Page 6 of The Captain of Betrayal
Mr Plinkton made an irritated noise at their continued chat, strode over to the pair and yanked James away by the arm.
"I'll see you again, Polly Jenkins!" James called over his shoulder, as Mr Plinkton dragged him to the corner of Percy Street, where a handsome, dark carriage awaited them.
Plinkton threw James bodily into the carriage, then scrambled in behind him,closing the door and blocking James' view of his friend, but if the door had not closed James Black knew that he would have seen his friend Polly, waving until the carriage drove out of view.
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CHAPTER FOUR
The Seventh Earl of Ludlow was not at home when James arrived at the impressive town house in Mayfair, owing to the fact that the seventh Earl was but ten years old, and was down at Eton. Instead, James was greeted by his Uncle, Mr Arthur Livingstone, an austere man of about forty years who looked at James over half rimmed spectacles.
"Indeed, you have the look of poor Horace," Livingstone said with a disappointed sigh, "One can only hope that you've not inherited his brains."
James did not reply, which seemed to annoy Arthur--though truly, how was he supposed to respond to such a cold greeting from what was essentially his long-lost relative?
"I have enrolled you at Westminster," Arthur continued with a frown, as he began to shuffle the papers on his desk impatiently. "I have told them that you are a cousin of the Earl's--they shan't ask any more questions. God knows enough of the ton have educated their bastards there. You will have full board all year, bar Christmas and summer, which you shall spend with us--in the servant's quarters mind. Your name is now James Livingstone; I have decided to afford you the protection of the family name."
Arthur Livingstone paused, again as though he were waiting for James to say something, and when he did not, the bald pated man gave an irritated sigh.
"I see you are as ungrateful as your father before you; he was given everything as a boy and still he decided to throw it away by running away with some jumped-up who—"
"Don't say anything about my mother."
James had finally found his voice, and in it was the burning anger that he felt at this Arthur Livingstone, at his dead father and at the world in general for having taken his mother away from him.
"My, aren't you spirited?" Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Don't worry, they'll soon beat that out of you at Westminster. Plinkton, you may take him away now."
The steward rested a meaty hand on James' shoulder and steered him out of the library, back toward the carriage which drove them the short distance to Westminster School, which was situated on the banks of the Thames.
"Look after yourself, lad," Plinkton said, with something resembling fondness, as he left James in the entrance hall with a severe looking school master. "I'll come to fetch you at Christmas."
Westminster School, James was told by Master Harris, as he led him to the dormitories, was one of England's oldest institutions, founded in the twelfth century. It was one of the country's most prestigious schools, housed in buildings built of butter yellow brick, whose arched windows and gables gave it a forbidding, Gothic air.
When James was shown into the draughty, cold dormitory which housed over a dozen beds and was far less grand than the school itself, his classmates were sound asleep —owing to the lateness of the hour. The next morning when he awoke however, he was surrounded by a group of curious boys, all dressed in nightshirts.
"Who are you?" one asked baldly, as James rubbed his sleep filled eyes.
"James," he responded groggily.
The group guffawed, and the leader of the pack, a blonde haired boy, gave a snort of derision.
"James who?" he asked, the word who loaded with centuries of snobbery.
"Livingstone," James remembered Arthur's words the night before, and suddenly felt a strange stab of gratitude for his Uncle for having the foresight to equip him with the Earl's name. Perhaps it would protect him from this pack of feral boys, who seemed eager to sense a weakness in their new room mate.
"Livingstone?" the blonde boy echoed him thoughtfully, "You're related to the Earl of Ludlow then?"
"His cousin."
"I suppose that's better than nothing."
The group of boys around him guffawed with scornful laughter, setting the tone for the rest of James' educational career. Rank, he was soon to learn, was extremely important. The blonde boy, who had spoken to James on that first morning, was the eldest son of the Viscount Harrington, and as such held the lofty position of highest ranking student in the school. As the self proclaimed cousin of an Earl, James was down the bottom of Westminster's pecking order, below second and third sons of the aristocracy, though slightly above the offspring of newly-wealthy industrialists and merchants.
Each day when he rose, young James was filled with an internal, gnawing worry about accidentally saying or doing the wrong thing--acts which invariably earned him a cruel taunt, or sometimes a swift dig of the elbow. It was with great relief to James that Christmas soon arrived, allowing him a slight respite from the relentless feeling of claustrophobia that he endured at Westminster.
Instead of being taken to the Earl's London home, James was collected by Plinkton, who accompanied him on the half a day journey to Lord Livingstone's Sussex estate. It was nightfall by the time the pair arrived and most of the house was cast in darkness.
"Mr Livingstone says that you're to sleep up in the servant's quarters," Plinkton said with a yawn, as he led James in through the rear entrance of the house. "It's just up these stairs here—"
