Fun And Games With Simon

Simon Goes To Town

Wiltshire, England—Summer, 1807

Town! They were going into the neighboring town of Chippenham! They’d been to Swindon many times, but Chippenham promised new delights. Five-year-old Simon bounced on the balls of his feet. “Papa, Papa, Papa.” Even his words raced out of him as he tugged on his papa’s hand.

Papa stooped before him, his smile never fading from his face.

Simon loved his papa’s face, which he proceeded to pat on each side. “I want to drive.”

Papa laughed. “You’re still too young to drive the carriage, my boy. Perhaps when you’re six.”

“Good heavens,” Mama said, fastening her bonnet to her head. “Where does he get such notions, Teddy?”

Simon loved his mama’s face even more than his papa’s. However, there were times when Papa allowed him some liberties behind Mama’s back. Those times, he loved Papa’s face more. But most of the time, it was a tie.

“Well, my dear, you’re always encouraging him to be a little man.”

Papa had a point.

“Men drive carriages,” Simon said, giving a nod for emphasis.

Papa patted him on the head. “Why don’t you sit beside me and put your hands on the reins with mine?”

Simon resumed his jumping. “Yes!”

Mama sighed.

All the way into town, Simon held the reins, guiding the team of horses with expert care, if he did say so himself. Papa even released his own grip when Mama wasn’t looking.

The town was bustling with activity, and Simon glanced around, trying to take everything in at once. Papa climbed down from the carriage and walked to the other side to assist Mama. Without waiting, Simon scrambled off and raced toward a crowd of people, curious to see what attracted such attention.

“Simon! Come back!” Papa yelled.

But Simon didn’t listen. Small enough to wedge himself between the people standing shoulder to shoulder, he breached the outer perimeter by using his bony elbows and perhaps—accidentally—stepping on someone’s toes to get them to move that extra inch.

Three layers deep, he finally entered the inner circle. A pompous-looking man scowled at those gathered around him. Simon loved the word pompous, having learned it the other day when Papa was reading the paper and muttered it about someone.

“Lord Edgerton, you cannot raise the rents more than people can afford to pay,” one man pleaded. The man shuffled on scuffed boots and clutched his tattered hat in his wrinkled hands.

“If you can’t pay, then leave,” the pompous man said, giving a sniff in the air.

Shouts erupted around them, sounding much like thunder.

Simon’s gaze darted to a girl standing next to the pompous man. Releasing the woman’s hand that had held hers, she put her hands over her ears. Her dark eyes grew wide.

She’s pretty.

Perhaps he should have been more concerned that she appeared frightened, but Simon didn’t like to think about scary things himself. 

Simon liked girls, especially pretty ones, a fact the sons of his father’s tenants teased him about mercilessly.

“Girls! Ugh, Simon. Don’t you know they have bugs that get on you? They burrow under your skin and cause you to itch something fierce.”

Simon thought that was hogwash. His mama was a girl, and she smelled nice, was soft, and gave the most wonderful hugs. Even Grandmother, although much older than Mama, loved to cuddle him on her lap and give him kisses and hugs.

“Ugh. Kisses!” his friends had said.

Simon decided to keep that to himself from then on. But kisses were especially nice.

Where was he? Oh, yes. The little girl. Her glorious dark hair tumbled down her back with a giant blue bow fastened near the crown. A devious thought tripped through Simon’s active mind.

He crept closer to the girl and the woman, stopping every few inches and avoiding too much attention. He wanted that bow. And he wanted a kiss from that girl.

Which to choose first?

The woman noticed him first, and she smiled down at him. “Hello, young man.” Her voice was whisper quiet, a strange contrast to the pompous man whose voice boomed.

Simon gave a little wave.

The girl’s dark eyes narrowed. They were extraordinarily pretty eyes, quite different from his blue ones. Simon liked them very much.

He delivered what Grandmother called his “heartbreaker” smile.

The girl’s lips twitched.

And that’s when he decided. The phrase Papa used popped into Simon’s head.

Quick as lightning, he leaned in and pecked the little girl on the lips,  simultaneously reaching around the back of her head and giving the bow a gentle tug.

The silky ribbon came loose and dangled from his fingers. He waved it in triumphant victory.

“Hey!” The girl’s hand flew to the back of her hair, which, once unrestrained, flowed even more gloriously across her shoulders.

Pivoting,  Simon prepared to race off with his prize, when something tugged hard on his coat collar, pulling him backward.

“Boy!” the pompous man’s voice boomed again. “How dare you touch my daughter?!”

“Pardon me. Pardon me.” Papa’s voice drifted in until he emerged from the crowd, the face that Simon loved so dearly expressing such disappointment Simon wanted to crawl under a rock.

Oh. I’m in trouble.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Papa said, his condemning eyes never leaving Simon’s face.

“Does this belong to you, Beckham?” Still clutching Simon’s coat collar, the pompous man gave Simon a little shake before releasing him.

“He does. Forgive the lad, he’s only five.”

“That is no excuse. You must teach him discipline and respect for his superiors. If he were my child, I would take my cane to his backside.”

“Thank goodness he isn’t yours,” Papa muttered, then peered down, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “Apologize, Son.”

Simon handed the ribbon back to the girl. “Sorry. It’s pretty.” He grinned at her. “And so are you.”

“Enough!” the pompous man’s thunderous voice boomed again. 

The girl returned her hands to her ears and leaned in toward the woman, who must have been her mama.

Papa grasped Simon’s shoulders and turned him around, directing him away from the crowd.

“I’m sorry, Papa. Truly.”

Papa chuckled softly. “I understand, my boy. A pretty face is hard to resist. But it might be best to keep your attentions toward those more in our own social circle. The daughter of a marquess is perhaps a little too high above us.” Papa’s voice lowered, but Simon still heard him. “Especially that marquess.”

“Will I be punished?”

“I’m afraid your mama will insist. I will try to negotiate less time in your room. Say two hours?”

Two hours!! Simon would go mad. “But we’re not returning home now, are we?”

“Heavens, no. We’ve just arrived. Stay out of trouble for the rest of the day and allow your mother’s ire to cool, and perhaps I will be able to negotiate your time down to a half‑hour in your room.”

With that possibility dangling before him, Simon did his best to behave for the remainder of the day.

And to keep away from pretty girls with silky ribbons.