Gentlemen And Rakes

Chapter Two: The Little Broken Bird (Jack's PoV)

Sitting in a drifting fishing dinghy, the wind blowing steadily, and with absolutely nothing to do, I turned my thoughts immediately to the man I had believed I would never lay eyes upon again: Andrew Wilson.

He was there: merely standing there, watching me with a detached interest, his expression completely unfathomable. But no, what was so very much astounding was the way his eyes had met my own; so cold, so unflinching… so dispassionate. Never, in all the eleven years we'd been acquainted before his final treachery, had I had difficulty in reading him. The sudden shock of seeing him here shook me to the very core.

And now, as I laid back down on the bottom of the drifting Jolly Mon, my thoughts involuntarily strayed to the very recesses of recollection, dredging up a long-forgotten memory from my past…

My father had hated me. That was my earliest recollection; his complete and utter lack of consideration of my interests and general well-being. As a young boy, I'd never quite understood why—he seemed very fond of my elder brothers and sisters; but as I grew older, and as I disregarded my tutors' opinions of how the working-class contained very little news of interest for one as high-born as I in favour of eavesdropping, the news of my mother's many and various indiscretions gradually came to light. I'd never resented her for it; being forced into a marriage to the Marquis of Castlemaine, the younger brother of the more desirable Duke of Cleveland, couldn't have been very fulfilling for a woman of her disposition.

My mother, Nerita, was a beautiful woman, a passionate woman, whose later affairs stemmed from an unhappy state of matrimony. Born into a respected family of Spain, itself a very prudish and devout nation, she had been shipped off to England as my father's fiancée at the age of twenty-one; in the eyes of the law, an adult already.

The sudden shock of migrating to a country where the social laws of sexual engagement for women were considerably lax compared to those of her own Catholic upbringing (provided all extramarital activities be conducted with the utmost discretion of both involved parties), coupled with her own disgraceful temperament and scandalous views on female sexuality, meant that soon after acclimating herself to an alien realm, she soon embarked on a series of scurrilous activities and deeds that forever tarnished her name. It was from her that I had inherited the majority of my character; my attitude towards the double standards of the English 'world', my scorn for society, my hedonistic tendencies, and my fervour for independence.

From my father, a cold, hard man so alike all the other gentlemen of the world, I had acquired nothing. More proof that he was not my natural father, then—physically, we were both one extreme or the other; he was fair and pale, whereas I was dark and tan. Nevertheless, it was principally my mother I was close to; none of my siblings paid me any mind, knowing fully well that I was potentially a bastard, and my father and I, as a result, were never very close.

One of the principal things I could remember about my father was his ardour for hunting. He was never actually any good at it; his skills with a firearm left a lot to be desired. Actually, I have no idea as to where I had inherited my skills with both sword and pistol; my paternity was never actually confirmed, and although I knew full well that it was very likely that I was not his natural son, I still considered him my father, nevertheless.

One of the few incidents concerning my father that stuck vividly in my mind when I was a child was during one of our annual family retreats into the country every summer, where he proceeded to pursue this sport of his with an almost fatal fervour. My parents' legitimate children was thus: my brother, Charles, was the firstborn, followed by Isaac, Eva, my eldest sister, my youngest brother, George, my sister, Christina, Elisabetta, and finally me, John. As the youngest son, and at this age nothing more than a mere child, I was excused of accompanying him and my eldest brother, Charles, leaving me free to wonder in one of the several woods surrounding our country house.

So, naturally, I followed my father and my brother as discreetly as a four-year-old boy with an exceedingly inquisitive nature could do. I had always wondered as to what hunting entailed; I knew what the sport was, naturally, but I had always wondered why Isaac, only a year younger than Charles himself, was considered too young for such a popular pastime. I had a theory that it was simply because my father was jealous of Isaac's skill with a rifle; from what I'd heard, Charles hadn't fared much better than our father in that field. It was only after my nurse, Mrs Hatcher, had been lulled to sleep by the warm, lazy atmosphere of a Sunday morning in the country and her charge's refusal to go to bed at the specified time the night before, that I ventured to seek my quarry.

I remember stumbling through the leafy undergrowth, eagerly following the prints of the man and boy's hunting boots. My clothing was torn and my face scratched by several of the low-hanging branches, but I continued determinedly none the rest to follow them.

About an hour or so of this painful progress, with the bright morning sun filtering through the dense green foliage, and my face and clothing covered in sweat and dirt, did I finally hear voices. Cautiously, I crept closer, ducking behind a bush and crawling under it lest I wish to have an extra hole in my head when I returned to the house. The leaves and branches batted at my face, cutting my skin, and it was only then that my young mind realised that perhaps this wasn't such a good idea…

From what I could see, my father and brother appeared to be arguing over the next step to take in their little exploit whilst one of the stable boys whose sole purpose was to accompany the aristocratic pair and carry their weapons when they themselves did not require the rifles merely watched in hesitation and embarrassment.

My brother, apparently, was certain that there was a fox that had gone a certain direction, whilst my father insisted that there was no fox at all to begin. They continued in this vein for some time, until I began to wonder why I was so desperate to join their little hunting party to begin with.

My father, after ten minutes of petty bickering with his eldest son, finally lost his temper and, pulling back the hammer of one of his pistols, shot high into the branches of a fine oak tree. The sound of the pistol discharging echoed loudly in the near silence of the wood, and the stable boy jumped at the unexpected action.

After the silence slowly descended amongst the trees once again, I, unlike the hunting party that wouldn't have heard a cannon even if it had fired straight into their ears, could hear the soft, faint thud of an object falling to the ground. I was overcome with the urge to investigate further, but kept my place, knowing fully well that I had to wait until the three men had disappeared before my curiosity could be satisfied. I watched as my father ordered the stable boy sharply that they were to continue north until he had grown quite weary of this activity and wished to return.

Only as their footsteps died away did I venture to leave my uncomfortable hiding place, edging closer to the majestic tree. My eyes immediately spotted the creature that had so greatly peaked my interest; a small little brown bird with a broken left wing. He was quite a young bird; he'd probably just learnt to fly, and I could tell immediately, even though I was only four years of age, that the bullet had merely grazed his wing; the injuries were caused exclusively by the fall. (That's how bad a shot my father was.)

I gently scooped up the little winged creature, cradling him in both my hands, my mind already decided. Very slowly and carefully, I turned, picking an easier and more direct path back to the house than the one I had taken.

When I'd entered my bedroom, I saw immediately that my nurse, Mrs Hatcher, had been frantically searching for me. "John, you naïve little—" She halted mid-tirade, taking in my bedraggled appearance in horror. As soon as her eyes saw the little woodland critter that I had salvaged, she gasped, staggering back, and simply fainted. I didn't pay her much attention; she always seemed to be fainting at every little thing I did that I had begun to think it was as natural to her as breathing was to me.

Stepping around her unconscious form, I went immediately to my small bed, setting the chick down on my pillow. I stepped back, hesitating, uncertain as to what to do next; I had never cared for a sick or injured creature before, human or otherwise. With absolutely no other alternative, and motivated by the deepest sympathy for the small feathered thing, I tottered down to the kitchen with every intention of asking for help from one of the servants. I came across the butler first, and not knowing that there were differences amongst the servants' ranks, I explained my dilemma with childish simplicity to the man, and asked for his help. He raised his eyebrows but did nothing else to indicate his emotional state; instead he merely bowed to me and assured me that he will send a kitchen maid to my room as soon as was possible, and advised that I should return to my chambers and bathe before my mother or father caught sight of me.

He kept his word; within minutes a young woman had appeared, carrying strips of cloth and a little washing basin. She kicked Mrs Hatcher once in aggravation, causing the woman to jolt wide awake, and ordered the senior sharply to tend to her charge. This she did immediately, pulling me by the arm into my bathroom, and effectively leaving the girl alone to tend to the bird.

I stayed outside for a few hours to insure that my mother will not fret that I was ill for the remainder of the day, but for the rest of the evening I stayed with my new friend, assuring myself that he was fine and pointedly ignoring all of Mrs Hatcher's suggestions to release back into the wild.

As I settled into bed, my door suddenly slammed open, and Mrs Hatcher twirled around, shrieking. My father stood there. He must have been drinking, for his cheeks were flaming red, and he was also livid.

I heard my mother cry, "Edward!" before she, too, stepped into the light of my lantern. She still wore her simple white day dress, but it had been torn at the sleeve and shoulder, and her cheek was bruised, immediately telling me that my father was incensed by her, not me.

He paid no attention to her protests, simply throwing her off when she tried to restrict him. "Edward, please, this is ridiculous—Let him keep it, he's only a boy—This won't achieve anything—"

I had sat up, scrambling to the furthest corner of my cot, and sat huddled in terror as he advanced upon me. With one violent swoop he had gripped the little bird I had worked so hard to rescue, crushing his delicate form cruelly within his fist, eliciting chirrups of pain from the small bird. I let out a wail of terror whilst my mother continued screaming his name and Mrs Hatcher merely fainted from fear. With a sudden idiotic streak of bravado I threw myself at his arm, but having anticipated my action, my father simply pushed me back—though not enough to physically hurt me; that was an honour he bestowed exclusively upon my mother.

With his long, powerful, purposeful strides, he was soon at my window, unlocking it ferociously, and with one brutal movement had hurled my little pet out of the window.

By now I had begun to cry, and my mother had wrapped her arms firmly around me, whispering words of love and comfort against my dark hair.

But my father had yet to be done with his torture session. Grabbing a fistful of my mother's dark luxurious hair, he effectively pulled her away from me, all but dragging her across my floor. The door slammed tightly shut, leaving me alone in the dark with my tears.

I sat there, unable to comprehend what had just occurred, and uncertain as to how to perceive my father's actions. I was just a child: I had yet to learn right from wrong, righteous anger from unnecessary violence…

But as I sat there, huddled on my bed, one thing did finally register: I would not ever turn to this man, a man who may not even be my father, to see how to conduct myself. I would not take from him my mannerisms, my clothing, or most importantly of all, his treatment of other people.

Any love, any respect, any wishes of having an actual relationship with my father that I may have harboured had gone out of the window with that little sparrow.

-x!x-

AN: If you think about it, this chapter was really weird; we had Jack lying down in a stolen fishing boat, thinking about the one time his dad threw his pet bird out the window. Random, no?

jennifer123: Ah, now THAT would be telling, won't it? Yeah, she does, but not only him, so that's OK… What do you mean, they're a lot alike? In what way? Hm… I should already know this, shouldn't I?