One of the little girls, the one with darker curls, simply would not do as the other desired for her to—wandering near the sparkling fountain, tumbling after a passing duck, or contemplating the squirrels in a nearby tree. The blonde girl remained sedately near the family’s picnic and complained strenuously when her counterpart would not do likewise. It was at these junctures that their older brother would retrieve the child, only to become distracted himself as the girl wandered off again.
John was nearly laughing aloud by the time three such episodes had played out. He felt somewhat akin to this curious little girl and thought her vibrant wonder at the world quite like his own. It was with growing amusement that he watched her escape once more, and this time, she ambled near to where he sat.
He smiled cheerfully, not wishing to frighten her. She did not look directly at him at first, her eyes instead diverted to the sprinkling fountain. She paused near his bench.
“It is beautiful, is it not?”
Her little bonneted head jerked in his direction. Clear, green-blue eyes surveyed him, and a plump lip stuck out in thought. Slowly, she returned his smile.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes,” was the frank reply. The girl turned her face back towards the fountain—not precisely dismissing him, but not focusing on him, either.
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the child’s absence had again been noted. Apparently, it had not, as the older brother was absorbed in a book, and the parents were chatting with some acquaintance.
“Does your sister not enjoy it?”
“She’s my cousin,” the child informed him blithely. “That’s my brother. We are visiting my aunt and uncle for a fort… a fort-night.”
“I see. Here,” he offered in sudden inspiration, “I’ve some bread left. Would you like to feed some geese with me?”
“Aunt says they are dirty.”
“It is not dirty to feed them, surely. Do they not need someone to care for them?”
Doubt creased between those large, bright eyes. She drew near with heightened caution, and quickly, as though she were afraid he might make a grab for her, snatched the piece of bread he had offered.
Still eyeing him with some cynicism, she turned and gave an awkward toss towards a hopeful goose. Several others descended upon the recipient of her goodwill, and amidst a raucous flapping of white wings, one emerged the victor. Boldly, the flock looked back to their benefactress.
The girl turned to look helplessly at him. “They all want some!”
He grinned. “We will just have to share a little more, will we not?” He rose from his bench to kneel beside her, and together they broke the pieces of bread. He quite liked the hearty giggles bubbling from her. It sounded so healthy and genuine compared with Fanny’s weak and ailing laugh. If only his sister were strong and vivacious like this little girl!
At length, he ran out of bread, but his new friend did not abandon him at once. He returned to the bench and made a show of checking his empty satchel for more morsels of bread, but of course, there were none. When he spread his hands in laughing remorse, he noted that her eyes had strayed to the book he had brought. She was scrutinising the title with a furrowed brow, tilting her head to read it properly. He watched her in some amusement.
She looked back to him with surprised appreciation flashing in her eyes. “My papa has that book.”
His brows shot up. “You can read the title?”
She spared him a withering look, which seemed wholly out of place and comical in so young and innocent a face. “Of course, I can,” she scoffed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that a child of four should be able to recognise ‘The Iliad.’
“Papa reads it to me. Helen is my favourite, but I do not think Paris was very nice.”
John was laughing heartily now. “No, he was not. But have you thought that perhaps Helen was little better?”
Shock washed over her face at such an audacious supposition. She gaped at him in confusion and horror that he could suggest the lovely Helen of Troy might not have been a fully innocent party to her own abduction. Such was her consternation that he dared cast up any blame to a woman that he began to feel he ought to apologise. After all, it was only conjecture on his part to begin with, and certainly no concept with which he ought to burden a little girl—and a very little one at that. As he began to make his amends, however, another voice cut in.
“Margaret! What have you gone and done now?” The girl’s older brother at last came huffing up to retrieve her.
John glanced over to the younger boy, noting the look of embarrassment on his face. “She does not trouble me, I assure you.”
The boy glared at him in speechless indignation, then bent to collect his sister’s hand. “Margaret, Aunt Shaw is very cross. You must not continue to wander so!”
“We were feeding the birds, Fred. The boy is nice.” She peered back up at John with the faintest shadow of hesitation crossing her features. She still had not fully erased her qualms about his views on literature, but his initial kindness to her had in some measure founded a basic amenity for him.
“It was a pleasure,” John declared. And it had been. Here in London he had been largely without friends, though accompanied by boys of similar age in Mr Wright’s house. None shared his spark of quick interest in knowing and doing all he could, and for the second time he wished the little sister he went home to on the morrow might grow into one closer in character to himself.
The older brother, however, wanted none of John’s assurances. A smartly attired gentleman’s boy, he scowled askance at John. “Margaret, do not meddle with tradesmen’s sons.” He grasped the child’s hand and dragged her unwillingly away.
John stood bereft and empty for more than one reason. Again, he had evidence that he was simply not good enough in the eyes of the elite. The girl—Margaret—looked plaintively over her shoulder as her brother propelled her forward, but she obeyed and left him alone. He watched as the entourage of gentle folk made ready to depart. The only one ever to acknowledge his existence was the dark-haired maid, who offered him one last comradely smile and a wave of her hand.
It was a pity, he thought glumly, that within a few years, even that innocent, friendly little soul would have her views soured on the middle class. What hope was there for one such as himself when those he encountered only sneered at him because his father had a profession? How was he any less worthy than the next boy?
Somehow, someday, he would find a way to make something of himself. He would not bear scorn based on such archaic notions. The will to achieve, to rise above, and the deserving pride in a job well done ought to be the measure of a man—not what he had inherited at birth, without any proof of his worthiness!
Scowling as he stuffed his book inside his parcel, he made himself a vow. One day, he would prove himself so wholly and utterly that none might ever dare look down on him again—not that haughty boy, and certainly not that charming little girl, nor any of their well-heeled relations! It was time to leave behind himself the lessons of a scholar and take up the mantle of industry. He drew a deep, filling breath.
Tomorrow, he was going home to build his future.
The Beginning…
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Prologue
Nowhere But North Page 55