Prologue: A Tale Of Two Mothers

Prologue: A Tale Of Two Mothers

The Filth Trenches, Darkened Alleyway, Boylston, England (1749)...

      Cobblestone streets glistened in the wake of a seemingly unending rainstorm. Thunderous rumbling accompanied by heavy chilled drops beat against the impressive brick structures that made up a large portion of the familiar public and residential buildings. The narrow alleyways were filled to the brim with slick debris and rancid runoff from and around the various buildings accompanied by dirt and grim from the street as a whole. Thousands of privy buckets were thrown out amid the buildings splashing along the cobblestone and contributing not only to the industrialized stench that surrounded the rather poor work-related town but also to the slickness abound as many an unlucky passerby made their way toward their respective destinations barely able to avoid being splashed via the muck in one direction or another.

Thick billowing clouds of the blackest smoke from many a chimney puffed out into the skyline as the rain continued soaking everything in its path without fail. A lone woman in soggy grey attire akin to rags and darkened via soot and grim moved through the dangerous alleyway with a prominent pregnant belly tugging a frail and obviously malnourished boy behind her as she attempted to get somewhere that would provide not only shelter from the rain but a moment for her to catch her breath. Up close one could see the utter despair and exhaustion on the freezing woman's face as her attire was much too thin and rain-soaked to offer any real resistance to the chill brought in by the unrelenting storm. Her eyes held the look of a woman beyond her prime as the wrinkles from hard labor and worry eroded her youth long ago.

The boy, quite young in fact possibly lived to reach the age of three despite his horrid skeletal appearance and sickly pale flesh. His large hazel eyes focused intently on the woman who had been his mother as she continued to move him about instructing him how to keep out of not only the coldest aspects of the downpour but out of the way of very busy and very frustrated shopkeepers. The boy had been dressed no better, in rags fitting a street urchin what passed for shoes worn and patched along with the discolored trousers and barely seamed shirt that was draped over his tiny body.

The woman whose naturally light brown hair looked dark in the gloomy daylight and dyed via the rain-soaked soot was wild and dangled at great length from the woman's back. The boy's hair had been unkempt as far as the wild locks of a child go, as his family had no means of keeping it trimmed.

Picking up the pace in her steps, the woman moved along the cobblestone bricks and in between the shops in search of any place suitable to not only get out of the rain but to calm herself due to the sudden and frequent onset of her apparent contractions. The soon-to-be-born child she carried seemed to be intent on being on its way as she continued to move about the darkened alleys with her young son in tow.

The quickened pace eventually proved to be too much for the little lad, as his tiny hand seemed to slip from her grasp while she continued on hurrying before anyone had the chance to impede her apparent escape. The splashing of icy cold water filled with dirt and grime shocked the poor child and he nearly choked as it entered his mouth and eyes respectively. Tiny trembling hands and tear-stained eyes now blinded in the wake of the splash attempted to get a sense of his surroundings.

Panic filled him as the cold rain continued to pour down on him as he attempted to search for his mother. The woman had been a ways away before she took note that her young son was no longer keeping in step with her and for a moment she turned back intent on heading back to retrieve him but one look in the direction she left him in and a few concerned citizens had already taken an interest in him.

Thinking for a moment, she realized that she'd already had two other mouths to feed in addition to her own, and with the third child coming into the world it would be another mouth to feed. Stopping in her tracks, the ragged-looking pregnant woman turned away from where she last saw her child and continued forward without looking back.

Frightened and cold, the sickly boy fumbled about in the darkness and barely avoided being hit by an oncoming carriage just as a woman pulled him out of harm's way. This woman smelled of rather expensive perfume and seemed to have soft hands, as they were covered via white gloves made of silk and she seemed to have an accent when she spoke to him.

"Regarde où tu vas, petit garçon," she said softly in a strange dialect that the boy couldn't quite place despite her best efforts to attempt to communicate with him. "Cette voiture aurait pu vous piétiner!"

Wiping the filthy water and tears from his eyes, the sickly little boy turned his attention to his apparent rescuer. She was quite a beautiful lady, with a golden dress complete with ruffles and sparkling blue jewels that lined a good deal of the fabric. The boy had not known much about fashion but he was sure she looked like an angel must from the church stories. Her long golden hair was twisted in an elegant braid and she appeared to be wearing a hat that matched her dress with all the trimmings one would find on a woman of noble birth.

"Où est ta mère?" she asked, her voice thick with an amusing accent that could only be described by an older person as French. "Where is your Mother?"

The sickly boy simply looked up at her, the tears continuing to stream down his cheeks. Seemingly taking pity on the poor boy, the fancy French Lady kneeled down to his eye level and gently wiped away the tears and dirty water from his eyes.

When her gray eyes met his hazel orbs she gasped. There had only been one person she met in her lifetime with eyes that were hazel in color and that person was her late husband Sebastian Duchene of France. The boy seemed even more confused as if something had been wrong with him at that moment.

The French Lady sighed, she had no knowledge of which to use to locate the lost boy's mother and there was something oddly familiar about his eyes that she couldn't ignore. After a few moments of deliberation, she came to the conclusion that the boy would come with her for the time being and they would sort out getting him home at a later time. It was quite cold out as it were and he'd already been obviously very sick.

"I am going to bring you home with me," she said in English which the boy understood perfectly well.

He had no real objections, there was nowhere to go and he knew not the way to get home or back to his mother. This nice lady was willing to get him out of the rain and wipe the dirty water from his eyes and she promised to sort everything out at a later time.

The French Lady smiled when the boy appeared to have no objections to her suggestion.

"I am Alana, by the way," she said with a smile. "Alana Duchene, perhaps you should meet my son....my Casimir....he'd be delighted to play with you."

The sickly boy was at least pleased to know that he wouldn't be the only child in this woman Alana's care as she had a son of her own and was possibly a very good mother even if she did have a strange accent.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

The Duchene Estate, England (1749)

The sickly boy in rags nervously clasped onto the hand of the woman known as Alana as she escorted him into her rather large estate. It looked like an expensive place to live, far removed from the ragged furniture that the boy had been used to. Everything seemed to be lovingly crafted with hand stitching and beautifully decorated patterns, a far more pleasing sight when one arrived than the drab splintered wood furniture where the boy's home had been. Once inside the lovely woman's home, the boy began to notice he'd been underdressed as the rags his mother hastily stitched together were more than a little out of place in contrast to what he saw around him. They'd been just fine for the city life and moving about the streets, but this place was far too elegant for his unpleasant attire.

The woman known as Alana called for her son, Casimir Duchene who had been no more than five years of age at the time. He was a much larger boy as a result and already refined in his walk and approach than any other child the sickly boy had ever seen.

"Cas, this little lad is going to be staying with us for a while until I can locate his mother." explained Alana to her young son. "Bien sûr, si je ne peux pas localiser sa mère bientôt, il sera avec nous pour une durée indéterminée."

Casimir seemed to understand her strange language better than the younger boy and smiled when he looked over at him. The rags didn't seem in the least off-putting as far as he'd been concerned. The sickly boy looked upon the elder Casimir with a great question. Casimir was the spitting image of his mother, with long golden hair that draped at his tiny shoulders and haunting eyes of gray that shimmered like the light of the moon. He had a charming smile even at the age of five and seemed quite content with life as it were. Like his mother, he dressed in refined attire, a small suit matching her dress, and his hair was pulled back into an elegant ponytail and tied via a blue ribbon to keep the locks in place. His little vest was of golden silk and the ruffles of the purest white lined his outfit. If one didn't know that Casimir was a noble his outfit would surely have given it away. A stark contrast with the tattered patchwork ensemble that the sickly new guest wore.

"Does he have a name?" asked the five-year-old with all of the elegance and refinement of a child that had been through numerous schools and countless lessons in etiquette. "What is your name?"

The sickly boy didn't seem to know how to answer that question, it was as if he'd forgotten it when his mother had disappeared. Most of the time he'd been called boy or a burden whenever the mood struck his mostly inebriated father and often the over-exhausted mother.

"Bonjour? Parlez-vous... Quel est votre nom?" asked Casimir seemingly a bit confused.

"I shall like to call you, Alain," said Alana Duchene looking upon the little lad with a smile. "Would you like that?"

Unsure if he should be offended or delighted to have a new name of sorts, the sickly boy nodded in agreement. It was a lot better than being called simply boy or being labeled a burden or another mouth to feed.

The boy known as Alain turned his attention back to Casimir. He was quite interested in playing with him and the house was quite large. There was no telling when his mother would come for him but seeing what toys this Casimir, had in his possession would be an ideal way to pass the time.

THIRTEEN YEARS LATER.....