The Heir to Evercrest Hall

by Andrea M. Theobald

  I took a deep breath. “My name is Maria Ann Smithers.”

  “The truth subtly altered to subtly beguile me.”

  “I didn’t think it would matter at the time I first gave you my name. Lower classes like the likes of us mean nothing to people like you!”

  “What a ghastly thing to say!” The man took his horrified expression off the lane and stared at me.

  “But it is true.” I stared back at him, whose offended countenance returned to the empty lane ahead.

  “Just because I have been born in better circumstances does not make me better than people who have been born in worse.” There was a long pause before he spoke again. “There are many people I have observed in all walks of life who I admire immensely. There are common factors that I like about them. Class has nothing to do with it. How about asking me what these factors are, Miss Smithers?”

  I shrugged and mumbled, “What are they?”

  “It is their decency, their civility, their humanity. I know that we all make mistakes, we treat others wrong at times, such as we mistreat ourselves; however, it is our reaction to that wrong which defines us. It is up to the individual to either rectify the wrong or aggravate it by not being accountable for their own actions.”

  “So, would I pass your test if you observed me?”

  He looked out toward the countryside as if reflecting on what to say. “Well, I believe you are a good person, Miss Smithers, although up-to-date you have done many foolhardy things. At least you have apologized to me for most of the wrongs you have committed. So in my eyes, yes, I think you have promise to pass my test. Nonetheless, there are still some measures you must pass before I can say you have accomplished it with excellence.”

  I looked away to the greening fields that had recently been harvested of hay, and whispered, “I shall fail no doubt.”

  “I think you are very lucky,” said Davenport.

  I faced him with raised eyebrows. “Why is that?”

  “I envy you and your circumstances.”

  I guffawed. “How can you possibly envy me? My kind toil hard all day just to have food on their tables and live in cramped-up rooms in cold houses!” Well, I didn’t toil hard; no doubt there would be a time when I would, perhaps when I was an overworked maid one day in his household.

  “I admit that there is a lot of hardship in the working classes, which I lack in the physical sense, yet there are things that you and your peers take for granted. For example, having the freedom to choose your friends.”

  “You can have any friend you desire,” I said, waving the back of my hand out at the countryside.

  “Ah, but let me finish. Your friends see you as you are, as an equal. You know that they are your friends because they are less likely to hold airs and pretend that they are somebody that they are not. Whereas, the people who are my peers, when they are being friendly toward me, I don’t know whether they are being genuine or being sycophantic.”

  “Being a sicker what?”

  He chuckled, giving me one of his amused side glances. “Being sycophantic. Oh, it is like, how shall I put it, have you heard the expression bootlicking?”

  I nodded.

  “An expression I personally like to use is ass-kissing!”

  I threw my head back and roared in laughter, at the same time astonished at his use of a description more commonplace amongst my cousins. “By-the-by, that is no way to talk in front of a lady,” I cried, with tears of laughter.

  “Sorry, I should not have spoken out of turn in front of you.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.” Again I laughed, banging my knees with my hands. “I have lived with my three cousins for a number of years now, and I’ve heard every naughty word in the book.”

  Davenport’s handsome grin touched me as the cart bounced along on a corrugated portion of the road. We did not say anything until the bumpiness stopped.

  “You have your three friends,” I said. “You seemed to be enjoying each other’s company the other day.”

  He looked at me askance. “The day you were spying on us?” I felt my cheeks go crimson as I looked away at the fields again. He added, “I do not regard them as close friends because I wouldn’t trust them with my deepest, darkest secrets.”

  “Oh, so you have those, do you?”

  “Yes, and those shall remain with me until I die.”

  I studied the man’s side profile, admiring his proportioned face, only looking away when he turned to face me. The fields seemed to lull me into tranquility, and before I could stop my words, I said, “I have secrets too. Ones I’d never tell a living soul, and that includes telling Father Davidson.”

  “See, Miss Smithers, you and I have commonalities already.”

  I smiled back at him and turned away to the sweeping hills in the distance.

  My secret, that of being a terrified toddler and of being bundled inside a wardrobe by my frightened mother, of peering through the gap in the shut door, only to see the back of a well-dressed man; his only identity being the large ruby stone in the embrace of a golden beetle.

  Jerking myself physically back into the now, forcing the memory far from me, I feigned a light-hearted tone, and asked, “So, are you into disguises to lure the girls out to play, as your friend Mr. Wilson likes to do? Is this one of those looks you use? The old man look?”

  Davenport chuckled. “You certainly heard a lot of what was said down by the waterside. Mind you, you did see a lot that day.” I gasped and looked out to the countryside. “And no, I don’t go dressing as an old man to lure the girls. I am sure I could do that on my own account, based on my youthful looks and my gentlemanly manners.”

  “Oh, is that so, huh? Well, you certainly had my Aunt Pam glowing. I gather she will be questioning me about the handsome, kindly old driver when we get home. So, what shall I say to her when I return?”

  “Tell her that I’m betrothed.” Davenport looked away. I could have sworn he muttered, “I shall be soon.” There was a length of silence. “So, you admit that I am handsome?” His eyes twinkled back at me.

  “Some people improve as they age; in your case, seeing you have made yourself prematurely older, I see it will work for you someday too.”

  “You’re a cheeky little minx!”

  We laughed together as the cart swung onto the old coach road. We had barely straightened when there came the sound of rumbling wheels from around the bend directly ahead. Before Davenport had a chance to react and rein his horse to the extreme side of the lane, a carriage with a team of four horses powered full speed toward us. The carriage driver did not bother to yell “clear out of the way,” nor attempt to slow down, so when it passed us, the wheel axis nuts of each vehicle clipped one another.

  “You bloody swine!” Davenport yelled, adeptly preventing us from careering off the road. He pulled his horse to a stop, engaged the brake lever, clambered down, and squatted to inspect the wheel. After a time he said, “The wheel will get us there, but we won’t be able to go faster than a walk.” He stood with his hands on his hips. “There’s a wheelwright nearby the inn.”

  Back on the road, there was silence. The thought of what could have been a much worse accident, and how rude the driver had been, obviously occupied our minds.

  Davenport broke the silence with a quiver of suppressed rage in his voice. “You wouldn’t have happened to have seen the coat of arms by any chance?”

  “There was nothing to see.”

  His thick gray eyebrows remained heavy. “No matter, I’ll find out who they are.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  He did not answer.

  “What are you going to do to them…when you do?” I did not use the word “if,” for the driver had a stormy face that would have, like Vera had once described, frightened the tail off the devil.

  “I’ll charge them for the damage, that is what I shall do, and then I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”

  “I think this doesn’t need much in
the way of repairs.” I looked amusingly about at the wooden dilapidation that groaned beneath me only to face a frowning Davenport. After clearing my throat, I said, “Do you think they would have taken more notice if you had forgone the old man look?”

  “If they had known who I really was, they would have stopped and assisted. It shouldn’t be the case, should it, Miss Smithers?” He glared across at me and then back at the road. “The class distinction is as wide as the gap between the sun and the Earth, but rudeness shows no boundaries. When I inevitably meet up with the driver, I shall show him no mercy. If he can’t slow down for an old man and a pretty young girl, he deserves the full brunt of my wrath.”

  Pity for the silence, I had begun to enjoy the trip until the run-in with the carriage. Comforting was the fact that he had called me pretty.

  After what seemed like an age, Davenport said. “You say you live with your three cousins and Mrs. Broughton, your aunt.”

  “That’s correct,” I answered gladly.

  “I am assuming she would be their mother, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I spoke to a lad with red hair the other day. He was in the barn beside the cottage where your aunt came out from today.”

  “That was my youngest cousin, Frankie. All my cousins have red hair.”

  “So, they are the only men in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Davenport sounded disappointed. “Did you know the people who used to live in the cottage before your family?”

  “I don’t know who lived there before us; all I know is that Aunt has been there for fifteen years.”

  “I see,” said Davenport, looking ahead with a perplexed look. “It is just that, well, I am certain that that was the cottage where there once lived a boy. He had dark hair.”

  “Perhaps he was in another cottage.”

  “No, I swear it was that one; the one with the washhouse to the right side of it.”

  I was suddenly grateful for some roadside trees; their shade shielded the redness I knew was on my cheeks. I had flushed, not because we had been spying on him from that very washhouse window, but because my memory had transported me back to the day when I had waited for my supposed friend’s return. In a strange way, he had honored his promise, although only one of us knew we had reunited again. Despite sitting only a foot away from Alby, he had no clue I was the boy in question.

  “What was his name?” I pretended to be interested.

  “Murray,” said Davenport.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone called that,” I curtly replied.

  A spell of sepulchral gloom had been cast over the driver. He did not utter a word until civilization was approaching until our horse led us right into the heart of a quaint little cobblestoned village.

  Davenport tugged out his pocket watch. “I shall arrange for the wheelwright to fix this immediately.”

  The cart creaked to a stop at a large barn adjacent to the blacksmith’s building, where loud clanging came from within. Between the metal hammer on metal, a squeaking sound penetrated my ears—I looked across the way and there was a sign swinging in the breeze, depicting an old rose bloom and the appropriated name of the inn in faded writing below.

  Our cart was attended to by a casual-mannered boy. Davenport followed the lad closely as the horse was led into the barn, and when the pair returned, the lad had lost all casualness and ran around as if he were the valet to the queen.

  “Nothing beats a monetary incentive,” Davenport said, winking and tapping the leather belt bag he revealed beneath his jacket.

  We crossed to the inn arm in arm. I hurried to keep up with his bold steps. He stopped to do the gentlemanly deed by opening the front door so his female companion could enter. When I stepped hesitantly forth, I was surprised to see, against my cousins’ description of dingy drinking houses, that it was a cozy-looking and pleasant-smelling room; the air was invitingly cool after the hot sun we had been baking under. There were dark-stained solid oak tables and bench seats about the room, some in plain view, with one banquet-sized table in the middle, and others placed along the walls and divided into private nooks by a half-wall topped off by balusters. It appeared we were the first customers of the day.

  Davenport pointed to one of the nooks, the one that had a better view of all the people who would be entering the inn. I did as bid and took my seat, watching him converse with the innkeeper, for they were out of earshot. I could only read the innkeeper’s lips.

  “You’ll be the first to try the first spoonful of the day.” The man busied himself with pouring a large clay jug full of some kind of liquid into two extremely large mugs. “I must say you have a fine looking granddaughter.” He gave Davenport a wink.

  Davenport answered loudly with his pseudo-commoner voice. “We be looking forward to a good meal. We have a long journey ahead of us.” When my companion returned, he carried the mugs. “Here is the best cider in the land, ma petite mademoiselle.”

  “I never thought his lordship would ever serve me anything, let alone an alcoholic beverage.”

  To my surprise, he seated beside me not opposite, and because of his close proximity, I tingled when his arm brushed against mine as he passed over my drink.

  “Don’t be getting used to it, me lass”—his voice lowered, resuming its normalcy—“so, Miss Smithers, enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “Oh dear. More’s the pity. I was enjoying the service.” I giggled, taking a large swig of the drink. Suddenly, I coughed and spluttered to the sound of Davenport laughing. “Oh my, this is strong!”

  “This particular cider is especially so. I think it is best you have a meal before you gulp that down.” He tugged the watch from his jacket pocket. “It is noon, and I am suitably famished.” He gave me a sideways glance as he placed his watch back again.

  Because I had not had breakfast, the effect of the cider made me weak. This had been my proper introduction to an alcoholic beverage, apart from the once a week sip of port Father Davidson offered from a silver chalice. Meanwhile, the attractive man regarded me intently, and I felt my face heating up. Suddenly, his mustache detached from the corner of his mouth, and impulsively I smoothed the hair back into place with my fingers, gauging at the same time his strong jaw. Davenport raised his hand and gently placed it on top of mine.

  I pulled sharply away. “Your mustache nearly fell off, that was all!” I felt indignant despite my heart banging wildly.

  He chuckled out a, “Thank you, young lass.”

  The timely break of awkwardness could not have come soon enough when the innkeeper’s wife, a bustling rotund woman, deposited two steaming bowls of stew from a tray onto the table before us, followed by a spoon and a stark white napkin for each setting, and a large plate of sliced bread and butter.

  “Enjoy your tucker, me lovelies,” she said, giving Davenport a wink. I imagined her thoughts—I wouldn’t mind swapping my husband for you any day.

  Partway through our meal, I noticed Davenport seemed to time raising his spoon to his lips when I raised mine; rather than let it annoy me, I would bring my spoon halfway up, hesitate, lower it back down to the plate, only for me to quickly take up the spoon to my lips. There was no more time for further eating games. We turned our attention to the gaps of the fancy balustrades, to observe two gruff-looking men passing through the main doors. Their voices were loud, one was especially uncouth, and the timbre of his voice was familiar. I knew beyond a doubt these men were the cattle rustlers.

  “So they are our men,” Davenport murmured, turning quickly to face the table again, for one of the men headed straight toward us, thanks to the innkeeper pointing our way.

  The man came to a stop at our table. He gasped and abruptly pulled his hat off when he saw me. “Sorry for disturbing youse.” He nodded toward me. “I were looking for somebody else.” He and Davenport exchanged nods and smiles before he left us and took a perch at a nook not far from my line of sight.

  Davenport gently nudged
me. “I fancy he took quite a liking to you, young lass.”

  I glared back at him, then turned my attention to the uncouth man depositing himself and shoving one of two large mugs across the table at his companion. I wanted to concentrate on reading their lips without any distraction.

  “Geezuz, ‘ope he weren’t waitin’ cause e’ll be rightly pissed off, ‘specially if ‘es already come and gone.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. He has to pay. That is the deal or there will be trouble if he don’t!”

  “What a shame you have to waste such good fare,” said Davenport; he looked at my hardly-touched meal.

  “You can finish it off if you like,” I said vacantly, still looking at the man's lips.

  “Goodness no!” he replied, his tone suggesting that eating another’s leftovers was the height of vulgarity. “You seem more interested in your admirer. Do you fancy him as a spouse?”

  I looked at him in horror, which made him chuckle under his breath. “If you must know, I am using my special gift,” I snapped.

  “Oh! Now you’ve got my undivided attention, unlike I have yours.”

  “I bet you can’t hear what they are saying, can you?”

  “No. Just grunting, like the feral creatures that they are.”

  “Would it surprise you if I told you exactly what they were saying?”

  “If they are talking about cattle rustling, yes; otherwise, no I’m not that keen on intruding on their ale talk.”

  “Well, give me time, and I shall let you know when something interesting is discussed.”

  Davenport nodded without amusement and took a sip of his cider.

  Thirty minutes later, there still was no sign of the third party. The men had helped themselves to yet another pint of ale. The crude one spoke again. He talked about someone’s missus being a little too lacking in boundaries and a good regular squeeze; and if he was found out, her husband would kill him for sure, which I happily repeated to my less-than-impressed companion. Finally, the main doors opened, diverting the entire inn’s patronage toward it. The man was tall and lean, wore a hat, and had a thick gray mustache and long beard. The two men at the nearby table turned their attention back to one another as they maundered on about their boss’ tardiness.