Ansel of Pryor House
By Hayden Thorne
Published by Queerteen Press
Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.
Copyright 2015 Hayden Thorne
ISBN 9781611527674
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.
* * * *
Ansel of Pryor House
By Hayden Thorne
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Chapter 1
A month before Christmas—that was the only reality to Ansel Tunnicliffe. Everything else had long vanished. His past, both immediate and distant, didn’t exist, so terrified and sickened was he as he sat in the corner of the tiny room, a sack containing his meager belongings held tightly against his chest. He wished he didn’t have to witness his father’s degradation—or was it his?—as the older man gambled his child’s freedom away to a large, grim traveler who was so obviously a master at cards.
Ansel didn’t know how many games they needed to play in order for a final judgment to be made on his fate. It sure felt like forever since he was ordered to sit down on a rickety old stool, and his stomach’s miserable gurgling seemed to mark the passage of time. There were no clocks in the room anywhere, and he didn’t have anything with which to divert himself as he waited. He could only resort to counting the floorboards, which proved to be a futile effort as his gnawing hunger fogged his brain, and he was forced to stop at eleven to blink away the haze. After a few more half-hearted attempts at counting, he turned his gaze to the nearest window and stared at the wintery scene beyond. Snow was falling, peppering the gray day with tiny, delicate flakes of white that seemed to wink at him as they floated downward.
“One more!” His father’s dry, crackly voice startled him out of his reverie, and he turned to watch the two men collect the scattered cards for another round. “Mind that you shuffle those damned things properly!” Mr. Tunnicliffe added, setting his collected pile down on the table with an emphatic bang. Red-faced and angry, he kept a narrow-eyed watch over his opponent while reaching down to his side, his badly shaking hand fumbling for the bottle he’d set on the floor next to his chair.
The traveler merely regarded him with a look of open disgust as he picked up the cards given to him and carried on with the preparations for the next round. Not once did he speak, and despite his hunger and terror, Ansel couldn’t help but marvel at the gentleman’s unwavering restraint. Dressed in fine clothes in the most vivid gray and green—an odd mix of colors to Ansel—he visually overpowered his drunk, ragged antagonist. Two men at odds, looking like night and day. The gentleman-traveler had tapped Mr. Tunnicliffe by the shoulder downstairs, when the inebriated brute struck Ansel across the face for daring to plead with his father to stop drinking.
“Upstairs, you vulgar coward,” the gentleman had said in a low, threatening rumble. “Unless you want me to flay your worthless hide in front of your son right here, right now.”
Mr. Tunnicliffe had heaped verbal abuses on the stranger from the moment the two seated themselves at the table, his slurred insults apparently falling short of their mark and further infuriating him. And the angrier he grew, the more he attacked with pathetic desperation, earning himself a sneer or a contemptuous bark of laughter.
If Mr. Tunnicliffe felt no shame there, his youngest child certainly did, and Ansel would hold his discolored sack more tightly against his chest, his face burning. It was mercy on both men’s parts that neither of them bothered to look at Ansel any time during their game.
* * * *
Mr. Tunnicliffe was a sick man in mind and spirit, a drunk and a gambler whose habits had driven his wife away, leaving him with four hungry children to look after. The two oldest boys left everyone as soon as each reached his seventeenth year in pursuit of apprenticeships far, far away from their father. The third child simply ran away. Word spread that the unhappy girl sought out her mother and vanished along the way. Whether or not she still lived was a question that was hotly debated for a brief period of time before restless tongues stopped their wagging. In the end, it really didn’t matter as she plain wanted to get away despite her age at fourteen, and she had her wish.
Ansel was unlucky enough to be the youngest and the slowest to act, but then again, when his sister disappeared, he was only twelve. No help came from his older brothers, who never sent word home as to their situation. Ansel resigned himself to the fact that he was on his own now to look after his father, a man who hated his life and himself and took his frustrations out on his youngest child. It was nothing more than kind-hearted intervention on their neighbors’ part that ensured Ansel’s survival. Food and occasional shelter when his father was on a drunken rampage were a godsend to the terrified boy.
On Ansel’s fifteenth year, Fortune turned her cold, assessing eyes on him and marked him for an unusual adventure. His father ordered him to wash up one bitterly cold morning in November, saying, “Pack your clothes when you’re done. We’re going to town.”
A few fading bruises on his body and face reminded Ansel to stay quiet and appreciate the wisdom of not questioning his father’s commands or judgment even if he thought the weather was too harsh for either of them to brave with nothing more than patched up rags on their bodies. Without another word exchanged between them, Ansel hurried off to do his father’s bidding and stood before the older man in no time, clean and bundled up as well as he could against the cold, his sack of clothes sitting in a pitifully small lump at his feet.
His father spared him not much more than a quick, cursory glance and a nod. “You’ll do well to keep your mouth shut,” he muttered, the stink of gin already on his breath.
Father and son then rode an old pony and trap that was being driven by one of Mr. Tunnicliffe’s tavern friends. Ansel took care to place himself as close to the rear as he possibly could while his father stayed with his friend, the two passing a bottle back and forth while taking turns with the reins and somehow miraculously still managing to keep the horse and its rickety burden on the road. Ansel stared out into the snow-covered scene around them, wondering where his siblings were and pointedly avoiding the dread that had begun to pick away at his gut. His father had only a handful of money—as to where that came from, Ansel dared not guess—which was sure to be lost at the gaming table. Mr. Tunnicliffe was also desperate, his sickness having eaten away at his reason and damning him to just one
narrow and rigid view of his life and his fate.
Once in town, the trio traveled on till they reached its most notorious corner with the decaying houses and establishments, the whores, the drunks, the gamblers, the thieves, and even murderers. Once the horse was taken away to the stables of an inn, the two older men staggered off to the front door, Ansel following them reluctantly. A blast of thick, hot air met them as they stepped across the threshold, the innkeeper not at all shy in showing his distaste at the men’s half-drunk state.
He regarded Mr. Tunnicliffe with a black scowl. “You have the gall to show yourself here, with three months’ worth of debt? How much would it be tonight, you old bastard?”
“My youngest,” the red-faced man said, pulling Ansel forward by the wrist, fingers digging into bruises that had yet to heal. “Mind that you don’t say a single foul word in front of him. He’s only a child—or he’s got the brain of a child—I forget.”
The innkeeper stared at Ansel in amazement for a moment, which quickly turned to dismay. “What’s your name, son?” he asked, dropping his voice though he could still be heard amid the din.
“Ansel, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
The man appeared to be in absolute shock at seeing the boy, making Ansel wonder what he’d just done to merit such a reaction. But the crowd of paying customers roared, drawing everyone’s attention away, and the innkeeper had to hurry back to the crowd, barking orders to the serving-girls who alternately wove their way through the filthy, stinking mass and screeched whenever someone grabbed hold of their breasts or backsides.
“Dog,” Mr. Tunnicliffe muttered, turning to spit. Still holding Ansel’s wrist tightly, he gave the boy’s arm another harsh tug. “Come on, come on. We haven’t got all day.” And they followed his friend into the crowd.
* * * *
Something heavy and rough shook Ansel out of the maze of dreams, and the awful pain of his strained muscles up and down his body forced him to awaken more quickly. Blinking still-heavy eyes open, he squinted and frowned, groaning a little as he groggily pushed himself up from where he’d slumped in the corner.
“Wh—what? Where am I?” he stammered, wincing at every stab of pain in each body part he tried to move.
“It doesn’t matter where you are,” the low, steady voice replied with a good deal of patience. “Are you hungry? I haven’t seen you eat since you were brought here. Here, let me help you up.”
A large hand appeared, and Ansel stared at it dumbly for a moment before taking it in his, and he was easily hauled up and off the floor.
“Can you stand on your own?” the voice asked. “You look terrible. Maybe you should sit down, and I can have food sent up. When was the last time you ate, son?”
“Last night, sir.”
Ansel was wide awake now, and he glanced around, trying to remember what had just happened. Oh, yes—he’d been overcome by fatigue and hunger and had to abandon his stool in order to curl up against the corner wall and sleep away as much of the day as he possibly could. The snow was still falling outside, and it was a good deal darker now. The little room was only furnished with the most uninviting bed, a small table, and two chairs, the stool being dragged inside by a harried servant at the gentleman’s request. He suspected it wasn’t the gentleman’s room as he saw no bags or other belongings anywhere; it had been rented for the night, perhaps, for the purpose of gambling.
His canvas sack still sat on the floor nearby, but he saw no signs of his father anywhere. Swallowing, Ansel watched the gentleman stride to the door and swing it open, hollering for someone. A boy appeared, orders were taken, and within seconds the door was once again shut against the rest of the inn.
“Where’s my father?” Ansel asked after a moment’s hesitation. He crossed his arms over his chest and held himself tightly, dreading the answer and yet was not surprised when it came.
“Gone. You’re with me now.” The man stopped and looked at him for a moment, his thick brows rising as he waited for the boy’s response. When Ansel remained quiet, he shrugged. “This is better in the long run—for you, that is.” He paused as he walked over to the table, where cards lay scattered. Empty bottles sat on the floor beside the chair where Mr. Tunnicliffe had sat earlier. He gathered the cards in a few quick moves and tapped them against the table. “You do understand what just happened, don’t you?”
Ansel nodded. “He lost everything, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” The gentleman set the neatly packed cards back on the table and bent down to gather the bottles, which he also arranged on the table. “He lost all his money—which was more like loose change to me. And he lost you.” He glanced up and met Ansel’s gaze with a narrowed, steely one of his. “He brought you here because he planned for it—losing all, I mean, for more drink. He expected it. Like I said, it’s all for the best.”
“Am I going to be your servant now, sir?”
“No. I’m taking you back to live with my sister. I think you’ll like it there. It’s a great house with only her and a couple of servants. Lots of empty, dusty rooms that don’t enjoy much use unless guests stay, and they’re quite rare. My sister’s a bit of a hermit and is notoriously particular of her choice of companions, but I daresay she’ll take to you quite well.” He paused again, regarding Ansel with raised brows. “You’re not afraid of large, dark houses, are you?”
Ansel shook his head mutely. He tried to say something halfway clever in return, but his tongue had lodged itself into his throat, and he broke down and sobbed instead.
Chapter 2
The gentleman-traveler, who’d introduced himself as Mr. Byrle Farnham, did little to assuage Ansel’s anxiety and depression, but at least he was generous enough to feed the boy as well as to offer him a thick winter cloak for travel. Once he’d exhausted himself with what felt like an eternity of loud, ugly weeping, Ansel was soothed with comical awkwardness by his benefactor, who couldn’t seem to do much but say, “There now, things will be all right” while patting the boy roughly on the back and almost sending him pitching forward and falling on his face.
Dinner was stupendous—delicious, filling, and hot—and Ansel ignored propriety as he inhaled his food greedily, stopping only when he was so full it hurt to breathe. Mr. Farnham, in the meantime, availed himself of some roast meat and vegetables, his control over his portions indicative of his familiarity with the luxury of good food while encouraging Ansel to eat as much as he could.
Neither spoke during the meal. Mr. Farnham seemed quite lost in his food, which was perhaps a good thing. Ansel, for his part, was too overcome with emotion to do much more than give his benefactor a halting thanks before diving into his meal. He kept his gaze down, glancing up only to see if Mr. Farnham was watching him or was about to tell him something. Once he was done eating, he wiped his mouth against his shirt, shyly gathered his utensils, plate, and bowl into one pile, and sat back, looking awkwardly around him while wincing at his gluttony.
“My accommodations for this evening are at a different inn,” Mr. Farnham said at length. He sat back in his chair with a contented grunt, his large hand wrapped around his drink. He regarded Ansel in silence for a moment. “We’ll sleep there and set off tomorrow morning.”
Ansel nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“This isn’t a good establishment for someone your age. You’re, what, thirteen?”
“No, sir. I’m fifteen.”
Mr. Farnham neither flinched nor showed an ounce of surprise. “You’re undernourished. That’s why you look much younger than you really are. But we’ll take care of that—or, rather, my sister will take care of that.”
Ansel mulled this over, his mind going back to what Mr. Farnham had just said about his new situation in a great house with more rooms and space than residents. “Is she a widow, sir?”
“Not as such,” Mr. Farnham replied with a touch of hesitation. He seemed to have to think about that one. “She was attached on
ce upon a time, but she’s alone now for better or for worse. Anyway, you’ll be learning more about her history once you’re there, if she chooses to indulge you, anyway. She’s notoriously tight-lipped about her private life—a very common trait for us Farnhams, so don’t be surprised or disappointed if she chooses to keep you at a distance. If it’s any comfort, I know only half of what’s been going on with her, and I’m her brother. For the time being, it’s best for you to rest and make up for—well—all those years of neglect.” He waved his free hand carelessly in Ansel’s direction and then looked away as though distracted again while drinking his ale.
“Does she live far, sir?” Ansel asked, now embarrassed at being perceived as a busybody. He sat on his hands to avoid wringing them as was his tendency when nervous.
“It’s a three day drive to Pryor House. Are you done? Good. Get your things, and follow me downstairs.”
Ansel was soon bundled up in a thick cloak that was about ten sizes too big and that made him shrink against the fine material as his own filthy, coarse rags reminded him of his inadequacies. But he held his tongue while Mr. Farnham secured the cloak around his shoulders and pulled the hood down over his head before slapping his back roughly again to show approval. Like before, it took Ansel every ounce of strength he had to keep himself from stumbling forward. He picked up his canvas sack, nodded at Mr. Farnham, and followed the gentleman out of the room and eventually out the inn, gathering his cloak in one hand to avoid stepping on the excess material and tripping over it.
Stepping out into the wintry darkness jarred him back to the present after what seemed like an entire day spent in a waking nightmare of sorts. The chill air swirled around him, forcing Ansel to pull the cloak more tightly around himself. The events of the past few hours bore down on him with dreadful clarity. Ansel found himself reliving every minute since he awoke that morning, cold, hungry, and dreading another drunken outburst from his father. The miserable journey through the snow, the loud, reeking environment of the inn, and the horrible time spent watching his humanity reduced to several card games—all those and what came after suddenly swept over him in one terrifying and confusing wave. It was all he could do to press his mouth tightly shut to stifle the pained sound that threatened to come out. Blinking away the surging tears, Ansel ducked his head and followed Mr. Farnham to the gentleman’s waiting coach and boarded.
Ansel of Pryor House Page 1
