Charles Augustus Fenton
Alana Whiting
First Published 2015 by Classic Author and Publishing Services Pty Ltd
This edition published 2018 by Woodslane Press
© Alana Whiting
All rights reserved. No part of this printed or video publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Editor: Ormé Harris
Designer / typesetter: Working Type Studio
Digital Distribution: Ebook Alchemy
Conversion by Winking Billy
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author: Whiting, Alana author.
Title: Charles Augustus Fenton / Alana Whiting.
ISBN: 9780992590161 (eBook)
Target Audience: For young adults 16+.
Subjects: Young adult fiction, Historical Fiction
Dewey Number: A823.4
AUTHOR PROFILE
New Zealander Alana Whiting is a first time novelist. She works as a nurse. She and her husband Nick live in Fitzroy, NZ. They have two grown children, Jacob and Sophie.
They often walk their Jack Russell Sumo along the black Fitzroy beach, with Mount Taranaki providing a stunning backdrop. Tom Cruise filmed The Last Samurai there. It is one of the rare places in the world where one can ski in the morning and surf in the afternoon.
Alana’s love of writing, British history and research motivated her to write this intriguing and sometimes brutal tale of her fictional character, nineteenth century Charles Augustus Fenton.
For Nick, Jacob and Sophie
As I emerged from my sanctuary my parents rejoiced. Their precious son had arrived. My mother grappled me out with her own bare hands, eagerly drawing me near to her bosom. It was only the dour insistence of the midwife that I should be cleaned and wrapped as was proper that allowed her to relinquish me. I was repugnant, covered in white waxen vernix and bellowing to show my discontent at the new wilderness I had been thrust into. My face was contorted and ungraceful, but to my creators I was exquisite.
The midwife neatly removed the slimy coating and swathed me in delicate cloth. I squealed at her most vociferously, demanding my instant return to my former abode. Shackled in such a way I had no choice but to accept her transferring me into the arms of my mother.
My mother lay in what could only be described as the carnage of childbirth. The afterbirth and placental fluid complacently soaking the bedding between her spread legs, made her look like a ravaged Whitechapel whore. She wearily observed the ministrations of the midwife, who, after completing my return to her arms, had now begun on the task of the soiled sheets.
She looked at me as we rolled from side to side, completely absorbed with my newborn essence. She kissed me tenderly and smiled. ‘Your name is Charles Augustus Fenton,’ she whispered into my tiny cockle-shell ear. ‘And you are my beautiful baby son.’ With that, she carefully latched me onto her breast and I sucked with ravenous glee.
The midwife collected the soiled linen and handed it to the housemaid. Together they deftly sponged my mother and replaced her bloodied nightgown. I bawled angrily during the necessary separation between us and refused to be consoled until hurriedly returned to her bosom. My father was only allowed to enter once I was sated and the room thoroughly cleansed to the nurse’s standard. She nodded briefly to my father before leaving them alone.
‘Just look at our darling son, Charles. Isn’t he adorable?’
Charles Senior stared at his fragile bundle lying asleep in his wife’s arms. ‘He is absolutely charming, Elizabeth. You are so very clever. You are the most beautiful, clever wife I know… I love you so much.’
Elizabeth smiled and carefully handed me to my father. He took the proffered bundle with some consternation, which made my mother giggle. As I continued my milk-laden nap, his chest filled with pride at his issue. He finally had a son.
My arrival was a cause of great celebration not only at the manor but also in the surrounding community. There had been no secret that Elizabeth and Charles had been trying for some time to produce an heir. Amongst the villagers it had been offered that their long awaited success was only due to the visiting of Mistress Magda Williams. She was reputed to be dabbling in secret herbal remedies and held the reputation of being our local unofficial healing woman. The rumours continued that Mistress Magda had an allegiance with a coven of witches that met clandestinely in Warwickshire forest. These witches were members who lived in their very own town but used magic to maintain their anonymity. These whispers were mere murmurings as the Fentons were regarded highly and no one dared to face Mr Fenton’s wrath if he were to hear them. He was particularly prickly on the subject of Magda. Having said that, I was reminded often when I grew older, how he was a good employer who had kept many of them from starving through the winter times when food was scarce. But you wouldn’t cross him.
One of the more ancient workers remembered a time when Joshua the kitchen hand had been caught stealing sausages. He recalled that Mr Fenton was told of the fact and demanded the boy be sent to him immediately. They dragged the trembling lad up to the office of Mr Fenton, who then told them to close the door. They waited outside the door keenly listening but could hear nothing much to their disgust. After what seemed an age, the door opened and Joshua walked out with tears streaming down his face and refusing to say a word to anyone. Mr Fenton was equally silent, though his grim face spoke a thousand words. Apparently the boy and his family packed up that very same day and left the village never to be seen again. They only took what they could carry. It was heard that they ended up at a work-house, rambling that no one would help them because of Mr Fenton. Oh yes, he was a generous man when he wanted to be, but once you were found out you were damned for good. He had connections across the country that one did – powerful connections.
So the staff at the Fenton Manor worked doubly hard to make sure that I, Charles Augustus Fenton Junior, was kept in a manner according to my birthright. My nursery was bright, airy and warm. During the night my wet nurse would feed me and during the day my mother would insist on not only feeding me but bathing me as
