Dear Future Husband

2. You There, Boy!

28 November 1888

Mistress Masterson stared down her beady nose at Maximilian Walker; the sight combined with her spectacles gave her the appearance of a frightful raven. "You there, boy!"

Max refused to tremble, shake, or show a single sign of fear. He had already given William and his friends too much to gloat about. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Are you aware that stealing and coveting are sins?" Her tightly bound chignon bobbed back and forth as she spoke.

Max nodded slowly, the bravado leaving his skinny, fourteen-year-old body. Uh-oh...

"Speak, boy!" She stamped one black-heeled foot.

"Yes, ma'am," Maximilian squeaked out, fighting the urge to salute. One of the boys snickered at his timidity.

"Then why did Billy find, among your things, this item that clearly does not belong to you?" Her black robes swished as she pulled out the damning evidence, lending to her bird-of-prey appearance. Perhaps she was part-crow, he thought as he saw what was in her hands: a Bible.

Every boy at the Watford Orphanage Asylum was given five items: a relatively clean-if threadbare-shirt, drawers, trousers, a blanket, and a small Bible. Each of the Bibles was inscribed with the boys' names and had been assigned to them upon arrival at the orphanage. In Mistress Masterson's hand was Billy's, with his name written in crisp black ink: the property of William Bradley. Still crisp, because Maximilian had never once seen him open it.

"It isn't fair!" Maximilian blurted out before he could restrain himself. He cursed himself, cursed his impulsivity as well as his temper-cursed his parentage as well as his God-awful luck. Billy was always put in charge of checking that the boys had made their flimsy pallets passing as beds, and he always found something wrong with Maximilian's. He always found some reason for Max to be punished, when Max had done nothing to Billy but have the misfortune of breathing the same air as he did. "I didn't do it!"

"A liar and a thief." Mistress Masterson clucked her tongue. "We do not tolerate either of those at Watford. You may not partake in any mealtimes for the next three nights, Mr. Walker. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am." His voice cracked and one of the boys behind him laughed again. Max's lip trembled, and he bit down hard to stop the flow of tears that was surely due. Maximilian straightened his shoulders, standing up tall. He was fourteen years old. Surely, he was too old for crying--if only he could tell his body that.

"Do not look at me with that insolent expression in your eyes, boy," she barked at him. He blinked twice before the slap across his face registered. "I shall leave you in here, Mr. Walker, to contemplate the severity of your crimes."

Max held a hand to his stinging, reddened face as the other children fell silent. He sucked in a shocked inhale, curling up on the floor. I will not cry, he told himself. The room slowly emptied as Mistress Masterson ushered them away, not sparing a glance for the boy who was rocking back and forth, hands clutching his knees. He tucked his head into his chest so that no one would see when he finally felt a hot droplet trickle out of the corner of his eye.

After a time, the pain left him, and determination filled him in its place. He would not waste time or tears on such wretched bullies. Nor would he continue to wallow in the unfortunate circumstances of his birth. No, odd and sudden courage suffused him, as he got up from the floor, straightened his shoulders, and gathered his meagre possessions. Casting a last glance at what had been his home for the duration of his short life, he scurried past the cluster of children and made a mad dash for the orphanage door.

He could hear the voices of the orphanage workers, could hear them hissing at him about the covetous and liars, about who exactly it was that God hated-and God certainly did not hate William Bradley. No, apparently, God hated Maximilian for being a lying, coveting thief. The thought made disgust and anger and shame ripple through him all at once, and he wrapped his threadbare, too-small and too-thin blanket around his body as he exited the orphanage. Cold November air hit his grimy face, and he stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, watching the carriages go by and hearing the clops of horse's hooves. Adults' conversations in clipped tones as they bustled past him and their hurried footsteps drowned out his ragged breathing as he gazed at the world.

Was he truly, finally free?

***

As it turned out, freedom had a greater price than captivity. He was tired and cold and hungry, the sooty air of London thoroughly entrenched in his lungs and smeared across his face. His shoes were worn out, his toes numb with cold from the muddy slush that had sunken into his gaping boots. He could smell manure and ash, and his stomach rumbles even for the smallest bowl of gruel he might have received for dinner.

Still, he would not back down. He would not return to the orphanage for a belting, and he would certainly not crawl back, tail tucked between his legs, a sobbing mess. Maximilian Walker had his pride--even if that pride might be instrumental in getting himself killed. He shivered, rubbing his hands over his arms covered by a thin, coarse sackcloth shirt.

He'd been warned never to leave the orphanage, warned of godless heathens who snatched children off of the streets and boiled them for soup. Maximilian had always thought those merely scary stories, invented only to scare them. He had, frankly, thought the same of the Bible stories told by the nuns--that they were used for punishing and rewarding children arbitrarily, used to force them into doing their will.

"My boy, are you quite alright?" A middle-aged woman, with her arms laden down by packages and a frown marring her face, stopped him. "You look rather tired and positively famished!"

He almost fell over from shock. The woman looked to be in her forties, with dark brown hair and a dress made of high-quality materials: muslin, maybe, something he shouldn't touch for fear he'd get it dirty. She obviously had money, for why else would she be carrying so many things? She wasn't too high-class or there would have been a maid to cart her things around, but... This woman didn't belong in this part of town.

"Boy?" She didn't say the word like it was something filthy; like boy was the equivalent of rat. She even crouched down, not caring that her skirts were tainted by the muck on the ground. "Do you need a place to sleep?"

Her eyes were a soft brown, like the fallowed fields he'd seen in picture books. Her smile seemed genuine. But could he trust her, truly? Was she any better than the ruffians on the streets, simply because she had money and status? "No, thank you, ma'am."

That night and for the weeks following, he slept in an alley. When he woke up one morning, however, his boots had been stolen.