“And you ought not to speak to me like this,” Sarah said, angry that she had allowed herself to be drawn into telling family stories to the new housemaid. “It is not your place. Now return to your work.”
Thinking later about this encounter, and her reunion with Lady Chatsfield, Hannah wondered nervously if her days at Balesworth Hall were numbered.
For England in early May, Thursday evening’s weather was unusually good. Lady Chatsfield had left the estate to visit her mother, along with Sarah, and Mr. Veeriswamy had gone with them, leaving Mrs. Watson in charge. She promptly gave the junior staff permission to spend the evening as they pleased. Hannah and Brandon decided to take a walk. As they pulled on their outdoor shoes, Hannah told Brandon of her encounter with Lady Chatsfield, but he insisted that she had nothing to worry about. “And she acted like she recognized you, but couldn’t quite place you, right?”
“That’s right,” Hannah said, tapping her heel on the ground to push her foot into her shoe. “But she smiled at me, like I was someone she knew and liked, not the girl who almost got her killed in Dundee. It was very weird.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t stress about it,” Brandon said. “Let it go.”
When they stepped outside, they saw Jupe hanging around in the rose garden, and Brandon invited him to join them on their walk. Jupe happily accepted the invitation, but Hannah was annoyed. She had wanted to talk alone to somebody from the twenty-first century, even if it had to be Brandon. To show her displeasure, she walked ahead of the boys. But Brandon soon caught up with her. “Wait up, Hannah!” he puffed. “You have to hear what Jupe is telling me.”
Hannah rolled her eyes and tutted. “How come we couldn’t go without him? I wanted to talk to you about what I’ve been doing without having to explain everything to him.”
“Never mind about that,” Brandon said, frowning. “This is important. And it’s about your brother, too.”
That got Hannah’s attention. “What? Is something wrong?”
“Not exactly,” Brandon said. “But… Look, I’ll let Jupe explain.”
Jupe was sitting by the side of a field with his knees drawn up to his chin, watching two black and white dairy cattle graze. “I never saw this color of cows in Georgia,” he said to Brandon and Hannah as they sat down facing him.
“Never mind that,” snapped Hannah. “What’s wrong with Alex?”
Jupe’s face fell, and he looked away from Hannah.
Brandon gave Hannah an angry glare. “Hannah, nothing’s wrong with Alex… Jupe, please tell Hannah what you told me. It’s okay. She’s kind of a pain, but you can trust her.”
Slowly, Jupe told his story, and it was a disturbing one. Mr. Thornhill had come to him on the ship to tell him that he was free, and that he had a job waiting for him in England. At first, Jupe was ecstatic. But then Mr. Thornhill went on to say that there were conditions attached to his offer.
When Jupe told Hannah about the conditions, she gasped. “Are you telling me that Thornhill told you that you can’t leave this job?”
“Yes, he did,” Jupe said. “And if I ever do leave here, he’ll sell my mama and daddy away from Kintyre, and from each other.”
“But why?” Hannah asked.
“That’s the part I can’t figure out,” Brandon said. “There has to be some reason. Jupe, did he say anything else?”
Jupe hesitated. “Well, he did say that I must not tell Lady Chatsfield of my circumstances. So, please, I’m begging you, don’t tell her nothing about this.”
Hannah looked thoughtful. “Jupe, that letter you brought with you, the one addressed to Lady Chatsfield, said that Mr. Thornhill or Lord Chatsfield or whatever he’s called, would pay for you to work here. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? I mean, who else would pay? It’s his house.”
Brandon looked askance at her. “Hannah, this Thornhill is obviously a sleazebag playing some kind of sick game, and your brother is hanging out with him. Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Maybe,” Hannah said doubtfully. “But Thornhill’s his boss, right? A lot of people have mean bosses.”
Brandon gave her a hard stare. “I don’t like to think of Alex hanging out with a guy who’s so totally manipulative. Do you?”
“No,” Hannah said quietly. “I guess not.”
“We have to get Alex to Balesworth , and figure out what the deal is with this Thornhill character. And I have to check out Mrs. Watson’s old house, to make sure it’s Verity and Eric’s.”
“But we have to get home,” Hannah reminded him.
“Oh, yeah,” Brandon said wistfully. “That too. But first of all, we gotta send Mr. Thornhill a telegram.”
“What’s that?” Hannah asked.
“Kind of like a Victorian email,” Brandon said. “It’s better than a letter, because we won’t have to worry about people seeing our handwriting.”
“Why would we worry about that?”
“Because, officially, the telegram won’t be from us. It will be from Lady Chatsfield.”
Hannah smiled. “Sweet.”
The very next day, Brandon rose early, and hurriedly pulled on his shoes. He knew he would have to be quick if he was to be back at Balesworth Hall before Lady Chatsfield and Mr. Veeriswamy returned. Walking briskly through the huge park, he once again thought how bizarre it was that it was intended for the exclusive enjoyment of a family of three. He had not seen a single public park in all of England in 1851 until he had visited Hyde Park for the Great Exhibition. Not that he had much of a chance to enjoy walking through Balesworth Park now: He was too busy trying to stick closely to the trees to avoid being seen from the house.
When he reached Balesworth, the cattle market was in progress, but there were even fewer cattle for sale than before. The old man Brandon had chatted with on his last visit was standing with a gaggle of farmers who were dickering over prices, and Brandon approached him.
“Hi, sir, do you remember me?”
The old man smiled at him. “Of course I remember you! I hain’t seen a lad of your complexion elsewise. Come looking for more books, have you?”
But Brandon didn’t have time for chitchat. “Sir, do you know where there’s a post office? I need to send a telegram.”
“What’s that now?” said the old farmer, wrinkling his nose. “That another of them new inventions, is it? Can’t say as I’ve ever seen one, nor as likely to. I been in our post office often enough, but I never saw such a thing as a terror grum.”
“Telegram,” Brandon corrected him. “It’s called a telegram.”
A younger farmer had overheard part of the conversation, and he stepped in to help. “What’s that he’s asking about?”
“Something called a tully grain,” the old farmer said.
The younger farmer asked Brandon, “Here, do you mean a telegraphic despatch? You’ll have to go to the railway station for that, to the Electric Telegraph Company office.”
Brandon decided that if he had to walk all the way to the station, he might as well make a detour to Mrs. Watson’s house. As he reached the end of the High Street, he saw the only house it could possibly be. But Brandon’s heart sank. It was on the exact same spot as Verity and Eric’s house, but it wasn’t theirs. As he got closer, he examined the building carefully, and, to his relief, he began to recognize parts of it. Of course! It was the same house, but the paint was different, and the roof was thatched. Over the door was carved DG 1734. He didn’t remember that inscription being there, but in 1940, Mrs. Devenish had told him that most of the house had been built in the eighteenth century, so it made sense. He touched the door, and to his surprise, it swung open.
Tentatively, Brandon walked in, calling “Hello?” There was only silence. He recognized the inside of the house at once, despite its very different décor. He crept down the hall into the kitchen, which was practically empty. The fireplace was much larger than he remembered, but he was most surprised to recognize the huge kitchen table: He was beginning to suspect that the house
had been built around it.
Just then, he heard the front door creak open behind him, and he whirled around. The old farmer from the High Street was standing in the doorway. “What are you doing in here, then?” he asked Brandon sharply.
“Nothing, sorry…,” Brandon stammered in alarm. “I just wanted to see Mrs. Watson’s house, and I thought…”
“You know my daughter, do you? I’m Mr. Letchmore. Well, you got no business in here, anyhow.”
Then he stopped. “Mind you,” he said, “I don’t suppose there’s nothing to steal, even if that was what you was up to.”
“Oh, no, I’m really not…” stammered Brandon.
But the old man waved him quiet. “She and that son of hers, that grandson of mine, Henry, they live in the big house now. Waste of a good house this is, if you ask me, but I don’t own it, and neither does my daughter. Belongs to the estate, it does.”
“It belongs to Lord Chatsfield?” Brandon asked.
But Mr. Letchmore shook his head impatiently. “It’s a grace and favor place, isn’t it? His Lordship, that is, the old Lord, he give it to my daughter when she married, as a place to live, like. I just hope this new Lordship will let her keep it for her old age. If they ever find His Lordship, that is.”
“Oh, we’ve found him,” Brandon blurted out.
“Well, I never,” the farmer said, holding open the door for Brandon. “I never heard nothing about that.”
Brandon regretted being so indiscreet. He had lived in Snipesville his whole life, long enough to know how fast rumors spread in a small town. “It’s just something I overheard,” he added unconvincingly. “Might not be true.”
“Well then,” said the old man, jerking his head toward the door, “you had better look sharp and be on your way.” But he stopped Brandon on his way out, and said, “I’ve only met two blacks in my life, and you’re the second of them. You all look the same, don’t you?”
Brandon was offended now. “Excuse me? That’s kind of rude, you know?”
“Begging your pardon,” Mr. Letchmore said. “But I reckon it’s true. You know, I’m 88 years old, and maybe my memory is playing tricks, but to me you look a lot like a young lad I knew some seventy years ago. Maybe he were your old granddad? His name was Brandon Clark.”
Brandon gasped.
The train station was much as Brandon remembered it from 1915, plastered with advertisements, although these, unlike the colorful ads of the twentieth century, were black and white posters with large headlines, lots of text, and no pictures. It was good to stand on the platform once again, and sad to know that the pretty old station would be no more than a distant memory by the twenty-first century. Brandon could not stop thinking about Mr. Letchmore, and what he had said. He could not escape the only possible conclusion, which was that he had yet to meet Mr. Letchmore as a young man. He was afraid to think that another journey in time might lie in his future.
For now, however, he had something important to do. Inside the telegraph office, a clerk was sitting before a wooden machine that looked like a cross between a wardrobe and a grandfather clock. He was scribbling away on a sheet of paper, translating messages into the rapid dots and dashes of Morse code.
After Brandon wrote out his message on a special form, he handed it to the clerk, who said, “That will be four shillings and sixpence, sir.”
Brandon was floored. “How much?”
The clerk repeated, “Four shillings and sixpence. There’s also extra charges if you wish me to repeat the message, or to insure its accuracy, both of which we do recommend.”
Brandon thought about instead sending a letter, which would only cost a few pennies, but he realized that his handwriting might give the game away, so he said, “I’ll think about it. Give me back my message.”
There was nothing for it but to return to Balesworth Hall and hit up Hannah for the money.
Brandon found Hannah working alone in the servants’ hall, scrubbing the floor. When he explained his problem, she got off her knees, wiped her hands on her apron, and smirked at him triumphantly. “I’ll give you the money,” she said. “But on one condition: You gotta get back here in one hour.”
“Why? Is Mrs. Watson getting suspicious?”
“No, it’s not that. You have the afternoon off, right? Well, guess who’s gonna finish washing the floors for me?”
Brandon was not amused. “Wrong. First, it’s not my job, and Mr. Veeriswamy won’t let you palm it off on me. And, second, this is your brother we’re rescuing, remember?”
Hannah was seriously disappointed. “Oh, yeah. Rats… Hold on, I’ll go get my cash.”
****
A knock at the door of the suite in Carhart’s Hotel announced the arrival of the telegram. Mr. Thornhill opened the envelope, glanced over the contents and frowned. “Alex, I must go to Hertfordshire tomorrow. For some reason, your presence is also required.”
Alex had been expecting to hear from Hannah and Brandon, and he tried to look surprised rather than excited. He thought it would look less fishy if he asked questions, so he asked Mr. Thornhill why he had been invited.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Thornhill, his brow furrowed, as he dropped the telegram onto a table. “I expect we will find out. I have some serious business to conclude with the sender, and it would be as well to do so in person. Indeed, it would give me great satisfaction. Make haste, Alexander, for we must take a coach. Or, I suppose, catch a train. That is what people do these days, is it not?”
Alex assumed that it was. But his thoughts were elsewhere: While he was looking forward to seeing his sister and Brandon, how on earth was he going to explain to them that the calculator had disappeared?
Brandon had arrived back at Balesworth Hall in the nick of time, only thirty seconds before Lady Chatsfield’s carriage pulled up at the front entrance. He spent the rest of the morning at his usual task, polishing silver. After the noontime dinner, he was relaxing in the servants’ hall with a book that he had persuaded Henry to bring him from the library, when Mr. Veeriswamy entered. The butler took a chair by the fire, across from Brandon. “It is a pity that the weather is so poor on your free afternoon,” he said kindly. “You could have taken a walk in the fresh air.”
Brandon smiled to himself at the thought of his strenuous trek into Balesworth earlier that day. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure I get plenty of exercise.”
Mrs. Watson appeared from the kitchen. “I never asked, Brandon, whether you ever had a look at my house?”
“I did,” said Brandon. “It was very nice. Oh, and I met your father.” He paused, suddenly fearful that he might say too much about his secret expedition to town, but Mrs. Watson’s suspicions were not alerted.
Brandon told an edited version of the story of meeting Mr. Letchmore, and he mentioned casually that he was surprised to learn that the house belonged to the estate. Henry immediately chimed in: “I’ve read about that. Hundreds of years ago, Balesworth was just a tiny village, and it belonged to the Balesworth Hall estate, until it broke away as an independent borough. Now the estate is much smaller, just the land around the house, and a few farms, including my grandfather’s.”
In a worried tone Mr. Veeriswamy added, “And it is unlikely to thrive more than it does. Many of the tenant farmers in Hertfordshire are keen to learn new agriculture, but ours, alas, are not.”
“Yeah,” Brandon said in a deadpan voice, “I could see where Mr. Letchmore might not be so interested in progress.”
A bell rang in the servants’ hall, telling the staff that Lady Chatsfield was in the Morning Room, and that Mr. Veeriswamy’s presence was required. After the butler went to answer the call, Mrs. Watson turned to Brandon. “Listen, lad, I’ll tell you why we don’t prosper, and it isn’t just my father’s fault for being an old fuddy-duddy. Old Lord Chatsfield became too old to manage things, and he was too miserly to employ an estate manager. My old father says this new Lady Chatsfield doesn’t know the first thing about managing
the estate. I hope the new Lord Chatsfield comes soon.”
Sooner, than you might imagine, Brandon thought.
The bell rang in the servants’ hall, and Mr. Veeriswamy moved swiftly to answer it. As soon as he had disappeared up the servants’ staircase, Brandon leaped up from his polishing, and followed. At the first landing, he peeked out of the window in time to see Mr. Thornhill and Alex leave their carriage in the pouring rain, as Mr. Veeriswamy held an umbrella over their heads. Brandon felt his heart start to pound.
They were here. So far, so good.
He tore upstairs, two steps at a time, and found Hannah dusting the dining room. Together, they ran down to the main hall. But they were too late: Alex and Mr. Thornhill had already been summoned into Lady Chatsfield’s presence.
****
Mr. Thornhill removed his gloves. He gestured vaguely to Alex, and said, “This is my assistant, Alexander Day, whom I brought with me from Georgia.” Lady Chatsfield looked apprehensive. Only Alex knew that it was Brandon’s telegram that had brought them together, and it was nerve-racking to watch their confusion.
Fortunately, Lady Chatsfield had plans for Alex. “Master Day, if you will kindly wait in the library, I shall have Veeriswamy bring you tea.”
There was an awkward silence as she rang for the butler. Alex couldn’t wait to get out of the room.
Soon afterward, Brandon dashed into the library, followed by Hannah, who quietly closed the door behind them. Alex, wearing a huge grin, was seated at a low tea table, on which were arranged a silver teapot, sugar bowl, and milk jug, along with a plate of cakes and another of sandwiches.
“Guys!” Alex exclaimed, as Brandon immediately helped himself to a sweet bun.
Through a mouthful of crumbs, Brandon said, “Hey, when you pour out that tea, just remember who polished that teapot.”
Hannah reached around her brother’s shoulders and gave him a quick hug. “So,” she said, grabbing a small ham sandwich and pulling up a chair. “Who wants to tell their story?”
A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles) Page 33