The carriage rocked rhythmically from side to side, unsettling one occupant of the carriage, whilst the other sat relaxed, eyes closed, arms folded over his chest, enjoying the relaxing sway of the carriage. Rumford could hear his companion, Jefferson, grumbling under his breath. He wasn't even sure why Jefferson had opted to come with him, when the man hated travelling by carriage. The man enjoyed his creature comforts too much, whereas Rumford couldn't care less about them, having already lived a portion of life with nothing. The only things Rumford needed was a roof over his head, a fire and place to lay his head. At one time though, he hadn't even had those until fate had stepped in, changing his life forever.
Rumford had been born into nothing.
His parents had been looked down upon by the poor. They had been shunned into living in a shack, far from the outskirts of the village. His mother had died from complications from giving birth. He held no great affection for her, just an acknowledgement she had given him life. Maybe if his father hadn't taken to beating his frustrations into his son, punishing him for something that wasn't his fault, Rumford may have had more empathy for the woman. It hadn't been his fault his mother died. It hadn't been his fault, his father had been useless and had tried to swindle people out of their hard earned coin, after they had laboured in the fields all day. No, he had no love for either of his parents, just an acceptance that they had given him life.
He couldn't remember how old he had been, when they had been forced to move on by the villagers. Tired of his father's swindling, a mob had invaded their shack, throwing out their things, what little they had had, and had set fire to the shack, preventing them from returning. Rumford at times, could still feel the tenacity of the fire on his face. He had never known a heat like it before. Acclimatised to living mostly in the cold, it had been a shell shock to his young self, to feel such a heat. Something, thankfully, his own son took for granted.
His father had pretended everything was fine, performing the worst scam on himself. Rumford had gleefully eaten up the story his father had told. That the villagers had only been seeing them off and had burnt down their shack to bless them with luck on their journey.
'Yes,' he thought, lulling his head back. 'a blessing in disguise'.
They'd travelled for weeks on foot, sleeping in barns and stealing food wherever they could. He wasn't sure how they had ended up at the Earl's manor. Though, he could distinctly remember, his father lifting him up onto his shoulders. It had been rare for his father to have physical contact with him. Their contact had been limited to his father holding his hand, dragging Rumford wherever his father wanted to go, relentless in his pace, uncaring if Rumford's feet were sore and bleeding in the shoes that did not fit him. So that fateful day, sitting on top of his father's shoulders, was the best day of his life until his son was born.
His father had instructed him to check the window, 'Just rattle it', he had said. 'Try the next one!', he had said, walking along the large window. The monstrous window had distracted Rumford, never seeing a window that big before in his life. After a smack from his father, he had gotten back to the task at hand and had grabbed the edge of the window with his little fingers, shaking the window, surprising himself when the window had suddenly popped open.
"There we go!" His father had said, lifting Rumford off of his shoulders to shove him through the window. "Grab anything small and shiny!"
"Yes, papa." He had cried back, bouncing up from the floor after his hard floor, over the moon that his father had let him ride on his shoulders.
The room had been what Rumford knew now to be the study. There hadn't been much in the way of 'small and shiny'. He had tried to open the desk drawers, but they had all been locked. Looking around the room, there hadn't been anything that caught his eye, apart from the two large paintings, hung either side of the fireplace. He had moved deeper into the room, his gaze split between the two paintings. The left painting depicted the beginning of the hunt and the right painting was of the end of the hunt, with the hunters standing over the large stag they had killed. He'd never seen anything like it before.
"Hurry up, boy!" His father had hissed from outside the window.
Startled, Rumford had jumped, knocking over a small table and its contents onto the floor. Quietly cursing to God, he had dropped to his knees, collecting the silver ashtray, a small glass jar with a silver lid, etched with a pattern, filled with matches, and a strange silver object, flat with a circle at the centre of it. Curious, Rumford had squeezed the sides in, shocked when two blades snapped together, blocking the hole. He had decided to ask his father about it and pocketed it, while clutching the other items to his chest. A quick look over the desk and Rumford had found a fancy letter opener, some loose coins and a gold writing pen, laid next to a gold ink pot. He had snatched them up, oblivious to what they were, and had spilled the black ink down himself, over his hands and the desk, and down onto the carpet and his worn shoes.
"Papa, Papa!" Rumford had cried.
"What!" His father had seethed.
At the window, Rumford tiptoed up to barely see his father on the outside. "I've made a mess!"
"I haven't got time for this!" His father had groaned before asking. "Have you found anything?"
"A few things." He had told him, struggling as he stretched himself to pass the things to his father.
It was at this point, Rumford's life changed for the better and made him into the man he was today. This was where the man, who Rumford came to know as his father, walked into the room, to investigate the loud thud of the small table falling over. At hearing the door and the footsteps on the wooden boards, Rumford had frozen. The Earl had looked to the small table, lying on its side, and had slowly swept his gaze round the room to where Rumford had stood like a statue, his hand posed out of the window. They both had stared at one another: one confused and the other petrified.
"PAPA!" Rumford had screamed at the top of his lungs.
Launching himself at the window, he had desperately reached for the window, for the window frame, for his father, anything that would help him get out of there. Rumford had fallen back into the room, landing hard onto his arse. Outside, there was the distinct sound of gravel crunching underfoot, while Rumford's gaze had met the Earl's again, who was still standing in the doorway, hand on the door handle, flabbergasted by the scene in front of him. Fuelled by his fear, Rumford had scrambled to his feet and, once again, had tried to climb out of the window, helplessly jumping to try and catch the window. It had been as he had been jumping up and down, he had seen the back of his father, running back the way they had come.
"PAPA!" He had yelled until there was no more breath in his lungs.
His tears had been hot on his cheeks, leaving streaks of clean skin on his face. He had bounced once, twice, perhaps a third time, before the devastation had weighed him down and had sucked all the energy out of him. Unable to stand on his shaky legs, Rumford had crumbled down onto the floor, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, as he hoarsely screamed for his 'Papa!'.
The Earl hadn't known what to do and had been captivated by the small figure, huddled in the corner of the study, rocking back and forth, crying out for his father. Rumford's cries had drawn the attention of the rest of the household. The servants all gathered, staring at the little boy, pleading for his father to come back. The Earl's wife was the last to arrive, her maid hot on her heels, the last to hear the cries and the whispers of what had happened. Thinking back on it, Rumford would've sworn he had been there for hours, spilling tear after tear for his father, unable to understand what he had done wrong. Even though he knew, the Earl's wife had wasted no time in ordering the servants to find his father, instructing her maid to take the boy upstairs and telling her husband to make the coward pay.
He never did pay for it.
Not knowing what to do with him, the Earl and his wife did what they could until they could decide what to do with him. Firstly, they had sent him for a bath. He had screamed, he had clawed, he had fought with all his might with the maid, refusing to undress and get in the bath. He had been convinced they were going to cook him alive! With the assistance of two footmen, Rumald had been treated to his first bath, never knowing before the pleasure of soaking in warm water. Granted, the water had changed swiftly to black, but it had been glorious, once he had forgotten about them trying to cook him alive. Although, when the maid had decided to tackle his unruly hair with a hair brush, Rumford had sprung out of the bath and had made a break for it, running through the house naked. The memory caused him to chuckle, like it always did.
After several months, they had decided to keep him, treating him as if he was their own child. The Earl's wife had never been able to carry a child to full term and had given up hope of ever having their own. As much as they had gifted Rumford with a new life and had finally given him a name, other than 'boy', he had been their chance to have a child. Apart from the servants, nobody outside of the household knew what had taken place and that's the way it has remained. As far as society was aware, Rumford Gold was the son of the Earl of the Frontlands and had inherited the title and his father's estate, when the Earl died fourteen years ago. His mother died six years later, enjoying four years as a grandmother before she passed, holding the hand of her beloved son.
Jefferson grunted as the carriage swooned heavily to the left, throwing Jefferson into the side of the carriage. "I still don't understand why you need to acquire another cotton mill. Don't you have your fingers in enough jars to keep you occupied?"
"You didn't need to come." Rumford stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
"The last time I stayed at home with the children, you went gallivanting off to Oxleigh, got drunk, had a maid or two, and came home to gloat about it." Jefferson leant forward as he spoke, tapping off his points onto Rumford's right knee. "I told you, next time you're swanning off somewhere, I was coming too! Why should you get to have all the fun?"
Rumford finally opened his eyes to look across at his friend. "A maid or two? What sort of gentleman do you take me for?"
"A gentleman, who isn't married and can 'do' whomever he chooses." Jefferson told him with a knowing smirk.
"Well, I suppose that's true." Rumford agreed as he unfolded his arms.
"You know what," Jefferson sat back. "I need to orchestrate a business trip, where it means you have to stay home with the children for once."
Crooking an eyebrow at Jefferson, Rumford teased his friend. "What possible business could you have, which didn't involve you riding my coattails?"
"How am I riding your coattails, when it was you, who invited me to come and live with you?" Jefferson inquired, folding his arms defiantly over his chest.
"I invited you? You and Grace had literally moved yourselves into - my - home, and I sarcastically commented 'make yourselves at home'." Rumford threw back.
Jefferson smirked. "Exactly, make yourselves at home. So we did."
Rumford chuckled. "You're getting worse."
Jefferson opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly the carriage lurched heavily down to the left, slumping Jefferson into the corner of the carriage. There was a loud scraping sound, emanating from underneath Jefferson. Above them, the driver called for the horses to stop, erupting a cry of nays from the four horses. The drastic angle and the carriage coming to a sudden stop, threw Rumford forward out of his seat and propelled him across the carriage, and into Jefferson's lap. The two friends looked at each other, their faces mere inches apart.
Waggling his eyebrows at Rumford, Jefferson said in a sultry voice. "Hello, darling."
"You'd be so lucky." Rumford told him as he grabbed the back of the seat, bracing his weight, whilst he scooted off of Jefferson's lap, positioning his feet to stand up awkwardly in the carriage.
"M' Lord?" shouted Rogers from outside of the carriage, his head appearing at the window in the door. "M' Lord, are you alright?"
"Quite alright, Rogers. What's going on?" Rumford inquired, whilst he adjusted his footing.
Rogers gazed went to the rear of the carriage as he spoke. "Looks as though, the rear spring has broken and the force has taken out the wheel at the same time."
"What does that mean?" Jefferson asked, watching Rumford clamber to the window and stick his head out of it, surveying the damage for himself.
"Damn!" Rumford cursed under his breath, in frustration he slammed his hand against the doorframe of the door, and pulled himself back into the carriage to face his companion. "Means, Mister Mandermer, we'll be making the rest of our journey on foot."
"On foot?" Jefferson declared loudly.
"Yes, strange notion, I know." Rumford commented, while he gestured to Rogers to open the door.
Jefferson lurched forward in his seat, grasping the doorframe to aid him. "Rumford, I'm a gentleman. Not a peasant."
Tugging down his waistcoat underneath his coat, Rumford pivoted round, saying. "Jefferson, we'll take the horses."
"The horses?" Jefferson strained to peer out of the carriage, looking to the horses in front of the carriage. "But we've got no saddles, Rumford."
"Jefferson, you have three options." He started to tell him, leaning his upper body through the doorway of the carriage. "One: you stay here until they come and collect the carriage. Two: you get on the horse. Or three: you walk."
Jefferson visibly gulped. "I think I'll…" He pointed towards the horses. "Take option two."
"I thought you would." The left side of Rumford lips pulled back into a sly smile.
Pushing himself away from the doorway, Rumford moved out of the way, allowing Rogers to help Jefferson climb out of carriage. He propped his fists onto his hips, holding back the flaps of his overcoat, surveying the damage to the rear of the carriage with a raised eyebrow. It was no bother to Rumford, it just prolonged their journey and his time away from his son.
"I doubt we'll make it to the next village in time, M' Lord." Rogers shared his hesitation with Rumford.
Rumford dropped his hands down to his sides, whilst he stepped round to face Rogers. "Any suggestions?"
"Avonlea would be the next village, M' Lord." Rogers gestured in the direction they'd been heading. "If I remember right, I believe Viscount French's estate is close by. It may be best to go there to seek lodgings, then to try and get to the village before dusk."
"Viscount French?" Rumford inquired, looking to Jefferson, who was perched on the footstep.
Jefferson's brow scrunched in thought. "I think you visited not long after your father died."
"I can only assume; he doesn't hold a presence at court." He said to explain why he had no clue, who the Viscount was.
"As long as he has wine and food, and a warm bed, I don't care what kind of presence he has." Jefferson declared, pushing himself up from where he sat on the footstep.
"I'll get the horses, M' Lord." Rogers bowed his head and backed away before turning away to go to the horses.
Huffing out a breath, Rumford strolled a few steps away from the carriage, back along the track they had travelled, looking out on the luscious green fields. It was strange to think that he owned an estate similar to the fields in front of him. Seeing as he had come from nothing and now was the envy of a lot of other gentlemen, and turned the heads of many of their wives. Rumford wanted for nothing. Though, many gentlemen were interested in getting their grubby hands on his estate, proposing Rumford marry their eldest daughter. He had no interested in taking another wife, not after what happened with his late wife. No, the best Rumford hoped for, for the future, was his son grew into a fine man and choose wisely, when it came time for him to marry. Hopefully learning from the mistakes of his father.