Samuel Walsh was a completely unremarkable man.
He was one of the hundreds of Irish immigrants in Birmingham who migrated to escape the war's collateral damage. But, as it turns out, he was just as poor and hungry in England as he was in Ireland, simply because he lacked any skill that could set him apart from others just like him.
The only thing he really knew how to do was plant potatoes, and most of his customers could agree that they were always either too firm or too watery.
No one recognized him from the newspapers, not even Thomas, whose ability to remember a face was uncanny. The only person who knew anything about him was John's nine-year-old daughter, Katie, who came downstairs for a glass of water in her night dress, but stopped instantly when she heard his name come up in the conversation.
"I know 'im. Mister Walsh is Julie's father," she said, glancing at the group of adults congregated in the kitchen from her place in the doorway. They were all frowning and glancing between each other nervously and Katie could tell she had walked into a very serious conversation, and she was instantly fascinated.
John did not seem so pleased. "You're supposed to be sleeping, Katie. This is adult business."
"Sorry," Katie grumbled, though not sounding so apologetic. "I was looking for a glass of water."
"No water," Esme shook her head firmly. "You're out of clean sheets and we don't need another accident."
"Thanks, Esme, why don't you go and tell the bloody King about my accidents while you're at it." She glared at her step-mother, her pink cheeks a sharp contrast to her white hair.
"Give the girl a chance to speak." Thomas said from the table and John was too tired to protest as his older brother beckoned the little girl over. He scooted his chair back, giving her enough room to slide over his leg, allowing her to see the newspaper on the table in front of him. "Miss Katie, do you know what this is?"
"A newspaper, duh."
Katie's eyes instantly pinned on the black-on-white picture of a man sitting a top a large, black stallion. The horse was decorated with ribbons and roses, and its rider was wearing a large, extravagant hat that shadowed half of his face, but the girl could easily make out the rounded face and crooked nose of the farmer she had seen once or twice walking her old friend to school.
"Yup. That's him," she said with absolute certainty. "I played with Julie once or twice after school, but I don't like her anymore. She said my hair was weird." She reached up to touch the tangled mess with an insecure frown.
"You see, Katie, this man made front page news and I'd very much like to speak to him. Do you happen to know where I can find him?" Thomas asked, sounding almost wary, and Katie could only guess that he was exhausted as he sounded.
"He lives on some potato farm a block away from my school." In a second, Katie suddenly seemed to lose any interest she previously had that kept her in the conversation and she jumped off of Thomas and bounded over towards her father. "Can I have water now, please?"
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It was only a two mile walk from the Walsh Farm to Vivian's home, and when the gravel road dissolved into dirt, she knew she was getting close.
She spent dozens of weekends exploring the property, and although it had been months since she last visited, she remembered it well: potato plants as tall as churches growing on emerald fields, the hundred-year-old oak trees lining the pastures, and the flower beds that Alice planted along the road.
At least, that was Vivian's first impression of it.
As it turns out, the Walsh's owned a tiny fraction of land (a patch of dry grass by an oak stump) and the rest was funded by a factory in London, who slowly started to withdraw their funds after they found a more productive supplier. The following Monday, they led Vivian to the stables to meet the stallion they traded half of their land for.
"We can't make it to the next harvest season with nothing. We need the help and without this horse, our land will die."
In exchange for very little money, Vivian sold weeks of her time taming an aggressive stallion, convinced that Herschel could save Samuel's farm. Yet, despite being successful in her training, she is standing in the middle of a dead piece of farmland in the middle of harvest season. The weeds grew like a disease, scratching up her legs and skirt as she searched the field for an sign of the Walsh Farm she was so fond of exploring.
The family house, like the rest of the property, looks desolated. The red paint had faded and the windows were covered up with board. The flowers lining the stone path were completely dissolved, and the porch railing had fallen over onto the front lawn.
The only sign of life was a car parked off to the side. It was empty, but it looked new and refurbished; completely out of place on the rural property, especially because Samuel claimed that he was deathly afraid of automobiles.
There was a coat sitting on the front seat, along with a pack of cigarettes. And when Vivian put her hand on the hood, she realized it was still warm — whoever it is just got here.
Vivian stuffed her hands into her pockets and started to turn back around, only to stumble back when she saw a grey figure watching her from a few feet away.
It was a man who's grey coat and blinder cap made him almost blend in with the grey sky behind him, and if it weren't for his silver eyes pinned right on her, Vivian wouldn't have glanced at him twice.
She was stunned, until the realization dawned on her that he had just caught her snooping around his car.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, a small smirk tracing his lips.
"Sorry, I thought I was alone."
Vivian wondered if she should be afraid. After all, the nearest house was about a mile from here, and judging by the way his coat curved over his hip, he was carrying a gun.
"My name is Desmond Marks. I'm here on behalf of the King. It seems Mister Walsh is overdue on some taxes."
Vivian examined his coat, finding that he was missing the badge most tax collectors were told to wear.
"I don't know where he is," Vivian told him before he could start questioning her. "I thought he'd be here."
"How'd you know him?"
"He was a friend of mine." She shrugged, turning her head up to look at the house. For a brief moment, she thought about where he was. Probably vacationing in London, wallowing in his prize money. Not thinking about his overdue taxes, no doubt. "We lost touch a few months ago."
"Does he have any relatives in Birmingham? Someone who might know of his whereabouts?"
Vivian shook her head. "Any family they left behind in Ireland. And Walsh wasn't the type of man to keep friends around."
"Except you."
Vivian raised her eyebrows. "Like I said, I lost contact with him a while back."
He nodded, looking like he was about to ask another question, when Vivian cleared her throat.
"I need to go," she said, turning to walk back up the stone path.
"I'm headed that way, would you like a lift?"
To be honest, her feet were killing her and she would've accepted his offer in a heartbeat if it weren't for the fact that he was a tax collector and she didn't want him to find out that she was due for eviction — which he very well would. So far, the others have only left her warnings without the actual promise of expulsion from her home, mostly because they pitied her situation.
She had a feeling this man wasn't the pitying type.
"No, thank you. I have some stops I need to make and I could use the walk." She smiled at him and stuffed her hands into her pockets again, starting to walk back the way she came. "I hope you find him."