Page 8 of The Captain of Betrayal
James could have been truthful and told his brother that he had as much experience with women as he did with embroidery, but instead he settled down and retold the stories that he had heard his classmates whisper at night. In his younger brother he found an avid listener, and while Edward soon disappeared to his own bedroom in main wing of the house, his brother sought him out again and again over the holidays. By the time that August was drawing to a close, James and Edward had bonded somewhat, and James was even eating supper with the family. Edward's mother, Lady Lavinia Livingstone, wore a look of suffering whenever she glanced upon James, and his Uncle just barely tolerated his company--but it was far preferable to eating alone.
When he returned again to Westminster, James was filled with a confidence that had previously evaded him. He settled back in amongst his friends easily, his new life no longer feeling new, the wealth and privilege no longer a burden, but an expectation. As the year wore on, he unconsciously adopted Lavelle's mode of thinking, not questioning himself when he joined in with the Lord's ribalding of anyone or anything that was different. James and Lavelle ruled the school of Westminster and the streets of London town, with the easy confidence of two young-bloods with the world at their feet.
If anyone had asked James to recall the names of his neighbours in Newcastle, or even the street that he had lived on, he would have struggled. Newcastle and his life there seemed so distant, that it was almost as if another boy had lived that life, and not James Livingstone.
It was only when Polly approached him one evening in late February, as he and Lavelle had passed through Liddel's Arch into the Dean's Yard, that James realised he had completely forgotten her too. In fact, for an instant he did not recognise her, as she stole across the cobblestones in filthy rags, waving at him madly.
"It's you!"
All that James saw, before he was embraced in a hug, was a flash of red hair. He froze at the unfamiliar feeling of being touched so warmly, but quickly regained his composure as Lavelle gave a howl of annoyance.
"Control yourself, woman," James heard Lord Lavelle shout, and the pair of arms were yanked away from him. "Who is this James? Some light-skirt you picked up along the way?"
James was frozen, almost afraid to look at Polly, as he registered the disdain in Lavelle's voice. Shame filled him, as he realised that to admit to having grown up with Polly would be admitting to his friend that he did not belong here.
"It's me, Polly," his old friend replied in confusion, her voice causing James to finally glance at her. She was dressed in clothes that had seen better days, and her young face looked too worn and tired for a girl of her age. A part of James longed to reach out to her, but a larger part, the part that was fuelled by fear, felt repulsed. It only took a split second, and almost before he had thought about it, James gave a shrug before he replied to Lavelle.
"I have no idea who she is; I've never met her before in my life."
As he betrayed her, James did not look at Polly, instead he glanced at Lavelle, who puffed up with self righteous importance at his words.
"Be off with you then," the blonde haired young man called, shooing at Polly with an impatient hand. "Back to St Giles, or whatever slum it was you crawled out of."
Lavelle took James by the arm and dragged him across the Dean's Yard toward the Abbey, the girl he had just insulted instantly forgotten. James followed him gladly, only glancing over his shoulder when they had covered some distance and he would not be able to see the hurt on Polly's face as clearly. Although he felt sick with himself for what he had done, he had hoped to catch one final glimpse of Polly, but she was not there. Which was typical of her, he had thought with a jolt--the Polly Jenkins that he had known would have not stood idly after being so insulted.
As the months passed, his betrayal of Polly began to haunt him. His friends, the friends that he had been so afraid would reject him, began to repulse him. Their debauched, louche, self-entitled arrogance grated on his every nerve, and he soon became involved in scuffles and altercations, that quite often ended in a bloodied nose.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" Lavelle had grunted as he hauled James off one of their acquaintances, who had made a disparaging comment about an elderly beggar.
"Nothing," James spat, shrugging Lavelle's hands from his shoulders. It was a lie, because everything was bothering him, but at seventeen years of age, James had not the words to express the shame and regret that wracked him.
That summer, in Livingstone Hall, James' Uncle Arthur took him aside one afternoon to discuss his future. The next year was to be his last at Westminster, and while his fellow classmates were headed to Cambridge or Oxford--depending on their families' tradition--James had no such plans laid out.
"You and Edward seem to have grown close."
As ever, his Uncle's conversation was a collection of uninspiring observations that required little reply, so James just nodded.
"The masters at Westminster have told me that, while you are quite bright, you are not quite fit for university."
A retort was on the tip of James' tongue, to argue that actually he was top of his class in all subjects, but then he realised his Uncle's ploy. Arthur Livingstone was simply not willing to pay for James to attend Oxford--if the other boulder heads in his class were going; there was no question that James was not clever enough.
"It's a pity, but luckily I was quite close with Lord Amherst and still have quite a few friends around Whitehall who can find you a nice posting--I shall pay for your commission myself. You're joining the army boy."
"Thank you, Uncle," James replied, a little dazed, but a lot relieved by his Uncle's sudden interest in his future. He had never considered the army, but now that a path was laid out for him, he felt grateful for it. Perhaps his new family actually did feel a modicum of affection for him?
It was later that night, as he crept through the house's dark hallways on his way to the kitchens, that he discovered that it was not affection that motivated his uncle.
"Are you certain that Willhurst will have him posted to the Dragoons?"
The voice of his stepmother drifted from the library's open door, and though he knew that he shouldn't, James crept closer for he was sure that it was he she was speaking of.
"Quite certain, my dove." Arthur Livingstone's voice was calm and soothing, "And he's a good boy, he's easily led, like his father before him."
"Well, thank goodness for that," Lady Livingstone sighed, "I don't know what you were thinking when you took him in all those years ago."
"Call it a moment of noble madness," James strained to hear his uncle's voice, which was low with regret. "After all, Horace did care for my own bastard son--I could not have consigned his to the workhouse."
"Well, you should have," Lady Livingstone snipped, "For now we're forced to send him to war and hope that Napoleon kills him off."
