The Prince of Almond Manor

by Gregory Jonathan Scott

  The Prince

  of

  Almond Manor

  By

  Gregory Jonathan Scott

  Copyright © 2019 Gregory Jonathan Scott LLC

  All rights reserved.

  :

  DEDICATION

  To Scott, as always, I love you and will never, ever hide that I do.

  To our beautiful baby boy, Dylan, who inspired Chadwick’s character. Love him so much.

  He will always be our little puppy.

  To our baby girl, Abigail, a real sweetheart of a kitty cat, who has a set of beautiful wings in heaven now, and I guarantee, a halo too.

  I cannot forget my comical and caring father William (Willy), who is my true number one fan and has been ever since I can remember. His enthusiasm and support with everything I’d set out to do and accomplished has been cherished and will always be held dear.

  I hear you bragging about me from where I stand, even to the people you just met. I love that about you and it tells me you really care.

  Thank you for letting me be me, Pop. I love you for that, more than you know.

  The Prince of Almond Manor

  *Previously published as The Plantation Affair. This book has been revised and expanded considerably from its original version to alter both characters and plot events to enhance the reader’s enjoyment.

  Copyright ©2019 Gregory Jonathan Scott

  Cover Design by Greg J Meier

  Cover art is for Illustrative purposes only and any person(s) depicted on the cover is strictly a model.

  e Edition November, 2019

  Also available in Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9914674-8-8

  Published by Gregory Jonathan Scott LLC

  http://gregoryjonathanscott.com

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  https://twitter.com/GregoryJonScott

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  https://www.amazon.com/Gregory-Jonathan-Scott/e/B00IGXP82S

  The Prince of Almond Manor is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, event, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under the International copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, Gregory Jonathan Scott.

  WARNING: This Book contains material that may be offensive to some, which includes graphic language and adult situations.

  Trademark Acknowledgements: The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following trademarks mentioned in this work of fiction: None to mention.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To all those who have a difficult time understanding me, us, him, her and them.

  A special acknowledgement goes to Conrad Sutherland-Dunn. Your valuable input was sincerely appreciated.

  To Sue Allen Milkovich, an amazing person with heart and soul.

  Your continued support is totally appreciated.

  Chapter 1

  A yawn. A stretch. A moan—brought about by the sun burning over the horizon well before Oakland thought it should have—its unyielding luster boring straight through the window pane, drawing him out of his restful sleep.

  “Go away, sun,” his gritty groaning had broken through the peaceful morning like an angry animal fighting for its life. “It’s not my fault you’re stuck outside in the first place. Six in the morning is way too early for your eye piercing rays.”

  There wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about that morning, nor had Oakland expected it to have been different from any other. He’d followed through with his usual routine—eyelids flickering erratically right after the rooster welcomed daybreak.

  There he lay, slowly coming to life in the loft of the small carriage house sited behind the large South Georgian Manor—the big house he labored day after day along with other servants like him.

  Squinting toward the window, he found the promise of a clear day outside, however, he knew that sunny welcome would quickly change to darkness as soon as the dismal shadows of associate Manor staff reared their ugly heads and cut him down again. It happened every day to Oakland, dealing with hostility frequently directed at him for no apparent reason, unable to understand why there should be a division between people with differences. The year had recently turned to eighteen eighty-three, and seemed as though skin tone shouldn’t have been an issue anymore. If it had anything to do with that, those days were long gone, but people still thought it was okay with chaining the black family to the tree out back and whipping them if they hadn’t obeyed a direct order.

  How much longer would the nonsense go on?

  That morning, Oakland had two choices—either get up straightaway, or expect the ruthless kitchen constable to slam a pounding fist against the door, practically breaking it from the hinges as she’d done so many times before. The less conflict between any staff member and him, the better, and to avoid escalated friction, he forced himself to rise and shine.

  By way of his mother, it was the domino effect that had placed him at the Manor. His direct family had been small, only his mother and him. Oakland’s father, who he never remembered, had been hunted by the organized supremacies back in the day when black skin was considered a lower life form than anything else on earth. From what he’d been told by his mother, his father had gone to battle a few years after Oakland was born and had never come back. It was at a time following eradication of slavery where black men had been sent off to war as front linesmen in a fight for freedom. It hadn’t quite panned out as making much sense, ‘We set you free to fight a battle so we can be free’.

  Oakland’s mother had mentioned a notice had never been received that his father had gone missing, or died in battle, or was taken away by the enemy. There wasn’t ever any true understanding as to what had happened to him, only guessing he was killed in battle and had gone to share a table with the Lord above.

  Later during his teenage years, his mother had also become a memory, an incident that had taken place while employed at the Manor. Bystanders reported she’d been trampled to death by a runaway horse carriage startled by a bandit who had stolen food from a corner merchant. She was crossing the street after that morning’s spree to the fruit market when it happened—understood she never saw the carriage coming. Within that split second after the thief ran by, the horse and carriage knocked her to the ground and dragged her along the cobblestone roadway to her place of death.

  That day was dreadful, drastically changing Oakland’s life. Somebody else’s selfish act had taken his mother away and weeks had gone by before he recovered from the loss. He couldn’t understand why both his parents had been taken away at such a young age, but felt perhaps he was put in that position for a reason and it would become clearer as he moved along with life.

  Oakland had never once been ungrateful to the Royal family for keeping him on staff after his mother’s sudden passing, but he still wished for a life that included both his mother and father. Surviving his parents seemed worse to him than anything else, except for a secret of his own he’d kept to himself and never shared with a living soul.

  Even though Oakland’s mother had skin as white as snow and it was rare for Caucasian’s to work as servants, the Royal’s still employed her to work the kitchen. The meals she prepared were outstanding as far as Oakland was concerned, and his sturdy form was proof of a properly fed child who had grown into a stunni
ng young man.

  Oakland’s mother had always told him he was as striking as his father, blessed with the same square jawline and full rose-colored lips that exposed teeth as white as pearls when he smiled. Aside from sharing the skin tone of a black father and a white mother, his hazel-gray eyes that shimmered when graced by a hint of light had certainly been inherited from her.

  His parents had found each other during their short time of employment at the Manor. His father was the grounds keeper while his mother kept the family fed. They never married, and in those times couldn’t—might have been stoned if they had. In regards to an unwedded existence with an illegitimate child between them, most people would have cast Oakland out or petitioned him for death.

  The Royal’s thought a bit differently than most people had, couldn’t see much wrong with a fair skinned black boy with gray eyes born to an unwedded couple, much less from opposite sides of the color spectrum. People were people as far as they were concerned, deserved a pleasant life as much as the next person did, no matter what difficulties life had given them. As it turned out, the Almond Manor was the prime place for a couple like Oakland’s parents. The property was large and secluded, which helped veil the family from bad apples planted here and there. The world could be a cruel and dangerous place when people didn’t understand differences. Some turned away in disgust, yet many would attack and crucify without question because they had been educated to do so.

  Bursting Oakland’s peaceful morning wide open like thunder and lightning struck out of nowhere, and as sure as he had expected, the knock on the door had come without further delay, along with a nasty tempered kitchen servant hollering for his so-called long awaited breakfast ingredients.

  Oakland rose with a clatter, wearing the same cinder tarnished clothing he had on the day before. He splashed his face with cool water from the tin basin on the cabinet next to his bed and headed over to the wooden plank that brought him to the ground level.

  Sleeping in the carriage house behind the Manor with the animals wasn’t because Oakland had no other choice, but because he actually liked to. He enjoyed the chickens and goats that shared his home. They never yelled, talked back or judged him for who he was.

  The human race could learn a lot from animals.

  The pets Oakland shared a space with hadn’t cared he was a man of two shades, or that he was different from other gentlemen. The things other men found stimulating, he had not. He admired what many other men seemed uninterested in.

  The chickens underfoot squabbled as if acting out a determined stampede.

  “Hush your noise,” Oakland said, hopping backward onto the sloping platform to give the birds a chance to scatter away.

  Encouraged with optimism, Oakland cheerfully whistled around to the backside of the carriage house to retrieve a sack of grain he’d feed the flightless birds. Following him and acting as though impatient, Oakland was rump rammed a few times by goats, causing him to holler, “Hang on fellas, you’re next. Wheat and oats are coming up.”

  After letting the cows out to pasture, he collected hen laid eggs and carried them to the kitchen along with large buckets of wheat flour he pulverized a day earlier. Before he had a chance to tap his toe against the kitchen door to announce his arrival, it had burst open and a big fat black woman whose name he’d never taken the time to know pushed through and yelled at him for being thirty seconds late.

  He apologized as he always had and carried what he brought to the massive stone counter along the backside of the room.

  The moment Oakland spun round, buckets of food scraps had been tossed at him. Waste swirled inside, sloshing across the front of his shirt and down his trousers. Greasy stench and day old egg ignited his septum, triggering a gagging cough he couldn’t quit. He’d known the scum dump was purposely done, knew it was coming, but never seemed to be prepared for the daily assault.

  On the way out the door, he’d felt a foot to the rear that forced him outside. He stumbled, following through with a face plant into spilled slop and spoiling meat parts. He lay there a moment while servants laughed from the open doorway behind him. He wouldn’t look back—refused to give them the satisfaction of his grub covered humiliation.

  Standing up with a smile on his face, Oakland thought of how much more the animals were going to enjoy his homecoming dressed in slop.

  “Silly fool,” somebody cackled as the door slammed shut, followed by the sound of the horizontal lock bar dropping into place.

  Oakland scooped as much of the slop back into the buckets and carried both to the field near the rear of the carriage house to meet up with the jubilant pigs running toward him—those pink speechless friends who endlessly displayed joy whenever he’d come around. The snorts and grunts of hungry pigs had pointed out gratitude unlike any single minded human being Oakland had known.

  He liked the animals and the home they had, enjoyed the privacy it provided. During the time Oakland lived outside the manor, he abstained from leering into open windows or doorways, finding it disrespectful as well as meddlesome. His privacy was important to him, kept his distance when it involved human interaction, and in exchange, respected others who might also feel the same. That thought made him wonder how many people at the Manor knew he was there?

  Chapter 2

  The Manor towered darkly in the night, appearing ghostly as though it were left to mysterious beings—a few sporadic windows were lit by burning lanterns, only.

  Inside and from the balcony above overlooking the level below, Dante commented to his queen standing beside him. “Look at your child, Priscilla.”

  Their one and only son solemnly wandered from one end of the grand hall to the other. His hands clasped behind his back, watching his own feet shuffle across the floor.

  “He does seem somewhat engaged,” Priscilla whispered while looking down on Deklan.

  Dante responded, “Does he appear lonely to you?”

  She uttered no words, only pursed her lips and tugged at the string of jewels around her narrow neck.

  “He needs a companion, somebody to share this business with when the time comes to hand it over, which I’d like to be sooner than later. I wouldn’t mind retiring, or at least cutting back on the amount of work I do here. Do some fishing. Paint a picture. I don’t know,” Dante articulated. “It’s time he learned more about the almond production process, prepare to take over the business.”

  “I agree,” Miz Priscilla shortly replied. She pressed her poofy skirt with her hands before bringing them together at the front of her jeweled waist.

  As though she hadn’t known, Dante reminded Priscilla of Deklan’s twenty-sixth birthday coming soon, suggested introducing a young lady to him by way of an assembly of the town’s people on his birthday.

  “A nice idea,” She bleeped, keeping her answer short once again.

  “Okay then. It’s decided. We’ll find him someone to marry during the celebration.” Dante turned to a nearby servant and requested he go fetch their son and tell him to meet in the dining hall library on the first floor.

  Resembling a nervous weasel about to be eaten by a hawk, the servant scurried away to convey the request to Deklan as mentioned.

  The dimly lit library was dustier than usual, encouraging both Dante and Priscilla to stand until the place was properly cleaned.

  Deklan entered the large room alone and quietly closed the double wooden doors behind him. Dust billowed from trim above, floating down around him like snowflakes during wintertime. If it had been Christmas, the experience would have been a wonderland.

  “It’s time to swipe a dust broom over this place don’t you think, father?” Deklan suggested, placing a hand above his head, blocking dusty flakes showering all around him. Stepping closer to his parents, he asked what the unscheduled appointment was all about.

  As usual, his father had spoken while his mother stood quietly nearby.

  “My son”—his father started—“it’s time you settle down with someone and get
more involved in the family business. Almonds are your life and will be your fortune. That’s how your mother and I got started, and what better way to learn how to nurture a seedling than in the almond field with the help of a charming wife?”

  “What are you saying, father?” Deklan replied, not even hearing the mention of a lady suitress. “Are you going somewhere soon? Is your health all right?”

  Miz Priscilla stepped forward. “No my dear, Deklan. We simply want you to be prepared when the time comes for us to hand the business over to you. Have you thought much about a companion?”

  “You mean marriage? Well, I… well,” he stuttered. “Unh, no… Not really.” It seemed a bit soon for making a sudden decision like that and the question of a marriage had come at him much too quickly. He wasn’t prepared for that, nor had he given much thought about it. He’d dismissed the idea mostly, since the companion he would prefer might not be considered a suitable match for what his parents had in mind to represent the leader of the company. His face changed from red to white in a matter of seconds, and the space between his eyebrows had come together into a tightly twisted knot, muddling his handsome features with fear.

  Priscilla glanced at Dante with a concerned expression over her brow and then gazed back at Deklan for a better answer.

  Interrupting the strange silence, Deklan’s father spoke on the verge of a whisper, “Son. It is only a matter of time when we’ll need to pass this company on to you, our only child. It’s important that you’re ready to take over the responsibilities as a leader and that you have someone at your side to enjoy it with.”

  “I’m sorry father, but I am not ready,” Deklan proclaimed. “I don’t even know anybody that I find suitable. I’m sorry. I’m not ready for marriage, nor do I even want to get married.” His anger increased the more he spoke.