The Knight of Destiny.
“The carriage is ready, sir,” his butler said, breaking him from his thoughts. The man was thin, nearing the age of sixty. His shiny head had not seen hair in many years. At least that was what Scriven had shared with Aaron when he had hired him two years earlier.
“Thank you,” Aaron said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Once Scriven had left the room, Aaron took one last look at the sword. Today, he would begin to carve out his own destiny, and that could only happen once he was able to complete the purchase of the Chatsworth Theater.
Making his way outside, Aaron ignored the driver’s greeting and stepped into the exquisite carriage. Gray cloth benches and ornate wood stained a dark brown decorated the interior, but he paid it little mind as he focused his thoughts on the task before him today.
The proprietor, Mr. Neil Barker, was a plain-looking man whose love for the establishment was nauseating. Yet Aaron had heard about the man’s financial struggles, which had led him to offer a more-than-reasonable price to purchase the building outright. There, Aaron would redecorate the interior and turn it into a respectable gentlemen’s club.
Two problems stood in his way, however. The first had to do with the proprietor himself. Mr. Barker had yet to fully commit to selling the building. But Aaron would see that remedied today by having the man sign a contract. Once that was done, he could not renege on the agreement.
The second would be a bit more difficult to overcome. Although Aaron had the funds to see the venture completed on his own, a single man could stand to lose a great fortune. What he needed was a way to minimize the risk to himself. Therefore, he was in need of investors.
Despite his lack of acquaintances in Chatsworth and its surrounding area, he had spoken to a Harold, Lord Canton at a small dinner party the previous week. The elderly baron had shown a great interest in Aaron’s endeavor but refused to commit. Regardless, Aaron needed more than one gentleman investor. Not only for the theater but also for other ventures in the future.
The vehicle came to a stop, and Aaron found himself standing outside the theater. Located in a two-story, angular building where two roads came together, the Chatsworth Theater had a set of white-painted double doors at the entrance. By far the largest single building in the village, it would be perfect for what he wished to accomplish.
A choked sob made him turn. In the entrance to a nearby alleyway stood a woman with unkempt hair and a colorless burlap dress that appeared not to have been washed in several days, if not weeks. Beside her stood a young boy of perhaps six, his trousers far too short and his toes sticking out the ends of his shoes.
A sudden memory entered Aaron’s mind that made his stomach clench with regret. He’d been no older than ten when he encountered one of the young maids weeping out in the courtyard.
A pretty blonde girl of perhaps thirteen, Fara was rarely found without a smile whenever Aaron encountered her. Today, however, she was clearly upset about something.
Wanting to console her, Aaron took a step forward, but his father caught him by the shoulder, forcing him to a halt. “Whatever has her crying like a child, I’ve no doubt she’s brought it upon herself. She’s not your problem, Aaron, but rather Mrs. Coplin’s.”
She had been the housekeeper of his childhood home.
“People like her don’t need our charity, boy. They need to learn to do for themselves. Just like we do. If she was berated by Mrs. Coplin for not doing her job—or for whatever misdeed she committed—then she’s got no one else to blame but herself.”
Later however, doubt still plagued him, and he went to ask his mother about Fara. He found out that the young maid had received word that her father had passed away. The fact he had not ignored his father’s request to keep away had filled him with guilt.
Seeing this woman now, sobbing and wiping at her dusty cheeks, was too much for Aaron to bear. His father could not always be right.
“What is wrong?” Aaron asked as he approached the woman.
She jumped, pulling the boy closer to her. “Me ‘usband, ‘e left us last night, milord. Took every last farthin’ we ‘ad. And why? ‘Cause ‘e done found some young baggage…” Her eyes widened. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milord. I di’n’t mean to use such crude language in front of a gentleman like yerself. It’s jus’ that I wanna go ‘ome to me family, but I ain’t got the money. And walkin’ with me boy all the way to Canterbury? It’ll take us weeks!”
“I won’t leave you, Mama,” the boy said in an attempt to console his mother.
Aaron drew in a deep breath. Contrary to what his father had tried to instill, he knew better than to blame women for every situation that had gone awry. And this was one example. A man who left his family in dire straits to chase another skirt was dastardly. And referring to him as a man was stretching the meaning of that word to its limits. Grown men took care of their responsibilities, not shirked them.
Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he took out several pound notes. “I’m not a lord, but I want you to use this to help you to return home,” he said, placing the notes in her hand.
She looked up at him with those glistening eyes. “Are… are ye sure, me… sir?”
Aaron smiled. “Most assuredly.”
“I’ll pay it back to ye somehow, sir. I swear. What’s yer name so I can send it to ye?”
Although the idea of having his good deeds whispered among the villagers, using another’s tragedy to improve how others saw him just did not feel right. “My name is of no consequence. Now, go and feed yourself and the boy.”
The woman thanked him again and hurried away, her son in tow.
Aaron shook them from his thoughts. He was not there to wonder what would happen to a woman and her child. Thus, he turned and entered the theater. Passing through the foyer, he entered the dimly lit auditorium.
Mr. Barker was on the stage, surrounded by a group of young ladies. Aaron nearly groaned in frustration. Women were prone to talking without ceasing. At least that was what he’d been taught, though it had only confused Aaron further. His mother and sister, neither of them was a prattler. Still, what was meant to be a polite call for a few minutes’ chat with Mr. Barker would likely take hours. He had believed the proprietor marginally competent. Perhaps he was wrong. After all, the man was wasting his time entertaining a gaggle of gossipmongers.
I just hope they leave soon,he thought with annoyance. He was far too busy to have his time taken by a bunch of silly and young females.