“Leo, that was sad.”
“How so, my friend?”
“The girl is desperate for guys like us to take a liking to her. They all are. Those silly dresses they wear leave very little for the imagination, and she still thinks that a bit of attention from a guy like you or me will take her out of this hell hole and into our lives. It's sad. I'd rather pay a whore like Claire than play this game.”
Leo's eyes flashed. “Don't call her a whore.”
“That's what she is, Leo. She's a nice girl and I wish just as much as you that she didn't have to sell herself but that is the reality of things. Don't be angry with me that you're falling in love with a common prostitute.”
Brant knew it was a low blow. He could see how his friend felt about the girl and he felt bad that Leo could never find the happiness he was searching for in Claire. They were of completely different classes and she was a scarlet letter. A harlot. If she was anyone, anyone at all other than what she was, Leo could risk bringing her into his world. But as a working girl, never.
Leo's face twisted in anger. “I'm not in love with her.”
“No? I understand that you can't be in love with her, but don't lie to me; you're falling for her and you're too far gone to break it off. For goodness sake, Leo, you have to pay her to spend time with you!”
“That can change. She could leave the brothel.”
“But do you honestly think she will? You called me naive earlier but now who is acting naive? She has seen too much of the world. She knows no one like you or I are going to make good on taking her out of this life. As much as you might want to she knows you can't. Your family and society would never allow it. She's stuck with the hand she was dealt and the only thing you can do is continue to pay her to spend time with you.”
“In two years I'm leaving for Jamaica. I can pay her passage and she can come along.”
“Can she? Do you really think your father would allow you to run his plantation if you're keeping a mistress and having her gallivant around as a real lady?”
“He doesn't have to know.”
“You're right, he doesn't and I hope for yours and Claire's sakes that you can find a way to make it work, but it's unlikely. If you really want to make it work you may have to stoop down a level, leave your family name and fortune behind and make it on your own.”
Leo got up and slammed his glass down. “When did I ask you for advice about my life, Brant? When did I ever ask for your input?”
“When did I ask for yours? You tell me I'm silly all the time but what are you?”
“I'll see you tomorrow. I'm not looking for advice from a sixteen year old that doesn't know anything about life. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Leo threw a few coins on the table to cover the tab and left the bar. Brant knew he was off to see Claire and he would be back for breakfast tomorrow, so he didn’t worry. His friend had to blow off some steam.
Once Brant finished his drink he waved over the nearest girl and ordered another, leaning back in his seat and lighting another cigarette. Sarah, the serving girl came over, all smiles, drink in hand. “Where's your friend?”
“He left.”
“That's too bad. I don't suppose he'll be coming back?”
“No. Can I ask you something, Sarah?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you do it? Why do you flounce around, smile and let people man-handle you? Will it get you anywhere?”
“It’ll get me tips and put food on the table.”
“I wish you would have more self-esteem, Sarah. You're worth more than this.”
Sarah laughed bitterly. “Thank you, but I think I know what I'm worth. Not everyone can be born into wealth and privilege. Some of us have to paste on a smile, pull our necklines a little lower, and hope we come home with enough coin at the end of the day to get a family fed.” She didn’t stick around to hear Brant’s response, and he was glad she didn’t. He wasn’t really sure what to say.
Getting up, he walked by where Sarah was standing near the bar, and as he passed, he slipped her a ten pound note.
Chapter Two
Brant opened his eyes slightly as Leo stumbled into their room. Robert remained fast asleep as far as Brant could tell but Leo was making a real racket, crashing into a dresser and then his bedpost as he felt his way blindly in the dark.
“You okay?” Brant whispered.
Leo fell onto his bed and sighed. “Do I look okay?”
“I’m sorry," and they both knew he wasn’t talking about the bruises that Leo was sure to have in the morning.
“But you’re right and I hate it.”
Brant didn’t reply so the two boys lay in silence. Brant waited until he heard Leo snoring, then got up and left the room. It was expressly against the rules to be out of the dorms after ten but he left anyway. He needed time to think, time away from the supressing darkness and heavy breathing that filled his room.
Making his way to the study lounge, Brant stepped lightly in stocking feet, all the while listening for anyone that may be patrolling the halls. He didn’t know what would happen if he was caught, but he didn’t really want to provoke his father’s anger, and there was no sense in being careless.
Sitting down in one of the large easy chairs beside the ever burning fireplace in the cozy and quiet room, Brant sighed and rested his head in his hands. He hated seeing Leo unhappy because of his own stupidity, but he was no different. How many times had his friend urged him to embrace the life he'd been given? And yet he chose to be miserable as he strove for the one life he couldn't have.
He would be going home soon for Christmas and then he would be back here again to finish off the school year. He had four years of school to endure and after only a few months he was beginning to wonder if he could do it. Already he had lost interest completely. He found himself fighting the urge to walk out of class and keep walking until he found himself a ship and was sailing beyond his father’s grasp. He could do it, it wouldn’t be very hard. All it took was a little resolve. But as much as Brant knew what he wanted, he couldn’t bring himself to go against his father. In small ways sure, breaking rules, drinking and smoking, playing pranks on the teachers; it all didn’t matter. He hated to admit it but the small acts of rebellion were to get his father’s attention. It was his way of showing his father how incredibly unhappy he was with his life, and at the young age of sixteen he shouldn’t be so unhappy. He shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not he was going to be miserable all his life. He was too young to have that kind of weight. Was it too much to want the approval of his father for his life choices?
Pulling a cigarette out from the pack he always kept in his jacket pocket, Brant lit it and drew slowly back on the paper stick, letting the sweet, acrid smoke fill his mouth and filter down into his lungs, then curling and caressing his lips and nostrils as he exhaled. Instantly he felt his muscles relax.
“Brant Foxton?”
Brant quickly hid his cigarette and looked over to see who the voice belonged to. It was well past one in the morning and no one should have been walking around. “Hello, Headmaster Mansfield.”
“You do realize that it is well past curfew?”
“Yes sir,” Brant replied, not a hint of apology in his voice, just simple admittance. He had learned quickly that the man was soft and would likely not do anything unless there was some serious harm in a boy's actions.
"It is also against the rules to smoke on school property.”
“Would you like to join me?”
Headmaster Mansfield chuckled. “You know, I really would. I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
"Deal.” Brant handed the Headmaster a cigarette and his box of matches.
They sat in silence for quite some time, staring into the smouldering fire and smoking the forbidden cigarettes. Headmaster Mansfield attempted to make conversation a couple times but Brant would only reply with one or two words and continue to smoke sullenly.
“You know, Brant I�
��ve heard a lot of things about you from the teachers. Not very much of it good. What is troubling you?”
“I just have no interest in what you have to teach.”
“And what do you have interest in?”
Brant was a little taken aback. No one had ever shown interest in what he wanted. No one since his mother. “It doesn’t matter; my life is already planned. I know you are trying to look after the well-being of your students, but don’t waste your time on me. I’ll be fine in life no matter what happens. I could smoke, drink, and gamble my youth away and I’d still have a fortune waiting for me. You don’t have a bunch of well-behaved boys here, Headmaster. Just a lot of hypocrites.”
Brant stood up and walked out, leaving Headmaster Mansfield alone with his thoughts. The man was soft… too soft. He didn’t realize what was going on around him and he chose to turn a blind eye to much of the rule breaking. It was no wonder no one here had any respect for him.
Lying in bed Brant lit another cigarette… One of these days he would really have to kick the habit but right now it was just too good to let go. As the last of the ashes fell from the cigarette and onto the floor Brant stepped on the already cooling butt and then undressed. Sleep came quickly once he chose to close his eyes in the early hours of the morning. Tomorrow was another day, another day of broken dreams and disappointments.
* * *
Christmas came all too quickly, yet all too slow. Brant hated the idea going home and spending an entire month with his father, but the thought of leaving this place, if only temporarily, was undeniably attractive.
Sir Calvin Foxton’s carriage pulled up at precisely twelve noon, just as he had told Brant it would. Brant sat on the steps with his bags and sullen attitude—he had been waiting in the cold for ten minutes. If there was anything that Calvin couldn't stand for it was tardiness. Especially when he was, out of the goodness of his heart, making the trip into London to pick up his son.
Brant had said goodbye to Leo that morning at breakfast. Their disagreement hadn't lasted longer than the one night, but Brant still worried about his friend. He seemed to be drinking more often, more than what Brant would consider recreational. He went to most of his classes slightly buzzed but the teachers gave no indication that they had noticed. How they missed it, Brant couldn’t figure out. Leo reeked of booze and smoke. Drinking of any kind by the students was forbidden, but it seemed that the teachers preferred to turn a blind eye rather than deal with the issue.
Getting up from the step, Brant tossed his two small bags into the carriage and then stepped up, sitting on the bench opposite his father.
“Hello, son.”
“Father.”
“How are your studies going?”
“Fine. You get reports from Headmaster Mansfield, I’m sure, so you know.”
“Yes, but I thought perhaps you would like to tell me how you’re enjoying it.”
“I’m not.”
“I worked hard to be able to get you this kind of education.”
“Officer training is a good education too.”
“That is not a good life, Brant. It's beneath you. Try to remember who you are.”
“I am a Foxton, son of Sir Calvin Foxton, former Commodore in the Royal Navy. You should be proud of me wanting to follow in your footsteps.”
“It is a hard life and below you, no matter the recognition that comes with it. I came to bring you home for the holiday, Brant. I pay for you to have the best education. I will take no argument from you about what is best for your life. You're just a boy. That's all.”
"So you'll just brush me off as if I'm no one? I'm not one of your sailors.”
“Enough, Brant. I don't want to hear another word of this again. I have made my decision and you will accept that.”
Brant knew better than to push his father any further. Calvin was not a soft man and when he reached the end of his patience the punishment doled out was more appropriate for an insubordinate sailor than a sixteen year old aristocrat.
The carriage ride was long; nearly two hours and it was spent in complete silence. Brant stared out the small window the entire way. He refused to look at his father, for fear of seeing the disappointed glare directed at his eldest son.
Calvin Foxton was gray and old before he should have been. His years as a sailor, officer, and commodore had aged him before his time, and the death of his young wife had only succeeded in making him bitter towards life. He was in his mid-fifties and yet had the appearance of someone much closer to seventy. His eyes were hard yet tired and full of sorrow. His strong jaw had lost all appearance of power, instead it looked hollow and unsuited to his weather worn and wrinkled face. His expensive clothes hung on a body that once boasted physical strength and prowess but had now been left soft and weak.
They arrived at the large Foxton estate still in complete silence, father and son refusing to speak to each other. Brant leapt out of the carriage as if to shove into his father’s face his young and vital youth while his father slowly climbed out. The cold ride had stiffened his joints; joints that had been abused and worn down in their years of hard work and sleeping in damp cold. Brant had his two bags in hand and burst into the house, up the stairs and leapt onto the bed that he had missed for six long months.
He wondered how James had done, his six year old brother, alone in this large house with their father. There were, of course, maids and a nanny, but they could do little to stand in Calvin Foxton’s way when his temper flared up. When thinking about his life at home, Brant came to the realization that his six months at school may be a blessing in disguise. He may not enjoy what he was being forced to learn but at least there was a distance between him and his father. At least at school he could escape. After all, security was lax and the Headmaster didn’t seem to care as long as his students made a show of good behavior.
“Brant! Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. I expect you to be on time,” his father shouted from down the hall. Apparently he didn’t feel like having another confrontation with his son and had instead opted to keep his distance, something that was extremely out of character for the Commodore.
Brant chose not to respond and continued to lie on his bed. A whole month here in the hell hole of a house. There were too many ghosts walking these halls, of his mother in particular and of how their family used to function. He could remember the Christmas before his mother had died. The three of them; Brant, his mother and father had spent the day together. They had saddled up their horses and gone for a long ride in the frosty air. The bluffs were beautiful at this time of year and Suzanne had always insisted in taking her daily ride to see them. Often Brant would accompany her but it was a rare occasion that Calvin would put his work down and join the wife he adored and his handsome young son.
Brant could remember laughing and racing his father all the way up the road and then back to join his mother. They had gone back to the house and hot tea had been waiting for them. They all sat around the fireplace in Calvin’s study warming their frozen fingers, toes and faces while sipping at their hot tea and laughing about memories they had shared in the last year. Life had been good then, seven years ago. It had all changed so quickly and now it was nothing like it used to be. Christmas would be a short business affair with a few gifts for the two boys and then Calvin would be back to work while Brant and James would be expected to entertain themselves.
Brant got up and walked downstairs and into the dining hall. James and his father were already seated at the large table that hadn’t been filled to capacity since before his mother had died.
Memories, they were all memories and they haunted Brant just as they haunted Calvin. James was spared knowing any life better than the one he spent with his detached father. He knew very little of his mother; she wasn't a comfortable topic of conversation and often left Calvin angry and on the rare occasion violent. Brant had learned long ago that it was better for everyone if Suzanne Foxton was never mentioned.
“How are you, James?�
�� asked Brant upon sitting.
“Fine, thank you.” Perfect manners from a perfect little six year old.
Dinner was spent in complete silence aside from the initial greeting Brant and James had exchanged. As soon as he was finished eating Calvin disappeared into his study where he would remain until long after both sons had retired for the evening. Brant and James were left alone together, Brant unsure of what to say to his young brother and James content to remain silent.
Brant had only been gone six months but already James had changed. He had become an empty shell. A man that followed orders rather than a happy and vibrant child. Gone was his playfulness, giggles and childlike awe. He was now subdued, silent, following perfect protocol like no human child should.
“James, are you okay?” How do you ask a six year old if he’s unhappy? If he wants something different in life? He didn’t understand being jaded. He couldn't comprehend not loving his father or accepting his wisdom. Brant knew this because he had struggled with those very feelings after his mother had died.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you like being alone here with father?”
“I’m not alone. Maggie and Josie and Markus and everyone else are here.”
Brant smiled slightly. The servants; the only friends of a Foxton boy. "Did you miss me at all?”
James smiled. “There’s no one to play with me when you’re gone. Everyone is so quiet around papa and he gets angry when I get too loud so I learned to play by myself and be really quiet so I don't upset him.”
Brant nodded. “That’s very good, James. And then when you’re my age you can go to school and learn stuff and have lots of boys your age to play with.” The words seemed hollow, hypocritical, but he had to give something for James to look forward to.
“Is it lots of fun at school?”
Owned by the Ocean Page 2