Page 1 of The Artisan and the Duke
Chapter 1
The year my brother came home was a year of great unrest and turmoil. We had won a great victory at war but were losing ground back home. My brother left a bright, shining example of bravery and returned a shaken shell filled with fear. His confidence had been left on some bloodied battlefield, and all that he brought home were nightmares.
London, June 1819
Gregory St Claire, Duke of Thornton, pulled on a plain, if rather worn, white shirt and breeches like the commoners wore. He sidestepped around corners and evaded the servants who might tell his mother of his appearance or anything else. Gregory liked to be alone most of these days. Wandering the streets of London gave him great solace that he was not as ignorant to the plight of the common man as his fellows and peers.
The streets off the main roads were tight and curling affairs. The roads wound around brick buildings where sheets were hung out windows and overhead. The sun was almost completely blocked at points by laundry hanging between the buildings.
Gregory stepped around a suspicious puddle. It had not rained that day, and Gregory had no intention of finding out what the origins of the puddle actually were. Ahead, he heard voices, and he quickened his pace.
A young man, slender of frame, stood up on top of a wooden crate. He looked at the gathering of men and women. “Too long have we suffered injustices at the hands of the mighty. The Lords and Ladies dance while our children starve,” the man shouted, and there were nods of agreement. A quiet mumble of discourse among those gathered around sounded as they found they felt similarly.
The spokesman said fervently, “I’m not calling for violence. I’m calling for change. We as artisans have to stand up for our livelihoods. If we do not, then no one will. The tons label us as libel, they plaster names of distaste on our children’s heads, and we have let them do it.”
A man in the crowd shouted, “How can we stop them? If we gather in public, they arrest us. If they choose not to pay us for hard work done, we have no recourse.”
“Where a footing is not equal, someone is bound to fall,” the spokesman said in agreement with the man who had spoken out. “I am just suggesting that it be they who fall and not us.”
There were shouts of approval from the crowd, and Gregory felt a vague sense of uneasiness. He could not disagree with any point the crowd or spokesman had made. Perhaps, that made him most uneasy of all.
As the crowd started to disperse, Gregory sought out the spokesman. He was very interested in meeting this young man who held such lofty ideas of reform. “Excuse me, Sir,” Gregory said with deference to the man as he caught up with him.
As the man turned, Gregory took stock of the dark, quick eyes that sized him up as swiftly as the hunter spotting game. “I was wondering if I could have a word,” Gregory said with a polite smile.
“You seem to already be having a word,” the young man said coldly. “I’ve got things to do, Mister.”
Gregory reached out and grabbed the boy’s arm as he turned to leave. “Please, just a moment of your time.”
“I haven’t seen you before,” the young man said suspiciously. “Who are you?”
Gregory said simply, “My name is Gregory, and truthfully I haven’t been around much. I don’t come into London proper that often.”
“Farmer or herder,” the young man said with a nod. “Funny, you don’t look like you’ve ever done a good day’s work with those hands.”
Gregory could not protest that, but his hands were not that of a woman’s. “I’ve done my share of things,” Gregory said without elaborating. The young man’s hair was tucked under his derby cap.
It was then that Gregory noticed the delicacy of the man’s cheekbones, and something about it made him uneasy. Something was not right about this boy, but Gregory could not put his finger on it.
“Are you a Molly or something?” The young man asked the question as he stepped away from Gregory and the intent gaze the taller man was giving him.
Gregory laughed, “Hardly. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I was just taken by your delicate features. You could pass for a girl.”
“And you could almost pass for a man,” the young man fired back at Gregory. The young man turned on his heel and swiftly walked away but threw the words over his shoulder, “You might want to watch yourself. People around here are not too keen on strangers.”
Thinking it wise to let the young man cool off, Gregory did not try to pursue him. He knew a thing or two about young male pride, and the remark of Gregory’s had evidently smarted. With a sigh, Gregory turned back towards the main street. He would be missed soon with the dance of Lady Mallory set for this evening.
***
Jules had paused at the corner and watched the strange man walk off toward the busier, wider roads of the heart of London. What sort of herder would be coming from the centre of London? Jules mused on it as she turned towards her own home. The building where her mother and younger siblings lived was just around the corner and a quick jaunt up some steps.
The building had been one that her father had helped build back when this block of the city was merely just a thought and a dream. She stepped inside their apartment where her mother sat sewing up some garment or other. “Hello, Mother,” Jules said as she swept the cap off her head. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders in waves.
“Was that you I heard rousing the army out there?” her mother called as Jules walked into the kitchen to splash some water from the basin on her face.
Jules laughed, “Might’ve been.”
“You really should be careful, Julia,” her mother warned. “It’s bad enough that you insist on keeping this ridiculous pretense up, but with the guards arresting people without regard, I worry so about you. I thought when your father died that you would put this all aside and look for a husband perhaps.”
