CHAPTER THREE
James' mother had always been rather proud. As a child he had once overheard her refusing a proposal from a suitor, who had promised to take her away from the grimy back streets of Newcastle and look after her and James' every need.
"Thank you for your offer, but I can make my own way in the world." James had heard Flora Black reply gently, from his listening post at the door. "Besides, I am still inextricably attached to James' father after all these years."
"Ah yes, the late Mr. Black —how lucky a man to have such a devoted widow," the suitor had replied, in a mocking tone that James had not quite fully understood, though he would hear it again over the years, whenever he mentioned that his father was dead.
Pride had left Flora Black however, in her final days.
"Go into town and post this for me," she had beseeched of her son, one afternoon in James' thirteenth year. "And no dawdling James, I beg you, this is important."
James had taken the folded page, which was covered in his mother's familiar looped hand, and hurried out of their house on Percy Street. His mother had come down with a cold two months prior, but the cold had never left her. Instead it had invaded her lungs, so that her every breath seemed laboured and James had become afraid to look at her properly.
His mother was dying, he knew that, and so too did Polly Jenkins.
"How is she?" Polly asked, as she fell into step beside him. She had been waiting for him on Percy Street, along with little Sarah, who never spoke and followed Polly like a shadow.
"No better," James replied tersely, fear eating away inside him and making him ill-humoured.
"Do you have anything for her?"
"I have nothing," a helplessness so great had overwhelmed James, that his voice caught and he could feel the hot sting of tears in his eyes. He blinked them back fiercely, afraid that if he began to cry, he might never stop. If only he was older, he had thought, old enough to work so that he could pay for some kind of care for his mother. As it was, he did not even have enough money for an apothecary —let alone a physician.
"Pa has a secret stash of coin in our house," Polly whispered, glancing with worry at Sarah, who as usual seemed oblivious to what was being said. "I can take a shilling or two and run down to fetch a draught from Mr Oldham."
Mr Oldham was the druggist, whose shop was located in a lane just off the Flesh Market in town. James' own mother considered him a charlatan who sold nothing but nostrums, but for the poor of Newcastle Mr Oldham was the only source of medical care they could afford.
"If your Pa finds out that you've taken the money..." James did not finish his sentence, for they both knew what would happen once Ted Jenkins realised that his savings had been looted. This did not deter Polly however; she merely squared her jaw in determination and took Sarah by the hand, promising James that she would return with a cure for his mother.
James watched her turn at the top of Percy Street, before he himself headed in the direction of the Waverly Inn, located on the London Road. Once there he would pass the letter to the inn-keeper, who in turn would add it to the pile of correspondence for the next Mail Coach bound for London. James stole a glance at the letter, noting with some surprise that it was addressed to the Earl of Ludlow. The postage specified that the recipient of the letter would pay - though James supposed that an Earl would hardly bat an eyelid at having to fork out four or five shillings for receiving a letter.
He of course wondered why his mother would be writing to a member of the aristocracy, but these thoughts quickly vanished on his return home. His mother's breathing was almost like a rattle in her chest, and when Polly arrived with a tincture of laudanum, Flora Black drank it down with little protest.
The rattle remained in Flora's chest for over a week, and James stayed by his mother's bedside, duly offering her more laudanum whenever she awoke and praying to God while she slept, to save his mother's life. During the day, Polly would appear at intervals, offering him tea and food, and ignoring his questions about the bruises on her face and the slight limp in her step. At night time, she would steal from her own home on Strawberry Lane and sit with him in his mother's dark room until the first traces of dawn stole across the sky.
It was she who noted the silence, when the rattle finally stopped.
"Is she?" Polly looked frightened; though both children had been expecting it, death had still managed to surprise them when it stole into the room.
James reached out and touched his mother's hand--it was cold and stiff. The icy feel of his mother's skin jolted him from the strange, dream-like state he had existed in since her illness had started, and great, heaving sobs wracked his body. She was gone,his mother was gone; he was all alone in the world.
"Hush, just let it all out. Don't worry, I'm here."
Polly's hand rubbed circles on his back and she murmured sounds of comfort as James howled with grief for his mother. How long the pair stayed for, James could not say, but soon dawn broke outside the window and Polly took on a nervous look.
"Go, before your father wakes up and finds you gone," James instructed, his young mind filled with all the things he needed to do. He would have to have his mother blessed and buried, though he did not yet know how he would find the funds for that.
"No, I should stay with you."
"Please," James looked at his friend, whose face still bore the marks of the beating Ted had given her for stealing to pay for his mother's laudanum. "Please go. Come back later, when it's safe to do so."
With a look that said she had half a mind not to, Polly turned and left, squeezing his hand as she went. James stood once the door closed behind her and began to pace.
He needed money; he could not have his mother buried in a pauper's grave, with no stone to mark her final resting place. He wracked his mind to try and think where he might source the funds to afford his mother a proper burial. His pacing came to a dead halt as he remembered his mother's ring. It was, she had often said, merely a piece of costume jewellery, made from paste, but it was a fine imitation of a diamond and James thought that he might get some recompense for it in Mr Tatterly's Pawn Shop on Haymarket Street.
He went to his mother's bureau, rifled through its many drawers and near gave up on finding it, until he spotted a small velvet box. Inside the box was the ring, which when he opened it, James thought was far nicer than he had remembered; the fake diamond was most realistic, in that it caught the light and twinkled, even in the half-dark room.
James had just slipped the box in his pocket, determining that he would not leave Mr Tatterly's until he had bartered enough for a coffin at the very least, when a loud rapping came from the front door.
His first thought was that it was Ted Jenkins, filled with rage at having caught his daughter stopping out all night, but a voice--a very refined voice--put paid to that thought.
"I say, is this the residence of Flora Black?" the voice called from behind the door. "I am calling in relation to the letter she sent."
Goodness, James started, was it the Earl of Ludlow himself?
When he opened the door he did not find the Earl, but rather an emissary in the form of the Earl's Head Steward, Charles Plinkton. He was a small man, of about fifty years, with a shock of white hair and a belly that strained at the buttons of his waistcoat.
"Where is Flora Black?" he demanded of James as the door opened.
"Dead," James whispered, feeling frightened of the pompous man, as he pushed his way inside.
"When did she pass?"
"About an hour ago."
Mr Plinkton blanched as James pointed down the hallway to the room where his mother lay.
"We shall have to have her buried."The steward spoke aloud, more to himself than James, and began to pace back and forth. "I'll fetch the vicar, have him organise a burial, then take the boy back to London--won't take more than half a day--we'll be on the road by nightfall."
"Who's going to London?" James asked, thinking that it sounded like this Mr
Plinkton was intending him to go, which was absurd.
"Why you are, lad," the steward blustered, confirming his suspicions, "Your mother wrote to the Earl saying you were to be looked after. Lord rest his soul, he wasn't the most generous of men, but even he would look after an illegitimate child. Even in the grave, he is duty bound by honour. That's what his brother says, anyway."
James saw spots as he absorbed this piece of information--he was the son of an Earl? It was preposterous, he thought, and besides his mother had had too much pride to have been the mistress of any man, even if he was an aristocrat. It made no sense.
"It can't be true," James shook his head angrily, "I don't believe it."
"Well, you'd best believe it lad. Your uncle, the Honourable Mr Aurthur Livingstone, confirmed that his brother had absconded with Flora Black, the daughter of a Vicar, a few months before the sixth Earl, also your uncle, died. It would have caused quite the scandal, if the affair had continued; but, luckily, your father saw sense when he inherited the title and returned to London, to marry a woman of rank."
James bristled at Plinkton's sanctimonious tone--his mother still lay in the room next door, and here was this pompous, puffed up blackguard insulting her by saying that his father abandoning both her and James, was an act of sense and not the treachery it actually was. Did the late Earl know what kind of poverty he and his mother had endured? Would he have cared if he did?
"I shan't go with you," the tips of James' ears were red with anger and shame. "Do you hear? I shan't go to London; I shall stay here in Newcastle with my friends."
Instead of looking angry at his outburst, as James assumed he would, Mr Plinkton took on a rather sympathetic air.
"My boy, while your anger and pride are most noble, I'm afraid that they are blinding you to common sense. Your mother wrote to the Earl and begged him to feed, clothe and school you, knowing that nobody else would. If you stay in Newcastle, you will be consigned to a life of grinding poverty, and I dare say that your mother wanted more for you than a career as a pot boy. You can't deny her dying wish, now can you?"
James shook his head; even in his grief he knew that this Mr Plinkton was right, and even despite his anger and bruised pride, there was a feeling of a weight being lifted off his young chest at the idea that there was someone who might look after him.
"Will you help me to bury my mother properly?" he asked.
"Aye lad, I will."
Perhaps it was the solemn, respectful way in which Mr Plinkton answered him that truly made up James' mind. The anxiety that had filled him at the thought that his mother would have to be buried in a pauper's grave left, and the relief left him giddy. For the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon, James followed the steward across town as he arranged Flora Black's funeral. Mr Plinkton had a purse full of coins, and these coins set in motion events that James could not have instigated alone. Flora was afforded a proper coffin, a church service and a burial in Jesmond cemetery and once that was done, Mr Plinkton declared that James must fetch his things from Percy Street, before they departed for London.
It was only when the pair arrived at the house, with its grey walls and sagging roof, that James realised the enormity of what was happening. He was leaving his home, leaving Newcastle and leaving Polly Jenkins, who sat waiting for him on the front step of his house, shivering with the cold of the blustery March afternoon.
Polly stood as James and Mr Plinkton approached, her expression immediately wary at the sight of the strange man.
"What happened?" she asked, her freckled nose scrunched up in confusion. "I called back but Mrs Acreage next door said that your Ma has already been buried. Who's that?"
The last question was asked in a furtive whisper, though Mr Plinkton had obviously heard, for he bristled in annoyance.
"Inside lad and fetch your things," he commanded, in a rather haughty tone, completely ignoring Polly. "We want to be on the road before three."
"The road to where?" Polly cried, looking at James in alarm.
"To London," he replied, going to speak more until Mr Plinkton gave him a rather sharp poke in the shoulder.
"I said inside lad, and fetch your things," the steward seemed to have lost his patience at the sight of Polly. "You can say your goodbyes when you've packed. Away now lass, and let the lad finish his business."
The steward spoke to Polly in the same tone that James had heard some folks speak to a stray dog; his inclination was to protest, but the steward took him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him in the door.
"You have five minutes," he said, giving James a stern look, "And only take what you need. The vicar is going to come and fetch the remains, to distribute to the poor."
Codswallop, James thought mulishly, the vicar was surely coming to line his own pockets. Still, he raced around the house, packing clothes and a few of his mother's meagre possessions — a miniature of her when she was a girl, her well-thumbed Bible and her shawl, which still held traces of her scent.
His eyes welled as he closed the door of her bedroom, but he pushed the feeling of bleakness down, knowing that he was yet to say goodbye to Polly. There would be time enough for sorrow later.
"Here, what's happening?" the red haired girl asked, as both James and Mr Plinkton exited the house onto the drab Percy Street, where it had begun to drizzle. "Who's that and why are you going to London?"
"You have one minute," Mr Plinkton called sternly.
"I don't have time to explain properly," James whispered, his voice scratchy and raw with emotion. "My ma wrote to my father's family and they sent someone to care for me--but in London."
"But London's so far away," Polly replied, her own huge green eyes filling with tears. "I'll never see you again."
"No, you will," James said earnestly in reply. "I'll come back for you when my schooling is finished, and I'll take you and Sarah away somewhere better. I promise you Polly, you have to believe me."
His friend's expression was doubtful and James was filled with an urgent need to let her know just how serious he was, for she was his family and her blood ran through his veins.
"Here," he said quickly, reaching into his pocket where his mother's ring still rested. "Take this--it's only costume mind--but I'll come back in five years time Polly and give you a real one. Until then, take this to remember me by."
Polly accepted the box, slipping it into the pocket of her apron with a nervous glance at Plinkton, who upon hearing the lull in their conversation, cleared his throat.
"We must leave now, James," he called, "Best say goodbye."
"Don't say it," Polly shook her head, "Don't ever say goodbye James Black."
"I shan't," he mumbled, embarrassed by the hot tears that pricked at his eyes. "You must write to me Polly--care of the Earl of Ludlow. Do you promise?"
"I promise."
Mr Plinkton made an irritated noise at their continued chat, strode over to the pair and yanked James away by the arm.
"I'll see you again, Polly Jenkins!" James called over his shoulder, as Mr Plinkton dragged him to the corner of Percy Street, where a handsome, dark carriage awaited them.
Plinkton threw James bodily into the carriage, then scrambled in behind him,closing the door and blocking James' view of his friend, but if the door had not closed James Black knew that he would have seen his friend Polly, waving until the carriage drove out of view.
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CHAPTER FOUR
The Seventh Earl of Ludlow was not at home when James arrived at the impressive town house in Mayfair, owing to the fact that the seventh Earl was but ten years old, and was down at Eton. Instead, James was greeted by his Uncle, Mr Arthur Livingstone, an austere man of about forty years who looked at James over half rimmed spectacles.
"Indeed, you have the look of poor Horace," Livingstone said with a disappointed sigh, "One can only hope that you've not inherited his brains."
James did not reply, which seemed to annoy Arthur--though truly, how was he supposed to
respond to such a cold greeting from what was essentially his long-lost relative?
"I have enrolled you at Westminster," Arthur continued with a frown, as he began to shuffle the papers on his desk impatiently. "I have told them that you are a cousin of the Earl's--they shan't ask any more questions. God knows enough of the ton have educated their bastards there. You will have full board all year, bar Christmas and summer, which you shall spend with us--in the servant's quarters mind. Your name is now James Livingstone; I have decided to afford you the protection of the family name."
Arthur Livingstone paused, again as though he were waiting for James to say something, and when he did not, the bald pated man gave an irritated sigh.
"I see you are as ungrateful as your father before you; he was given everything as a boy and still he decided to throw it away by running away with some jumped-up who—"
"Don't say anything about my mother."
James had finally found his voice, and in it was the burning anger that he felt at this Arthur Livingstone, at his dead father and at the world in general for having taken his mother away from him.
"My, aren't you spirited?" Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Don't worry, they'll soon beat that out of you at Westminster. Plinkton, you may take him away now."
The steward rested a meaty hand on James' shoulder and steered him out of the library, back toward the carriage which drove them the short distance to Westminster School, which was situated on the banks of the Thames.
"Look after yourself, lad," Plinkton said, with something resembling fondness, as he left James in the entrance hall with a severe looking school master. "I'll come to fetch you at Christmas."
Westminster School, James was told by Master Harris, as he led him to the dormitories, was one of England's oldest institutions, founded in the twelfth century. It was one of the country's most prestigious schools, housed in buildings built of butter yellow brick, whose arched windows and gables gave it a forbidding, Gothic air.
When James was shown into the draughty, cold dormitory which housed over a dozen beds and was far less grand than the school itself, his classmates were sound asleep —owing to the lateness of the hour. The next morning when he awoke however, he was surrounded by a group of curious boys, all dressed in nightshirts.
The Captain of Betrayal Page 2