pulled a book from the pile. It was entitled A General History of The Most Famous Highwaymen by a Captain Charles Johnson and was extremely battered, the pages thumbmarked and threatening to fall loose. Sunlight streamed lazily through the windows and made wavering patterns on the floor as I turned the pages and looked at the crude but fascinating engravings.
âI forgot about that. It was sent along by mistake, apparently got mixed up with the titles I requested. It was published in 1734, looks it, too. The bindingâs in tatters. I suppose Iâll have to send it back,â he added, and he sighed again, as though the task were completely beyond him.
âLetâs keep it,â I suggested. âIâve always adored highwaymen.â
My father smiled his vague, indulgent smile, the one he reserved exclusively for me. âHandsome, dashing creatures in long black capes and rakish black masks,â he said, âwielding pistols with aplomb. A romantic image, I confess, but the reality would fall far short.â
âHave you ever met one?â
âHavenât had the privilege,â he admitted, âthough Iâm sure theyâre a vile, bloodthirsty lot, pockmarked and puny and far from a maidenâs prayer. Keep the book if you like, Pumpkin. Itâs probably no bloodier than some of those thundering melodramas Solonge sneaks home to you.â
âI read good books, too!â I protested.
âSometimes I fear you read altogether too much,â he said, though I could tell he didnât mean it. âWhat kind of wild, unprincipled prodigy have I sired? Youâre twelve years old and far, far too knowing for your age, and far too mischievous, too, I might add. No wonder your stepmother is always in a state.â
âWould you like me to grow up to be like Solonge and Janine?â I asked.
âGod forbid.â
âJanineâs a slug,â I confided, âbut Solonge is not so bad.â
âSolonge is destined to bring ruin and destruction to any number of unfortunate men. Itâs in her blood, though sheâs singularly lacking in malice or spite. No, Pumpkin, I wouldnât have you grow up to be like either of your stepsisters.â
âAt least theyâre beau tiful.â
âTheyâre gloriously lovely, yes, and I fear that will be their downfall. You, my darling, have your own kind of beauty.â
âIâd rather have glossy blonde hair and blue eyes,â I informed him.
Father chuckled, shuffled some papers aside and stood up. He was tall, a bit stooped, a bit overweight, though far from fat. In his youth he must have been glorious himself, I mused, but all the years of living with Marie, all the years of trying to drum a smattering of knowledge into the heads of recalcitrant schoolboys had taken their toll. I loved him with all my heart and soul and saw him through a haze of rapt adoration, but even so I knew he was not a happy man. The wry humor, the amiability and gentle, distracted manner failed to conceal the aura of sadness and lost dreams. Strange though it might be, I often felt I was the adult, he the child, and I felt a strong protective feeling toward him. I took his hand and squeezed it, expressing emotions mere words couldnât convey.
Father smiled again and patted me on top of the head, and then, looking at the litter of paper and twine as though wondering how it got there, he began to place the new books on the shelves, wedging them in wherever he could find an inch or two of space.
âAnd what particular mischief have you been getting into today?â he inquired.
âNothing much. IâuhâI was with The Bastard today, Father.â
âIndeed? I assume youâre referring to Hugh Bradford?â
I nodded. âHeâhe spanked me.â
âOh?â He wasnât at all perturbed. âAnd how did this shocking event occur?â
âIâwell, I guess you
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley