His Butler, the Apprentice

Chapter 1: Runaway

I seemed to have lost him, after I'd run as I never had before in my life. I took refuge under a footbridge, panting, trembling and lying full length on the ground, with my rucksack still on my back, and a stolen apple in each hand. I'd never nicked anything before in my life either, apart from the occasional sweet or biscuit every now and then. I knew it was wrong, but I hadn't had anything to eat beyond a thick hunk of sawdust-dry bread the previous day, and another that morning. Nor had I planned on being caught, but caught I was nonetheless, by one of the hired hands whose job it was to tend the orchard I'd happened upon.

"Come back 'ere, yeh pint-sized thief!" he'd bellowed. "Wait 'til I get me 'ands on yeh! Tan yer bloody 'ide, I will!"

He couldn't shout much more, since he'd had to save his breath for running. Somewhere down the line, though, he must have decided it was not worth chasing me all over Sussex County over a couple of apples, not when he still had a whole orchard to help tend.

Truth be told, I'd had no idea I could run so fast. I calmed down after a while. Of course I couldn't expect the hired hand to be happy about my pinching those apples, but one would have thought I'd made off with a gentleman's watch or something. That notion jarred loose an old memory of a rhyme from when I was little:

"Who has stole my watch and chain,
Watch and chain, watch and chain?
Who has stole my watch and chain,
My fair lady?"

That stirred up other memories: Two women, one dressed in white, the other in red, holding their arms outstretched to form an arch, under which passed an eight-year-old girl in a pink dress, a seven-year-old boy in a white sailor tunic and blue shorts, and another boy, five years old, dressed identically, but reluctant to join in the game:

"Off to Newgate you must go,
You must go, you must go.
Off to Newgate you must go,
My fair lady."

I divested myself from the reverie, and tried to decide which of the two apples to have first. I started in on the smaller one. It was all I could do to keep from cramming as much of it in my mouth as possible and wolfing it down.

You don't want it coming back up, I told myself firmly. That apple tasted sweeter than anything I'd had in months, especially while working in that horrible importer's warehouse down in Southampton. Juices ran down my chin, which I wiped up on the back of my hand and licked. I even ate the core of the apple, and spat out the seeds. After that, I felt as though I'd dined on a meal fit for a king – Henry VIII came foremost to mind. I shoved the other apple, the larger of the two, into my rucksack.

Save it for later. If you have it today, you won't have it tomorrow. I'd only happened upon that orchard by chance. I might not be so lucky in future. That was liable to become increasingly true, the closer I approached London. Orchards would give way to estates and townhouses.

I clambered down the ravine toward the brook running underneath the footbridge. The water looked clear enough. My father had taught me never to drink water from any source outdoors unless it was running. I scooped some up in my hands, and took a cautious sip. Deciding it was all right, I drank more. I finally pried off my worn low shoes (the only pair I owned) and eased my blistered, swollen feet into the cold water. It stung a bit at first, but after less than a minute, the pain went away.

The sun shone, casting sparkles on the brook. Hardly a cloud dappled the sky. I could have stayed and rested under that bridge with my feet in the water all day long. Reluctantly, I pulled them from the brook, shook the water from them, and put my shoes back on. Blisters or none, I had to keep moving, if I was to arrive where I was journeying by dark. I fought off a strong temptation to strip, wash off in the brook (how wonderful that would have felt!), and put on the other set of clothes from my rucksack, but no, time wouldn't permit it. I had to settle for splashing my face and hands. I didn't want to spend yet another cold night outdoors, on the hard earth, worrying about what creatures might crawl upon my body. Never mind that while I worked at that importer's, I lay awake listening to the sounds of rats, mice and God only knew what else scratching and gnawing inside the walls of the packed dormitory where I slept with the other boys.

Less than fifteen miles to go. Less than four hours' walking time, if I didn't tarry anymore. Thank God it was early summer, when the days were quite long. It was also before the beginning of "the season," when the wealthy journeyed from their estates on the outskirts of Greater London to their townhouses in the City. I'd have hated to have to walk the streets dressed as I was: a threadbare Norfolk jacket, frayed knickerbockers, stockings worn away to virtually nothing, and a stained, tatty shirt. I'd neither washed nor changed clothes for four days.

"Just let me make it to the Phantomhive estate before dark," I prayed. "And I'll … I'll …" I'd what? I'd had plenty of time to go over in my mind what I'd do once I arrived, but in my filthy, ragged state, I didn't nearly resemble the son of a great traveling stage magician, so much as a young street urchin. They could just as easily turn me away and bar the door on me before I'd had a chance to prove who I was. Well, just let me make it to the estate, and after that, whatever happened, happened. I scrambled back up the ravine, crossed the footbridge, and doggedly put one sore foot in front of the other.

It was a small miracle I was able to find the Phantomhive estate at all. I hadn't visited there in nearly three years, not since I'd just turned eight. My mother was still alive then, and living together with my father. Back then, I'd worn nice clothes, ate delicious foods, and lived in comfortable quarters. I'd had a room of my own with a soft warm bed to sleep in, and an abundance of games and toys to play with. I knew that the estate lay on the very edge of Greater London, if not just outside, but was it south, east, west or north of the City? I must have flagged more than a dozen passersby to ask for directions, only to be ignored, or worse, jeered at.

"D'you really think you can beg off Lord Phantomhive? He won't take kindly to that, I'd reckon."

Meanwhile, the sun sank lower into the western sky. I had no watch, but I judged the time to be between four-thirty and five. I had practically no money either, certainly not enough to afford any kind of lodging in the City. If I loitered anywhere for too long, the police would arrest me for vagrancy. How I wished I had taken the time to wash and change clothes!

Why, oh, why had I run away? I couldn't have been any worse off at that importer's warehouse than where I was, wandering down a lonely dirt road. But with the prospect of a place to run to, I'd developed a resolve to do so, for probably the same reason Napoleon had elected to invade Russia in 1812: It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now everything felt so hopeless that all I wanted was to fling myself to the earth and bawl like a baby. I might have done just that too, had I not heard the sound of approaching hoof beats and the rattling of a carriage harness.

Two gray horses drew the carriage. They neither galloped nor trotted. They just ambled along, as though neither the driver nor the passengers were in any great hurry. I stopped and stared for the small carriage looked as though it belonged in a parade, or a young girl's birthday party. Someone had carefully braided and beribboned both horses' manes. Pink satin bows, ribbons and lace hung from the carriage itself. I ran out into the middle of the road.

"Oy! Which way is the Phantomhive estate?" I called, waving my arms and keeping my Norfolk jacket open to show that I carried neither dirk nor pistol.

The driver of the carriage merely flicked his whip across the horses' backs causing them to gallop. He pulled on the reins, steering the horses and carriage around me. I caught a glimpse of the passengers, both of whom were girls, one blonde, the other brown-haired.

"Which way is the Phantomhive estate?" I yelled, running after them.

Dust clouds trailed in their wake, mocking me. No point in attempting to pursue them further. I stood at the side of the road, sniffling, forcing back tears, and trying to reason out what to do.

That carriage had been covered at the top, but open at the front and sides, as though built to travel only during the day, especially with all the frilly trappings it bore. Wherever it was the driver and passengers were headed, it couldn't have been too far away. I followed the fresh tire tracks and horseshoe prints in the dirt as best I could. Any course of action had to be better than simply staying in place. I hadn't much hope of finding the Phantomhive estate, not anymore, but I thought perhaps I might come across a farmhouse or a cottage, where they'd let me rest a while, maybe even allow me to stay overnight and feed me in exchange for chores. I'd never made any arrangement like that before in my life, but it might work. I understood such things worked.

I no longer walked, but shuffled along the road until my feet felt as though they might fall off. Then, I saw a gravel path – not another dirt road – a gravel path, branching off from the main road! The tire tracks showed that the carriage had indeed turned from one to the other. Up ahead loomed the most beautiful sight I'd seen in more than a year. I just stood there, trying to take in the mansion and the estate, and hoping against my better sense.

Anyone might live here, I told myself. It can easily not be the Phantomhive mansion. And yet –

"Oh, God, please let it be," I prayed despite myself. "Please let it be."

I crept slowly up the gravel path, wondering whom I might encounter. I came upon a flower garden so colorful it would have sent the rainbow itself packing in shame. A bit further along, a girl in blonde hair and a red dress sat on a granite bench. She clipped the ends from various blooms and flowers, and inserted them into an ornate crystal vase. I guessed she was preparing a table centerpiece. She looked to be about thirteen or fourteen, a few years older than I was, and oddly familiar. Wonder and hope rose higher in me. Could she possibly be…?

"If you please, Miss." I spoke a bit more loudly than usual. I'd long rehearsed this over and over in my mind over the journey. She looked up sharply and stared at me. The flower whose stem she'd just clipped dropped from her hand. Could she possibly be…? She had to be! I was sure of it. How often do you run across blonde hair and green eyes?

"If you please, Lady Elizabeth Midford."

"I – I beg your pardon?" she stuttered incredulously, rising to her feet. "H-how did you know…?"

I wasted no time with explanations. Now that I had her full attention, I started what I'd planned shortly after I'd fled the import dealer. I had to act quickly, lest my one gossamer-thin chance vanish altogether. I yanked back the dirty, frayed sleeves of my shirt, to show that I had no trick devices up either of them, nor did I have anything in my hands. I then closed my left hand into a loose fist, and inserted the thumb and index finger of my right hand into the left. I concentrated with whatever might I could summon, and, thankfully, felt cloth materialize between my fingers. Normally, I would have extracted a red silk square. Instead, in my diminished state, I could only draw from my left hand a white cotton handkerchief.

"My goodness gracious!" Lady Elizabeth finally found her tongue. "How did you…? Where ever did you come…? Who are you?"

That one simple sleight-of-hand trick, the very first one my father had taught me, had done what I'd needed it to do. Still, it had cost me nearly all my remaining energy. A wave of sickly yellow and black dots swam before my eyes. I felt myself starting to sway. I struggled to get the words out.

"I … am … David Jamison … Coppersmith."

With that, I fainted into Lady Elizabeth's arms.