Chapter Text
Edward Hayward was, in many respects, a typical sixteen-year-old boy.
Awkward, uncertain of himself, and entirely unprepared for the adult world awaiting him. The complete opposite of his namesake and Great Uncle who possessed charm and understanding.
At sixteen he was nearly of age, progressing through his schooling with the expectation that he would soon pursue further education of some respectable kind. Unfortunately, as the eldest of four Hayward children, Edward often felt strangely out of place within his own family.
His two sisters, Martha and Eloise, took after their father. Clever, warm-hearted, endlessly fond of poetry, and always able to make one another laugh until the entire house echoed with it. His younger brother, Henry, resembled their mother more closely, forever buried in a book, thoughtful and gentle, always appearing beside his sisters whenever they required help.
All three possessed the easy intelligence so naturally associated with their parents.
Edward did not feel he had inherited any of it.
He did not care for poetry as his father did, nor did he enjoy history or philosophy or any other improving subject his mother so adored. In truth, he disliked reading altogether more often than not.
He was good at art, however. Not that he could provide with his art. Edward liked sketching quietly in the privacy of his room whilst his brother studied nearby. He filled pages and pages of his sketchbook with drawings he never showed to anybody. They were his alone.
Once, his mother had a peek whilst cleaning his room. Mortified, Edward had snatched the sketchbook from her hands and shoved it beneath the bedframe with far more force than necessary.
He had felt rotten about it afterwards. But rather than scolding him, Mary had simply kissed his forehead and apologised for intruding.
Edward knew he was the odd one out, but he had thought he would at least connect with his brother, Henry was only three years younger than him after all.
It was difficult though. They never seemed to have much in common beyond simply being related. Whenever Edward wanted to go outside and play, Henry preferred to stay indoors reading. When he attempted a joke, such as solemnly informing Henry that if he continued reading through supper one evening he would soon begin eating the pages alongside the pudding, his brother merely blinked at him in confusion before offering a polite laugh and returning his attention to his book.
Perhaps their distance was because deep down, Edward carried the quiet pressure of knowing that, as the eldest Hayward son, responsibility for the family would one day fall to him should anything happen to his father. It was simply the way of things.
Though his father’s legal career provided them with a respectable and comfortable living, Edward understood well enough that such security could not be relied upon forever.
He needed to be prepared. One day, responsibility for the family would rest upon his shoulders.
He had first truly realised that whilst away at school, after one of the boys casually remarked that Edward would inherit everything upon his father’s death.
At first, Edward had been confused by the statement. His father possessed no estate and no grand ancestral property.
But another boy had quickly explained it to him with the sort of blunt practicality only schoolboys seemed capable of possessing.
“The eldest son becomes master of the family,” he had said carelessly. “You provide for the widow and the younger children once your father’s gone.”
Edward remembered the boy laughing.
“So,” he had joked lightly, “we best get grafting then, boys.”
As though the matter were amusing rather than quietly terrifying, but it had mattered, at least to Edward.
The feeling of inadequacy was even worse when they were amongst the rest of the family.
The Gardiners, though technically his mother’s aunt and uncle, had long since become simply Aunt and Uncle to all of the Hayward children as well. Their own children were older than Edward, grown now with families of their own, who were naturally closer in age to his sisters than to him.
Even Henry, usually quiet in social situations, seemed to flourish around them. Eloise and Martha, joined at the hip, were endlessly lively, always providing entertainment whether through reciting poetry or performing some new play they had written together.
Edward usually sat apart from them all, sketchbook balanced against his knee, watching with quiet jealousy.
His father always attempted to involve him. Tom would sit beside him for a while, asking gentle questions and trying to draw him into conversation.
“Why don’t you join them, Ned?” he asked one evening, his eyes warm, the corners crinkling softly as they always did when he smiled. He had called him Ned since infancy, though nobody else did. It was something belonging only to them.
Edward shook his head. “No, thank you. I think I would rather sit this one out.”
He avoided his father’s concerned expression, already waiting for the inevitable gesture of Tom running a hand through his increasingly silver-threaded hair before reluctantly returning to where Mary sat amongst the others.
It was at one of these gatherings that things went awry, a typical evening in 1832.
They had been eating at the dinner table, crowded around but not uncomfortably so. They laughed and joked, ate and drank and had pleasant conversation. It wasn’t until his Uncle Ed had asked him a question, innocently enough.
“And what plans are being made for you now, Edward? Surely your father is preparing you for Cambridge already.”
The question caused a brief spike of panic through him at the thought of following in his father’s footsteps. He’d seen how hard his father had worked, he’d been told often enough by his mama who proudly told all the children how their father had worked his way up.
Before he had chance to come up with his reply, his father interjected.
“Only if the poor boy wishes it.”
The table laughed softly, but Edward felt something unpleasant twist in his stomach all the same.
His father had likely intended the remark to relieve the pressure of the question, yet for some reason it only left Edward feeling strangely hollow.
A horrible thought crept uninvited into his mind that perhaps his father already knew.
Knew that Edward was not suited to law, that he lacked the intelligence for it, or even merely the discipline. Maybe Tom simply had no desire to watch his eldest son fail publicly amongst men who respected him.
The thought settled heavily in Edward’s chest despite how deserately he tried to dismiss it.
“There is no shame in that,” Aunt Madeline said kindly. “Perhaps trade might suit you better. A businessman, perhaps?”
“Or medicine,” Marianne added from further down the table. “Mr Sparrow’s daughter intends to follow her father into the profession, though unfortunately society insists women confine themselves to midwifery.”
The conversation quickly drifted towards Mr Sparrow’s children instead, and all their various accomplishments. His mother even remarked warmly upon how clever Miss Sparrow had proven during her studies under her guidance.
Edward felt as though the air around him was thinning.
“Whatever path you choose,” Uncle Edward said encouragingly, “I am certain you shall excel in it. You come from an exceedingly accomplished family, after all.”
That was the worst part of it all, he did come from an accomplished and talented family.
Even as the eldest of the four Hayward children, Edward had already convinced himself that he would prove the disappointment long before any of the others had even begun concerning themselves with futures or professions, yet the pressure to succeed rest heavily on his shoulders.
Suddenly feeling as though the walls were closing around him, Edward pushed his chair back rather too abruptly and stood.
“Please excuse me,” he said hurriedly, dipping his head politely. “I… I find myself suddenly unwell.”
He hurried upstairs to the room he shared with Henry before anybody could question him further. Throwing open the window, he leaned against the frame and allowed the cool evening breeze to wash over him as he forced himself to breathe steadily again.
Slowly, the tightness in his chest began to ease.
He remained hidden in his room until dusk settled outside and the distant sounds of the Gardiners finally faded from the house below.
After some time, Edward retrieved a small set of miniature from beneath his pillow and spread them carefully across the bedspread. They were of his family.
They were not especially accomplished, the proportions occasionally uneven and the shading inconsistent in places, yet each likeness was still unmistakable.
He stared at them quietly for a long moment. Not long afterwards came a soft knock at the door.
Henry entered a moment later with a book tucked beneath one arm, absentmindedly pushing his spectacles further up his nose as he crossed the room.
Immediately Edward swept the sketches together and shoved them hurriedly into his pocket before rolling onto his side so his back faced his brother.
Henry studied Edward for a moment.
“What troubles you?” he asked. The words were not unkind, merely characteristically abrupt.
“Nothing,” Edward muttered, curling further into his bed. “Just leave me alone.”
Henry scoffed lightly as he placed his book down upon his desk. “Difficult when we share a room.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
For a moment Henry said nothing, instead he crossed the room to close the open window. The weather had worsened whilst Edward had been hiding upstairs, rain now lashing violently against the glass as wind bent the trees outside along the London street below.
“Is this because of Uncle Ed’s question?”
Edward immediately felt his stomach tighten again. “Can you not simply mind your own business instead of involving yourself in mine?” The words emerged sharper than he had intended and embarrassment instantly followed.
“I was only asking,” Henry replied, frowning slightly. “Besides, if you applied yourself more to your studies, I do not see why it should trouble.”
He pushed himself from the bed and stood opposite his brother. “What precisely is that supposed to mean?”
Henry rolled his eyes, folding his arms stubbornly across his chest.
“I mean that if you paid proper attention to your lessons, perhaps you would not struggle so much.”
Edward felt his eyes sting unexpectedly. “Are you calling me stupid?”
Henry blinked at him. “If that is what you understood from my remark,” he replied coolly, “perhaps you are.”
Before Edward properly realised what he was doing, he shoved his younger brother.
It was not a particularly forceful push. Henry barely stumbled more than a step backwards, yet the act itself seemed to fracture something far larger between them.
“Do not shove me!” Henry snapped, immediately pushing him back in return.
Edward stumbled against the chest of drawers behind him hard enough to rattle everything atop it.
“You think you are so much better than me,” Edward burst out, years of worry suddenly spilling lose all at once. “Because you’re clever like mother and have father's wit and everybody adores you for it- but you’re not.”
Henry’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, his hands curling tightly into fists at his sides.
“As opposed to you?” he shot back. “You can’t even seem to make friends. You spend your entire life sketching the world around you.”
Henry’s expression twisted into something Edward had never seen directed towards him before, almost cruel.
“At least I attempt to engage with the world instead of hiding in a corner drawing it.”
Edward had been in fights before, boys at school occasionally exchanged punches over some foolish disagreement that was usually forgotten before the end of the day. This felt entirely different.
The moment his fist collided with Henry’s jaw, regret struck him instantly, yet the anger still surging through him was impossible to contain.
Henry staggered backwards in shock, one hand flying to his jaw before he launched himself back at Edward without hesitation.
The two of them crashed onto one of the beds, grappling furiously, limbs tangled amongst blankets and pillows.
Edward was not entirely certain how long it lasted, only that one moment later, a pair of hands were wrenching them violently apart.
“What on earth is going on here?” Their mother’s sharp voice cut cleanly through the room as both boys struggled for breath.
“Why are you fighting?” Their father demanded, pulling Henry back another step. His voice was firm now, edged with anger though beneath it lay something far worse.
Disappointment.
“What has possessed the pair of you? Are you animals?”
Before Edward could even attempt to defend himself, Henry pointed an accusing finger directly towards him. “He struck me first! He punched me in the face!”
“Edward, is that true?” His father turned towards him, jaw tight with disbelief. The use of his Christian name alone made something inside Edward shrink instinctively. Papa only ever called him Edward when genuinely upset.
Edward closed his eyes briefly, already aware there was no escaping this now.
“Well… yes, but-”
“No ‘but,’” He interrupted sharply. “We do not strike one another in this family, particularly not our younger siblings. I am extremely disappointed in you.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Edward could already feel tears burning painfully behind his eyes, his throat tightening despite every effort to stop it.
“You have not even allowed me to explain my side!”
“There is no explanation that justifies hitting somebody,” His mother said firmly, though her expression had softened slightly now, concern beginning to break through her anger as she studied him more carefully.
Edward rubbed harshly at his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
“I hate this family.”
He said it quietly, yet the words seemed to echo deafeningly through the room all the same. Neither of his parents spoke for a moment, both visibly stunned by the confession.
Mrs Hayward was the first to move forwards, her hands clasped tightly together.
“You do not mean that, Edward.” Her voice was soft now, wounded more than angry.
Resisting her gentleness, Edward nodded fiercely.
“I do. None of you understand me. I have never belonged here.”
“Ned…” His father's voice had lost all traces of anger entirely, leaving behind only something distressed and heartbroken.
“What? It’s true.” Edward’s breathing had become uneven now, all the pain pouring out too quickly to stop. “I’m the stupid one. I shall never be clever enough for law like you, Papa, or medicine like the Sparrows. I’m not charming like the girls, or intelligent like Henry.” His voice cracked despite himself.
“I am just… the other Hayward child whose sole purpose seems to be disappointing everyone.”
Even Henry had gone still now, his expression shifting into something guilt-ridden as he continued absently rubbing at his bruised jaw.
Edward could not bear the silence another second. He snatched up his greatcoat before tumbling down the stairs, ignoring the voices calling after him.
Halfway down he faltered slightly.
Eloise and Martha sat together upon the staircase, tense and visibly distressed, clearly having overheard far more of the argument than they ought to have done.
The sight of them made something twist painfully inside him, he hated that he had caused this.
Yet the ugly voice still whispering inside his mind insisted they would all be happier without him there regardless.
Before he could think better of it, Edward shoved open the front door and disappeared out into the rain-soaked London streets.
He was drenched before even reaching the corner.
The heavy wool of his greatcoat quickly became sodden and unbearably weighty around his shoulders, whilst his school shoes, little more than thin leather, proved entirely useless in the storm. He had not truly thought that far ahead.
Where was he even going?
He thought briefly of his aunt and uncle, yet knew they would simply return him home within the hour. They would be kind about it, certainly, but they would still agree with his parents in the end.
Besides, he had no desire to burden them either after rudely leaving dinner.
So instead he ran.
He twisted through streets in the pouring rain, doubling back more than once in some childish attempt to avoid being followed until eventually he found himself stumbling into one of the parks.
The gates stood strangely open despite the storm, though Edward scarcely questioned it.
Shivering violently now, he hurried across the rain-slick pathways before ducking beneath the shelter of an old stone pavilion half-hidden amongst the trees.
He was miserable.
He felt dreadful for saying such things to his family, who he knew, despite everything, truly did love him.
He regretted striking Henry too.
Looking down, Edward examined the bruised redness already forming across his knuckles from the punch.
Perhaps he deserved to be the black sheep of the family after all. Perhaps it was simply in his blood.
He had overheard enough whispered remarks over the years to know his mother had once experienced difficulties with his grandmother and aunts, though Edward found the idea difficult to imagine now.
His grandmother had died when Edward was only five and Henry barely two besides, leaving behind little more than barely formed memories.
Plus, his mother seemed nothing like him at all.
Mary Hayward was confident and clever and funny in a way that made entire rooms warm towards her without even noticing it happening. Edward could scarcely picture her ever feeling awkward or unwanted in the manner he so often did.
She appeared to get on perfectly well with her sisters now too, with perhaps the exception of Aunt Lydia , though Aunt Lydia was generally occupied by such an overwhelming number of children that the family saw her only rarely.
Besides, she had his father. Tom still seemed to adore her even after seventeen years of marriage and four children.
Edward was no fool when it came to love. He could recognise plainly enough that his parents remained deeply, hopelessly devoted to one another still. Oddly, that knowledge both comforted and wounded him.
It made him grateful that such love existed, even if he couldn’t imagine ever finding it for himself.
The rain seem to get heavier around him, eventually he sat down, arms wrapped around himself to retain any warmth he could. He didn’t know how long he could survive out in the cold, his Aunt had told him his mother once got severely ill after getting soaked to the skin in the Lake District. He hoped he hadn’t signed the same fate.
His eyes grew tired, drooping as thunder rumbled around him. He struggled to stay awake, until suddenly a crack of lightening hit the tree behind him and everything went black.
-
When Edward next opened his eyes, daylight streamed weakly overhead.
The storm had long since passed, but he was freezing. Every inch of his clothing remained soaked through, his greatcoat unbearably heavy beneath him as he struggled weakly upright.
A woman stood nearby watching him with obvious concern.
She wore an elaborate bonnet, dark curls escaping beneath the ribbons framing her face. Something about her seemed immediately familiar, though Edward’s thoughts still felt painfully slow and muddled from the cold.
Then his vision sharpened properly.
She looked exactly like... No.
She could not, but… there was no denying it.
The woman standing before him looked precisely like his Aunt Madeline, only much younger. Her face carried far fewer lines and her dark hair showed none of the silver Edward had always known threaded through it.
Still, she wore that same expression of anxious tenderness he remembered from childhood after tumbling down the Gardiners’ staircase one Christmas and crying for nearly an hour from embarrassment.
“Are you alright, young man?” she asked gently.
Edward stared at her in confusion before glancing hurriedly around at his surroundings. He remained in the same park, the same fountain stood nearby.
Yet somehow everything appeared subtly altered. Cleaner and quieter, the pathways less worn. Even the air itself felt different.
“Edward,” the woman called suddenly over her shoulder, concern sharpening her voice. “The poor boy is freezing. We cannot leave him here.”
A man appeared moments later and Edward’s stomach lurched violently.
His Uncle Edward. Only younger, much younger.
There were merely traces of grey beginning at his temples rather than the full scattering Edward knew so well.
“Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “Quickly now, let us get him inside. Beatrice can prepare a hot bath immediately.”
Still reeling with confusion, Edward allowed himself to be pulled reluctantly to his feet.
Was he losing his mind?
He had heard stories at school of fevers affecting the brain. Men driven suddenly into strange delusions and states detached from reality.
Perhaps that was all this was. Perhaps the storm had made him ill and he was now trapped somewhere between sleep and consciousness.
That explanation certainly seemed more reasonable than the alternative.
“Where am I?” Edward managed to mumble as they approached Gracechurch Street, his words sluggish from exhaustion and cold.
“You are in London, sweetheart,” Aunt Madeline replied gently. “Gracechurch Street. Do you know it?”
Edward nodded weakly, though the explanation did little to ease the growing dread twisting inside him.
“Gracechurch Street…” His voice caught slightly.
IAunt Madeline merely looked stricken, one gloved hand lifting anxiously towards her forehead as they paused outside the house.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmured. “You must have nearly frozen yourself senseless out there.”
Her expression softened further. “It is quite alright now, dear. We shall have you warm and settled presently.”
Edward scarcely had time to protest before he was ushered hurriedly inside, his uncle immediately taking charge of the situation.
Beatrice appeared moments later, startlingly young compared to the woman Edward remembered from childhood. She rushed away at once to heat water whilst calling for Jethro to carry one of the bathing tubs upstairs.
The entire household seemed to erupt into motion around him.
Meanwhile Edward sat numbly at the kitchen table wrapped in blankets, shivering despite the warmth of the fire crackling nearby.
“What is your name, son?”
His uncle settled into the chair opposite him, pressing a steaming mug firmly into Edward’s freezing hands. The warmth radiating through the ceramic almost hurt his fingers.
Edward stared at the man he himself had been named after, suddenly uncertain how to answer such a simple question.
How exactly was one supposed to explain:
I am named after you, actually.
“Ned,” he heard himself answer hoarsely. “Ned. That is what my family call me.”
Uncle Edward nodded, none the wiser.
“Ned,” he repeated kindly. “Is it short for something?”
Edward shook his head automatically, despite knowing perfectly well that no respectable family would formally christen a child Ned. It belonged as a nickname only.
“Well then, Ned, it is good to make your acquaintance.” He offered him a reassuring smile. “How on earth did you find yourself asleep in the park during such weather? You cannot be more than sixteen.”
Edward swallowed hard and took a careful sip from the mug. A newspaper rested abandoned upon the counter beside him. His gaze drifted towards it absently.
“Seventeen next-”
The words died abruptly in his throat. The date printed clearly across the top of the paper caused his stomach to lurch violently.
Thursday, February 19th, 1815.
He would not be turning seventeen next year. According to that date… he had not even been born yet.