Thomas – The Kitchen Boy (1686–1701)

Part I: The Kitchen Boy (1686–1701)

Chapter One: Potato Sack Dreams (Age 7)

The palace kitchens never slept. Even before dawn, when the city of London outside was hushed, the fires inside already roared. Spits turned slowly, joints of beef dripping fat that hissed in the flames. Pans clattered, dogs nosed for scraps, and the air smelled always of woodsmoke, onions, and grease.

In the farthest corner, a boy slept curled on empty potato sacks. He was seven years old, thin as a broom handle, with hair clotted by soot and bare feet chafed against the stone.

“Up, Tom,” said Bess, a scullery maid scarcely older than himself. She nudged his foot with her shoe, half-teasing, half-impatient. “Dawn’s no friend to sleepers.”

He scrambled upright, reaching for the bucket by instinct. His body already knew the rhythm: haul water from the pump before the cook bellowed, fetch wood before the fire sank low. The pump’s iron handle bit his palms, the water sloshed heavy, but he carried it without stumble.

That was his gift, though no one noticed yet: he carried things steady.

Invisible, he slipped between skirts and elbows. To be noticed was to be cuffed. Better to be unseen.

Yet sometimes, when the service door opened, a breath of another world drifted down — cool air scented with beeswax and lavender, voices laughing high and sharp.

“Her Majesty slept little again,” one murmured.

“Too much sorrow.”

“Hush — you’ll be heard.”

Tom paused, bucket in hand, listening. The words meant little, but the tone stayed. He tucked them away as carefully as coins.

That night, curled again on his sacks, he whispered into the dark: Invisible. But in dreams, he was not Tom, not invisible. He dreamed of names heavier, stronger, names that could not be so easily brushed aside.

Chapter Two: Comfort (Age 9)

Two years made his arms ropey, his back wiry. He hauled pails with less trembling, ducked faster through the rush of trays. He learned the way grease popped before it spat, how to duck when the master cook’s temper swelled.

One afternoon, fat from a goose struck his forearm. Pain seared hot, but he clenched his jaw. To cry out was to be struck for clumsiness. He swallowed it.

That night, after the last pans were scrubbed, he lay back on his sacks. His arm throbbed, but he heard another sound — soft sobbing.

He rose and found Bess crouched near the hearth, apron pressed to her face.

“Why cry?” he whispered.

“I’m nobody,” she said thickly. “Not worth more than soot.”

He looked at her, then at the sack beneath him. He tugged it free and laid it around her shoulders.

“You’re worth my blanket,” he said.

She blinked, startled, then laughed through her tears — a sound half-sob, half-joy. “Saint Tom,” she teased.

Her voice warmed him. Not the barked Tom of the cooks, nor the jeering Tom of the footmen. Something else: softer, grateful. Yet lying awake later, he wondered if he would always be only Tom.

Chapter Three: Caught Upstairs (Age 11)

By eleven, he knew the kitchens like the map of his own hands. He also knew the service stairs — the rhythm of trays, when the gaps opened, when a boy might slip unseen.

One afternoon he climbed higher than before. The air shifted: beeswax polish, lavender, the hush of carpets. His heart hammered. He moved soft as a cat.

“You’re no page,” said a voice.

He froze.

A girl stood in the corridor, his age, her gown finer than anything he had touched. Her eyes were sharp, curious, not cruel.

“What are you?” she asked.

“A kitchen boy, miss.”

“And your name?”

He hesitated. In the kitchens he was always Tom — shouted, scolded, small. But something in her gaze called something larger from him. He straightened.

“Thomas,” he said.

She repeated it softly, tasting the weight. “Thomas.” Then she smiled faintly. “Best go before someone else finds you.”

He fled, heart hammering. But her voice lingered. She had said his name — Thomas. That night he whispered it into the dark. Not Tom, not Saint Tom, but Thomas. It filled him, too large to hide, too steady to ignore.

Chapter Four: Small Triumphs (Age 12–15)

Puberty reshaped him: shoulders broadening, voice breaking mid-answer. The laundress girls laughed when it cracked; Bess only grinned. “You’ll be taller than all of us, Tom.”

Still Tom to her. Always Tom.

But elsewhere, Thomas took root. His hands, once raw, now moved with precision. He learned knife-work: how to bone a fish so its skeleton lay lace-delicate, how to slice bread into even ticks, how to carve meat so each slice pleased the eye.

At fifteen, during a banquet, the master cook shoved the knife into his hand. “Your hands are steadier than mine. Show them.”

Before nobles robed in silk, Thomas carved the beef. The blade glided clean, steady. One noble gave the faintest nod.

Not applause, not praise — acknowledgment. And for Thomas, that was more.

That night, lying on his sack, he thought of three faces:

Bess, who still called him Tom, steady as bread. Lady Catherine, who had spoken his name like it was new-made. And another face unseen, a shadow waiting far eastward, where destiny would name him again.

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WE&P by: EZorrillaMc.