Page 7 of The Captain of Betrayal
"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 companions 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?"
