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“My name’s Tom,” said the newcomer.
John kicked a larger rock. It struck the base of the monument, bounced back, and tumbled off into the grass.
“Dedicated to the memory of Malcolm Carew,” Tom read from the stone. “Beloved husband, respected father. They all say something like that. Have to, once they’re dead, don’t they?”
John felt a spark of interest in the newcomer.
“I mean, you never see a gravestone saying rotten husband, mean old dad, and all ’round clutch-fisted blackguard. Ain’t done.” He consulted the inscription. “Plenty old when he died. I suppose nobody shells out for a great spike like this if they didn’t like the fellow.”
John laughed. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Tom,” the other repeated.
“Tom what?”
“Dunno.” The older boy shrugged. “Don’t got a last name.”
“But how can you not?”
“I don’t remember my parents. Grew up scrambling, like, on the streets of Bristol.”
John’s interest increased by leaps and bounds. “My name is John Symmes.”
“Grandson of one of the local gentry,” Tom answered. “I heard.”
“You live around here?”
“No, come up for a visit. With Lord Macklin.” Leaning out, he indicated a tall somewhat intimidating-looking gentleman amid the parishioners.
John tried to figure out their association. Tom didn’t seem like a servant exactly. But he couldn’t be a relation of that high-nosed man. Not with the history he’d mentioned and the way he spoke. Still, better to err on the side of the complimentary. “Are you his grandson?”
Tom laughed. “Not hardly. I’m, well, I don’t rightly know what. I heard his secretary call me the earl’s current project.” He grinned.
It was an immensely engaging grin. John felt a tug of liking for this older, homely boy. Which was a rare experience in his life. “What does that mean?”
“I reckon Lord Macklin wants to make something of me.” Tom’s grin widened. “Not going to work, howsomeever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You ain’t alone in that. Do you like walking?”
“Walking?”
“Tramping about the countryside. I’m partial to it myself. Like company, too. You could come along.”
“I’m not allowed out by myself.” Much as it pained him, John had to admit it. He felt it simply wouldn’t be right to lie to this new intriguing acquaintance.
“Well, you wouldn’t be. You’d be with me. You could tell that aunt of yours that I never get in trouble. I’m right careful. And we’d just be looking about, ye know. Reconnoitering, they call it.”
“It isn’t Aunt Fenella. It’s Wrayle.”
“Rail?”
“He’s my jailor.” John enjoyed saying it. Daring to say it.
“Eh?” said Tom.
“They call him a servant, but he isn’t really.” Now that he was launched, the words went faster. “My parents assigned him to watch me.”
