The Heir to Evercrest Hall

by Andrea M. Theobald

  It was well-known that one day when the heir came of age or married, whichever came first, he would become the landlord and employer of all, and one of the wealthiest men in England. Hard to believe he had been the same scruffy-looking urchin who had disappeared through the stone wall many years ago, and the same one I had vowed that if I ever came face-to-face with again, I’d be utterly hostile to. Not that it was likely ever to happen since the upper classes avoided the villagers like the plague.

  A lot of barking came from the field somewhere nearby. A couple of the cows and calves overtook me at a panicky trot while the young cattle herder desperately called to his dog to run ahead and stop his four-legged charges. The reason for barking became apparent when the familiar call of a bugle horn caterwauled on the hidden side of the stone wall. At the same time, a slight brown form flashed through the whitewashed gate and belted along the lane at a great speed ahead of me. Feelings of trepidation had me pulling Big Red right off the lane and close to the wall.

  Like flood water, dozens of hounds spilled through the railings of the gate as the cattle approached, but the worst was to come when horses leaped over the field entrance and into the direct path of the stampeding cattle. There was yelling, cussing, cows bellowing, and dogs barking. My horse was being pressured against the stone wall by the cattle, only for him to swerve sharply to avoid being pummeled by a panic-stricken cow; unfortunately, I was unable to stay aboard, and I fell into the deep, long grass.

  In those few seconds, between the gaps of my fingers, I watched numerous legs of animals, their species indistinctive in the blur of rushed panic, thinking that at any moment my life would be cut short. In that brevity of bloodied fear, of waiting for the hoof of something to expel me from this existence, I saw the image of my dying mother.

  When the sound of hoof beats had faded, I sat up in disgust, just making out through the thick long grass, the cow herder continuing behind the dust storm of the hunting party and what was left of his livestock.

  I shouted, “You are a miserable bunch, the whole bloody lot of you!” The story of the Good Samaritan came to mind, where two people walked past a dying Jew who had been the victim of a robbery, but it was a man from Samaria, a race that normally did not associate with the Jews, that had come to the man’s rescue. “Not this lot. They don’t give a damn about a girl lying… What am I sitting on?” I looked down. I grabbed the sack, knowing instinctively it was not the chaff sack. “Oh no!” I cried. “They’re all ruined!”

  To my surprise, a man’s voice asked, “Are you all right?”

  I looked toward the direction of the voice until the horse and rider came into view.

  Seeing the amused man looking down at me made me cross. “Well, what do you think?” I cried. “Do I damned look it?”

  “Now, now, you needn’t be hostile. I am only concerned for your welfare, you being a casualty in all this.” The striking face smiled down on me, while the four white feathery hoofs of his brown horse moved about with impatience, unlike its rider who was not at all perturbed at being left behind by his companions.

  “Oh yes, well, thank you for your concern.” I snarled. “I am not the only casualty.” Fumbling open the sack, pulling out the parcel, only to tear away the paper, I looked down at my aunt’s hard work. “Look at these, they are completely ruined.”

  “Mmm, they look delicious,” replied the man, his eyes twinkling.

  “Oh! So you think this is funny, do you? You and your lot gallivanting across the countryside and showing reckless disregard for people who go on with their everyday lives”—I gasped for a breath—“while the rest of us mind our own businesses and keep out of trouble.”

  “I apologize for allowing your cakes to be harmed.” The man’s face crinkled up into a tight grin.

  “Ha-ha, very funny! You know, there ought to be a law stopping dangerous riding. You lot go on like you own half the countryside.”

  “Technically, I do own half of this countryside, but even if I do, it doesn’t give me the right to ride recklessly, or encourage others to do so. Besides, I did not deliberately seek out to cause anyone harm, especially you. So please accept my humblest of apologies.”

  I staggered awkwardly to my feet, aware that the man had swiftly climbed down off his horse to approach me. As I brushed off the cake remains and grass seed from the top half of my dress, I realized the man’s fascinated focus was on my bare legs. Quickly, I tugged the hem that was tucked up into my knickerbockers, so it fell to its rightful place. Hoping to distract his further thoughts from the image he had been centered on, I said, “Well, I suppose I could forgive you.” I stooped to pick up the remnants of the parcel, avoiding the amused eyes of the man at the same time.

  “Do you mind if I have a taste?”

  I stared at the aristocrat, aghast. “Shouldn’t it be served on fancy silverware?”

  The man chuckled, and without unlocking his eye contact, he snatched one of the flattened cakes within the parcel and shoved it greedily into his mouth. “Mmm, this tastes exquisite. Did you bake these cakes yourself?”

  I looked toward the distance. “Yes, and it took me all morning. And by the way, it is rude to talk with your mouth full.”

  “How impressive. I have not tasted anything as divine as these in all my life. In this case, I am deeply sorry on behalf of all my hunting party for the reckless riding and also for my disdainful eating manners.” The man looked about at the empty lane. “Seeing that your horse has abandoned you, I shall make it my duty, as a pledge of my deep remorse, to accompany you to your destination.”

  “I can’t go there now. The cakes were intended for the Harrises, and…well, now that all my hard work is ruined”—I avoided eye contact—“I have no other option but to return home.”

  “I know the Harris family,” he exclaimed. “Billy, the oldest boy, works at Evercrest. He is a jolly good worker.”

  I rued the thought. Here we go. I suppose he’ll go on about Billy being good with his hands.

  The man’s flaxen eyebrows arched. “So, they are friends of yours?”

  “Yes, they are friends, and the cakes were a gift that my—that I made to give to Billy for being so good with his hands.” I could have kicked myself.

  “He is quite the catch I understand, and a very lucky chap to have a gifted baker bringing him delicacies fit for the queen. What is your name?”

  “My name is…Ann Smith.” I was fully aware of his kind, flirting with women for ill-gotten gains.

  “Do you live in close proximity, Miss Smith?”

  “I am staying with relatives for a little holiday in the village.” Well, a little variation on the truth. My stay being more of permanency.

  “How long are you holidaying for?”

  “I’m staying for just a week.”

  “Let us return you back there this instant.”

  “Oh no, I would hate to inconvenience you.” I tried to conceal the desperation in my voice that I did not want his company.

  “It is the other way around, Miss Smith. I inconvenienced you beyond forgiveness. Anyway, it would be a pleasure to be in such delightful company.”

  “Are you going to walk me back?”

  “You can sit behind me. It would be much quicker for us to go on horseback.”

  “No, I can’t sit like that! It is…it is…”

  “Unladylike?” The man laughed.

  “What’s so funny about that?” I exclaimed.

  “Well, you weren’t exactly seated like a lady on your horse, were you? You weren’t seated in a sidesaddle. Instead, you were seated astride and upon an old sack.”

  “Some of us can’t afford saddles, let alone sidesaddles. We have to make do with what we have, even if it is a silly old chaff sack. And rather than walk about the place, I prefer to ride.” I felt perturbed that he had noticed me earlier.

  “That is why you can sit up behind me, and we can ride to your place of residence. Beats walking any day I say.”

  “
No, I shall walk, thank you.” Quickly, I began the first steps into the long journey, but the rider was now walking alongside me with his horse tamely in tow. Forcing a smile, I said, “Don’t worry, sir. I shall be fine from here onward. You go back to chasing your tiny little fox recklessly across your countryside. Goodbye.” Still, he would not budge, which annoyed me deeply.

  The pounding of hoofs from behind us was followed by a voice crying, “Davenport!” The rider was a fine-looking man seated upon an equally stunning black horse. He shouted, “I thought you had a mishap.” He pulled his horse roughly to a walk and sneered. “Now I see why. You are busily chatting to a serf.”

  I stared at the blond man to my side with disbelief. He is a Davenport!

  Gone was the twinkle in his eyes as he regarded the newcomer. He muttered without looking at me as if he’d been caught doing something detestable. “I must go. Have a safe trip home, Miss Smith.” Next, he leaped up into the saddle and then kicked his horse to leave.

  “What! You are not going to introduce me to the pretty young thing?” The man tut-tutted. “You are a greedy man, Albert. Saving her for later, eh?”

  “That is enough, Wilson!” Davenport forced his horse into a canter, and so did Wilson, but not before he gave me a devilish wink over his shoulder.

  A wind occasionally stirred up the dusty lane ahead and forced me to shield my face from its discomfort. I still could not believe that the handsome aristocrat, who had been my Good Samaritan, had also been the small boy who had unwittingly made a girl into his ceremonial blood brother. In replace of anger, as I had permitted myself if I ever met him again, there was a stirring within that leaned toward forgiveness since he’d apologized for his hunting party’s rudeness. With gritted determination, I forced myself to think back to the time his abandonment wore heavily on my heart. The pain induced that had nourished the ensuing hatred, to reinforce the defenses that I’d concreted into place for years. I hoped and prayed this encounter only moments ago would never be repeated.

  I lamented with my eyes raised to the heavens, “Why is it, Lord, when I do good, things go wrong?”

  In the distance, I could have sworn the stolid horse was Big Red with a rider trotting briskly toward me. The closer the horse came, my heart skipped for joy, for there was no mistaking the bright copper-colored hair of the rider. I smiled, glad to see it was my favorite, and the youngest of the three boys, Frankie. He was a little younger than me, but being tall and broad, with a gruff, mature voice, one would have thought he was much older.

  “What in God’s name happened to you?” he called out.

  I extended my hand gracefully toward him, and effortlessly he pulled me up behind as if I were a damsel being saved by a knight.

  “Old Red got a scare when the hunting party jumped into the lane.”

  He angrily glanced over his shoulder at me before directing Big Red toward home. “Those bloody swine! They’d leave you as good as dead in a ditch than help. Yet, if you did something like nick an apple from one of their trees, they’d put the effort into having you strung up in its branches.”

  I smiled. We both shared the same opinion about the rich. We also took delight in secretly mocking their silly fashions and customs.

  “You’re back early,” I said.

  “There was a problem down in the shaft. The boss reckons it’ll be sorted by tomorrow. Did you see the Harrises?”

  The grass-stained white sack was held out for him to see. I said, “Nope, I fell off halfway there. The cakes that your mama cooked are flat ones now.”

  “Mama won’t be happy, but she won’t be cross with you if what you say is true.”

  “Of course I’m telling the truth, Frankie! Have I ever lied to you before?”

  “Your word for it, but I know you have pride too, and falling clumsily off an old cart horse is not the kind of thing you want to be flouting about.”

  “Well, it’s true! The Davenport’s farm worker can vouch what happened.”

  “Can he now? Did he come to your aid?”

  “He was too busy with the cattle stampeding about the place because of the hounds; then the hunting lot jumped right into them.”

  “So he didn’t stop to see if you had been trampled, eh?”

  I said nothing.

  “Which one is he, the bloody swine. Is he the new fella?”

  “I’m not hurt, that’s the main thing; best to just forget about it and move on.”

  “You can’t brush off things like this, Maria. You admit yourself that you could have gotten killed. You can’t let people or their animals run all over you. Tell me who he is, and he’ll regret ever being born.”

  “Please, Frankie, I don’t want Aunt being upset. Besides, she needs you at home, not in some jail.”

  The heavy quiet that prevailed emphasized the clarity of the clopping hoofs, and assured me that Frankie’s silence meant he agreed it was not a good idea to upset his mother; although I knew, if he could have his way, he’d seek out vengeance for someone not coming to the aide of one of his own.

  Later on, after having washed the evening meal dishes, I went to the bedroom I shared with my aunt. There, I looked beneath my bed at the boxes of clothes placed neatly side-by-side, and right at the end of the row was a small wooden chest. The evidence that it hadn’t been opened for years, which was the day Alby had forsaken me, was a layer of dust. I retrieved the key from where it was concealed in the locket around my neck and unlocked the box, revealing a large bundle of artworks wrapped in a piece of string and tied with a neat bow. Alongside was another pile consisting of blank paper. I grabbed one leaf from that, a charcoal pencil that Alby had gifted me, and within half an hour, a new manifestation of art rested between my blackened fingers. I needed to compare this fresh image to that of the younger face of the same subject before adding it to the box of memories.

  The string was removed along with the top piece of paper I had used to protect the images below. My heart leaped when I glanced down on the beautiful smile of my mother, who was a prettier version of Aunt Pam. I was satisfied at how I had successfully captured her likeness; my own belief that if an artist could capture the eyes exactly, then the rest of the face would fall perfectly into place.

  The picture lying immediately below my mother’s was of a man with a nondescript face. I hadn’t invented an occupation for him just yet, but I wondered if he ought to have been a miner who had been killed when the mine shaft collapsed—for there had been many such accidents and countless victims—no one would be the wiser that this person, who was not outstanding in anyone’s memory, was a pure figment. Directly beneath his portrait was a picture of a ring. There it was, stirring the same fear it had when I’d first seen it. The scarab beetle cradled a ball, though it was charcoal in color, I could not remove the bloodiness of the marble’s coloring that had seared into my consciousness awake and asleep. The possessor of the ring, the faceless killer of my mother, who I’d tried to create on paper, had heard her last cry—“She’s your daughter!”

  I rifled through the remaining sketches. One showed two grubby little children, looking back, an imagined portrayal of Albert and I; but it was the portrait beneath this that I was interested in. With that in hand, I was able to make a comparison with the fresh portrait of the same subject. The differences and similarities were in equal quantities. The shape of the eyes, the nose, the ears, and the wavy flaxen hair were the same, but the face in adulthood was longer, stronger, broader, as a face of a man ought to look, having lost its childish fragility.

  The pictures brought back a wave of memories, at the same time the fear of the future of meeting this man caused a swelling sensation in my heart. The fear of that feeling assured me that never would he know I was the girl he had always thought was a boy. Never!

  Chapter Three

  Saturday afternoon. The day had a weight of mugginess to it, which indicated there was rain on the way. Jenny, Vera, and me lay in the sun, drying off our clinging undergarments after
having splashed about in a secluded area of the river.

  “Did you know there is a ghost in the big house?” Vera was on her back with her eyes closed chewing a straw of grass.

  “What makes you say that?” asked Jenny, who was propped up on her elbows.

  “One of the maids, a friend of Billy’s”—Vera opened her eyes and turned her head to Jenny—“reckons that the governess’ ghost haunts her chamber up in the nursery. Apparently, she calls out for her lover every night.”

  “What was his name?” asked Jenny.

  “Clark Skedgwell.”

  “Hardly a name that would scare you to death,” I said with a laugh.

  “It would if you were alone and you saw her ghost,” snapped Vera.

  “What a load of codswallop,” I replied. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

  Vera faced me with eyes wide. Snatching the grass from her mouth and pointing it at me, she said, “Well, you tell the maids that, and they’ll lock you in her chamber for the night; won’t be long before you change your mind.”

  “That name is familiar,” said Jenny. “Where have I heard it before?”

  Vera explained, “He was the imposter housekeeper. Apparently, his aunt died, so he dressed up to look like her and took over her job.” Vera lowered her voice. “Apparently, he was sleeping with the mistress.”

  “Lady Davenport?” I cried. “That’s nonsense.”

  “Aye, that’s why her daughter, India, looks nothing like Lord Davenport.”

  “Gawd, I’m starving,” said Jenny, pulling the clingy chemise away from her abdomen. “You two are a pair of gossiping old church ladies. Come on, let’s go and get something to eat.”

  “I know where there’s a great spot for berries and not far away from them is a beautiful apple tree rich for the picking,” said Vera. Suddenly, her face was covered with a handful of clover. She sat up and glared across at Jenny.

  “Well, tell us where it is,” said Jenny, climbing to her feet.

  I noticed Vera, like me, had lowered her eyes at the girl’s thin chemise, where the normally small breasts that were flanked by wet blonde hair had doubled in size of late. Vera often whispered that she believed Jenny was pregnant and carried her brother’s baby, whereas I knew Jenny was pregnant because she confessed to me that she was; the only difference was that the baby did not belong to Billy Harris.