By the spring of 1761, the tutors William had gathered for John and Eli were proving themselves diligent and capable men. Lessons filled their days, mathematics in the morning, philosophy in the afternoon, and natural science as the light waned toward dusk. Each tutor was a friend or acquaintance of William Carpenter, drawn from the wide network he had built over a lifetime of business, travel, and study.
Their mathematics instructor, Professor Allen, hailed from the College of Philadelphia. A thin, spectacled man with ink-stained fingers and a precise way of speaking that made even fractions sound profound. The natural sciences philosopher was a kindly old naturalist named Mr. Broder. He had settled in the colonies to document the flora and fauna of the New World. He brought cages of strange birds, sketches of plants, and endless curiosity. The third man, a minister named Reverend Haskins, had been chased out of Boston for his "less than Puritan" approach to the faith which included, to William's great amusement, a fondness for both wine and women.
William often remarked that he meant to turn the boys into true Renaissance men. He wanted them to possess the poise of gentlemen and the vigor of common men; to be comfortable both at a society dinner and in a village tavern. "A man should have his head in the heavens and keep his feet firmly planted on the earth, " he once told John the phrase, staying with the boy long after.
Alongside their studies, John and Eli had made daily exercise a ritual. At dawn they ran through the meadows, did pushups against fenceposts and sparred with wooden sticks until their arms ached. By midsummer, they could each run a mile in under eight minutes, a feat that John took quite some pride in.
One humid morning, after their run, they rested beneath a sprawling elm that shaded part of the orchard. The boys had each swiped an apple, sweet and red, biting into them with the satisfaction of small thieves.
"Hey John, " Eli said between bites, "I've been meaning to ask you something. Why are you so focused on all this practice and reading? You're going to inherit more money than you'll ever need. You could live easy and still be fine."
John wiped sweat from his brow, looking out over the fields, their golds and greens shimmering in the sun. "I know, " he said. "But just sitting around doing nothing... that'd be a waste of a life."
Eli frowned. "How's that a waste? Sounds like a dream to me."
John smiled faintly. "Because with money, I could do more than just live. I could build something. Help people. Maybe make life better for folks like us, or worse off than us. But to do that I need to be smart, and strong. Can't change the world if I can't even carry its weight."
Eli gave a small grunt of agreement, half-understanding, half-distracted by his apple. They stayed under that tree for a long while, chewing in companionable silence as the wind rustled the branches overhead.
The weeks passed quietly. The days blurred into a rhythm of lessons, chores, and long afternoons reading in the shade. Then one morning, after breakfast, William summoned John to his study.
The office smelled faintly of tobacco and old paper. Maps were pinned along the walls, and the desk, as always, was buried beneath letters, ledgers, and a half-empty glass of port.
"John, " his grandfather began, motioning to the chair opposite him, "sit down a moment."
The boy did as told, his curiosity already stirring.
"A man is coming here soon, " William said, leaning back in his chair. "He's to be your swordsmanship instructor, yours and Eli's. But he's not the one I originally had in mind."
John tilted his head. "Did something happen to the other one?"
"Nothing tragic, " William said with a faint smile. "He's currently occupied, received a letter of marque from the Crown. So, I've found another fellow. A capable one. Though…" His tone shifted, almost hesitant. "He's French."
That last word seemed to hang in the air.
"I know I've spoken ill of the French in the past, " William admitted, rubbing his temple, "but this man is an old friend, and a good one. You will treat him with the same respect you've shown your other tutors. Understand?"
John nodded. "Of course, Grandfather. I'll treat him as I always do."
"Excellent. He's coming from Bordeaux on a ship from Portugal on the next merchant convoy, so he'll arrive in a few months."
The mention of convoys sparked a flicker of pride in John's chest. His help in grandfather's innovations in ship protection and logistics had earned both fortune and fame. Securing not only the family's wealth but also critical supplies for the colonies during this age of privateers. It was strange to think of his grandfather as a man of renown, known across the mid-Atlantic ports, but such thoughts only strengthened John's resolve to live up to the Carpenter name.
Still, the wait for the swordsman felt endless. John tried to distract himself with study, with play, and with walks along the edge of the estate, but his imagination kept drifting toward the idea of fencing lessons and duels.
One night, unable to sleep, John rose to use the chamber pot. As he crept past his grandfather's study, a murmur of voices reached his ears, low but sharp, filled with tension. He stopped by the half-open door.
"I need to tell him, " came his mother's voice, soft and trembling. "It's only right that he knows who his father is."
William's reply was firm and measured, though his tone carried a rare edge. "His father doesn't know him, Martha. Why should the boy know that man?"
John froze, heart thudding.
"The man had an affair with you and left. No matter his fame or his name, he is not worthy of that child. It does not matter he was estranged at the time, there is no excuse for that man to have any part in his life. It would only hurt John to know that his father is a selfish, "
"Please, Father, " Martha interrupted, her voice breaking slightly. "He never knew the boy. Perhaps if I sent a letter, or, "
"You will not see him, " William thundered, slamming a hand on the desk. "I forgave your mistake because you were young, and foolish, and he was a charming and famous man. But he is to be forgotten. John doesn't need that man, he has us, and his teachers, and his friends. That is more than enough."
Silence fell, heavy and strained.
John's breath caught. He backed away from the door and slipped upstairs, his mind racing with questions he dared not voice. Sliding into bed, he pulled the blanket up to his chin, staring into the dark.
After several long minutes, the door creaked open. His mother's soft footsteps crossed the room and he heard her steps stop at his bed, the sniffle of a woman who had just stopped crying echoing in the room. She leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
"Goodnight, my son, " she whispered, kissing his forehead. "I will always love you."
Her voice trembled slightly as she said it.
John lay still, pretending to sleep, his thoughts twisting between confusion and an ache he didn't quite understand. Somewhere in his heart, a small seed of curiosity, and doubt, took root.