Carnations in the Alley | manxman | (Historical Romance)

I - Edgar Morrison

Carnations in the Alley

| A Novella |

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"We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love."

— George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones)

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Autumn of 1821

Traveling on his own, Edgar Morrison was just returning from several kilometers north, but he was silently glad to be back in the limits of the City of Winterbourne.

It wasn't quite where he'd been born and raised, but he'd followed a quite prestigious name when he was young, and here such a name had landed him for what was now the majority of his life.

He couldn't complain.

There was never much for him to complain about since being given all he had now: a place to call home, a purpose, respect, and it was the respect that he'd gained from the owner of the property in which he lived that he strived and felt like he would always strive to sustain. He knew that if one day that line of mutual respect was severed, his entire life would be upended, and he would lose everything.

Edgar couldn't lose his purpose, couldn't disappoint. But he was safe from that. He was returning now from a hasty venture up north to deliver a bit of news that was supposed to reach its destination through the postal service, but when he'd been informed the postal transport had been intercepted by thieves, he feared his most important letter had been done away with.

And so, he'd traveled with haste on horseback to deliver the message himself. Now trotting through the darkened streets of Winterbourne heading home, Edgar's exhaustion matched that of the horse's, but still the gentle giant carried on with its rider.

With it being well past eleven o'clock at night, not a soul was out and about, leaving Edgar more like a ghost in the night. His tired eyes drifted from the black windows of closed bakery and clothing shops, parlors that had shut down early due to previous rainfall. Many of the streetlamps had burnt out, leaving only a few here and there throughout his journey.

Suddenly then, Edgar heard the distant clop of hooves and the crunch of wheels in the distance, and from three blocks ahead appeared a black and yellow painted stagecoach pulled along by two horses, the handler seated atop seeming to rush the animals along. They were heading in Edgar's direction, paying him no mind as he watched the coach go by.

As his own horse continued, he glanced over his shoulder, able to catch sight of the coach once more before it vanished into the shadows that swallowed it whole.

Bringing his eyes forward, Edgar couldn't imagine what a nobleman would be doing out at this hour. He knew they must've been a Lord, as the mere appearance and paint of the coach itself spoke of great wealth.

When he reached the block in which the coach had come from, bits of Edgar's mind were telling him to continue without fret, but there was a sizable portion of curiosity that lured him in.

With a soft tug of the reins in his hands, Edgar directed his horse to where the coach had come from. The street itself was drenched in the same darkness as the others, empty businesses, and the howl of the wind groaned up into the mildly humid atmosphere.

There was a single streetlamp that glowed, seeming to have survived the winds and rain from before, and the moment his horse neared an alleyway that stretched between two lofty brick buildings, his gaze fell onto the body of what appeared to be a young man. He could make out the tattered black trousers and ruffled sleeves of a shirt, but their face was shielded by the blanket of dark blond hair.