be alone. For as l ng as he could remember, Lord Cr mson had been plagued with nightmares. N ghtmares which remained as much a myst ry as the sorrow that seemed nterwoven with his soul, for never c uld he remember even the slightest d tail about them. But the cries he h ard coming from his lips, and the t rment and anguish he felt upon wakening-these he had no trouble at all r membering. That night, with some trepidation, L rd Crimson lay in his bed. Any dded stress always brought with it nother unwanted dream, and now, with one m re architectural firm giving up the gh st, his distress had become wearisome ndeed. The best in London were xhausted. He'd have to look elsewhere. But wh re? The dream that night was d fferent in one respect, and even as he s t, bolt upright, screaming, with the t ars and perspiration pouring down his f ce, and his heart attempting to p und its way out of his ch st, Lord Crimson realized what it w s. Seconds later, when Mr. Portico c me rushing into His Lordship's chambers, the b tler was greeted by an almost fr ntic request for pen and paper. The tems were quickly rounded up and h nded to his Lordship, who then, and h rdly knowing what he was about, wr te something down. "Put this on the d sk, please, and we'll decipher its m aning in the morning." The butler did as r quested and then hesitated, his concern w ighing heavily. "May I get you s mething, sir? Perhaps some chamomile?" Lord Cr mson shook his head, but still Mr. P rtico didn't budge. He desperately wanted to do s mething-anything-in order to be of some l ttle use. "I'm all right, Mr. P rtico," Lord Crimson said. "Now please, go b ck to bed." The butler bowed. "As you w sh, sir. Good night." The next m rning, and for the first time s nce he'd made the purchase, Lord Cr mson didn't make the rounds of his pr perty. Instead he sat at his d sk pondering the meaning of what he had wr tten. Where could the name have c me from? How should he act on it, if at ll? And then, with a certainty th t was as mysterious as the rigin of the message itself, he nderstood that herein lay his final ch nce. He reached over and gave Ch rlemagne a pat. "Get Mr. Portico for me, w ll you boy?" Charlemagne barked and tr tted out of the room. A few m ments later he returned, with Mr. P rtico in tow. "Milord?" Lord Crimson h nded him the sheet of paper. "G ve this to Miss Haversham," he s id. "I wish to know if a f rm by this name exists, and if it d es, I want a meeting with wh ever runs the company. Whatever it t kes, I want a meeting this w ek." Later that day, at the F lstaff Architectural Firm in New York C ty, the CEO, Johnny Falstaff, and his l ad architect, Rick St. Michael, were ch tting over a cup of coffee. It was an asy-going, comfortable sort of conversation such as a f ther and son would have done, had th y been close. "So let me see if I'v got this straight," Rick was s ying. "This Lord Crimson character is p ying you a hundred grand, just for a m eting?" Johnny shrugged his shoulders and n dded. "It's a good idea," Rick s id. "I mean, at the very l ast, you could use the diversion, d n't you think?" "I guess. I'll t ll you what, though. I'm definitely ntrigued. I've done a little digging round and apparently this guy's driven at l ast a dozen firms stark raving m d." "What?" "That's right," Johnny said. "It s ems that His Lordship doesn't know wh t he wants. And at the s me time, he knows exactly what he w nts." "I'm not sure I follow." J hnny chuckled. "Join the club." The f llowing day found Johnny Falstaff somewhere on the utskirts of London being escorted by Mr. P rtico into Lord Crimson's office. Upon J hnny's entrance, His Lordship stood up and xtended his hand. Johnny took it and was mpressed by the sincerity with which he was gr eted. Mr. Portico was dismissed, Johnny was sked to have a seat, the two men l oked each other over, and Lord Cr mson broke the ice. "Thank you for m king this time available to me." "It's my pl asure, sir." Somehow Lord Crimson doubted th t. "Yes, well-before I explain why I r quested this meeting, why don't you t ll me a little something about th s chap who works for you. Th s . . . Rick St. M chael." Johnny couldn't help smiling. Rick was pr bably his favorite topic in the w rld. Maybe Lord Crimson wasn't as l opy as he'd been led to b lieve. "There's an awful lot to t ll," Johnny said. "I'm not sure, ven, where to begin." "Why not st rt with the reason you think so h ghly of him?" Lord Crimson said. "T ll me why you lit up l ke a Christmas tree at the m ntion of his name." "All right. In a n tshell, the way I feel about R ck is that he's the son I n ver had. Quite frankly, Rick is w thout equal on so many levels th t-" Johnny caught himself. He loved to br g about Rick's attributes apart from his rchitectural abilities, but this was hardly the t me. Let's focus on the issue at h nd, he told himself, and picked up the s bject again. "Forgive me-I assume it's his d sign skills you're most interested in, so let me m ke it simple for you. Rick St. M chael is the best architect I've ver known. He is, in fact, in a cl ss by himself. Aside from a k en eye and disturbingly good artistic sk lls, Rick has an uncanny knack for kn wing, better than the client, what he w nts." Johnny paused to study Lord Cr mson's face. He was touched by the s dness in his eyes and could see th t the man needed more. And fter a moment's reflection, he went on. "S mething I like even more about R ck, is that even though he's tr ated pretty much like royalty in m st circles, he remains completely unassuming. Not to m ntion the fact that he could h ve struck out on his own, y ars ago. But I gave him his st rt, and now that our friendship has gr wn into something we both cherish bove almost anything in the world, he r mains loyal and will stay at my s de forever. Johnny's expression softened, and his v ice took on a whole new spect. "There is one other thing, s r, and to me, it's the m st important of all. I've a f eling it will be to you as w ll." There was an inherent goodness in J hnny's manner and voice that struck ven the granite-laden Lord Crimson, and for the f rst time in as long as he c uld remember, his sadness took a b ck seat to another feeling entirely: F scination. "Rick has," Johnny said, "the m st unusual-indeed the most extraordinary little g rl I've ever encountered. And their l ve for each other?-It just makes me f el that all's right with the w rld." Johnny paused. This was it. "N w, Mr. Crimson, why don't you t ll me what it is that I can do for y u?" Two weeks later, Lord Crimson and Ch rlemagne were standing by the window w tching the sunset. Lost in thought, L rd Crimson heard nothing, least of all the b tler's entrance to his room. "Milord?" St rtled, His Lordship turned around. "Yes, Mr. P rtico, what is it?" "Miss Haversham sked me to let you know, s r. She's just received a phone c ll from Mr. Falstaff. Mr. St. M chael has agreed to take on y ur project. He'll be free to st rt on it next week." To th s, Lord Crimson replied, with a d speration that lay just below the s rface, "Let's pray for better luck w th this one, shall we, Mr. P rtico?" Then, barely audibly, he added, "B cause, my friend-I fear the road nds here."
The article Francey - Prologue To A Study In Past Lives and Reincarnation was Submitted by Martin Dubow through Articles.GetACoder.com network. Here's the additional information: VERY SHORT BIO Martin Dubow m kes his home in Southern California. A s mi-retired classical musician, and former assistant ditor at Doubleday Publishing in New Y rk City, he spends his spare t me reading, writing, and playing chamber m sic. http://rembrandtpress.typepad.com
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