London, England.
Edward Gibbon Wakefield looked out of the rain-splattered window and took in the dreary scene with a resigned sigh. Below him people moved with urgency to avoid the downpour and seek adequate shelter from the inclement weather. Even a stray dog looked forlornly out from the protection of a gloomy doorway as he scratched obsessively at a minor annoyance. Wakefield looked up at the smudge of greyness between buildings and blackened chimneys and saw no possibility of respite, only a bleakness that reflected his mood. It made him want to scratch.
He rubbed the smoothness of his chin and returned his thoughts to the equally unpleasant business unfolding in New Zealand. He leaned against the window frame and thought again of William.