The tutors Grandfather had summoned for Eli and me proved diligent and remarkably learned men, though they were a curious assortment. Over the course of several months, our days were filled with study and discourse, each hour colored by the varied temperaments and origins of the men Grandfather had enlisted. They were not ordinary schoolmasters, but rather acquaintances from a lifetime of his trade and travels—men of thought and refinement whom he trusted implicitly.
Our mathematics tutor, a stately gentleman with a long jaw and spectacles that never left the bridge of his nose, was a professor at the College of Philadelphia. His voice was dry as chalk dust, and his thoughts sharp as the quill he often wagged in our faces when we erred in our sums. The man who instructed us in natural philosophy and the sciences of the earth was of a gentler disposition, an elderly naturalist who had journeyed from France to catalog the plants and beasts of this untamed continent. He smelled faintly of cedar and tobacco and would often pause his lectures to chase down a butterfly or point out a rare bird with childlike delight.
Perhaps the most curious of our tutors was the Reverend Whitcombe, who taught us moral reasoning and the philosophies of the ancients. He had once been a minister in Boston but had been turned out for what Grandfather delicately described as a fondness for wine and women. The Reverend himself put it more plainly, saying he had a "healthy thirst for joy in a joyless world." Despite, or perhaps because of, his fall from grace, I found his lessons the most stirring. He spoke not from dogma, but from experience, and carried the air of a man who had looked upon both heaven and hell and found something to ponder in each.
Grandfather had a clear vision for Eli and me. He often spoke of it, saying we must become "Renaissance men." Gentlemen of learning, art, and arms, capable of discussing matters of state with a magistrate in the morning and hauling sacks of grain with the laborers by afternoon. In his eyes, such a man was the ideal, a fellow equally at ease quoting Virgil or leading a horse to water, capable with both pen and pistol. He ensured that our days were filled not only with books but with the knowledge of music, fencing, manners, and practical skills.
Eli, ever my closest companion, joined me in my morning exercises. Together we ran the fields at dawn, our feet striking the dew-covered grass in rhythm, our breath hanging in the cool morning air. By the height of summer, we could run a mile in just under seven minutes, a feat that astonished the stable hands and earned us a rare nod of approval from Grandfather.
One morning, after a particularly demanding run, we collapsed beneath the old sycamore tree that grew on the orchard's edge. I had two apples tucked into my waistcoat, which I handed to Eli. We bit into them with relish, the crisp flesh sweet and tart on our tongues.
Eli wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked at me. "John, I've been meaning to ask. Why are you so set on all this exercise? You're to inherit more coin than you'll know what to do with. You could rest easy the rest of your days and still live better than most."
I rolled the apple in my hand, weighing the question. "I know. But what a waste that would be. What is a life if it's only comfort and idleness?"
He gave me a puzzled look. "Doesn't sound so terrible to me."
I smiled. "With what I have, I could do real good. Make life better for others. I could achieve things no one's ever dared to dream. But to do that, I need my mind sharp and my body strong."
Eli gave a short grunt in reply, which I took as agreement, and returned to eating his apple. The breeze stirred the branches above us as we sat quietly beneath the tree, the sunlight dappling the grass at our feet.
Time passed slowly after that, uneventful in most respects, until one morning Grandfather called me into his study after breakfast. The fire in the hearth was low, and the room smelled of pipe smoke and paper. He sat behind his great oak desk, a quill in one hand, his expression serious.
"Come in, John. Sit down a moment," he said, motioning to the chair across from him.
I obeyed, curious.
"A gentleman is coming to stay with us. He is to be your swordmaster, for you and Eli.
I nodded, unsure why this required a private meeting.
"He is French," Grandfather continued. "And while I have spoken ill of the French in these past years, I must ask you to treat this man with the utmost respect. He is an old friend, and one I trust."
I considered this and gave a slow nod. My memories of another life had long tempered my feelings on such matters. I did not blame entire nations for the folly of their kings.
"You have my word, Grandfather. I'll treat him with the same respect I've shown every other tutor."
"Good," he said with a faint smile. "He sails from Bordeaux. The next convoy departs soon. He should arrive within a few months."
The mention of the convoy filled me with a quiet pride. It had been my idea, months ago, to suggest a convoy system to protect Grandfather's shipping interests. That strategy had not only preserved our family's fortunes but ensured a steady flow of vital supplies to the colonies. Grandfather's success in trade had made him a respected figure in the middle colonies and even in parts of New England.
I could think of little else in the weeks that followed. I spent hours imagining the swordsman, tall, broad-shouldered, with a lean face and sharp eyes, the sort of man who had seen battle and carried the knowledge of it in his very step. The thought of learning from such a man thrilled me.
Yet life continued in its usual rhythm. I studied diligently with my tutors, played games with Eli and Mother, and practiced with wooden sticks in the barnyard, imagining them to be steel blades.
One night, near the end of the harvest, I woke just past midnight needing to relieve myself. The house was still and cold, the floors creaking under my feet. As I passed by Grandfather's study, I heard voices inside.
"I must tell him," my mother said. Her voice was soft but determined. "He deserves to know who his father is."
"He does not," Grandfather replied, his tone harsh and final. "The man never claimed him, never sought to know him. Why should John know a man who all but discarded him?"
There was a pause, then my mother's voice again, quieter, almost pleading. "He might have changed. Perhaps if I sent a letter, or…"
"No. You will not see him again. I forgave your mistake because you were young, and he was charming. But he is not worthy of our boy. John does not need that sort of man in his life. He has us. He has his teachers and his friends. That is enough. This matter is closed."
I stood frozen in the hallway, the weight of those words sinking like a stone in my chest. I turned and crept back to my room, each step heavier than the last. The floor groaned beneath me, but I made no sound. I slipped beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing. Who was he, this man whose name I did not know? And why had he cast me aside?
Ten minutes passed, maybe more, before I heard the soft creak of my door. Mother's footsteps crossed the room, gentle and familiar. She leaned over me and kissed my brow, her hand resting lightly on my cheek.
"Good night, my son," she whispered. "I will always love you."
I closed my eyes and said nothing. I wanted to ask her everything, to demand the truth. But I remained silent, uncertain whether the answers would bring peace or pain. That night, for the first time, I began to wonder who I truly was—and what kind of man I was meant to become.