Yours Truly (Petekey)

IV.

Written by musicalromantic

Peter Lewis Wentz

The sun is only beginning to set as I walk through the bustling streets of England after a busy day of errands for my father. I watch as the ladies walk through the streets, admiring the garments they see in the windows, and I see the men, leaving their work and bustling home to see their wives and children. I round the barbershop window and give a quick, lazy wave to the barber who imitates me. I continue on my way home, walking as slowly as I can. There is not a particular reason for my slow pace, but there is not a reason for my fast pace.

I try to put myself in the Duke's son's position and I try to find the beauty in the industrial world surrounding me. Instead I see the dirty clothes of the men leaving the factory, and I look up in utter disgust to watch as the smoke rises from the factory chimneys, black and heavy. I fail to see his point of view and instead continue on, trying to ignore the horrors of the modern town.

Eventually, I reach my father's shop and I am happy to be home, closing the door to the horrible city behind me. My father remains unmoved from where he was when I left him.

"I retrieved the fabrics you requested of me, father," I hold up the bags in one hand and the money in the other. "They were not as expensive as you said they would be."

He nods, not looking up, and in one swoop motions to the table behind him, muttering absentmindedly.  I walk over and place the pile of fabrics down and the change next to him. I ask him if there is anything I can do, and he shakes his head. So I turn to retire to my own room before he calls me back, suddenly and urgently.

"Peter, there is a letter for you. Over on the table," he stammers out. I nod and go over to retrieve it. It has my name written on it much more fancily than I'd ever seen it written before, and I run my hand over the rough, expensive paper. I take it into my room and feel bad for slitting the beautiful seal. After I do, I reach in and pull out a piece of parchment paper with very fancy script on it.

To: Mr. Peter Wentz,

I, the Son of the Duke of Way, bid you a good morning and a good afternoon.
As you well know, there will  be a celebratory ball thrown in honor of my eighteenth birthday this coming Saturday. My father has allowed me to ask an accompaniment of whom I feel comfortable speaking with to join me for the night. I did not think much on the matter and had honestly little interest in the matter. I'd just wanted to get the night finished with and over. But then I actually thought. And I reviewed our conversation- an enlightened conversation of which I thoroughly enjoyed. And you are the man who entered my thoughts when my father suggested an accompaniment. I know you probably do not think much of the aristocracy, but as a favor to me, I encourage you to amuse the idea of joining me next Saturday for the ball. Please consider my offer and reply to this letter whether or not you will join me.

Signed,
Lord Michael Way

I stare in shock at the letter and pass it in between my hands, curiously and thinking hard to myself. So curious that Lord Michael would wish to invite me and not choose another of his aristocratic friends. This man tests me and pushes me further than I thought he would. I lay the letter on my bed and grab a piece of parchment from my desk and lay it flat on the desk. And then I stand and pace. I pace so much, thinking of the ways this could go horribly wrong... before my father interrupts me, saying he can hear my shoes on the floor and it is disturbing him.