The Shooting Season - Isobel Starling Page 0,1

a lad of ten, more used to wooden trains, books, and board games, I understood that what my uncle gave me were priceless treasures. He fired my imagination and in turn, I lost myself in books about ancient civilizations.

Later, when I was older and attending university in Edinburgh I got word that Uncle Barnard had not returned from his latest adventure and the remains of his ship were found scuppered off the coast of Cornwall. I pledged then to continue collecting in memory of my uncle. Now, in my fiftieth year with no wife or child to bleed my coffers, I run Hannan’s Auction House in Fitzrovia, London, and in my private time, purchase treasures to feed my heart’s desire.

Lord Percival Ardmillan was quite the adventurer himself, a Military man; he traveled far and wide during his lifetime. Lord Percy was not the most pleasant of men, and he collected whatever sparkling treasures stole his attention, whether the owner wanted to part with the item or not! It is well-known that many of Lord Ardmillan’s treasures were obtained from bloodshed and I must admit, traveling to his Scottish estate did give me some trepidation. Lord Ardmillan had used his station and sword to add to his collection. I’d heard stories of how a Sultan was slain so Ardmillan could take the gold and jeweled Tiger heads that ornamented his throne. I did not know if this repulsive story was true, but I supposed I would find out!

And so, Lord Ardmillan had cut a swath through the Middle-East and India in search of glory for the Crown, and jewels to pay for his debauched life back in England. I did not think of him as a godly person, and, if I’m honest I was glad to hear of his passing because I knew there would come a time where I could purchase the item that I was going to so much effort to own.

The item I converted was spectacular and unique. I had seen it once before when I was naught but twenty. Lord Ardmillan's son, Euan was my special friend from university and in our final year, he invited me to the Glenlair Estate for the shooting season. I must admit, I am a useless shot, but there were other things that the tantalizing Euan Ardmillan wanted to teach me to shoot! During those heady halcyon days with Euan, I’d enjoyed my first illicit lessons in the ways of the flesh with a man.

I had long since banished thoughts of the shameful things we did from my mind, or so I told myself. I was now god-fearing and devout. I did not want to think of it, I did not want the intrusive flashes of memory—Euan, pale and lithe, bending over his father’s billiard table for me and letting me do such unspeakable, pleasurable, things to his young, willing body. I’d felt so wretchedly ashamed afterward, even though we’d both wanted and enjoyed it. That part of my nature was indecent, and fearing for my immortal soul, I took refuge in Holy Communion, prayer and denial of the pleasures of the flesh.

Some in my circle wondered why I would not take a wife, others thought of me as cold-hearted because of my anxiety of touching and being touched, but my solitary life without intimacy had given time for prayer and contemplation. I had deduced over the years that with my particular temperament it was best for me not to form attachments. It was best for me to avoid human touch, not because I didn’t like it, but because the feeling of skin upon skin elicited such a fire that I found it almost unbearable in public, therefore, I kept myself to myself and avoided crowds. My only indulgences were the hunting and studying of art and antiquities.

I entered the blessedly warm first-class lounge car to see six other travelers seated in the high backed leather chairs, reading, playing games of cards and dominoes, and having a much-needed nightcap to push the chill from their bones. An attendant stood inside the door. He was dressed for service in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. The man was in his early thirties, with deep-set dark eyes and a military short back and side’s haircut, glistening with pomade. He bowed graciously.

“Good evening sir, I am Mr. Cummings, how may I be of service.” He had a light, gentle Edinburgh accent that reminded me of my time studying in the city.

“Mr. Benedict