Work Text:
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
The Cry of the Children - Elizabeth Barrett Browning¹.
There were children working in London. From the chimney sweepers, to the factory workers, to the paper boys, there were children working in London. Eloise wasn't one of them.
She understood that work meant getting up early, doing something all day, then going home sleepy and having to do it all over again the next day to make money, because money was important.
She wasn't exactly sure how much money was important or why her father only had to do work sometimes in his office or sometimes in London and sometimes in the country, but it seemed important.
There were children working in Hyde Park too. Little flower girls around her age and paper boys.
Eloise was seven years old, holding onto her big brother's hand, and he was talking about things he said were "important", like how King Charles I opened Hyde Park to everyone. Eloise thought that was very nice of the King, because the park was very pretty and she liked walking through it with her family and seeing everything—the people, not just all the flowers, even if they were pretty, the people made it so much more fun.
"Sharing is important," Eloise said, repeating something Anthony had told her a hundred times.
"Very good," Anthony said, patting her head as he let go of her hand and smiled.
She turned back to look at the gardens, beaming from the praise, and saw a boy, no more than ten years old, selling newspapers. Reading the news was important. Father did it every morning and when he was done, he'd push the paper over to Anthony, who'd trawl through the pages, and then over to Benedict, who'd skip to the interesting bits and show her the artsy, fun parts, and then she'd take it herself and she'd point to any words she didn't know and ask what they meant. The newspaper liked to use lots of big words and it had fun puzzles too.
Maybe they could do some of the puzzles over the picnic. Mother was pretty good at them.
She pulled on Anthony's sleeve, but he was talking to Father. Probably about something important. Well, that was alright, the paper boy was only a little ways a way, still in sight, and she'd just ask how much the paper was.
She took a step forward.
The boy was talking to an older gentlemen, who was holding an ivory cane and wearing a very fancy coat which must have been making him sweaty in the spring sunshine, as the old man's face was quite sweaty and red and he was shouting. Why was the old man shouting? It wasn't very nice to shout.
She took another step.
The old man pushed the boy, shoving him to the ground, into the grass. His newspapers flew across the ground, some flying much further into the nearby pond, and others spread across the floor in front of him, opening out onto the oil and flower beds.
She started running.
"Eloise!" Anthony shouted.
"That boy's in trouble!" Eloise shouted back, not stopping. "We need to help!"
She was close enough to hear clearly now what the old man was yelling.
"Little brat overcharging me!" the old man shouted, slamming his cane on the ground right next to the boy's foot. "Little thief."
"I didn't! I didn't—I swear, I—" the boy said, scrambling up from the ground. He picked up his hat, which had dropped in the fall, and placed it back on his head, covering most of his wild brown hair.
The old man poked his cane into the boy's chest, making the boy take a step back. He stepped onto one of the newspapers and winced.
"Hello," Eloise said, abruptly stopping beside the old man, making him jump. "I'd like to buy a newspaper."
"I'm sorry," the boy said, not looking away from the old man, who was all red and blown up in the face like a puffer-fish. "They've gotten dirty on the floor."
"That's alright," Eloise said, kneeling down on the soil. She nudged his foot out of the way and picked up the one he'd stepped on. It was The Morning Post². She put it under her arm. "This one's fine, thank you. How much are they? I'll have to get my brother to pay."
He told her the price, which didn't mean much to her, but the old man tapped his cane on the ground and said, "If that's the price, boy, then it's gone up since last week."
She ignored whatever he was saying, which didn't seem very important (she doubted much he said was) and picked up a few more newspapers. She put them in a neat little pile.
"Yes, sir," the boy said, "Special edition, sir. The paper has got Coleridge³ now as a regular."
"He's contributed?" the old man said, redness deflating. "Mm."
"I'm sorry for the trouble sir," the boy said, dusting off a bit of soil from one of the papers. "I can give you back the money."
Why was the boy apologising?
"Why do you need the money back?" Eloise asked, looking at the man's fancy cane and coat. "Anyway, the paper is worth it. The puzzles are fun. You should try one. My father says they're really calming and nice. You look like you need something calming."
The boy looked at her like she'd sprouted two heads. She didn't know why. She'd only said the truth. The man had the face of a puffer-fish and the manners of an ill-bred dog. Some people were just horribly rude!
"Thank you, sir," the boy said, but the old man spoke over him (more evidence of his rudeness, she thought).
"And who are you, little girl?" the old man said, snatching the newspaper from the boy's hands.
"My name is Eloise but my brother says I'm a proper little madam," Eloise said, confidently. She stood up, soil on her dress and hands, as she handed over her neat little stack of papers she'd picked up from the floor. "Here's your papers. I don't have money to pay for this one, though."
The boy blinked. "Newspapers cost money, little madam."
"Oh, I know that," she said. "I'll get my papa or one of my brothers to pay. I don't know why, but they don't give me money."
The old man grumbled, "I wonder why."
She didn't understand why that was rude, but from the grumpy look on his face and the exasperated look of the paper boy, she quickly realised that was an insult.
Insults were very rude.
So, she "accidentally" stepped on the old man's foot.
He said a word she hadn't heard or read before and the paper boy's eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the sound.
Right at that moment, her brother Anthony finally caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder. "Eloise, what's going on? Sir, please excuse my little sister's behaviour, she's—"
"A little devil, that's what she is," the old man grumbled, jamming his cane on the floor.
"…Excuse me, sir?" Anthony said, his grip on her shoulder heavier than before, just like the sound of his voice. "Forgive me for missing your meaning. Myself and my family were out for a walk today and we were quite enjoying the stroll from Bridgerton House."
He pulled her closer into him and she stumbled back, gripping the newspaper under her arm as she went.
"I want to buy a newspaper," she told him. "Don't worry. The old man was just going. He's already paid."
The old man looked at Anthony, glanced back at where her brother had ran from, at her father, then grumbled to himself.
He didn't look at the paper boy.
The old man nodded his head and walked off. He didn't apoloise. That was very rude. He ought to apologise. She opened her mouth to say so, to call him back and demand he make things right, just as she had to when she'd been mean to her sister or brothers or to anyone really, but Anthony was saying something. And, unlike the old man, Anthony actually said important things sometimes so she chose to listen.
"You can't run off like that, Eloise," Anthony said.
Hm, no that didn't seem important. So, she ignored it and turned to the newspaper boy, who was picking up the rest of the newspapers. She knelt back on the floor and reached for the last one, touching the bottom of the page, as his hand touched the headline.
"Eloise? We should get back," Anthony said, reaching through his pockets for some coin.
She let go first.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the boy. "Are you alright?"
With a quick glance at her brother and seeing him distracted, the boy nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."
She clenched her fists. "If anyone ever shouts at you like that again, don't hesitate to stomp on their foot. It shuts anyone up when they're being stupid."
The boy snorted and said, "I don't think I can do that, but I'll keep it in mind."
She asked why not.
"Because I'd get in a lot of trouble. You wouldn't, miss." He stood up, holding all the papers. "But I'm glad you did it. You were really brave."
Brave?
No one had ever called her that before!
"Someday, I'm going to print my own things," he told her, like he was sharing a secret. "I'll get to shout back, then."
She thought that was rather clever and was about to say she'd get her own money then so she could buy it, but Anthony was handing over the money to the paper boy and pulling her away. She looked over her shoulder. Her mother was waiting. Her brothers were already playing.
When she turned back to the boy, he was already walking away. He probably had more work for the day. More papers to sell. More people to yell at him. More people he couldn't argue with.
Colin called out to her, telling her to come and play, and it was a real shame her friend (because, yes, he had been nice and called her brave, so he was her friend now) couldn't play too.
It wasn't fair.
Years later, she thought the exact same thing as she knelt on the ground and touched another sheet of paper, and met the eyes of the same boy, now a man, who looked at her with that same sense of wonder, and she wanted to cry. A lot of things in the world weren't fair, were they?