The arrival of chapter two!
Thank you very much to Quina and Divinehearts for reviewing the previous chapter. Less-than-threes for both of you! 3
Thank you also to LadyEnvy13, BlackRoseDraco, Frostbite122, milesae19, and again Divinehearts for your favorites and alerts.
I hope this chapter meets your expectations!
I disclaim, and own nothing.
_V~-~-~V_
Two Years Later
It was December 17, 1773, and Alfred F Jones was back in Massachusetts. Wrapped up in two jackets, thick pants, his trusty brown boots, and a scarf, he made his way through the snowy streets of Boston.
He didn't really know why he'd returned. The last two years had been spent doing some farming across the nearby colonies, a bit in New York and eastern Pennsylvania. It didn't pay much, and he only stayed in one place as long as there were crops, so he never made any established relationships. After the Joneses, he'd promised himself he'd never make such an error again.
Though he did wonder why he'd grown all of a sudden, going from looking approximately eleven at the time he'd left the Jones house to looking somewhere in his late teens. He did get more work that way, but it was irritating to have to spend what little money he saved on new clothes every time he woke up a good inch and a half taller.
He had no difficulty finding work; in fact, nearly everyone he met was more than willing to take him in. He wrote it off as his natural charisma and the genuine friendliness of the American people, never really knowing exactly what compelled everyone to open their homes to him with boundless generosity.
He'd settled down for the winter with a nice middle-aged man in Connecticut that he'd harvested pumpkins for the previous fall when suddenly, he felt the urge to go to Boston. When he'd told the man that, he'd just smiled and said, "Ah, the energy of youth!" and sent him off (with a new scarf from the missus, and a warning that it would be cold this time of year, as if he didn't already know that).
Alfred had made his way back by hitching rides on the backs of carriages and hay wagons, and walking from time to time. He slept under trees, unwilling to spend any of his precious little money on an inn when he knew the outdoors were perfectly safe (he thanked his early upbringing for that). After purposely taking the long way around New Haven, he found himself in increasingly busy city streets.
And so he arrived in Boston, altogether unsure of what exactly he was supposed to be doing there, but knowing that he certainly was hungry. Making his way through the snow, much of which had been shoveled aside by locals, he pushed through the door of one of Boston's increasingly popular coffee houses.
Alfred adored coffee houses. Not only was their food usually pretty good, they were something people used to have open, American discussions, something that gave him a curious sense of pride. He was unsure of when the switch had occurred for most of the population of the colonies, when they started to really consider themselves "American" instead of English, but he knew he always had.
But this coffee shop went beyond his expectations. It seemed that half of Boston was crammed into the tiny wooden space, talking animatedly to one another. Unsure of what to do, Alfred made his way to the counter and asked the frazzled-looking lady for a cup of coffee and perhaps a breakfast pastry, handing her a few coins as he did so. She smiled at him, reminding him for a moment, with her blond bun and blue eyes, of Sarah.
When she returned, he ventured a question. "Excuse me, ma'am…"
She turned. "Yes? Is your coffee to bitter? I can add some sugar…"
"No, no, it's not that…" he replied with a shake of his head and a quick smile. "I was just wondering, what is everyone talking about? I just arrived this morning, so I'm afraid I really don't know—"
"Don't know? Where've you been, son?"
Alfred turned, tilting his head slightly upwards to meet the eyes of the man sitting next to him. "I just got here today, from Connecticut."
"Well, we Yanks just one-upped those Brits, yes we did!" he cried, eliciting a rousing cheer from the others around him. He was clearly a regular, recognized by those around him, and his unusual appearance probably did little to help that. He wore scuffed overalls with a patched jacket over his shoulders, labeling him as a dock worker or manual laborer of some sort. Despite his age (presumably late thirties), he had a full head of thick brown hair, and on his square jaw was a few days' worth of stubble.
Still confused, Alfred ventured, "By doing what?"
"We dumped all their tea into the harbor, that's what! Serves them right and all, for taxing us all blind for their damn leaves…"
He continued ranting, gesturing wildly with his large, calloused hands, but Alfred began to tune him out, returning to his coffee.
"—revolution on their hands is where they're headed—"
Alfred nearly spat out his coffee. "Revolution?"
The man paused long enough to glance at him again. "That's what half the colonies are talking about! Of course there's some doubters, but people like us can't stand the tyranny of a good-for-nothing king forever, now can we?"
Nodding sagely, the man tapped Alfred on the nose. "You just watch, son, it'll come soon enough. Heck, you're young, you'll probably fight in it! Fight for American freedom, that's what you'll do!" With that, he slammed his empty cup down and left, waving at the other patrons of the coffee shop as he passed out the door.
The woman returned to collect his dishes, glancing sympathetically at Alfred as she did so. "He's always like that, prattling on about his revolution. Pay him no mind, dear."
"Do you really think that'll happen?" Alfred asked. "A revolution? Is that the only way to solve the problem?"
"I don't believe so," she replied, wiping the cup with an already stained rag, "but you know these menfolk, always loving to have their war plans. I would prefer it if England minded its own business, yes, but we are a colony, and they are at war elsewhere too, needing our funds. And they have always kept our people safe, wouldn't you agree? But you're too young to remember that, aren't you?" Suddenly, Alfred's coffee tasted bitter. She looked up from her wiping to smile.
"More sugar in that coffee, dear?"
"Yes, please."
_V~-~-~V_
In order to stay in Boston, Alfred found himself working for the lady at the coffee shop, earning a small amount of money in addition to room and board. Her name was Prudence Williams, a widow who had come to America as an indentured servant to pay off family debts in England and had worked her way up to becoming the owner of St George's. Her previous assistant, a teenage girl named Rose, had moved with her family to Philadelphia just a few weeks before.
Alfred came to love St George's, with its wood-paneled dining room and perpetual scent of coffee beans. He got all the latest news, local and sometimes international, from the patrons, some of whom sat around for hours a day. Prudence even taught him to bake the little pastries and meat pies she served.
Coffee though, still struck Alfred as tasting a lot like dishwater without lots of sugar. Prudence often laughed at him for this, saying, "You work in a coffee shop, and still can't stand the taste of coffee? Thank God for that! Otherwise I'd be spending half a fortune on employee beverages!"
Instead of taking his lunch there, Alfred would walk down to the wharf and buy something from a market vendor, or stop in at a bakery, then sit at a dock and admire the large ships that came almost daily from the other colonies and occasionally from England.
It was on one such day when Alfred first saw a man who would later change his life, though it would take many years for him to realize it.
A ship from England was coming into port, larger and grander than any of the normal trading vessels. Alfred made his way through the crowd that had gathered to witness it docking, pushing towards the front. A gangplank was lowered, and out came a group of finely-dressed Englishmen, all of whom looked down at the assembled crowd with varying expressions of distaste.
But Alfred's eye was caught by one in particular. His jacket was longer, flashier than all the others who wore business coats, as was his hat with its large purple plume and knee-high buckled boots. Even from a distance Alfred could see his thick eyebrows, the sight of which oddly reminded him of caterpillars. He also looked a good thirty years younger than every other member of the party. He seemed to be a side feature of the group, and yet, Alfred felt drawn to him the same, inexplicable way he'd been drawn to Boston. The man turned, and to Alfred's shock, his eyes looked straight into his.
Alfred had time to notice his eyes were green before realizing what exactly he was doing. Embarrassed to be caught staring, he quickly averted his gaze and wormed back through the crowd. Perhaps someone at the coffee shop would know who the man was.
_V~-~-~V_
"Alfred Jones! You were supposed to return twenty minutes past!" Prudence was not pleased with Alfred's dawdling, and she was letting him know so, right in front of the rest of the lunch crowd.
"Sorry, ma'am," he replied. "A ship from England just arrived, full of officials. I got caught up in the crowd watching." He omitted the part about the strange young man with the thick eyebrows.
"I know how much you like ships, but that's no excuse for being late to work, young man!" Alfred blushed, resisting the urge to tell her he was definitely not supposed to be addressed as a young man and the urge to tell whoever it was in the crowd that was snickering at his predicament to please shut up.
"Sorry, ma'am," Alfred repeated. "It won't happen again, ma'am."
Prudence's gaze finally softened at the defeated look on the face of her young charge. "That it shall not, I trust. Now get to work, there's customers waiting."
Alfred hurried off into the kitchen, while Prudence shouted behind him at the patrons, "Show's over! Sorry for the disturbance!"
Later that evening, Alfred once again saw the loud man he'd met his first day in Boston. When he approached him to ask for his order, he saw a spark of recognition on his face.
"Ah, the country boy!" he declared loudly, slapping Alfred on the back. "Made a place for yourself in the city, eh? Excellent, excellent!"
"It's nice to see you again, sir," Alfred replied, taking the man's order for black coffee. When he returned, the man was already talking to someone else at a neighboring table. Loudly, of course. It was abundantly clear that this man never spoke in anything less than a shout, and couldn't do anything without slamming, or stomping, or banging something in his immediate vicinity. Absently, Alfred wondered if the man's work had damaged his hearing.
"Here you are, sir," Alfred said, setting the cup down and making his way back to the kitchens, but the man's voice stopped him.
"What did you say your name was, boy?"
"I didn't say, but it's Alfred Jones," Alfred replied, turning back to face the man as he spoke.
"Cheeky, boy," the man said, but he smiled. "Thomas Mather's my name." He extended a hand, which Alfred took, fearing for his bones as the other man squeezed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Alfred."
"You as well, sir," Alfred replied, shaking his hand loose behind his back.
"My niece, Rose, used to work here, you know," Thomas continued. "I developed a habit of coming here in my free time, and I guess I haven't broken it yet."
"I'm sure Ms Williams is happy to have such a loyal customer, sir." Thomas laughed.
"You look like you have a question," he said, his gray eyes twinkling.
Alfred paused. "As a matter of fact… I was wondering, do you know anything about the men that came on the British ship today?"
Thomas snorted derogatorily. "A bunch of stuffed-up delegates is all. All they want is more money from us, robbing us blind is what they're doing. I watched them come in, that I did, and saw their ugly, self-important expressions for myself."
"Actually, I was wondering specifically about one… he was younger, perhaps in his early twenties, and looked a bit out of place in the group."
"Indeed, I know the one you mean," Thomas replied, "and to be true, he did look strange, and I've seen him on delegations before. But I'm afraid I can't help you in terms of who he is, that I can't."
"Oh." Alfred was a bit disappointed, but he supposed he could find the strange man some other way, if he really did come on other delegations. "Thank you anyway, Mr. Mather."
"No problem. Do me a favor though, Alfred. If you do find out who he is, I'd like to know. Indeed, you've piqued my curiosity."
"I will, sir." Alfred took his leave, returning to the kitchens to resume work before Prudence could come out and yell at him for taking so long and bothering customers.
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred was at his usual spot on the pier a few days later. It was a lovely day, bright and sunny, with a gentle breeze coming off the water. He could hear the dockhands chatting loudly a bit to his right while he munched on a ham sandwich Prudence, in a fit of generosity, had decided to make for him.
A seagull landed beside him, eyeing Alfred's sandwich with beady black eyes. He smiled, and broke off a crust, holding it out towards the bird in his palm. It cautiously studied the offering for a moment, sizing up the possible threat that was Alfred, before closing the gap and snatching the bread in one quick motion before flapping madly backwards. Alfred just smiled at it, wondering how many other people could get seagulls to eat out of their hands. Ever since he'd first met Lulu's mother, he'd been aware of his way with animals. Still preoccupied with watching the gull, he was startled when he heard a voice from behind.
"A lovely day, isn't it?"
Spinning abruptly, the first thing Alfred noticed about the owner of the voice was the oversized eyebrows. Matching that with the rest of his appearance (green eyes, blond hair, and strangely flamboyant clothes) he realized this was the strange young man from the British delegation.
"Ah—y-yes, it is a nice day," Alfred stammered in reply.
"You come here daily. Why?" Very straightforward, Alfred thought. His voice definitely had a thick British accent, but it was laced with something he recognized hearing from sailors at the docks.
"I like watching the boats come in. And I work nearby, so I come here during my lunch." The man raised one thick eyebrow, but accepted Alfred's explanation. Suddenly, he kicked his boots off and sat next to Alfred, dangling his bare feet off the edge of the pier.
"Aye—" The man paused, flushing slightly at what was apparently a slip. "Yes, I like the ships as well, and the sea. Sometimes it seems like the only thing that's the same between here and England."
Hesitating briefly, Alfred asked, "Do you miss England, when you come here?"
"More than anything," came the immediate reply, but the man had a strange little smile on his face as he said this.
"Do you have family over there?"
The man shook his head. "I don't have a family. I just love my country." His green eyes took on a wistful look. "Have you ever been to England?"
Alfred shook his head. "No, I've lived here my whole life."
"That would explain your atrocious Yankee accent."
"Hey! My accent is perfectly normal, thank you!" Alfred exclaimed, indignant.
"See, all you Yankees have butchered the lovely English language so much you don't even realize your error anymore," the man replied, grinning. Suddenly, he turned to look at Alfred.
"What's your name?"
"Alfred Jones. What's yours?"
"Eng— Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."
"You came with the English delegation, didn't you?" Alfred asked. Arthur nodded. "What do you do for them? Honestly, you seem a bit young to be a politician…"
"I can't believe I'm hearing this from someone clearly years my junior!" Arthur laughed. "Yes, I came with the delegation, and yes, I am a politician, despite my appearance."
"I don't think I could be a politician. Too much paperwork," Alfred said, making a face. "But I do want to be something other than a waiter in a coffee shop…"
"What do you want to be?" He seemed to be genuinely interested.
Alfred blushed. "I don't really know… but someone who can protect people, or make people happy. I think I'd like that." He waited for Arthur to laugh, but the other man just smiled.
"I think you would do a smashing good job."
"You think so?"
"Of course you would."
"Thanks, Artie."
"Don't call me that!"
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred didn't see Arthur again, and a week later, he heard from Thomas that the delegation had left. He did tell Thomas that he'd met the young man, and found that his name was Arthur Kirkland. "Excellent job, my boy!" had been his only reply, before he'd started off again on another one of his tax-based rants.
It was a little over a year since Alfred had started work at St George's when one of those inexplicable urges came again. He tried his best to ignore it, but no matter what he did, he felt the need to go to Philadelphia. He mentioned this to Prudence one day, and she was surprisingly supportive.
"That's where Rose and her family went," she said. "It's a lovely city, from what I hear, almost as nice as Boston." Her only concern was his lack of knowledge of what he was going to do once he got there. "You were lucky here, but that good fortune might not last all the way to Philadelphia."
But the pull didn't stop, and it was with increasing agitation that Alfred reminded Prudence that he needed to get to Philadelphia, until one day Thomas overheard.
"I could write you a letter of recommendation for my brother, Josiah," he said. "He's Rose's father, and runs a printing company. I bet he would be willing to take on an apprentice, that I do. Would you be interested?"
"Really? You could do that for me?" Alfred cried, ecstatic, causing Thomas to chuckle.
"Of course! Anything for my favorite coffees shop's best employee!" Catching sight of Prudence's glare from the kitchen door, he hastily amended, "Of course, second best to the amazing cook."
"That means worst, you know."
"Hush, boy. Do you want that letter or not?"
V/~-~-~\V
Hooray for the completion of chapter two! Thank you for reading!
So, on to Philadelphia for Alfred for more historic events, which you hopefully should already have figured out if you know anything about American history. I realize Alfred didn't arrive in Boston quite in time for the Boston Tea Party, but hey, Boston was a pretty important spot in the year that followed as well.
And Arthur got a cameo! I told you he'd show up sometime. He's dressed the way he is because, without a cute little brother to mellow him out, he's still running (or sailing) around like a pirate. I hope you understand the logic behind that.
Chapter 3 has been written, but I'll wait a few days to post it, I think, for final edits and whatnot. Please look forward to it! (^_^)/