We find ourselves, reader, in a small town; Oakham. Not auspicious, but with its own sense of muted stateliness nevertheless. There is a church with a spire whose taper pierces the sky quite impressively, and a little colonnade of shops, marching solidly side by side, bracketing a cobbled street. There are schools, also; two for the younger children, and one for the older boys, a particularly well-respected place; a Public School, no less, named for the little town itself. Oakham School is where we are to find our young protagonist, every day until just after five o' clock, when the sky begins to darken and his mother sends Lant in the hansom to retrieve him.
But I am misleading you, I fear, for you see, on the day our story begins, young Prouvaire – a plain John who in an up-stir of youthful fancy has taken to calling himself Jehan – can be found not at school, but in the grand little manor house (little only in comparison to some of its more formidable brethren) that has been home to his family since long before he was born. The manor, all grey stone, arching windows and elaborate cornices, seemed to some of the villagers a small castle. To the Prouvaires, Lord and Lady Oakham and their aforementioned son, however, it was home. Spending more time looking at the house from within than from without, they were more accustomed to its warm fires, oriental rugs and the soft reddish gleam of polished mahogany furnishings, than they were to its less inviting exterior.
Today, the Viscount of Oakham; that is, the senior John Prouvaire, has taken the hansom to the neighbouring village to visit a charity school named Wellwood, of which he is a patron. Wellwood, insofar as the boy Jehan understands, is a place where boys less fortunate than himself, who have no families, or whose families are for whatever reason incapable of caring for them adequately, are sent in lieu of the workhouse, that they might better themselves. Seated by the window in the drawing room, a book open in his lap, Jehan considers this place. He pictures sombre, silent halls and row upon row of desks. Figures in grey, their heads bent, hard at work. A more modest version of his own school, where the students are paler and more worn. He wonders what it might be like to be at such a place. Would it be cold at night? What sort of books would these boys read?
This is what he is thinking of when Vickers, the lady's maid who attends his mother, steps smartly through the open door and says with her usual briskness:
"Master Jehan, your mother says you're to stop dawdling and join her in the parlour. Your aunt and uncle will be here soon."
She sniffs, as though displeased with something – Jehan cannot think what – and leaves without another word. Reluctantly, he closes his book and gets to his feet, following her from the room.
Jehan's mother is a small woman – her son owes his rather diminutive stature to her – with bright eyes and a pointed little nose. Her fingers work busily at the pillowslip she is embroidering, and she looks up only for a moment as the boy enters and takes a chair diagonally across from hers.
"What have you been reading?" inquires the Lady of the house in such a mild tone that Jehan sees instantly, with no surprise, that Vickers had exaggerated her mistress' impatience.
"Only poems," he gives her a small smile, but does not elaborate. They are not 'only' poems; not to him, but his mother likes to read, but only novels, and she would not be able to tell Blake from Byron.
Lady Oakham looks up again, fondly. "I do wish your father hadn't picked today to visit Wellwood," she murmurs, "He's sure to be late for dinner."
This is not the heart of the matter, Jehan knows. His mother is more anxious about what her sister will think of Lord Oakham's absence. Jehan's aunt, genial though she is, is nothing if not a gossip-monger; he knows this, with the surprising perceptiveness of a quiet boy who will speak volubly when called upon; when impassioned, but who for the most part is content just to listen.
His mother mistakes his silence for melancholy, the way mothers are often wont to do. "Are you not happy about the prospect of having your cousin close by?"
Jehan nods, affecting eagerness as best he can. It isn't that he dislikes Cousin George. It is just that he knows him only marginally, he feels. At school, he calls him Bahorel, and Cousin George calls him Prouvaire, and that is how they have come to know one another.
Moreover – and this, he does not want to admit to himself – George Bahorel is the sort of boy Jehan ought to be. He plays cricket; he's often the instigator of bouts of fisticuffs in the schoolyard; he's obstreperous in the most winning manner possible. Bahorel is admired. Not revered, like Jehan's friend, Enjolras, but admired nevertheless. Jehan, puny Jehan with his books and his exemption from Games and his little bottle of foul-smelling emergency medicine, cannot hope to compete. And now that they are to live so near, surely Jehan's mother and his aunt will lose no time in beginning to compare the boys. To voice any of this would be absurd; akin almost to jealousy, so he holds his silence.
"Almost five o' clock," observes his mother, "We had better go out to meet them. They'll be here soon enough."
She rises, setting down her needlework, and Jehan, putting down his book, follows suit. This moment, now, filled with anticipation and unease – for the arrival of his cousin; for the coming school year – in equal parts, is what it is to be fourteen and affluent, languishing and accepting. He hopes for something to change, and all the while he fears it.
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"The boys are disciplined adequately," a portly schoolmaster assures Lord John Prouvaire, Viscount of Oakham. Mister Bragg, for that is the schoolmaster's name, bobs up and down on the balls of his feet, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The buttons of his shirt strain ominously.
The pair of them stand in a vast hall. In its vastness, and that alone, it is not unlike the hall envisioned that same day by Lord Oakham's son. There is a damp smell in the air, however – sharp and heavy; musty and fetid – that Jehan failed to imagine. The boys' clothes hang loose as rags, and, though they do indeed hunch over slates, the atmosphere is one of fear rather than industriousness.
"They are given three meals a day," Mister Bragg presses on, "Before each of which they're expected to give thanks to God. There're also prayers after morning victuals."
Lord Oakham nods gravely. A tall man with a thick head of red-gold hair, a pair of wide-set blue eyes and an air of ineffable gravity, Jehan's father wields authority in a manner that Jehan knows he himself could never hope to achieve. He listens to Bragg's bleating, but it is quite plain from the intent look in his light eyes that he doubts the truth of what the other man is telling him.
Presently, however, a noise from the hall beyond attracts his attention. A boy is sitting very upright in his seat, his hand raised to beg a question. Another schoolmaster – this one taller; almost as tall as Lord Oakham, whose long, narrow nose and close-set eyes give him a somewhat weaselly appearance – abruptly halts in his pacing about the room to look at the boy.
"What is it?" he demands, and the boy lowers his arm hesitantly and leans forward slightly in his seat.
"It says here that all men are created equal," the boy says. His voice is quiet, and yet it carries. Lord Oakham can hear him perfectly. "But that en't – I mean, that isn't true. If we're all equal, how come some of us got to be... How come some of us must be servants and get told what to do by other men? That's not equal. So... either God's a liar, or people en't – I mean, aren't following his will."
There is a sharp intake of breath from both schoolmasters. A handful of boys dare to look up.
"Get up," the weaselly schoolmaster's voice is very quiet.
The boy, clearly trying to keep from trembling, obeys, emerging from behind his desk and, knock-kneed with knowing dread, approaching the schoolmaster.
"Kneel," commands the schoolmaster.
Having no choice, his hapless pupil complies, shoulders tensed. The schoolmaster retrieves from its place against the wall behind him a long, dully gleaming cane.
The first strike on the boy's back makes his body jerk reflexively, but he makes no sound. He bears his blows in silence as down they rain, the other boys looking on in an unabashed tumult of horrified pity and relief that they are not the ones kneeling on the cold floor. The boy bites his knuckles to mute his cries, but after a time, he can bear it no longer and a strangled noise breaks from him. The boy gulps in a frantic breath as the cane descends again.
"Stop!" Lord Oakham calls out. His greatcoat billows stiffly as he moves toward schoolmaster and student. The scene is some grotesque oil painting, the man with his cane suspended, face stretched taut; the boy doing his best to stifle a sob, head ducked, thin arms wrapped about his knees.
What Lord Oakham does next surprises everyone present.
"What's your name, boy?" he asks of the huddled figure. The head bobs up fractionally in surprise, but aside from that, the lad stays immobile. He is around the age of Lord Oakham's own son, perhaps; it is difficult to say. Brown hair, unkempt and much in need of cutting, hangs in his face.
Barely audible, the boy mumbles a reply.
Lord Oakham looks down at the pitiful creature. "It's alright," he says, "I'm not here to hurt you. Tell me your name."
This time, the boy looks up properly. His hazel eyes are huge in a hollow-cheeked face. His lips are chapped, and there is an angry welt above his right eye. He looks both younger and older than Jehan.
"Henry Feuilly," says the boy in a little voice like dry leaves.
"And are you punished in this way often, Henry Feuilly?"
The boy's eyes are rounder than ever. "Y- n – yeh- Sometimes," he concedes finally, returning to staring at the floor.
"I am sorry, my Lord," Mr Bragg tells Oakham, "Feuilly asks too many questions."
Lord Oakham holds up a hand, appearing to think for a moment. Then:
"We are, you know, in need of a hallboy," says he at length, "How would you like to come and work for me, young Mister Feuilly?"
The boy stares.
"Lord Oakham," Bragg splutters, "You cannot mean-"
Oakham's reply is grave. "I mean precisely what I say, Mister Bragg. I cannot, of course, help all of the boys here; not directly. But I wish to give this boy a chance, if it is his wish to take it."
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"Really, Grace, this is divine!"
"Oh, don't thank me; give your compliments to our cook. She did all the hard work."
Jehan's aunt Lucetta loves to gush almost as much as she loves to gossip. Already, she has complimented the Prouvaires on a lamp in the drawing room, the wallpaper in the dining room, the quality of Lady Oakham's gown, and now the evening meal. Cousin George catches Jehan's eye, looking bored, discontented and restive.
More wine is poured. "How do you like the new house?" Lady Oakham enquires, "I hope you'll settle in well. The journey was painless, I hope?"
Mister Bahorel; Jehan's uncle, laughs heartily. "Oh, as painless as could be expected," he rumbles, "But we're here, now. We ought to make the best of it."
The disgruntled look on George's face shows Jehan exactly what he thinks of that idea.
Jehan keeps feeling as though his cousin is about to make some rude interruption, but he never does, and so Jehan is never able to make up his mind precisely how he feels about that idea. Cousin George is uncouth, so say most of the adults, and yet he is looked upon with a sort of nostalgic affection, as though he somehow reminds all present of their younger days. This makes Jehan curious, abstractedly, to see what the adults might say, were George to make one of his loud, unthinking remarks. But people, as we have learnt from Lord Oakham, rarely do what is expected of them, and so George Bahorel remains grudgingly silent. He positively seethes with that silence, shovelling food ferociously into his mouth. His mother gives him a languorous, vague smile and then returns to what she is saying. Jehan wishes fervently for the evening to draw to its close. He counts to ten, and then back down again, thinking that perhaps, by the time he has finished counting, it might be time at least for dessert.
He is placing down his knife and fork, unable to eat another bite, when the dining room door opens and Lant, the butler, ushers Lord Oakham into the room. The first footman draws back his seat, but Jehan's father, before sitting, clears his throat and says cordially:
"Oh, hello, Lucetta; Matthew – why, George, how much older you look! I hope you have been made quite welcome. My apologies for the delay. Grace, I have found us another hallboy, name of Feuilly. I think he will serve us quite well."
Tutting, Jehan's mother shakes her head. "That is what you have been doing with yourself? Looking for servants! Haven't we quite enough to be going along with? Well, do sit down, won't you? You've held us up quite enough."
She speaks with the brisk, feigned aggravation of wives, and her husband, true to his role, does his best to look sheepish and contrite. The footman pours wine for Lord Oakham, and the adults proceed to discuss various important people from London, and the impending possibility of a war in the Ottoman Islands. Jehan half-listens. He is thinking, you see, of two days from now, when school will begin again and he will apply himself to copybooks and Latin and Greek; when he will be reunited, after the long summer, with the friends he had made the previous year. He is not thinking of canes or beatings or war or debt; he carries the weight of neither the old nor the undermined. His troubles exist, for no one is ever entirely without troubles, but they are a child's pains. He is, for all intents and purposes, still a child. Fourteen, and waiting in the wings for the world to lift him up and do what it will with him.