Young Flower

The year was 1769. Percival Blakeney, son of Sir Algernon Blakeney and Lady Joan Dewhurst, grandson of the renowned Sir George Blakeney, was only nine years old. Scarcely old enough to know the ways of the world and how it worked. Barely able to comprehend the lessons he had been so vigorously taught about music, military history, and politics and apply it to his aristocratic life. Practically unable to voice his boisterous opinion in his own home, let alone beyond it and to other people. Yet at the same time young Percy was more than average nine-year-old. Anyone who encountered the youth couldn't deny he had an unqualified look in his eye that was unusual for a child. A look of wit, intelligence, and knowing. When surrounded by conversing adults it didn't escape their notice that he seemed to be paying attention, even though he spoke not a word on the abstract subjects. He was a proper boy, brought up with the etiquette and good manner of a gentlemen as his ancestors were generations before him, and yet when making eye contact when he was spoken to by authority had on more than one occasion unnerved even the most composed of adults.

Among the British aristocracy he was known only as a fine young man who was to follow in the footsteps of his successful father and grandfather. He was to grow up an educated Englishman, perhaps with a seat in the House of Commons or even Lords, and marry after inheriting the family fortune. Marriage was almost a certainty, for even at nine the elders could see Percy had inherited the gorgeous features of his mother. Curly blonde hair that was shamefully often hidden beneath a powered white wig, Percy's eyes were the color of the sapphire sky and skin the color of fine cream, like any British gent. He would be the ideal English aristocrat once he was grown. Everyone said so.

But to Percy none of that mattered. He didn't care what people said about him. He didn't care about money or school or politics...he was only nine. Yet at the same time he did not care for play or pleasure, either. That particular year, during that particular summer, Percy cared about only one thing: his mother.

His mother was dying.

It was the one fault that the British aristocracy could possibly point out in him. It had been only when Percy was two years old that his father discovered his beloved wife, after becoming a mother, had inherited a mental disease from her own ancestors that rendered her totally insane. Sir Algernon had been forced to stand by and watch helplessly as his wife deteriorated before his eyes, pain only doubled by seeing his son at the same time grow up to watch such a thing. What was a man to do? What could he do but wait for the inevitable, and try to make the best of it...hoping that his son wouldn't inherit the same disease as well.

Percy had no such resolution. He noticed his mother's strangeness towards him when he saw other boys his age, aristocrats or not, held and stroked by their mothers. During the long, boring parties of his father's colleagues that he was forced to endure, Percy could watch the other children fall asleep contentedly in their mother's laps, stroked and spoken softly too until they were carried home. Percy knew no such love. Scarce were the days when his own mother even recognized him, let alone speak to him kindly or lovingly. All he knew of her was the outwardly beautiful, vibrant woman who was physically perfect but whose mind was lost, common sense abandoning her as she wandered the family home in Richmond, unknowing of where or who she was. Or the frail creature sleeping soundly in bed all day, unwilling to get up, feed, or clean herself. Percy's father hadn't the heart to put her away.

Thus Percy could only watch, confused and unable to understand, as his mother died day by day before him. One particular summer morning, that's exactly where anyone could find him. Sitting dutifully at the bedside of his mother, little Percy watched her sleeping, serene and picturesque. By just looking he could not tell of the disease inside her, that could be inside him. His father had never told him of what caused his mother's distance, her lack of caring, and that hurt the most. Why didn't she love him? Wasn't he a good son? Did he not say he loved her and kissed her goodnight every evening? Talked to and treated her kindly no matter how odd she may act? It wouldn't be until many years later that Percy would know the truth and understand it. Now there was only pain.

He sat upon a tall three-legged stool that reached the level of her bed, gazing down upon her face from his perch. Her beautiful features amid the mass of golden, doll-like curls. Long-lashed eyes that hid their crystal blue depths. Ivory skin and lovely red lips even without cosmetics. Features Percy could only marvel at. Sometimes when she moaned and shifted in her sleep he would reach out and touch her hand, hoping her eyes would flutter open and see him...recognize him. Hoping her lips would curl into a smile and she would speak to him like a mother to a son. It never happened.

Percy could remember once, barely, when he was six, just how distant his mother really was. It was at a concert given by his cousin Antony Dewhurst, whose lessons on the piano had proved a worthwhile investment as he enchanted his and Percy's families for hours of playing music with his small, infantile hands. Percy had been bored through the whole thing really, but when it was finally over and he and Dewhurst found a much more amusing past-time with a game of tag underneath the tables of the room while the parents had their own discussions. Percy's mother had attended as well, and though she sat docile through the music, when it was over she, too, began to wander, and found herself somehow up on the unsteady swiveling stool of the piano seat. She fell, of course, and Percy was first to rush to her aid, kneeling down beside her to hold her shoulders. She gazed up at him, unhurt, but all the same without the slightest recognition.

"You are lovely," she said to the son she didn't know. "Will you marry me? Yes or no?"

It had been a steady downhill since then. For hours on end she would sit on the balconies of their rich manor, staring out into nothing but the scenery in absolute silence. When Percy would approach she would snap him away, screaming and cursing for him to go back to his own parents. Still, the boy longed to love her.

Last winter on Christmas Eve, Joan Blakeney had fallen asleep on the floor before the parlor fireplace, curled up after believing she was a cat. Like a cat, Percy sat up to stroke her soft hair until near midnight, when his father came to rouse him.

"Leave her, Percy," Algernon said, taking his son's shoulder. "She'll be fine."

"Why won't she come to bed, Father?"

"She wants to sleep here for the night. We don't have the right to tell her otherwise."

Percy was reluctant to move. He stood up, looking down at her curled form among the silky white folds of her nightgown. "Why doesn't she love us?"

"Go to bed, Percy. When you're older, you'll understand."

Percy didn't think he would ever understand. He tried to understand now, here, as he held her hand and watched the warm summer breeze filter in through the open balcony windows and blow traces of golden hair across her face. He didn't think he would ever get married and have children of his own then, if this was to be all that was had in a marriage. Let the family name die if need be. His mother certainly was. Scared and alone Percy sat in that room on an otherwise normal, beautiful summer day. Outside the sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds, the sun coating the English countryside in light and warmth, the gentle wind blowing, the sound of birds among the rustling of the trees reaching his ears. It was all so beautiful, and yet none of it could be enjoyed. His mother was dying.

"Can you see them?" Joan suddenly muttered, brow squinting in thought though her eyes didn't open. She stretched one hand up towards the ceiling as Percy looked on eagerly, willing and hopeful, but all in vain. She smiled, but it was not at him. "They're so beautiful. Angels...flying angels all over the ceiling. Just like the Sistine Chapel..." Her raised arm drifted gently back and forth through the air, taking no notice of little Percy when he took it in his own and drew it close to him to hug against his small chest.

"I love you, Mother."