Of Orphans and Secrets

Had Lord Christopher Jonathan Morgan Senior and Lady Annabeth Juliet Morgon known that the morning of December 17th, 1822 would be the last day they would hold and kiss their beautiful baby boy, the two most likely would not have ventured into town.

There was nothing about the day that seemed particularly ominous, though. Yes, it had snowed the night before, but the majority of the evidence had melted away, even before the sun had fully risen. Left in its wake was a slight and rather muddy inconvenience, but nothing to cause a stir or elicit any sort of warning.

However, that slight and rather muddy inconvenience quickly turned into an unfortunate incident when one of the carriage wheels sunk too low into the softened and swampy ground. While the horses kicked and fussed, and the coachmen fought to release the wheel, a group of thieves happened to stumble by. They did not enjoy robbing during the day, but such a perfect opportunity rarely fell into their hands. And so, the unfortunate incident melded itself into a sorrowful tragedy when Lord Christopher and Lady Annabeth were robbed of more than just their possessions.

And so, it was the night of December 17th, 1822 that Christopher Jonathan Morgan Junior found himself an orphan at the age of one and the head of a crumbling estate. Neither his mother nor father had any relatives to speak off, so no one stepped forward to claim the child. The diminutive amount of inheritance that Christopher received was used to pay off the numerous debts left to him by his rather vicarious mother and infamously reckless father. The remaining amount was divided amongst the servants; a designated salary to hold them over until they found new jobs.

As a result of having no money, no distant ancestors, no parents with any respectable friends, and no one to stick up for the poor infant, Christopher Jonathan Morgan Junior was shuffled off to an orphanage, dumped and forgotten.

He lived fourteen years in the orphanage before deciding to run away. However, it quickly became a decision he regretted, and he returned after nearly starving to death twice.

Following his seventeenth birthday two years after, Christopher found himself once again on the streets. However, this time he was much better equipped to deal with the difficult circumstances. He had managed to acquire an apprenticeship for a local tailor who had often visited the orphanage during his childhood. That mans name was James Proder and he was neither kind nor generous. However, he did have a rather serious infatuation with one of the orphanage’s caretakes, Lady Merriweather, and Lady Merriweather bore a certain degree of sentiment towards Christopher. Thus, as a result of trying to buy favor, James took Christopher under his wing and began training him. The tailor's generosity was short-lived, however, for a year later, Lady Merriweather married and moved outside of the city. Still, with his reputation to consider, James did not immediately discard of Christopher despite his regret and heartbreak. Instead, he demoted the boy to the status of errand-runner and ran him ragged with orders throughout the inner and outer works of London's streets. Though the job was tiring and paid very little, Christopher found he semi-enjoyed the work. He managed to encounter several figures within higher society and, though they looked upon him with disgust and contempt and scorn, Christopher merely admired their lavish clothing and their insurmountable wealth and continued on with his life.

Things did not change for Christopher until he was ordered to the residence of a well-renowned and highly respected painter who went by the name of Lord Jonathan Christopher Morgonson. Though the two men bore names of startling similarity, they did not, in fact, share any ancestry. Furthermore, Jonathan Christopher Morgonson was not even a legitimate lord. Though he possessed land and a generous degree of wealth, the title was more of a nickname rather than an actualized position. He was favored by countless members of the upper class, including a duke, and though he was not acknowledged by the Crown, those who bore him contempt for his enviable strives up the class system were still unable to voice their opinions without backlash.

Without full understanding of England’s class system, Christopher found he couldn’t fully appreciate what a startling feat Jonathan had accomplished. And so, when the young errand boy arrived at the painter's home with the task of collecting a prospective suit design, he thought very little of how the painter gained his wealth or his reputation. Christopher merely admired the expensive buttresses and grand fireplaces of the estate while gazing transfixed at the expanse of land that stretched and rolled over an astounding number of acres.

Jonathan had looked at Christopher rather curiously upon his arrival, and after a brief greeting, the painter led the errand boy to his study where he began mulling through mounds of hazardously stacked papers in search for his sketches. He mumbled a few jokes under his breath, laughed at his own humor, and continued searching, all the while glancing and squinting at Christopher with a bewildered expression.

Christopher was oblivious to the attention as his own gaze shifted to the number of paintings that were splayed and propped around the study. Some were clearly finished works while others had been discarded mid stroke. Though he thought it absentmindedly, Christopher found that the paintings were rather lacking. For being such a dignified painter, Jonathan’s works were not particularly beautiful nor were they intricately detailed. The majority were, in fact, rather plain; nothing more than canvases splattered and splayed with meaningless clashes of paint. Christopher, however, merely brushed off his assessment as a result of possessing no innate talent with art.

When Jonathan finally discovered his sketches, he handed them over to Christopher with shaky and old hands. His vision had started to go, and so the painter squinted intensely in order to see the errand boy’s face properly.

“You look a great deal like my son,” he said, smiling slightly. “He died. Forty years ago.”

Christopher was uncertain how to respond to the old man’s declaration. He stumbled through a sentence that sounded like an offer of condolences before stuttering a hasty good-bye and returning to the tailor’s shop, sketches in hand.

He did not know it at the time, but his life had just drastically changed.

The next week it was announced that Lord Jonathan Christopher Morgonson had passed away in his sleep. Though the news was not entirely shocking given the painter’s age, it was bewildering that the old man had left the entirety of his estate as well as his astounding fortune of 14,559 pounds (*$20,000) to a young orphan working in a tailor’s shop that he met merely once.

And just like that, Christopher found himself the head of non-existent lordship and 14,559 pounds richer than he had been the day before. His befuddlement was swayed slightly by the appearance of a man named Henry Bracket, who had served Jonathan Christopher Morgonson as an advisor.

Without any questions, and refusing any objections, Henry had Christopher moved into Jonathan’s estate by the end of the week.

A part of Christopher didn’t believe that any of what was happening was real. Though he slept and ate in the painter’s mansion, he still found himself anticipating Jonathan’s sudden revival and a pronouncement that everything was a joke. Or worse, Christopher would suddenly wake up, find himself huddled on the streets in a swaddle of dirty rags, freezing and hungry, and with the accompanying realization that everything had been a dream.

After all, what rational man would give away everything they had to a stranger merely because they resembled a deceased loved one?

However, as Christopher would later come to understand, Jonathan had not given away his fortune merely out of kindness.

After spending a month in his new residents taking etiquette lessons and learning how to properly read and write, while also avoiding rumors about his speculative relation to Jonathan, it was revealed to Christopher by Henry that it was expected of him to take up the discarded paintbrush and live as the painter’s successor. The former errand boy had blanched at such a statement.

However, he had very little choice in the matter for those who had previously kept quiet about Jonathan’s abnormal societal climb had stepped forward now that he was dead and had begun brandishing their distain. Many of the painter’s former supporters and friends had seemingly disappeared, and in their absence a new group formed who scoffed at the premise of an orphan rising to their prestige. Christopher was uneducated and talentless; an ugly stain on the lavishness of higher society that needed to be wiped away.

The only advice that Henry offered was to turn to Jonathan’s study.

In his desperation, Christopher listened. He began rifling through the painter’s former study in search of anything that could help. He pulled books off of bookshelves and papers from drawers, hoping for some sign that Jonathan had not given him everything only to have it taken away.

But just as Christopher was ready to give up, his fingers happened to graze over a small button-shaped protrusion on the side of the desk. It was a mere coincidence that his hand had passed over that particular spot. An accidental touch against the polished wood long enough to notice the abnormality in the surface. Crouching down, Christopher examined the notch and unsure of what else to do, pressed it. A loud clicking noise startled him, and he fell back onto his hands, his overreaction quickly turning into embarrassment. Realizing that nothing had attacked him or fallen on him, Christopher crawled to his feet and moved around the desk, looking for some sort of change to the structure. And he found it. Underneath the desk a small latch had opened, revealing its contents to be nothing more than a simple black notebook.

It was immensely worn out, its pages bulging with loose parchment. The notebook had long since lost its glossy furnish and the edges of the pages had begun to roll. The seam of the notebook was so creased that Christopher half worried picking it up would cause it to crumble. He was ginger with it as he pulled it out of the hidden latch and set it on top of the desk’s surface. Feeling as if he was doing something dubious, Christopher looked around before proceeding to open to the first page. He could read well enough by now that he managed the first few pages rather easily. And though it was a slow and taxing process of sounding out syllables and looking up what certain terms meant, Christopher, neither brilliant nor highly educated, came to understand just what he was reading.

It would seem that Jonathan the renowned painter had not garner his wealth off of his talent or his close friendships with the rich. He had, instead, obtained it by blackmailing them. Every page of the notebook was scrawled with information and details about the wealthy that if ever spoken aloud, would tarnish their reputations irredeemably. They had paid Jonathan for his silence, and to avoid suspicion, had done so by purchasing paintings he had half-heartedly thrown together.

Christopher wanted to laugh as he set the notebook down and leaned back in his chair. As he did, a discarded piece parchment on the floor caught his attention. It must have fallen from the latch’s compartment when it had flown open. Christopher reached for it quickly and read the singular line scrawled across the page in the same hand writing as the notebook.

You’ll find that secrets have a hefty price. Use the notebook wisely.

This time Christopher did laugh, loudly and unreservedly.

And just as Jonathan Christopher Morgonson had obtained his wealth, so did Christopher Jonathan Morgon maintain it.