The next four years unfolded quietly, like pages turning in a well-loved book. For Johnathan Carpenter they were years of happiness and learning, of laughter echoing through the halls and the smell of spring rain drifting through open shutters.
In that time, he came to understand much about his new family. His grandfather, William Carpenter, was not merely a prosperous farmer but one of the wealthiest men in all Pennsylvania, perhaps in all the colonies. Over forty thousand acres stretched over the countryside, all beneath the Carpenter name. Initially acquired through land granted generations ago by William Penn himself and expanded with strategic purchases and marriage. From these holdings came timber, grain, trade, and with them influence that reached as far as Philadelphia, the other colonial ports and beyond.
John spent his days running through those vast green fields, climbing apple trees heavy with fruit in autumn and curling beside the fire in winter with a book from his great-grandfather's prized library. That room, lined wall to wall with leather-bound volumes, became his kingdom. Some fifteen hundred books, histories, treatises, and travelogues from Europe and beyond filled the shelves.
In his previous life as Steven, he'd never been much of a reader. But here, without the distractions of computers or television, he devoured whatever fell into his hands. Philosophy, mathematics, botany, it mattered little. The written word was his window to the wider world. In those long winters he read as if trying to reclaim lost time, consuming three dozen books before the thaw returned.
Yet of all the seasons, spring remained his favorite. When the fields were still wet with dew and the air smelled faintly of tilled soil, he and his mother would climb the grassy hills beyond the orchard. They brought a basket with bread and cheese, sometimes a book, and sometimes nothing at all but themselves. Martha would sit among the wildflowers, her dresses brushing against the blooms, while John gathered handfuls of buttercups and clovers.
On one such day, he paused to watch her kneel to pluck a blossom.
So this is real childhood, he thought. Not daycare, city noise and tired parents working late, but peace. He remembered his mother from his past life, kind, exhausted, always rushing, he loved her and would continue to cherish her memory. Here, he had what felt like a second chance at the innocence he'd never truly known.
He was still lost in thought when Martha gave a delighted gasp.
"John! Come quickly, look here!"
He scrambled up the slope and peered over her shoulder. Nestled among the green blades lay a single clover with four leaves.
"See that?" she said, smiling. "A four-leaf clover! A sign of good fortune, if the old stories are to be believed."
John plucked the little plant and drew out his small notebook, a simple bound thing he used to press flowers. Between pages of daisies and violets, he placed the clover carefully.
"Then I'll have good luck forever Mother, " he said with a grin.
She laughed, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. "I should hope so, my clever boy."
Days like these weren't rare, though they never lost their charm. They became a quiet rhythm in his young life, a balance to the distant thunder of war that reached them through his grandfather's letters and business dealings.
The French and Indian War had dragged on for years now, and the reports that arrived from Philadelphia were seldom cheerful.
One evening, as rain tapped against the windowpanes, John sat on the rug near the hearth with a set of carved wooden soldiers, his favorite toy. His mother and grandfather spoke at the table nearby, voices low but strained.
"The French have destroyed nearly a quarter of my shipping, " William said, rubbing a hand over his brow. "The Crown does little to protect colonial merchants. The Royal Navy's too occupied with their own damned battles."
Martha frowned. "Can nothing be done? You've lost more than coin, Father, men as well."
He sighed. "Thirty sailors, gone in a year. I cannot keep sending them out to die. There aren't enough guns to arm the fleet as it is. I've half a mind to suspend trade altogether until this madness ends."
John listened, pushing his toy soldiers across the rug. The words French, ships, and guns stirred something in him. Setting down a tiny wooden grenadier, he walked over.
"Grandpa, " he said, tugging at the man's sleeve, "someone's attacking your ships?"
William blinked, then chuckled softly. "Yes, lad, but that's grown-folk business. You needn't worry yourself over it."
"But I have an idea, " John said earnestly. "I want to help."
The old man raised a brow, half amused. "Oh? And what's your grand notion for defending a merchant fleet, young strategist?"
John drew a breath. "Have all your ships sail together, like the Spanish treasure fleets I read about. Put the biggest guns on two ships, one at the front and one at the rear. If pirates come, the front ship can fight while the back guards the rest. You would not need British protection if you pool your guns together to make a few powerful warships."
He finished in one long rush, cheeks flushed with effort.
For a moment, silence filled the room. Then William leaned back in his chair, eyes distant in thought.
"Well, I'll be damned, " he muttered. "That's… that's clever, I cant believe I hadn't thought of that yet." His expression brightened into something between pride and astonishment. "I'll send word to Philadelphia at once, have the next convoy organized just so."
John grinned. "And you can let other ships join for a fee. They'll pay to be protected."
William laughed heartily. "You're your grandfather's grandson, no doubt about it! A shrewd mind and a keener sense of profit." He clapped the boy's shoulder. "I'll see it done. And for such wisdom what reward shall I grant you?"
John thought for a moment, then smiled shyly. "A treehouse. Near the orchard."
The old man chuckled. "A fair request, and easily granted. You shall have it, my boy."
John went to be smiling that night, excited for his future fun.
The next few months slipped by without much excitement. William's convoy plan had proven remarkably effective, French privateers now kept their distance, and the family coffers swelled from the trade it secured. With the profits a second convoy route was established, running between New York City and England to complement the original Philadelphia line. Prosperity followed in its wake.
But for John, the greatest triumph of the season was something much closer to home: the completion of his treehouse. Built in the sturdy oak near the main house, it became his private kingdom. He spent countless afternoons up there, reading, sketching, and daydreaming among the whispering leaves, until one quiet Friday, something unexpected happened.
Climbing the rope ladder as usual, he ducked through the small doorway and froze. Someone was already inside.
A boy, about his own age, perhaps six or seven, sat cross-legged on the floorboards, a book from John's collection open in his lap. His dark, curly hair was a tangled mess, his chestnut eyes scanning the page with fierce concentration. When he noticed John, he flinched, quickly setting the book down as guilt flashed across his face.
"I'm sorry," the boy blurted. "I didn't know anyone used this place. I'll go right now."
John stepped fully inside, shaking his head. "No, it's fine. You don't have to go. What were you doing?"
The boy hesitated, then lowered his gaze. "Trying to read," he admitted quietly. "No one in my family can. I want to be the first."
John blinked, surprised, and then smiled. "Then I'll teach you."
The boy's head shot up, eyes wide. "You'd teach me? For what?"
"For nothing," John said simply. "I've been wanting a friend, and you seem like a good one." He extended his hand with a grin. "I'm John Carpenter."
The boy hesitated only a moment before shaking it. "Eli Thompson," he said.
"Ah, Sarah's son! She's a kind woman," John replied warmly.
Eli's expression softened into a small smile at the compliment.
The rest of the afternoon passed in easy conversation. John read aloud from one of his simpler books, showing Eli the letters and their sounds. Between lessons, they talked and laughed, discovering how easily they got along. By the time the sun dipped low and Eli's mother called for him from the path below, they'd already made plans for the next day.
As Eli climbed down, John leaned out the doorway and waved. "See you tomorrow!"
Eli grinned up at him. "You will!"
And from that day forward, the lonely treehouse became something far better, a classroom, a refuge, and the birthplace of a lifelong friendship.