Paris, France
June 1851

Rain fell heavily across the city of Paris like a moving wall, the thick, heavy raindrops filling every little crevice in the worn cobblestone streets with small puddles of dirty water. The air was warm and humid, and the sky was rather dim. Grey storm clouds crowded the expanse above the city, casting an increasingly dark shadow over all who lived there. The sun was in hiding that day, the only significant sources of light coming from the massive releases of electricity that shot down from the heavens like tree branches waving about during a storm. Thunder clapped overhead as the horse-drawn carriages made their way through streets of Paris, oftentimes sending the horses into a state of frenzied terror. Needless to say, the day was bleak, and for Thomas Mercier, it would only become bleaker.

The old Frenchman made his way through the filthy streets of Paris, the pouring rain pounding against his already soaked overcoat. His boots sloshed in the mud as he hurriedly walked around a group of poorly dressed beggars. As he passed the beaten down, rain-oppressed congregation, Thomas kept his eyes lowered to the ground, not wanting any distraction from the task at hand. The mail had been delivered to his office just down the road from his small, modest apartment, and Thomas Mercier could not let the mail go unchecked, not even on a stormy day like this.

After some time navigating his way through the monsoon, Thomas approached a tall, wonderfully-designed building that truly embodied the nature of French grandeur. The exterior was made up of beautifully carved stone that offset the heavy wooden doors on the first floor. Thomas fumbled for his keys, quietly cursing the rain that still beat mercilessly down upon him.

When, at last, he managed the lock, Thomas slipped quickly inside, his drenched clothes dripping the warm rainwater onto the pristine marble floors. The weather-worn man did his best to scrape the mud off the bottom of his boots, but it did little good. As he made his way through the clean and seemingly undisturbed building, Thomas Mercier left muddy footprints that led all the way to his spacious study.

When he pulled open the door, he stepped inside, shaking the rain from his graying blond hair and casting his soiled brown coat carelessly on the floor. Small droplets of water rolled down his lined face, pooling at the stubble at his chin before dropping to the floor. He had the look of a man who had given up on life with his hollow cheeks and sharp features, but his eyes told a different story. They were an icy gray that seemed to be filled with grief, but despite the sadness they held, there was a spark of hope that shone brightly when he was concentrated on fulfilling the passion of his soul.

Such was Thomas's attitude when he came into his office on that dreary day in June of 1851. Wiping the water from his eyes, Thomas went over to his desk and found a stack of letters sitting atop the mess of papers that littered the dark surface of the wood. Thumbing through them frantically, he scanned each one for the only name he had hoped to see for over a month.

Thomas Mercier had sent Harold Sinclair to London for a most important task, one that he could not have hoped to complete himself, and now, he awaited hearing news of the boy's progress. Everyday, he checked his mail eagerly, hoping that his young companion had written him regarding his dear daughter Jane, and everyday, Thomas was faced with disappointment.

But on that stormy morning in June, the letters before him revealed that his waiting was over and that he had received word from Harold Sinclair. When Thomas's eyes found the familiar swooping hand of his friend, he felt his breath hitch in his throat and his heart skip a beat. Tossing the irrelevant messages aside, he eagerly ripped apart the wax seal on the front, careful not to damage the contents of the envelope. His eyes searched the parchment frantically, but he found that after reading the letter once through that he had comprehended none of it.

Closing his eyes for a moment and taking a seat in his great leather chair by the window, Thomas began to read, the steady pour of the rain outside tapping against the glass in a sort of song that eased his troubled mind.

The letter began as such:

London. 29 May 1851.
Monsieur Mercier,

I expect you must be wondering why I have not yet written you, my dearest friend and mentor, but I write to you now with news that will surely bring both delight and frustration when this letter finds its way into your possession.

Upon my arrival to London in April, I learned that your daughter would not be arriving there until the first week of May; thus, I spent my time securing and arranging lodgings for myself that will serve me for this season until I depart for Newcastle. After several days, I received a message from His Grace, the Duke of Newcastle under the Tyne informing me that he and his family had begun their journey and that they were scheduled to visit the Crystal Palace within the first few days following their arrival.

With this knowledge, I managed to meet the Duke, and soon after your daughter made herself known to me. Having been acquainted with you and having seen the images of her mother, I can confidently say that she has your late wife's angelic visage with your light hair and eyes. She is truly a striking beauty, my friend, and throughout my few encounters with her, I have observed that she conducts herself with the same grace and dignity which I have often witnessed in you. Though you have not had the pleasure of knowing her these last eighteen years, you would be proud of the kind, dignified woman she has become. It is for this reason that I have become further dedicated to your cause, and now, above all else, it is my chief desire that you may know young Jane as I have come to know her.

Thomas smiled at Harry's description of Jane, wishing he had included more. Thomas had not seen his daughter since the week she was born, but even seeing her there as an infant, he could see his wife Victoria's likeness in her tiny face. He longed to see his child, and he felt the ache of her absence everyday of his life. It oppressed his soul relentlessly just knowing that his daughter was being raised without him. It distressed him even more that she was under the same roof as that witch of a woman who had no doubt poisoned the young girl against him. The thought of Regina Pelham shifted his pleasant mood to one of rage and hatred; thus, Thomas shook his head and continued to read.

As such, during my time here, I have placed myself intentionally in her path so that I might establish a relationship with which I hope to gain her trust. However, the girl's grandmother is proving to be especially problematic in this endeavor. She has continuously interrupted our conversations to push Jane upon a most displeasing man who I had hoped never to see again. Whether it be her choice or not, Jane spends an alarming amount of time with him, and I am unsure of how I am supposed to get past him. It seems to me that they both enjoy each other tremendously, and I must admit, I feel as if I am failing you.

Please, Thomas. If you have any advice for me, I long to hear it, for I fear that without it, all hope is lost.

Sincerely,
Harold Edward Sinclair

With that, Thomas placed the letter on the small table beside him, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in frustration. He knew sending Harry to London was a long shot that had little chance of success, but he had allowed himself a small bit of hope which had just been crushed by that piece of parchment.

If Harry cannot get past Regina, he thought, watching the storm rage outside and feeling his spirits drop even lower, then I will never see my daughter again.

Cursing the woman aloud, Thomas rose from his place by the window and began pacing the length of his office with a sensation of unbearable frustration. That hag had been the reason behind all his troubles since the beginning, and now, though she knew it not, she continued to play a prominent role in making his life miserable. She had stolen the people who were most precious to him years before, and her iron grip on them had not loosened despite the passage of time.

It was then that the reality of Harry's letter finally hit him, and Thomas began to see that his last hope was failing him. Over the last eighteen years, Thomas had made many attempts to see his daughter, but due to Regina's scheming and miraculous omniscience, not a single one of them was even close to successful. Every time he managed to smuggle his way into Newcastle, someone always betrayed him to the Pelhams, and he found himself on the run again. Thomas knew that he had no chance of approaching Jane himself; thus, when Harry offered to help him in getting his daughter back, Thomas jumped at the opportunity despite the potential danger it meant for his young, compassionate companion.

But now, even the possibility of his plan succeeding was dwindling into obscurity, and he felt the disappointment deeply within his soul. Jane was the only thing he had left from his life with his beloved wife, Victoria, and they both had been taken from him.

With the memory of his late wife infiltrating his mind, Thomas felt tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. It had been eighteen years since her tragic death, but still, Thomas found that he could not let go of her memory. Perhaps if Jane had gone to live with him instead of her grandparents, things might have been different for his life. He would have still mourned the death of his beautiful Victoria, but his love for their child would have surpassed the sadness he felt in his heart.

However, with both of them gone, Thomas had fallen into a bottomless pit of misery and self-hatred. Had he done things the right way with Victoria, then maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe he could have lived a good life with his wife and child with no worries aside from sorting through the many suitors who would appeal to him for Jane's hand in marriage.

Thomas thought of all the possibilities of his life with Jane, but he knew in his heart that these musings were useless. What was done was done, and he could not alter the past, nor even his present circumstances for they were beyond his control. His happiness did not depend on his own actions, but on the actions of a young man hundreds of miles away. With this in mind, Thomas blinked his tears away and went to his desk where he took out a piece of parchment to begin his reply.

After writing for nearly an hour, the Frenchman had filled three sheets of parchment with his ideas concerning how Harry might succeed. Writing had reignited his passions, and that small bit of hope he had allowed himself returned to him with a fire. He would not surrender to the Pelhams without putting up a fight, and this was quite possibly his last chance to win the war that he had been fighting for nearly twenty years. He could not give up, and he would not give up.

With a sigh, Thomas sealed the letter with wax and tucked it into his coat pocket before heading back into the pouring rain, this time with more urgency than before. He had to mail the letter immediately, and no rainstorm would delay him.

***

alrighty y'all, we have a little bit of backstory showing up now and I'm really excited about it! What do y'all think of the story so far? and What do y'all think Regina did to him??

Thank you all so much for reading! I really appreciate it, and please vote and comment if you can!
-katelyn🖤