The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,77

are not an orphan?’

Quare’s head whipped back round to face his companion. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘An orphan is a child deprived by death of father and mother. It’s true your mother is dead – she perished giving birth to you. That is in the parish records. But your father remains very much alive, or so I believe.’

It took Quare a moment to gather his wits. ‘My father … alive?’

‘I have found no evidence to the contrary.’

‘Why has he not come for me? Why has he allowed me to believe I am an orphan for all these years?’

‘Because he does not wish to acknowledge you, sir. He does not wish to know aught of you, and he desires even less that you should know aught of him.’

‘But why?’

‘Is it not obvious? You are no orphan, sir, but a bastard. Some man’s by-blow.’

‘How do you know this?’ Quare demanded, his hands squeezed into fists at his sides.

‘I make it my business to learn what I can about every apprentice.’

‘But then who is my father?’ A sudden foreboding came over him. ‘Is it you, sir? Is that why you have come to fetch me?’

At this, Master Magnus threw back his head and roared with laughter while Quare turned the shade of a beet. When the master had composed himself, he answered: ‘No, I am not your father, young Quare. Have no misapprehensions on that score.’

‘Then Mr Halsted! Perhaps that is why he was so kind to me.’

‘Nor is Halsted your sire. Put such thoughts from your mind.’

‘Then who?’

‘Why, I do not know,’ Master Magnus confessed with good humour. ‘What I have related to you is no more than any man could have found at any time simply by perusing the parish records. Your mother’s name was Mary Trewell. A milkmaid. No doubt seduced and cast aside. A common enough tale, though a sad one, I grant you.’

Quare was reeling; he felt as though he had slipped into a kind of dream. ‘Did … did Mr Halsted know this?’

‘Who do you think it was that examined the records? He dispatched the information to me. A boy, Daniel Quare, born to Mary Trewell, father unknown. Your name, sir, is a witty reflection of that fact, from the Latin quare, which is to say “from what cause”.’

‘I … I scarcely know what to say, what to think,’ Quare mumbled, passing a hand before his eyes. ‘Why have you told me this?’

‘Should I have kept it from you? Surely a man has the right to know the truth of his own parentage.’

‘But you have told me a half truth, no more. Now I must wonder at who my father may be. Does he yet live? And if so, does he dwell close by or far away? Have I seen him, all unknowing? Does he know of me? Perhaps he does not, and would acknowledge me if he but learned of my existence. I must find him! Sir, can you not help me?’

‘I might look for years and never find him. No doubt the trail has gone quite cold. And who is to say that he wishes to be found? A man might very well know that he has a bastard son and yet desire no more intimate acquaintance with him.’

‘Please, sir. I should like to find him anyway.’

‘And what would you do then? What would you say to him?’

‘I … I do not know.’

‘You are no longer a boy, Mr Quare, yet neither are you a man. Wait a while, sir. Complete your apprenticeship. Acquit yourself well in all that is asked of you, and then, in a few years, when you have attained the rank of journeyman, ask me again, and perhaps I will be disposed to assist you.’

‘Thank you, sir. Do you know, I was angry at Mr Halsted for sending you my sketches. But now I see that I have to thank him as well.’

‘Not everyone would be so thankful to learn themselves a bastard.’

‘My whole life, I believed myself an orphan – that is worse. You and Mr Halsted have given me back my father, or hope of him. I will work hard, sir. You shall see! I will acquit myself well – and come to my father as a man he will be proud to acknowledge.’

‘An admirable plan, young Quare. I hope you are not disappointed. But life has a way of disappointing bastards, I have found.’

‘I will pray to God that it may be otherwise, sir, and trust in his providence.’

‘Why,