The Rosé Family (Pt 1)

The Heir

The year was 1909, a time ripe with change and hope for the young Kingston James Rosé. Having just turned eleven, his eyes still brimmed with the wide-eyed wonder of childhood, though hints of maturity peeked through. This was a new neighborhood for the Rosé family, one that boasted tree-lined streets and stately homes – a world away from their previous modest dwelling. Here, affluence seemed to drip from every meticulously manicured lawn and wrought-iron gate, promising a brighter future if only they could grasp it.

On one particularly sunny spring afternoon, as Kingston frolicked in their front yard, his father Dennis's booming baritone cut through the air like a clap of thunder. "Kingston James Rosé! Front and center, this instant!" The urgency in his tone brooked no argument as he disappeared back inside, the screen door slamming shut behind him.

Kingston felt his heart skip a beat before galloping wildly in his chest. Abandoning his play, he sprinted towards the house, dirt scuffing the toes of his well-worn boots. What could have caused such alarm? Bursting through the front door, he came face-to-face with his father and a small gathering of strangers adorned in their Sunday best, perched stiffly on the plush settee.

"Kingston, my boy," Dennis began, the sternness melting from his features as he placed a broad hand on his son's shoulder. Pride rang clear in his voice as he showcased the young lad to their guests. "Allow me to introduce you to Tobias Frost." He gestured towards a slight, sandy-haired boy around Kingston's age, who regarded the newcomer with open curiosity.

Extending his hand, Kingston mustered his most winning smile, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tobias!" The words tumbled forth, still a touch too formal for a child's tongue.

Tobias eyed Kingston's proffered hand for a beat, then a mischievous grin split his freckled face. Grasping it firmly, he gave an impish shake of his head, sending his unruly locks askew. "Just Toby to my friends," he insisted with a conspiratorial wink.

A spark seemed to ignite between the two boys in that moment, an unspoken bond that could only exist between kindred spirits. As Dennis watched them size each other up with poorly masked intrigue, he felt a swell of fatherly pride. This friendship, he could see, would be the beginning of something grand.

"Alright, you two rapscallions," he chuckled, giving Kingston's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. 

"Why don't you run along and let your mother patch you up a plate of her famous molasses cookies? We have...business to discuss." His final words carried a weight that hinted at new opportunities on the horizon.

The boy gave a curt nod before scampering up the stairs, his heavy footfalls fading as he went in search of his mother. Dennis watched him go with a wistful smile, then turned his attention back to his guests. "Now then, where were we?"

Kingston padded down the upstairs hallway, the plush runner muffling his steps. Reaching the master bedroom, he peeked around the door frame to find his mother seated by the window, her deft fingers working a pair of knitting needles. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting a warm glow over Minerva's serene features.

"Good evening, Mother. How's your knitting progressing?" Kingston inquired, a hint of concern coloring his tone as he fully entered the room.

Minerva's gaze remained fixed on the verdant scenery beyond the glass pane. "I'm doing just fine, dear," she replied in that gentle lilt of hers. "Nearly finished with this row, in fact."

"Oh, that's splendid! Shall I join you?" Without waiting for a response, the boy crossed the room and settled on the window seat beside her.