Chapter Text
“How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!”
- John Howard Payne, “Home, Sweet Home” (1823)
25 April, 1754
Dear Father,
Tomorrow, at long last, I will depart for York City. I must confess I am not exactly brimming with anticipation to arrive there. Why on earth do you want me to go to this wretched place? I am willing to bet every shilling I have that it will be as dull and slow in York City as the people who live there undoubtedly are. Then again, I suppose just about anything or anyone will be stimulating enough after sitting around on this ship for six weeks. God. six weeks. You are forcing me to leave London to sit on a ship for six weeks, all to go live in some backwater full of colonists.
And I’ll not even be living with you. I will be living on my own. In a strange city. On a strange continent. Perhaps if I’m fortunate, pestilence will take me before I even arrive! Or better yet, a storm will come and-
Gilbert paused his fast-paced scrawling. When had he gotten so worked up? Men were not supposed to write these words; they were not supposed to think these thoughts.
He could never send this letter to father. Was that not part of the reason father wanted him to come to New York? To be away from that place where these thoughts grow like evergreen trees, frightfully imposing and never failing to make one bristle against their needles? It’s pathetic really. After all this time, to send for Gilbert in an attempt to reconcile and fix him in the process was indeed pathetic. Paltry. Pitiful. And now he was so upset he had resorted to alliteration. Wonderful.
He turned to his small pile of books, mostly made up of ones his father had sent him about the colonies and their history. Why his father seemed to like the colonies so much, Gilbert had no clue. Most of the people he knew at home wanted nothing to do with them. Well, rather, most people back home wanted nothing to do with living there. They seemed content profiting off of the place, though.
Gilbert was so annoyed he had shoved the books to the dark, dusty place under his bed before deciding he had best bring them on the journey. On the bottom, sat one he had not noticed before; perhaps it got swept in with the others by mistake. The inside read “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, A Tragedy". It then dawned on him that this was his lost copy from years ago. He recalled in the same thought that this was a library book, from back when he used to frequent there.
Oh well. It’s not as though they would track him down now.
Gilbert pondered the feeling he used to get whilst reading these pages. He could likely still recite the whole damned thing from memory. He had thought those days were over, but what if… If it is his goal to put distance between himself and Father, then this book could be the answer. He could find some actors to mount a production, and then he would be too occupied to deal with his father or those thoughts.
Not that the last part signifies at all whatsoever.
The thoughts are in the past; they must be. There is no alternative. God, he was becoming affected again. In any case, to have the chance to act could be the distraction he needs, even with provincial actors. They did have actors in York City, did they not?