Blueprints and Quiet Ambitions

[POV SWITCH: RICHARD ANDERSON RUSSO]

It's been two months since I crossed the threshold of Rupert Anderson's house, since I first stood awkwardly in the neat front hall with my satchel clutched in both hands, half-expecting the walls to sigh under the weight of my intrusion.

I'd spent that morning at Wool's, packing up my few belongings. Not that it took long: my battered notebook, the little box of death certificates and photographs, the necklace heavy with rings, a short stack of folded clothes, and the knife I still kept tucked close.

Mrs. Cole had patted my shoulder stiffly, Martha squeezed my hand with her work-worn grip, and the younger boys clustered by the door, eyes darting between pride and a low sort of grief. I promised them I'd be close, that I'd visit. And I meant it. Even now, once a week, I walk past the orphanage gates, keeping that promise carefully intact, a shape of responsibility I'm unwilling to let dissolve.

But this, Rupert's house, is something entirely new. A quiet, orderly place in a modest terrace row, the walls hung with watercolours of Sussex fields and the occasional framed photograph of men in khaki and medals. It has a faint scent of pipe tobacco and lavender wax. My room overlooks the back garden, where two stone benches flank a shallow birdbath furred with moss. It's small, sunlit, almost painfully neat, a blank canvas. I've kept it that way, as if afraid to impose too much of myself on its calm.

Those first weeks under Rupert's roof were stranger than I'd expected. I was so used to Wool's constant low hum of wary supervision, the caretakers' tight mouths, the children's quick eyes, that Rupert's gentle absence of suspicion felt unnatural. He simply gave me space. Though every evening at precisely six, his voice would lift up the staircase, mild but unwavering, calling me to supper.

Supper itself was a quiet revolution. Potatoes roasted in real fat, warm rolls that steamed when broken open, sometimes a tart crowned with fresh cream. I felt my shoulders broaden with the intake of richer foods, my skin warming into a health I hadn't realised I'd misplaced. Yet my old discipline held. Each dawn, I still rose before first light, splashed my face with cold water, scrubbed my nails raw, and ran through my exercises on the thin rug by my bed. The routine felt more urgent than ever; a body that didn't fail was an asset, a mind that didn't fog a necessity.

Most mornings after my drills, I joined Rupert in the small front parlour. The chessboard always waited on the table between us, a pot of dark tea steaming beside it. Sometimes he spoke of campaigns in India, of dust-choked marches across France, his voice low and distant. Other days, he was silent, lost somewhere I couldn't reach. I found I didn't mind. His presence was steady, never intrusive. I came to count on it the way one counts on a house remaining upright over one's head.

Afternoons were mine. I spent them at the oak desk Rupert provided, reading ledgers, law pamphlets, and patent guides. His personal library leaned heavily on military histories and Roman philosophers, but hidden among them were nuggets that sharpened my thinking. Once he found me half-buried in the British Companies Act, pencil scratching out dense notes. He only chuckled, ruffled my hair in an awkward, tentative gesture, and left me to it.

All that reading, all that silent work, was for a reason.

Because from the day I entered his house, I'd been shaping a plan with the precision of a knife edge. Velcro. The crude scraps I'd stitched at Wool's had become tighter, cleaner. My diagrams grew neat enough to please any patent clerk's eye. I'd memorised every rule of the Paris Convention, how filing in Britain would give us twelve months to secure rights in nearly forty other countries. I plotted licensing schemes, ownership shares, and the corporate structures that would lock my invention firmly under my name once I came of age.

But I was still only a boy in the eyes of the law. Too young to be a director, to sign incorporation documents, to stand before a banker without being patted on the head and shooed away.

I needed Rupert.

I never fooled myself into thinking of him as family. That word was buried under too many headstones. He'd never replace Papa, but over these weeks, he'd become something else, a friend. Someone who offered small courtesies, a second helping of pudding, and a hand bracing the ladder as I reached for high shelves. I called him 'father' because he'd earned the title by taking me in, by signing papers that would unlock my future. And because it smoothed every necessary path that lay ahead.

It began just after tea.

I laid out my diagrams across the chessboard, neat sheets of carefully inked loops and hooked threads, along with cost estimates and production models. Rupert looked over from his armchair, spectacles sliding slightly down his nose.

"What's all this then, Richard?"

"My invention, Father." I kept my voice composed, the way I'd rehearsed a dozen times in the mirror upstairs. "Or rather, the proper shape of it. I've shown you scraps, little samples of the fastening, but this is the full plan. Velcro. It can replace buttons, laces, and buckles. Fastened on children's shoes, nurses' aprons, soldiers' kit. As you know, in war, a second saved can be a life kept."

He lifted a sheet, studied my tidy rows of figures, and his brow knitted. "You've truly mapped all this out yourself?"

"Yes, Father. Every step. I've researched the British patent system and the Paris Convention for international protection. Once we file here, we've a twelve-month window to secure rights nearly everywhere that matters. But… there's one difficulty."

He set the paper down, his hand loose but his eyes watchful. "Go on."

"The law. Companies require a director who is at least sixteen years old. I've drafted everything, including the company structure, licensing agreements, and patent paperwork, but on paper, it can't be me. It has to be you."

There was a long pause. Rupert breathed out slowly, thumb tracing the edge of the chessboard.

"You've thought this through thoroughly."

"I couldn't do less," I said simply. "It's for my future. My family's name, at least what's left of it."

Then I let a hint of unease creep into my voice, carefully measured. "I wouldn't expect you to carry it without your due share. I'd offer five percent of all profits, permanently. For your trouble. For believing in me."

His head jerked slightly, surprise breaking across his features before settling into a wry, almost pained smile.

"Five percent?" His chuckle was small and hollow, more breath than sound. "Richard, that's… absurdly generous. I'm not some petty solicitor hoping to pad his retirement on a boy's cleverness. I won't take it."

I'd prepared for this.

"Then three. It would be right. You're lending your name, your standing, your signature to every document that gives this life."

Rupert's mouth tightened, not cold, just resolute. "No. I don't want paying for being the man who can make your vision move forward. I've not many years left, Richard. No wife, no son left to set up. I'd do this because it's worth doing. Because you're worth doing it for."

Pressed once more, this time more genuine. "One, then. A fraction. Enough that it still shows my gratitude, but not enough to wound my pride if refused entirely."

His eyes met mine, something tired but warm flickering behind them. Finally, he exhaled, a low sound that might've been half a laugh.

"One it is then. If only so you won't keep trying to bribe me into taking your own money."

"Thank you, Father."

He sat quiet a moment longer, tapping the edge of my diagrams. Then his eyes lifted to mine, curious in a way I hadn't quite expected.

"And tell me, Richard, this company of yours, once it's all properly chartered… what will you name it?"

I paused, feeling the weight of the question settle into me. I'd thought of it often in the dark, lying awake while the house breathed around me.

"Russo Holdings," I said at last, in a voice level. "Short, dignified. A name that could stretch to more than Velcro one day, if it needs to. A name that still carries what's left of my family forward, even if it's only me now."

A small line deepened at the corner of Rupert's mouth. Almost a smile, almost sorrowful.

"A fine name," he said quietly. "It'll wear well on ledgers and factory doors alike."

I sat back in the quiet aftermath, feeling something that had been carefully and long laid finally click into place.

But there was one last hurdle. I didn't have a finished, true prototype. Not yet. What I needed most was nylon, a new thread that was strong and fine, practically built to cradle tiny hooks and loops. But nylon wasn't something you could buy at a draper's. It was still tightly controlled, rationed for the war effort. Mainly used for parachutes, ropes, tow lines for gliders, and even aircraft fuel bladders.

After we settled the company shares, I laid out the final piece. "Father," I said carefully, folding my hands atop the neat stack of papers. 

"There's one more matter. To negotiate licensing agreements, I need a working prototype. And for that… I need nylon. It isn't sold to the public. But I thought, perhaps, given your old rank, your contacts from the regiment, you might be able to request a small quantity. Official channels, of course. Even scrap from damaged chutes would be enough for me to fashion the first samples."

Rupert leaned back, studying me with an unreadable look. Then a slow, resigned smile crept across his face. "I suppose there are still a few quartermasters who'd not ignore a letter from me. Leave it with me, Richard. I'll see what strings can be gently pulled."

"Thank you, Father." The words came more easily now. Not warm, exactly, but solid. A mark of mutual respect.

I exhaled, feeling that final missing stone click into place in the foundation I'd spent months quietly laying.

The rest of my day fell into its usual order. I tidied my papers, fetched a cup of warm milk from the kitchen, and then sat by my window as twilight gathered in the garden below. My hands flexed against the sill, knuckles white with promise. 

Soon, there would be nylon. Soon, a prototype. Soon, a patent with my name. 

Soon, Rupert's name will be inked across the newly established company.

It still wasn't happiness. I doubted it ever would be. 

But it was certainty. 

A future carved out by my own hands, built on cautious alliances and relentless will. And that, I thought as I finally let the dusk draw me to bed, was more than enough.

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