This is only the start to this story. It's kind of an introduction.
It all started that fateful day. My father, one of the most respected magistrates in England was called to duty, as he often was. I was caring for my mother, who at that time was heavily pregnant.
My father went to the nearby town of Ludgershall were he was to meet someone from London on business. Shortly before his return a strange boy came by our mansion. He was quite handsome, but he was dirty and I assumed he was a poor boy. He was acting very strangely, hiding behind my mother’s prized rosebushes, looking in the window, watching.
I was upstairs when I saw the boy. He was tall, probably taller than me from what I could see. He had dark hair, almost black, which went just past his rather pointy chin. I decided to confront him. I crept round the back, planning to sneak up on him. I didn’t think anyone else saw him because if they did, they surely would have chased him away by now; my family had very strong (negative) feelings toward beggars. I was the only one who pitied them; they couldn’t help the situation they are in.
When I was right behind him he still didn’t notice me.
“Pardon me, sir, but what are you doing?” I said. He jumped, and when he turned and I saw his face I gasped. He was incredibly handsome. His eyes were deep, dark, blue and his face looked somewhat familiar.
“Who are you,” he asked, looking rather nervous at being caught.
“I think I am more entitled to ask that question, since I am not the one watching through people’s windows,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow at me and said: “I’m William Drury, and I was not watching through the window!”
“Then what are you doing here?” I asked, silently laughing at his nervousness.
“What business is it of yours?” he replied.
I didn’t really want to tell him that I lived there yet, so ignored the question and asked one of my own: “How old are you?”
“Seventeen miss, and you?” he answered, a little calmer now.
“Sixteen,” I answered.
I reached out a hand to help him up, he took it. As he did so he said: “You still didn’t tell me who you are.”
Not being able to think of a way to side-step the question, I answered.
“I am Emily Mompesson, and I live in this house.”
When he heard the name Mompesson, his face darkened.
“I take it you have heard from my family before?” I asked.
“Only today miss. Begging your pardon, but I don’t think very much of your father. At least I know his daughter is kind,” he said “and beautiful,” he added.
I felt myself blush as he smiled at me. I smiled back, but just then our housekeeper called me in so I had to go. Looking back I saw him walk on, he also looked back, he waved and disappeared around the corner.
I was in a state of happiness after that. I could hardly concentrate on what I was doing and my mind kept wandering to the mysterious boy.
That is, until my father came home. He told us al through dinner about an annoying beggar, drumming away and disturbing his work. He had taken a drum from him and tried to arrest him, but the other officials thought it unnecessary.
The drum, which was now being kept in our music room, had the initials ‘W. D.” carved into it, and I remember the boy saying that he had only heard of my family today.
“Why did you take his drum, father?” I asked. I knew people were usually cruel to beggars, but I couldn’t understand what was so wrong with them. My parents had raised me a good Christian and I thought that God wouldn’t have wanted us to be cruel to anyone.
“Because he was a damn nuisance, that’s why!” my father replied, and I knew that I had better keep quite about the affair. My father was very on edge these days, what with my mother expecting any day now, and him having to go to London the following day.
So, I didn’t mention it again.