House of Lucy Chapter 2

I saw it first through trees, whitewashed homes scattered like dice in a bowl. It was not a town, not yet. Just a suggestion of one. A clearing in the wild, and the smell of ambition under every floorboard. Hanover Court was smaller than I imagined, but kinder. It lacked the symmetry I had dreamed of, the grand facades of London or the stoicism of Whitcombe- but it had movement. Laughter. The sounds of hammer and steel, voices raised in argument and commerce and song. It was imperfect and human, and I loved it all at once.
I hopped out of my carriage, and paid the driver what I thought was his sum, (he tried to haggle for more, the greedy git,) and walked along the dirt road, a group of children ran past me giggling.
I saw men and women tending to tobacco farms, and I walked until I found a public house. I went inside and instantly I was greeted by the smell of rat-shit, recognizable from the voyage here, ale, cider, the sound of clinking glasses, and the revelry of men joined in conversation. A few of the men turned to look at me, then went back to their conversation. I went up to the bar, and asked the bartender, a portly, red-faced man, for an ale, and that I would require a room to stay in. He eyed me carefully.
"Aye, we might have a space upstairs for lodgin'. And who might you be, boy?"
"My name is Edward Lucy, House of Whitcombe, sir. I have come here because I know the land to be ripe, the people to be charitable and honest, and to build a new life for myself."
All the room had gone silent, the barkeep kept his gaze fixed on me, then, it was as if he couldn't contain his laughter. "A lord," he laughed.
"Bah-hah! And I knew he was Irish, too, from his red hair! Look at him! A lord! Bah-hah! What's the matter, did the king strip all your titles away?"
It wasn't long before the whole room was laughing.
"Stripped me of my titles, my land, and my good coat," I smiled.
"But he was kind enough to leave me with my wit, my charm, and my good hat," and on "hat," I lifted it from my head.
The barkeep stopped for a while, surprised, before laughing harder and gesturing me to sit down.
"Ah-hah! The lord speaks! Don't worry, lad, I was only teasin' you! Come, sit with us, and be merry, we'll see if you can hold y'er drink!"
The barkeep, whose name I learned was Phillip, introduced me to the frequent patrons of the public house that night, who I had some trouble keeping track of, but managed. There was the farmer Jeremiah, who only sneered at me once all night, there was the carpenter, Solomon Reed, who had sharp eyes, like an owl, and there was the minister Phineas Gable, who was Anglican, and spoke slowly and often too long. I eyed the minister with some curiosity. He could've fit right in at the lodge back in England.
Before long, I was led upstairs to a small, drafty room with a bucket and another man snoring loudly in the bed next to mind. I loosened by boots and laid down in my bunk. Morning could not come soon enough!