Thornhall Manor

by George Benton

  “You’re not going ashore, sir?”

  “No, I’ve had a change of mind. Tell me: what time’s the return journey?”

  “Depends on the tide, sir. Around 22.30. The young lady - ?”

  “What young lady? You are mistaken - I travelled alone.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  DRAWING ROOM, STANSBY HALL

  “Any word, James?”

  “No one seems to know of his whereabouts, sir. He’s probably with his gambling friends in London.”

  “She keeps asking for him. Never could see any wrong in him. I can’t stand the sight of-”

  James coughed loudly on seeing Peter enter the room. “You were saying, sir?” he asked, so avoiding any unpleasantness that may have been caused by his master.

  “Where on earth have you been? Your mother has been asking for you. Thank God you’re here. The Doctor says it is only a matter of time - a slight chill turning into pneumonia.”

  Kneeling by his mother’s bedside, holding her hand, Peter listened to her dying words.

  “I understand, Mother - if that’s your wish.”

  He was to get nothing. All was to go to his stepfather.

  “It will be for the best, my dear. Your allowance will be . . .”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  There was a deep sigh, and the limpness of her hand told him she had passed away. He felt nothing for his mother, but he had a burning hatred for his stepfather.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE NIGHT AFTER THE FUNERAL

  “You are welcome to stay the night.”

  “No thanks, Vincent. It’s a long journey and it’s been a long day. Now, don’t forget, you must visit me at Thornhall Manor. Stay as long as you like.”

  It was good to see his brother again after so many years.

  “Goodbye, John, safe journey home,” replied Vincent with a wave of his hand.

  “The place seems so empty, James. Do you remember those earlier years?”

  “Indeed I do, sir.”

  “They were happy years, James. We drifted apart, you know.” Vincent seemed to be deep in thought. “Where’s Peter, James?”

  “The last time I saw him he was in the garden talking to Dr Goodman.”

  “By the way, James, any news regarding the Bradleys?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. I arranged a meeting with a Mary-Ann, the serving wench at the local inn. I understand she is rather keen on young Peter. She never turned up. Apparently she left in a hurry to visit a sick aunt.”

  “Am I right, James? I believe the Bradleys had a baby girl?”

  “That’s right - they did. Apparently the day they were arrested the baby girl lay in her cot, but when the authorities came from the local workhouse to collect the child, she was missing. The local gossip is that her sister took her away.”

  Meanwhile, Peter was still deep in conversation with Dr Goodman.

  “I understand your concern, Peter. All credit to you. It’s gratifying to learn that you have your stepfather’s health on your mind at this present time.”

  “Since Mother’s death, I’ve heard him pacing the floor night after night - that’s why, Doctor. I thought maybe you could prescribe a mild sedative to help him sleep.”

  “Of course, Peter. Come to my surgery tomorrow. I must say, I’m a bit surprised - he never mentioned it to me.”

  “Well, you know Father.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A GLASS OF BRANDY

  Seated beside a large open fire, Vincent was gazing into the flickering flames.

  “Are you all right, Father?”

  “I can’t remember the last time you called me Father. It’s a pity your mother’s not here to see us together. It would have done her heart good. It was so quick, Peter. Looking back, there’s many things I wish I’d done differently. It’s too late now, alas!”

  “I’m sure, Father [how that word stuck in his throat!], you always put Mother’s happiness first.”

  He turned his back to his stepfather and slipped a white powder into his brandy glass.

  “I’ll join you if I may, Father, in a toast to my mother and you. How long do you expect James to be away for, Father?”

  “Probably a week or two. I should have gone myself, but I’ve been feeling rather tired lately and a trip to London will do him good. Business, you know - nothing stands still.”

  “Another brandy, Father?”

  “I’ve enjoyed our chats in the evening, Peter.”

  “So have I, Father.”

  Peter could see how heavy-eyed he was, from the heat of the fire and the brandy.

  “I’m sure this cushion will make you more comfortable, Father.”

  He felt no emotion - nothing. His stepfather’s suffocating, gasping and frantic struggles meant nothing to him as he held the cushion firmly over his face. In the silence that followed a feeling of power, freedom and fear came over him. He had experienced this feeling once before, watching Mary-Ann disappear beneath the waves.

  He returned the cushion, wiped the brandy glass, refilled it, and dimmed the lights before retiring for the night.

  “It was his heart, you know. And you say that’s how you found him this morning?”

  “Yes, Doctor. I’m afraid since Mother’s death on many occasions I’ve commented on his brandy excess.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  AT THE LOCAL INN

  “Excuse me, sir. You are Mr James Nate of Stansby Hall?”

  “Your memory serves you well, landlord. I’m amazed that you remember me.”

  “I never forget a face, sir.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Five years since Mr Wheller’s tragic death. You know Stansby Hall is no more. That son of his - gambling, debauchery - sold it to pay his debts and creditors.”

  “I’m not surprised, landlord. He had the face of an angel and the evil of the devil. I’d been on an errand for Mr Wheller and I returned to find my master dead. I was told, “Your services are no longer required.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  PETER NESBIT’S VISIT TO THORNHALL MANOR

  From the highway glimpses of Thornhall Manor could be seen between the trees from the coach window. Turning left off the highway, the coach passed beneath a large stone archway, leading on to a gravel drive. To the right could be seen several horses with their grooms in attendance. To the left a beautiful lawn stretched down to a river.

  As he alighted from the coach he was greeted by “Welcome to Thornhall Manor.”

  As he looked up a cold sweat came over him. For one terrible moment he could see his stepfather standing between the two entrance pillars leading to the manor. There followed an uneasy silence.

  “Forgive me, Uncle, but seeing you standing there reminded me of my dear father, your brother.” And with a firm handshake he added, “It is indeed, sir, a pleasure to see you again after so long.”

  Both men entered the large entrance hall.

  “Your coat, sir.”

  “You must be tired, Peter, after your long journey. Roger will show you to your room. We’ll dine about seven, if that’s all right with you, Peter.”

  “That will be fine, Uncle.”

  He followed Roger across the hall and up a large oak staircase. They stopped at the top.

  “There’s twenty-eight stairs, sir.”

  Peter took the opportunity to regain his breath.

  “Your room, sir, is the third door on the left down the corridor.”

  “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, me boy?”

  “Of course, but first I’d like to thank you, sir, for an excellent meal. My compliments to the chef.”

  “Did you hear that, Roger? Our cook will be pleased.”


  “Will there be anything more, sir?”

  “No, Roger. Do what you have to and retire for the night.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Cigar, Peter?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  He watched his uncle light his cigar and noticed a slight limp as he made his way to an armchair opposite him.

  “Ah, that’s better! I’m not so mobile now, Peter - result of a riding accident abroad. India, in fact - polo. Broken leg. Damaged shoulder. Then malaria. Touch and go for six months, it was, then I got news of my brother’s death.”

  How fortunate it was for Peter that enquiries at that time were unanswered!

  “I received your letter. Why on earth did you never get in touch with me? I had no idea that things were so bad. It came as a complete surprise to me, sir.”

  “One or two of Father’s business ventures went disastrously wrong; then came the loss of two merchant ships. I had no option but to sell Stansby Hall to pay the creditors.”

  Peter was quick to change the subject, not wishing to dwell on the loss of Stansby Hall. He was beginning to believe his own lies.

  “It’s been a long day, Peter. You must be tired after your long journey. So until tomorrow, when my dear wife Kathleen and Rebecca should be back from their London shopping, I’ll say goodnight.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Roger pulled the heavy drape curtains apart and the room was filled with strong sunlight.

  “Good God, man! What time do you call this?”

  He could see the surprised look on Roger’s face. For one dreadful moment he realised he wasn’t playing the part - he needed to gain the family’s love and affection.

  “Only joking, Roger. Good morning, and thank you.”

  “Breakfast at nine, sir.”

  “What’s the time now, Roger?”

  “Six forty-five, sir.”

  Although it was a bright sunny morning, Peter needed the comfortable warmth of his dressing gown.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Thank you, Roger.”

  He watched Roger slowly close the door behind him.

  “What does one do with oneself at this ungodly hour?”

  The clatter of hooves on the gravel drive drew his attention to the large bay window. Looking down, he could see the coachman struggling to lift a large trunk down from the roof rack. A rather large black man was helping a tall grey-haired woman to alight from the coach. She was then warmly embraced by Peter’s uncle, so he assumed that she was Kathleen, his wife. Then a young lady with golden hair appeared. She paused on the footrest before she grasped an outstretched hand for assistance.

  ‘This must be Rebecca,’ he thought.

  He watched her glide along, seemingly float up the steps, then disappear.

  “So that’s our Rebecca!” he exclaimed.

  Standing there, admiring himself in front of the mirror, he was beginning to look more like his handsome self again. Those wild exciting years at Stansby Hall were taking their toll.

  ‘You need money, old chap, to enjoy gambling, wines and women.’

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on the door.

  “Come in.”

  “The master asked me to see if you needed anything, sir?”

  “No, thanks, Roger. Oh yes, just a moment - there is one thing: who’s the black man?”

  “Oh, that’s Samuel, the stable lad.”

  Although Peter complimented and laughed in the right places, there was something at the breakfast table that worried him: the uneasy silence and that faraway look of his uncle.

  “I usually take a stroll around the grounds about this time, Peter. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “Of course. Will you please excuse me, ladies?”

  “Let’s walk by the river, Peter. It’s so peaceful there.”

  They made their way across the gravel drive on to the lawn. On reaching the river they walked along a narrow pathway. Peter was beginning to feel uneasy. Something had happened - maybe some word of his past had become known. There was an uncomfortable silence between the two men.

  “Peter, it’s Kathleen. They never went shopping, but to see a specialist. I knew there was something wrong. Consumption. It’s just a matter of time. She only told me this morning, Peter. They didn’t want to worry me.”

  Peter could see the tears in his eyes. He put his arm around his uncle to comfort him. Little did Peter know, but this act of affection was witnessed by both Kathleen and Rebecca from the window.

  Kathleen became weaker and weaker as the weeks passed, but fonder and fonder of Peter. He never missed an opportunity of impressing her. Every day he’d push her in her wheelchair across the lawn, between the trees and along the river path. How kind and considerate! It seemed to her that so much of his time was spent in making her remaining days more agreeable. If she had only known the thoughts Peter had of her at times. He was often tempted to let go of the wheelchair coming down the stairs or to tip her into the river. But what he thought of most was marrying Rebecca.

  “Now, I want to see you both fit and well on my return.”

  “Must you go, Peter?”

  “I’m afraid I have to. There are one or two business matters needing my attention.”

  As he waved goodbye a feeling of relief came over him. No more pretending!

  Looking down at his open hand, his whispered thoughts were, “This should provide the stakes for a few games of cards and pay for the companionship of my lady friends.”

  “He’s gone, Kathleen. Let’s go inside. It’s too cold for you out here, my dear. Kathleen - your ring. It’s not on your finger.”

  “No, I must have mislaid it.”

  It never occurred to any of them that it was financing Peter’s visit to London.

  They could tell there was bad news by the worried expression on the Doctor’s face as he quietly closed the door behind him.

  “How is she, Doctor?”

  “Very weak. She’s been asking for you both - also Peter.”

  “Is that you, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca quietly sat by her bedside and gently held her hand.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Is Peter there?”

  “He is in London, my dear, on business.”

  John managed these words before turning away with tears streaming down his face.

  With a loving squeeze of Rebecca’s hand, Kathleen said, “Thank you, my dear, for everything.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper. “I was hoping you and Peter . . .”

  Rebecca looked across at John, who nodded with approval.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE NIGHT AFTER ANOTHER FUNERAL

  Having said goodbye to the last of the mourners, both John and Rebecca adjourned to the drawing room.

  “It’s been a long day, John.”

  “Yes, Rebecca. I’m tired and very lonely. Today, seeing your mother and father, I realised for the first time how lonely they must have felt. We took your affection from them. It was wrong. I see that now. Things will never be the same, Rebecca. Material things mean nothing when you lose your nearest and dearest. My father used to have a saying, ‘Nothing lasts forever’. How true, Rebecca! I’m feeling sorry for myself. I don’t think I’m going to be good company for you, my dear Rebecca. I’ve been thinking: go and stay at your parents’ place for a few days. It will do you good. I’ll be all right. Peter should be back soon.”

  Chapter Twenty

  AN APPEAL FOR HELP

  Peter made the most of Rebecca’s absence. Knowing how his uncle appreciated the care and kindness he showed to Kathleen, He felt he now had the opportunity to find out more about Thornhall Manor; he could then plan for the future.

&nb
sp; Both men were deep in thought. John Wheeler was devastated by the loss of Kathleen; Peter Nesbit was wondering about the right time to ask questions.

  The silence was broken by: “I miss Rebecca, Peter.”

  “I’m sure you do, Uncle.”

  “With Rebecca gone, and my dear wife Kathleen . . .”

  Peter watched as the tears rolled down his uncle’s face, revealing an emotion Peter found hard to understand.

  Peter’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was paying no attention to his uncle’s conversation, but glanced around at the priceless paintings and family heirlooms. He was thinking, ‘Maybe one day - who knows? - this could all be mine.’

  Suddenly: “Thank God for the children!”

  “What children? I don’t understand, Uncle.”

  “I can see them now - Peter, Kathleen, Rebecca, William and Paul - playing by the river. They are no longer children. Rebecca is a beautiful young lady and the brothers are fine young men.”

  “Are they related, Uncle?”

  “No, but they’re my family. Let me explain, Peter. When she lost the baby she longed for, Kathleen lost her reason for living. Days, weeks, she spent at that window, looking across the lawn. There was nothing I could do or say. I felt helpless until - it was something Roger said. He said, ‘She needs someone to care for.’ I took his advice and went to Rose Cottage, wondering how my request would be received. Often over the years I’d look in at the cottage. They are estate tenants and we had become quite good friends. They had two sons, William (the eldest) and John. There was also a little girl, not related, named Rebecca, who had mysteriously joined the Foster family. It was this little girl that was in my thoughts. While I was talking to Ned, Mary entered the room, and she said how sorry they both were about my sad loss. I told them how Kathleen was spending hours just staring out of the window, and I asked them if they would allow Rebecca to stay a few days with Kathleen. I had an idea that maybe having a little girl in her care would help her. Ned and Mary were eager to help, but they told me it was not up to them to give permission. There was no looking back after that, Peter. That little girl took the place of the baby Kathleen lost. I used to watch them by that same window, playing on the lawn.”