Page 26 of The Rake and Lady Julia
The lad grinned, dirty-faced but delighted with himself.
"Aye, sir," he nodded, "The Reverend Laurence read some to us last week. I'm not so taken by all the flowery bits, but I do like it when they kill each other with their swords."
"That's usually my favourite bit too," Rob replied, as his mind mulled over the familiar name. "Tell me, is this Reverend Laurence a tall fellow, with spectacles, and a shock of red-hair?"
"That's him," the boy nodded, and Rob grinned.
"Take me to him," Rob requested.
"I have a third pocket that sits empty, sir," the lad replied, with baleful eyes.
"And you'll have a red ear to go with it, if you don't stop your rattling."
Though his words were cold, Rob's tone was warm as he spoke, and the lad dutifully began to lead the way to the Reverend Laurence, confident that another coin would soon be forthcoming.
He brought Rob, who in turn led his steed, down back-alleys, across fetid courtyards, and along lane-ways which looked near collapse, until they reached a small, stone house.
The building was unremarkable, save for that it was the only one on the road which did not look as though it were leaning on its neighbour for support, and Rob frowned as he pondered why Laurence—the second son of a Viscount—lived amongst such poverty.
The young boy gave a rat-a-tat knock upon the door, which was shortly answered by William Laurence, who stared at Robert in surprise.
"Why," he said, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose to peer out at Rob, "Is that you, Montague?"
"I was the last time I checked," Montague grinned, and with that his friend ushered him inside.
"I see you have met Tim," Laurence said, as he pottered about the house's small kitchen to prepare tea, "He has tongue enough for two sets of teeth, but a good lad none the less."
"I am hardly in a position to judge anyone gifted with the gab," Montague grinned, as he gratefully accepted the cup of tea which Laurence offered him.
"I had heard that you had taken the cloth from your father," Montague said, as the Reverend took a seat opposite him, "But not that you had set up a school in The Rookery. What on earth are you doing in the Dials, man? I could have set you up with a living, had you the need for it."
Laurence inclined his head graciously, but an amused smile played around his lips.
"Thank you for your kind offer," he said, as he sipped on his tea, "But my father has already offered me a living, which I humbly refused."
Refused? Robert raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
At Oxford, all the students of theology had been on the hunt for a comfortable living. Those young men—tuft-hunters, as they were oft referred—spent nearly as much time courting the favour of the titled students, as they did studying. Many a tuft-hunter had graciously offered to transcribe Robert's dictated essays, in the hope that he might one day bestow them with a generous Parish living. A living that might offer great reward for little work.
Laurence was amongst the many who had offered their assistance to Robert, though Rob was now beginning to suspect that this offer had been wholly guided by altruism.
"You look surprised," Laurence laughed, pushing a plate of biscuits across the table to him.
"Well," Rob scratched his head, "I can't say I understand why you would encamp yourself in The Rookery, when you might be fattening yourself off the tithes of your father's tenants."
"The obligations paid here are few and far between," Laurence agreed, "But then, I rather think that a servant of the cloth should serve his parish, rather than profit from them."
"You could have served your father's parish admirably," Rob countered, still bewildered by his old chum's choice to take a vow of poverty. His goodness was so obscene, it was almost Papist in its nature. Did Laurence not know how unfashionable Catholicism was at the moment?
"The flock in Digby-on-Burton care more that their bottoms are perched upon the finest pew, than to listen to the words from the pulpit," Laurence shrugged, "They do not need my help, but here in St Giles, I am needed everywhere, especially amongst the orphaned children."
"So, you have set up a school?" Rob asked wondrously; he could not imagine being so good-hearted that he would give up a life of luxury to teach a gaggle of street-Arabs.
"What better way to spread the word of the Lord, than to teach the children how to read?" Laurence asked, with a smile. "Though they are more interested in stories and plays, than the good book, if I am honest. They adore watching me play out Shakespeare. My acting skills are rather lacking, but it is easier for them to follow the story that way, than to read it."
Montague, who was a connoisseur of the theatre for that very reason, was struck by a pang of something he could not quite identify.
"So, you're teaching them their letters?" Montague clarified, and as he recalled how patient Laurence had been with him, during their days at Oxford, he could think of no better man for the task.
