Black Wreath by Peter Sirr Read Free Book Online

square. He had begun his lecture just as he did every morning, whether or not he had reached the lecture theatre. Once the appointed hour came, even if he was still in bed, he would begin. And because he was often late his students would scratch their heads as they tried to catch his drift.
    McAllister would sometimes let James sneak in to the lectures because it amused him to see his unusual servant further his patchy education. He had bought James a new suit of clothes and this, together with James’s natural good looks, gave him the appearance of a student, although a very young one.
    On cold days, after McAllister had spent all his generousallowance on drinking and gambling, he would sent James out for a supply of books.
    ‘A yard of books,’ he’d say. ‘The older and cheaper the better.’
    So James would set out for the bookshops off Dame Street and come back with a heavy burden of tattered and unwanted books. These McAllister would consign to the fire, and they would sit in his room until they were well warmed by the flaming print.
    All in all, James thought, McAllister wasn’t a bad master. The duties were not too irksome; he was warm, dry and decently fed. McAllister was highly thought of in the college; it seemed great things were expected of him, and his easy-going nature made him popular with the students and professors. Yet, James worried about that same relaxed nature. McAllister had recently begun to show less enthusiasm for his studies, and to spend more and more time with Vandeleur. McAllister was the kind of person who, though without any badness himself, was very easily led into mischief by others. It was enough for Vandeleur to swagger into the room and announce some foolish plan for McAllister to drop whatever he was doing and place himself at his friend’s command.
    James didn’t like Vandeleur much. He had seen many like him in his father’s house, all bright clothes and mincing manners, men of title and money, with not a care in the world except what pleasure they might gain from it. Each time James saw him he was dressed more gaudily – the canary yellow waistcoat swapped for a green silken one, a purple topcoat for one in scarlet, or new boots, and if McAllister raised aneyebrow he always got the same reply. ‘These are dressy times, McAllister. You won’t amount to anything in this city unless you put your best foot forward.’
    Vandeleur didn’t care for James, regarding him as an interloper whose presence he put down to his friend’s overly whimsical generosity. ‘A filthy street boy, McAllister,’ James had heard him say. ‘What use can he possibly serve? You should have left him where you found him.’
    James couldn’t understand why these two were so inseparable, and put it down to his master’s easy-going nature. Yet McAllister never revealed James’s true identity to Vandeleur – this one thing he kept back from his friend, and James was grateful for it. Sometimes McAllister would talk to James about his father, suggesting that he should seek Lord Dunmain out privately and let his father acknowledge his son, even if only in secret. The bond between a father and son is not so easily broken, he tried to assure James, talking fondly about his own father and the many happy days they had spent together.
    James would have none of it. ‘It’s too late now,’ he said, over and over. ‘It’s too late for that.’
    But McAllister’s encouragement did at least keep alive a flicker of hope that one day James might be reconciled with his father, that he might wake up in his old bed and all of his life since he left his father’s house would be swept away like so much dust. One morning when he came back to the room with a jug of milk, McAllister looked at him strangely.
    ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked. ‘I mean, about your father?’
    James knew immediately something was not right. ‘No. Why?’
    McAllister looked uneasy. ‘I was in the town. I heard talk. They say