then discussing the world of ideas and stories. Freddie had been fascinated.
Mr. Eldridge had also been the one to insist that Freddie have a real name. The man who may have been his father only went by Dorsey and the servants didn’t seem keen to consider that to be Freddie’s last name. Mr. Eldridge suggested Marshall, and insisted that the more formal Alfred was preferable to the simple Freddie. The tutor had called him Mr. Marshall after that. And when the man left because his assignment was done he’d gifted Freddie his book of Greek mythology, inscribed ‘to Mr. Alfred Marshall with fond remembrance, Mr. Oliver Eldridge’. Sometimes Freddie gently ran his finger over the inscription, as though that would make the memories of Mr. Eldridge that much stronger now that the man had been gone near ten years. The book, however, was only the physical manifestation of the greater gift that he’d been given. The gift of words, which was an entire world unto itself. The world of history. The world of ideas. Something that made his mind so much bigger, so much more expansive than anything in his environs.
He wasn’t so bold as to ask to read the books in the duke’s library, but he hoped that one day he might earn enough to be able to purchase a second book of his own. He wasn’t quite sure on what subject yet, but he undoubtedly had plenty of time to consider the question. On the one hand he thought about history, most likely about a foreign land. He wanted to learn something new. On the other hand it would be prudent to put his money toward a book about horses. His literacy was already something that made him unusual in his profession. If he could be learned as well as experienced in horse handling then it could make him irreplaceable. And however much he might not seem intent on being an excellent servant, he had the apprehension common to his class. If it weren’t for his current employment he might starve. He didn’t know that categorically to be true, but he didn’t remember ever living anywhere else and didn’t particularly relish the idea of finding other employment. He’d not even gone with the family as they traveled among their homes. He’d always been here. And really, here was where he wanted to be.
Rosalind Flowers leaned forward to peer out the window of the carriage again. Her father snored softly in the seat next to her and her elderly maid Lucia knitted quietly in the seat across. Rosalind, however, was brimming with energy. It was, she thought, the freedom that this trip gave her from the endless rounds of teas and visits her mother insisted upon. Since Rosalind wasn’t even out she didn’t know why her mother thought that she needed to attend every single thing possible. But then father had received this invitation from the duke and Rosalind had served as her father’s assistant for so long that even her mother hadn’t resisted the idea that Rosalind would accompany him.
Mother, of course, had reassured herself that Rosalind had always rubbed along well with Lady Caroline, the duke’s middle daughter, and that it would be excellent for Rosalind’s prospects to revive the friendship. Rosalind didn’t have the heart to point out to her mother that the last time she’d seen Lady Caroline they had both been significantly younger and it was unlikely that the duke’s daughter still had the same affection for playing with her small printed theater. Caroline had been entranced by Rosalind’s ability to make up story after story for them to ‘stage’ on the tiny contraption.
The two had exchanged periodic letters ever since. Caroline especially thought to write to her whenever she saw a new performance. She once even encouraged Rosalind to consider writing plays herself. That was amusing in particular. It was one thing to create tiny stories to entertain a ten year old child, quite another to write a play for performance in a duke’s house.
And besides, now her head was full of calculations instead of stories. Her father’s love of astronomy had always foundered because of the mathematics required. He’d taught all three of his daughters about astronomy, but only Rosalind had excelled. By the age of fourteen she’d been correcting his work. She’d been acting as his assistant for four years, even corresponding with his peers about calculations and observations. She wasn’t quite as entranced as her father was about the thrill