"Who are you?" one asked baldly, as James rubbed his sleep filled eyes.
"James," he responded groggily.
The group guffawed, and the leader of the pack, a blonde haired boy, gave a snort of derision.
"James who?" he asked, the word who loaded with centuries of snobbery.
"Livingstone," James remembered Arthur's words the night before, and suddenly felt a strange stab of gratitude for his Uncle for having the foresight to equip him with the Earl's name. Perhaps it would protect him from this pack of feral boys, who seemed eager to sense a weakness in their new room mate.
"Livingstone?" the blonde boy echoed him thoughtfully, "You're related to the Earl of Ludlow then?"
"His cousin."
"I suppose that's better than nothing."
The group of boys around him guffawed with scornful laughter, setting the tone for the rest of James' educational career. Rank, he was soon to learn, was extremely important. The blonde boy, who had spoken to James on that first morning, was the eldest son of the Viscount Harrington, and as such held the lofty position of highest ranking student in the school. As the self proclaimed cousin of an Earl, James was down the bottom of Westminster's pecking order, below second and third sons of the aristocracy, though slightly above the offspring of newly-wealthy industrialists and merchants.
Each day when he rose, young James was filled with an internal, gnawing worry about accidentally saying or doing the wrong thing--acts which invariably earned him a cruel taunt, or sometimes a swift dig of the elbow. It was with great relief to James that Christmas soon arrived, allowing him a slight respite from the relentless feeling of claustrophobia that he endured at Westminster.
Instead of being taken to the Earl's London home, James was collected by Plinkton, who accompanied him on the half a day journey to Lord Livingstone's Sussex estate. It was nightfall by the time the pair arrived and most of the house was cast in darkness.
"Mr Livingstone says that you're to sleep up in the servant's quarters," Plinkton said with a yawn, as he led James in through the rear entrance of the house. "It's just up these stairs here—"
"Actually, Plinkton, Lord Livingstone has requested the chance to meet his father's illegitimate offspring."
The voice that spoke was cool, cruel and refined, and belonged to Arthur Livingstone, who stood waiting for Plinkton and James in the dark kitchen.
"This way, boy."
Livingstone gestured for James to follow him, and follow him he did, up the dark staircase, down a long hallway and into what appeared to be a drawing room of some sort. Inside a small fire glowed in the grate, and the room was cast in warm candle light. A small, fair haired boy stood as James entered the room, his pinched face wearing a look of trepidation.
"You look like him."
This was stated as a fact, not a question or a remark to be contradicted.
"You'd know best, I never met him," the long journey and the weeks spent cloistered in a dormitory with cruel boys had left James short tempered and sharp tongued. The young Lord Livingstone blanched at James' snapping response, casting a pleading glance at his Uncle, who stood in the doorway.
"Indeed, young James never had a chance to meet your late father," Arthur said patiently to the young Earl, "Perhaps we shall forgive him his lack of manners...this time."
Arthur cast James a quelling glare, before pointing at the portrait which hung above the fireplace. It was of three men, dressed in elaborate clothing that might have been fashionable a few decades previously.
"Horace, your late father, is the gentleman in the middle," Arthur said, casting his eyes quickly at the painting. "The man to the left is your late Uncle David. He was a great man, sadly taken before his time. And finally, I am on the right, as you can see I had slightly more hair in those days."
The last remark was delivered with more than a hint of regret, for present day Arthur Livingstone was as bald as an egg. James took a moment to look upon his father, noting that he did have more of a look of the late Earl than the current Lord Livingstone, who was fair as his Uncle Arthur had once been. In fact, the resemblance between James and his late father was quite startling, no wonder the young Lord Livingstone had received such a shock.
"That's quite enough for tonight, boys," Arthur said, abruptly ending the reunion between the two brothers. "James, I'm sure that you and Edward will have plenty of chances to catch up over the season."
The estranged Livingstone brothers did not have a chance to catch up over Christmas, as James was segregated from the family in the servant's quarters. He ate his meals in silence, surrounded by staff who did not quite know what to make of him, so they ignored him completely. The loneliness of his life at Livingstone Hall meant that James was actually looking forward to returning to Westminster when the Christmas season came to an end. It was Plinkton who accompanied him on the carriage ride back to London, his demeanour gruff as ever.
"Here, lad," he said, as they reached the front steps of the school. "This was delivered to you last week. Your Uncle says that he'll not pay for anymore letters after this."
James took the folded sheet of paper, which was covered in a messy scrawl, with sweaty palms. There was no one who would write to him except Polly, and while he longed to read the letter straight away, he did not want to do so under the watchful eyes of Plinkton. It was only later, in the dim light of the dormitory as the other boys slept, that James finally allowed himself to read his best friend's words. It was a simple letter, filled with news of neighbours and friends, hints that all was not well with Polly's temperamental father, and a sad goodbye which confessed just how much Polly and Sarah missed him. She had signed it with all her love; a phrase that James read over again and again; written proof to his lonely soul that there was still someone in the world who cared for him.
Over the next few years, Polly was often in his mind, though he never again received another letter from her. Letters were paid for by the receiver and as Mr Plinkton had said, James' uncle had refused to part with any more shillings for his nephew's correspondence. He wondered often what she was doing, if her father was treating her well, and what she would be like when he returned to Newcastle.
For that was James' intent--to finish out his schooling and return to his hometown to Polly. Polly and Sarah were his only family, the only people in the world who cared for him and his happiness. This fact was underscored by the biting loneliness he felt at Westminster, where all the other boys were thick as thieves, and during the school holidays, when his actual family ignored him more than they would a servant.
In Newcastle, James had known grinding poverty--it had been woven into the tapestry of his everyday life--but in Westminster he discovered a different type of poverty, which stemmed from waking every morning to know that he was unwanted by all around him. Perhaps it was this pervading feeling of isolation that caused him to accept the hand of friendship from a boy he would otherwise have been repulsed by.
Laurence Lavelle, the eldest son of the Viscount Harrington, was the highest ranking boy in Westminster. He had a cruel face, set against pale blonde hair, a vicious tongue, and a profound disdain for the poor. When James returned for his third year in Westminster, nearly a foot taller than when he had left it, the young Lord Lavelle finally decided that James was now worthy of joining his gang of young hooligans.
Westminster boys were famous for roving London after hours, behaving like packs of feral dogs on the winding streets of the capital. They occasionally behaved so badly that their antics were raised as a cause for concern in the House of Lords--which only seemed to encourage them more. James had never been invited to partake in any of the shenanigans, but once Lord Lavelle had decided he was worthy enough, he found himself traipsing through the streets of London every evening with his chums.
They drank ale in the tawdry taverns of Covent Garden, gambled on cock fights in the pits of Moss Alley, and brawled with the sailors in Southwark. If James noted the disdain with which his new comp
anions spoke about the citizens of London, who wore the same look of hunger and cold as the people he had grown up with in Newcastle, he said nothing.
"Look at them," Lavelle sneered one evening as they made their way toward the Seven Dials, where they had it on good authority that a bull baiting was to be held, in an inn just off the Tottenham Court Road. "The locals are out for a spot of supper, how charming."
James, who had been feeling ill at the thought of the proceeding night's entertainment, glanced to where his friend pointed. Two urchins, about seven or eight by his estimates, were picking through the debris that littered the streets, gathering up scraps of vegetables which must have fallen from farmers' carts earlier that day. One of the children let a whoop of happiness, as he picked up a potato, covered in dirt, waving it for his friend to see.
"Disgusting," Lavelle snorted with a derisive laugh, that only made James feel even more nauseas. Inside he felt like thumping the entitled Lord who walked beside him, but as ever, the fear that he would once again be excommunicated kept him silent. This battle with his conscience was a daily thing surrounded as he was by the children of the ton who ridiculed anyone of low rank, but especially commoners. The fear that by defending the poor he would out himself as one of them prevented James from speaking his mind, but it did not stop the inner tumult of his conscience. He was finally accepted, finally wanted, finally no longer aching with loneliness, and he was petrified that it would all be taken away from him.
His uneasy silence was compounded that summer, when he returned to Sussex, to Livingstone Hall. News of his friendship with Lord Lavelle had reached his half-brother's ears, and one evening, the floppy haired boy appeared at his bedroom door.
"I hear you and Lavelle were whipped for visiting a bawdy-house," Edward said by way of greeting, his casual tone belying how impressed he obviously was with this.
"It was a gaming hell," James corrected him, habit causing him to adopt a bored expression, despite the shock he felt at his sibling's sudden interest in him.
"Oh," Edward looked a little deflated and turned to go, but paused, "Have you ever visited a bawdy house?"
"Of course," James lied, sensing that this would impress the younger boy. "Dozens of times —you must know what London's like."
"We hear," the young Lord replied glumly, edging further into James' small room. "That's all we can do down there is listen about your exploits, there's nothing like that down Eton way. Tell me, have you ever been with a girl?"
James could have been truthful and told his brother that he had as much experience with women as he did with embroidery, but instead he settled down and retold the stories that he had heard his classmates whisper at night. In his younger brother he found an avid listener, and while Edward soon disappeared to his own bedroom in main wing of the house, his brother sought him out again and again over the holidays. By the time that August was drawing to a close, James and Edward had bonded somewhat, and James was even eating supper with the family. Edward's mother, Lady Lavinia Livingstone, wore a look of suffering whenever she glanced upon James, and his Uncle just barely tolerated his company--but it was far preferable to eating alone.
When he returned again to Westminster, James was filled with a confidence that had previously evaded him. He settled back in amongst his friends easily, his new life no longer feeling new, the wealth and privilege no longer a burden, but an expectation. As the year wore on, he unconsciously adopted Lavelle's mode of thinking, not questioning himself when he joined in with the Lord's ribalding of anyone or anything that was different. James and Lavelle ruled the school of Westminster and the streets of London town, with the easy confidence of two young-bloods with the world at their feet.
If anyone had asked James to recall the names of his neighbours in Newcastle, or even the street that he had lived on, he would have struggled. Newcastle and his life there seemed so distant, that it was almost as if another boy had lived that life, and not James Livingstone.
It was only when Polly approached him one evening in late February, as he and Lavelle had passed through Liddel's Arch into the Dean's Yard, that James realised he had completely forgotten her too. In fact, for an instant he did not recognise her, as she stole across the cobblestones in filthy rags, waving at him madly.
"It's you!"
All that James saw, before he was embraced in a hug, was a flash of red hair. He froze at the unfamiliar feeling of being touched so warmly, but quickly regained his composure as Lavelle gave a howl of annoyance.
"Control yourself, woman," James heard Lord Lavelle shout, and the pair of arms were yanked away from him. "Who is this James? Some light-skirt you picked up along the way?"
James was frozen, almost afraid to look at Polly, as he registered the disdain in Lavelle's voice. Shame filled him, as he realised that to admit to having grown up with Polly would be admitting to his friend that he did not belong here.
"It's me, Polly," his old friend replied in confusion, her voice causing James to finally glance at her. She was dressed in clothes that had seen better days, and her young face looked too worn and tired for a girl of her age. A part of James longed to reach out to her, but a larger part, the part that was fuelled by fear, felt repulsed. It only took a split second, and almost before he had thought about it, James gave a shrug before he replied to Lavelle.
"I have no idea who she is; I've never met her before in my life."
As he betrayed her, James did not look at Polly, instead he glanced at Lavelle, who puffed up with self righteous importance at his words.
"Be off with you then," the blonde haired young man called, shooing at Polly with an impatient hand. "Back to St Giles, or whatever slum it was you crawled out of."
Lavelle took James by the arm and dragged him across the Dean's Yard toward the Abbey, the girl he had just insulted instantly forgotten. James followed him gladly, only glancing over his shoulder when they had covered some distance and he would not be able to see the hurt on Polly's face as clearly. Although he felt sick with himself for what he had done, he had hoped to catch one final glimpse of Polly, but she was not there. Which was typical of her, he had thought with a jolt--the Polly Jenkins that he had known would have not stood idly after being so insulted.
As the months passed, his betrayal of Polly began to haunt him. His friends, the friends that he had been so afraid would reject him, began to repulse him. Their debauched, louche, self-entitled arrogance grated on his every nerve, and he soon became involved in scuffles and altercations, that quite often ended in a bloodied nose.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" Lavelle had grunted as he hauled James off one of their acquaintances, who had made a disparaging comment about an elderly beggar.
"Nothing," James spat, shrugging Lavelle's hands from his shoulders. It was a lie, because everything was bothering him, but at seventeen years of age, James had not the words to express the shame and regret that wracked him.
That summer, in Livingstone Hall, James' Uncle Arthur took him aside one afternoon to discuss his future. The next year was to be his last at Westminster, and while his fellow classmates were headed to Cambridge or Oxford--depending on their families' tradition--James had no such plans laid out.
"You and Edward seem to have grown close."
As ever, his Uncle's conversation was a collection of uninspiring observations that required little reply, so James just nodded.
"The masters at Westminster have told me that, while you are quite bright, you are not quite fit for university."
A retort was on the tip of James' tongue, to argue that actually he was top of his class in all subjects, but then he realised his Uncle's ploy. Arthur Livingstone was simply not willing to pay for James to attend Oxford--if the other boulder heads in his class were going; there was no question that James was not clever enough.
"It's a pity, but luckily I was quite close with Lord Amherst and still have quite a few friends around Whitehall who can find you a nice posting--I shall pay for your
commission myself. You're joining the army boy."
"Thank you, Uncle," James replied, a little dazed, but a lot relieved by his Uncle's sudden interest in his future. He had never considered the army, but now that a path was laid out for him, he felt grateful for it. Perhaps his new family actually did feel a modicum of affection for him?
It was later that night, as he crept through the house's dark hallways on his way to the kitchens, that he discovered that it was not affection that motivated his uncle.
"Are you certain that Willhurst will have him posted to the Dragoons?"
The voice of his stepmother drifted from the library's open door, and though he knew that he shouldn't, James crept closer for he was sure that it was he she was speaking of.
"Quite certain, my dove." Arthur Livingstone's voice was calm and soothing, "And he's a good boy, he's easily led, like his father before him."
"Well, thank goodness for that," Lady Livingstone sighed, "I don't know what you were thinking when you took him in all those years ago."
"Call it a moment of noble madness," James strained to hear his uncle's voice, which was low with regret. "After all, Horace did care for my own bastard son--I could not have consigned his to the workhouse."
"Well, you should have," Lady Livingstone snipped, "For now we're forced to send him to war and hope that Napoleon kills him off."
"I suppose that it's better to die a hero for your country, than a street Arab with a hungry belly."
James did not stay to listen to the rest of the conversation; instead he turned and crept back to his room, his heart hammering in his chest. So his uncle had not wanted to help him at all; he had merely wanted to be rid of the nuisance bastard who he regretted saving. Bile rose in James' throat, and for a moment he feared he would retch. Once the waves of nausea had begun to subside, an anger began to build in his chest. He was furious at both his uncle and his stepmother for holding his life with such contempt, furious at the dead father he had never known for leaving him with them, and most of all, furious with himself.
The Captain of Betrayal Page 3