Capítulo 3: Intern
[Third Person POV]
"So, you wrote them here, in your bakery," said Wells, excitement evident in his voice.
He was well aware of the writing process for poetry. It was challenging for a novice author to convey emotions through poems, but seeing the boy in front of him, Wells shook his head in disbelief.
'I am standing before a boy who will be known throughout the world for his poetry if nurtured correctly,' Wells thought.
"Can I read the poem?" Ryan asked, now restless, eager to understand why Herbert was so worked up.
Herbert nodded and handed the notebook to his cousin, but not before reminding him, "Be careful with it. This notebook will go down in history; it will be sought after by many," he said, smoking his pipe.
Max's mouth dropped open in surprise. He hadn't expected such a big reaction from the man. The notebook contained four poems:
- The Second Coming by W.B. Yeats
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
- The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
- The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot
'I'm glad I didn't write the authors' names. That would have led to another headache,' Max thought, sighing.
Meanwhile, Austin, clueless as ever, tried to peek into the notebook his father was reading but gave up due to the height difference.
After reading, Ryan closed the notebook, still in awe of the brilliance of The Road not Taken. It was a beautiful poem, and he held the notebook as if it were a priceless treasure.
As he was about to say something, a bulky man arrived, carrying crates of eggs. It was Rollo Ashford, the owner of the bakery.
Rollo looked at Max tiredly. His boy always got into trouble with strangers; it was one of his quirks.
He also noticed the two men with him. He recognized one of them, but the other was wearing a fancy suit.
'One of those rich bastards,' Rollo thought.
"What did you do this time, Max?" he asked the boy.
Max was stunned. How had his father come to the conclusion that he had done something wrong? He was just an innocent boy!
"Father—" before he could say anything, Ryan interrupted him.
"Rollo, this is my cousin, Herbert George Wells," Ryan said, gesturing to Herbert, "And this is Rollo Ashford, Max's father and the owner of the best bakery in town."
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Ashford," Herbert said, slightly intimidated by the man's size. It was rare to see someone so big.
"Call me Rollo. And why are you guys here?" Rollo asked, shaking Herbert's hand.
"Well, you see, we read your son's poems, and I was surprised by Max's extraordinary talent. I came here to find him, and I must say, you have a brilliant son. The whole world will remember his name. He has the potential to be one of the greatest poets of all time," Herbert said passionately. He genuinely believed in Max's talent, having never felt such emotions reading poetry before. He knew Max was special.
Ryan nodded in agreement. "Yes, Rollo, I believe my cousin is right."
Max looked at both of them with a twinge of guilt. He had stolen the works of great artists and hoped they would forgive him for it.
"Hmm No, he's a good chef. He's gifted at it. Now, go back; it's getting late," Rollo said in a neutral voice.
Both men had expected Rollo to be overjoyed hearing their compliments about Max's intellect. So why did they feel a slight animosity from him?
"Surely you don't mean that. Did you rea—" Herbert tried to argue, but Rollo cut him off, "You don't get to tell me about my son. He's my son, not yours, and he will become what I want him to be. Now, get out!" he shouted at them. Austin nearly wet himself hearing Rollo's outburst.
Both men quickly moved out, while little Austin clutched his father's pants, following them.
Max stood there, his expression unreadable. He took the crates of eggs and put them away without saying anything to his father.
Rollo turned around and saw Herbert entering the shop again. "I came to return this notebook. It belongs to Max," he said, holding up the notes.
Rollo nodded, and Herbert continued inside. He took out a fountain pen, wrote something on the back of the notebook, and handed it to Rollo.
"If you ever change your mind about Max and want any sort of help, that's my address. You are dearly invited, and it would be my pleasure to help that boy," he said, turning and walking out, closing the door behind him.
Rollo sighed and took a deep look at the notebook before setting it aside.
"I've arranged the eggs, Father. Six of them had gone bad. Let's go home; Mom will be angry if we're late," Max said, noting that it was already 5 p.m.
Rollo nodded but didn't say anything.
[POV end]
[First Person POV]
"He's sleeping, probably tired from playing around all day," my mom said as I lay on the mattress, pretending to sleep. It was hard to sleep after today's events.
We all slept together as there was no room for another bedroom.
"Hmm, he did," said my father in a dull voice.
"Tell me everything, what happened, dear? You seem down," she said in her melodious voice.
"Nothing, just tired," my father said, evading her question.
Right! You're tired, and Mom will believe it. At least lie a little more convincingly.
"Oh, I'll tell Max a story about his father going to war and how he almost got knighted by Her Majesty," she teased. I already knew about it; she always threatened him with this story.
"Okay, fine, I'll tell you," Father said, caving in as always.
He explained everything to her about Herbert and his request.
"So, that means he could help us. With his recommendation, many colleges will accept Max," she said gleefully.
"No, I'm not going to send my little boy anywhere," he said gruffly.
My mother went silent for a second before saying, "You're scared, right?
'Who would protect my little lamb if he goes away from the herd?'
' Hunters will come and take him away',
'What if someone hurt him?'
You're thinking these thoughts, right? But you're forgetting something, dear. He's a lion cub. Think about it—if your father had protected you like you do Max, would you be the Rollo who brought dread to your enemies? No. He's just like you; he looks up to you. When you denied that man, did he question your decision, even though he loves studying? No, he didn't, because he knows his father wants the best for him and will always protect him. So, are you doing what's best for him? Or are you doing what's best for you?" my mother asked gently.
He was silent for a few minutes before speaking again, "Yes, I'm scared. I admit it. Which father wouldn't be? Look at him; he's so little, so full of life. He's precious. I don't want the world to hurt him. I want to keep him under my shadow and protect him from everything," he said, sniffling.
"But that would be bad, right? He would need to learn to fight for himself; we won't always be there," said my mother.
"I know, Sarah. I'll take him to Blackwood's tomorrow and hear what that man has to say," he said.
"Good, now sleep," she said.
I wiped the tears from my face and thanked God for reincarnating me here and giving me such parents.
[Third Person POV]
It was after the morning rush when the father-and-son duo made their way to the Blackwood house.
Max was his usual self—being the weird, cute kid—and Rollo was his usual intimidating self. The Blackwood house wasn't far from their bakery; it took them about 15 minutes to get there.
As they arrived, Max saw Austin rush inside. The boy had spotted them first and was afraid of Rollo, so he ran as fast as he could to get his dad.
Max turned to Rollo and said, "You scared him pretty badly yesterday."
"Well, he should be scared of guys that look like me," said Rollo with an evil smirk.
"I admit that; everyone should be scared of you," Max said, nodding, "but if they find out you're scared of Mother, I don't think anyone would respect you," he continued.
"Hey! Quiet down. I told you not to say that out loud in public," Rollo hushed.
Max laughed at his father. While they were talking, Ryan consoled the terrified boy, and Herbert approached the door with a smile.
"Great to see you two here. Sorry Ryan couldn't make it; he's busy with Austin, but he sent me to welcome you inside. Please, follow me," said the man, walking ahead. Max and Rollo followed him.
As they all settled on the sofa, Herbert asked Rollo, "So, have you thought about my proposition?"
"Hmm, you didn't propose anything yesterday. I just remember kicking you out," replied Rollo, to which Herbert chuckled.
"Well, I want to help Max," Herbert began, his voice full of conviction. "I can teach him everything about writing, and I have connections with some of the most prestigious publishing houses across the continent. I want to see him soar in the world of literature," he said, giving Rollo a sincere look.
"And what's in it for you? What do you want?" Rollo asked, his tone wary.
"History," Herbert replied, his voice brimming with passion. "The world will remember me as the man who taught Max Ashford. I come from a humble background, Mr. Ashford, and my family isn't of noble lineage. On my own, I might be forgotten as a writer—I'm not that exceptional. But with him, my legacy will be too great to be forgotten."
Rollo scrutinized the man, searching for any signs of deception, but found none.
"I understand your point, but my son won't be leaving London. You can teach him here," Rollo said firmly.
"Actually, I've been looking for a permanent residence," Herbert explained. "My wife is pregnant, and I'm working on a book. I came to Ryan for help finding a house. We've looked at a few, and I'll be settling in Bloomsbury—not far from here."
"That's good," Rollo nodded, relieved that his son wouldn't have to move away.
Throughout their conversation, Max remained quiet, as was his nature. In his previous life, he had been a true introvert, only driven to drastic actions by his thirst for revenge.
"Max, are you ready to learn?" Herbert asked seriously, knowing that the boy's willingness to learn was crucial.
"Yes, sir. I look forward to your lessons," Max replied modestly, which made Herbert chuckle.
"What a polite lad," Herbert remarked, while Rollo simply rolled his eyes.
[POV end]
[First Person POV]
It took Herbert a week to move his family to Bloomsbury. The house was lovely, with a garden surrounding it and a proper study, as the previous owner had been a physicist. Today, I would be meeting Herbert and his family, and I was feeling a bit nervous.
As I walked down the road, I saw many beautiful houses. I really wanted one for my parents. Maybe someday, when I made enough money, I could gift them a house like this.
When I arrived at Herbert's house, I knocked on the door and waited, knowing that one member of the household was pregnant, and another had a belly that could easily be mistaken for pregnancy.
I still wonder how Herbert managed to charm his colleagues into leaving their husbands for him. I've got a lot to learn from my teacher.
After about five minutes, the door opened, and there stood Herbert, dressed in a black suit and boots—at home!
Seeing my expression, he smiled and explained, "Consider this your first lesson, Max: always be dressed properly. I had a meeting with a publisher, which is why I'm wearing this suit. Now, come in."
We entered the house together, and there on the sofa sat a red-haired woman with a large belly.
"Max, this is my wife, Amy Wells," Herbert introduced us. "And dear, this is the boy I told you about, Max Ashford."
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wells," I said politely.
"Oh, you're not his son—you're too cute to be his," she said with a relieved smile. "Come here, sit down, Max. And may I read your poetry? Herbert has been praising you ever since he returned from Ryan's."
I could see the relief on her face. She had probably worried that I was one of Herbert's illegitimate children. It seemed Amy was already picking up on Herbert's wandering ways.
"Sure, Mrs. Wells. Here, this is the notebook," I said, handing her my poems before sitting down on a nearby chair.
Herbert, too, sat next to me, watching eagerly for his wife's reaction.
"They're perfect! He doesn't need to learn anything from us; he could publish them today!" she exclaimed, looking at Herbert with astonishment.
He smiled. "Yes, but he's still only eight years old and doesn't know how the literary world works. I'll teach him about contracts, royalties, and other aspects of writing. And you can teach him manners, etiquette, and dressing sense. When he turns eleven, I'll start contacting publishers about his poems," Herbert explained his detailed plan.
Honestly, this was fine with me. I already had the knowledge, but this would give me a perfect alibi if anyone ever asked where and from whom I learned these things.
"Yes! I'll make him a perfect gentleman. He's so cute—when he grows up, many girls will be after him. He'll need to attend many noble gatherings, and I'll teach him everything I know," she said, clearly excited.
I didn't share her enthusiasm.
Herbert chuckled at his wife's eagerness. "Not now, dear. We'll focus on that after the little one arrives. For now, you need to rest."
Well, here it begins.
[POV end]
________________________________________
Well people are not really liking this one, but I am too invested in this world to back out.
Seeya tomorrow.
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