Note: While not overt, there are allusions to and discussions of abuse in Woven from Manipulation — verbal and physical, within the family and between partners in relationships — and one scene with a carriage robbery. The content is well within clean fiction, but for those who have endured and have been the victims of such conduct and crimes, please take great care when reading and purchasing.
Richard Jarvis had been a thorn in Quentin Udayle’s side ever since the former had arrived at the boys’ school when they were eleven years of age. Unfortunately, the thorny heir duke was also a worthy opponent, so they couldn’t seem to quit each other. At least Quentin had the satisfaction in knowing the vexation went both ways.
Flying the underclothes on the flagpole had been Quentin’s idea, but Richard was the one who had completed the task, and he didn’t do it correctly. If Quentin had executed the plan, the adults would have had no idea how the events had transpired.
Richard had a better imagination than to use an article of clothing with his initials embroidered on it, so Quentin was left to believe he did it intentionally, as though it were a calling card. Quentin couldn’t fathom who would have had the time to embroider initials on underclothing; he supposed that must be an upper nobility perk.
Quentin and Richard were called to the schoolmaster’s office just before lessons were done for the day. Richard even tried to make that a contest until Quentin reminded him of where they were headed and why, and to stop being such an imbecile.
A small group had been assembled in the office and were waiting for their arrival: one of their instructors, the grounds-keeper, and the games master along with the schoolmaster. After stating the crime of which Quentin and Richard were guilty, the schoolmaster fixed his attention upon Quentin and asked what he had to say for himself. Unsurprisingly, Richard had left Quentin’s side.
“I didn’t do it,” Quentin said in his defense.
The schoolmaster frowned and rapped his long stick on the desk. He then proceeded to lecture Quentin on the horrors of impropriety, and that if he hadn’t committed the act, as he so claimed, he should have done more to stop it from occurring. Quentin blocked the schoolmaster’s droning about his place in society, wondering instead who would have given the man the apple that sat upon the desk. Maybe the schoolmaster had placed it there to make it appear he was popular.
“Is something amusing, Mr. Udayle?” the schoolmaster yelled.
Quentin snapped to attention again. “No, sir.”
“Would you like to change your plea?” he asked.
“I didn’t do it,” Quentin insisted as he spotted Richard smirking from behind the instructor.
Richard always made a mess of things, and somehow, Quentin received the blame. Once or twice, a teacher acknowledged that, but told Quentin to be a good sport and go along with it so feathers wouldn’t be ruffled. At this point, the feathers got mussed up regardless, so Quentin figured he might as well go down fighting.
In this incident, like the others, he lost. Quentin received additional assignments, his meals were rationed, and his free time reduced because of the extra chores he had to perform after lessons. A few of the boys tried to help him, but every time they were caught, the workload increased, so they stopped.
After that, Quentin was done being Richard’s whipping boy. For a time, he tried to stay on the periphery, but the boys their age had enjoyed the contests between him and Richard.
And the periphery was boring.
So Quentin allowed himself to be pulled back into the adventures, and then eventually the contests, which quickly devolved into shenanigans.
How easy it was for a shenanigan to blur into plain wrong.
Richard had claimed the teacher’s pills weren’t that important, and Quentin planned to put them back before they were noticed missing. However, when he returned after dinner, the door was locked, and he couldn’t sneak the bottle back onto the night table. While waiting for another opportunity, Quentin fell asleep in a hiding spot at the end of the hallway, awakened by commotion because the teacher was under a doctor’s care.
This was the first instance Quentin had actually hurt someone.
“I didn’t do it,” Quentin said weakly to the schoolmaster. A lie to top things off, since this time he had done it — duped by Richard and caught red-handed.
Quentin was expelled. Mother came for him, and Quentin sat outside the door to the office while the schoolmaster gave her a stern talking to, as though she were the student in trouble. Quentin never thought she looked like a child, but she was rather small in stature, and her soft-spoken nature frequently made others speak at instead of to her.
Mama walked out of the office and heaved a long sigh as she shut the door behind her.
“Come,” she said to him.
Quentin rose from his chair, and then his mother guided him out of the building and into their waiting carriage. Mama must have insisted on taking the special family one. Quentin couldn’t imagine his father bothering to retrieve him in it unless it was for his own show.
Quentin stared out the window during the ride home, unable to meet his mother’s eye.
“I’m disappointed with you, Quentin,” his mother said.
Quentin hung his head. Disappointing Mama was the worst. She was the most loving and gentlest woman on the planet and never would have dreamed of doing what he had done. He wondered how she had married his father, who was not the most loving and gentlest of all men.
“I’m sorry, Mama. Will the teacher be well?”
She nodded. “He’s due to return in a week. I can’t believe you would behave in such a way on your own.”
He was many things, but a tattletale wasn’t one of them. “I took the pills, Mama. I’m sorry.”
But mothers are difficult to fool, and Quentin squirmed in his seat as his mama scrutinized him for what felt like an eternity.
“Your father hasn’t decided what to do about your schooling,” she finally said. “You’re too far ahead of your siblings, and he’s not inclined to hire you a private tutor. This school was a way for you to excel apart from home.”
“How angry is he?”
She raised an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smile on her face. “Need you ask?”
Quentin exhaled.
There was a sharp crack, and he jumped in his seat, then followed by another one.
“William!” Mother called behind her. “What’s happening?”
The carriage jerked to a stop, and the door was wrenched open. A figure yanked Mama from her seat.
“Where are the emeralds?” a deep voice called out.
“I have no jewels!” she shrieked.
The man shook her. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know!” she sobbed.
“Mama!” Quentin cried and reached for her, but he was pushed back onto the floor of the carriage.
“Search the carriage,” the first voice said.
Quentin was pulled out roughly and joined his mother on the ground where she wrapped her small body around his and clung to him. William was a few feet away, not moving. Quentin prayed he was only unconscious.
“There’s nothing here,” one of the other men said a few minutes later. “But we can take the purse at least.”
The deep voice man pulled at Mama’s bun. “Give Lord Newell a message.” His knife cleanly cut her bun and he held her hair in his hand. “Tell him he crosses us again and more will be lost than your beautiful golden hair.”
He touched the side of her neck and then she slumped over.
“Mama!” Quentin felt a sure, but not painful pressure on his neck, and then everything went black.
