The limousine arrived right on time to pick her up and drive her to the solicitor’s offices. She tried to gaze through the smoky windows, but it was hard to see through them. “Sightseeing can come later,” she told herself, wishing she had someone to share this whole experience with. If she could at least call someone. But there was no one. She had no family. After she left her last foster home, it had been hard work to put herself through university and finally nursing school. She’d had no time for friends or boyfriends, and since she became a registered nurse at age twenty-three, she’d not met any young men she felt remotely interested in. And at the hospital the handsome young interns were already taken.
The limo pulled up and the chauffeur got out and opened the door for her. He touched his cap as she got out and stepped onto the sidewalk. She stood for a moment and gazed at the old office building that looked like it had come straight out of a history book.
“The concierge will direct you, Miss,” the chauffeur told her. “Just go in through those oak doors,” he said, indicating she had to walk up the steps.
After she entered the lobby, she looked at the directory on the wall. The offices of Devon and Marks were on the fourth floor. She grimaced at the old-fashioned elevator, or lift, as they called it in England and the operator opening the gilded gate for her. He was dressed in red livery edged with gold colored braid and brass buttons. A little red cap perched on his gray hair. She asked for the fourth floor and he pulled a handle.
Used to modern elevators that whizzed up silently, this one creaked and groaned and seemed to take forever. The attendant touched his cap as she exited and faced tall, shiny, brass doors with the solicitors’ names and a crown etched into them. She wondered if the solicitors had royal connections. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle.
Sharin entered and almost gasped at the rich interior. Though everything was old, antique, the furniture shone as if polished just minutes ago, the red carpet somewhat faded, but still deep and plush. The receptionist, like everything else in the offices, was old and faded. She looked over her glasses and ran a hand over silver hair tucking away an imaginary strand.
“Can I help you?”
“My name is Sharin…”
“Oh, yes. Follow me.”
Sharin thought the woman gave her a strange look, but she shrugged it off. Following her into a large office, she faced a stern old man behind a mahogany desk. Everything was so organized and tidy it was unbelievable anyone did any work there. There were no computers, just very old typewriters, and she felt as if she’d stepped back into a time long gone.
“Ms. Jackson, please take a seat,” the old man behind the desk told her.
She looked at him as she lowered onto a chair, the seat covered with red velvet. He seemed quite small compared to the huge desk. Glasses perched on his nose and his white hair didn’t have a strand out of place, the part so straight, she figured he’d spent half an hour just putting each hair into place.
“We have looked after the estate for generations,” he said without introducing himself.
“I still don’t understand. I’m not aware I had any relatives.”
“The bloodline goes back a long way. We had a difficult time tracing you. It seems you’re the only blood relative left now and you face quite a responsibility.”
“What responsibility? To sell the house?”
He turned a name plate around to face her and she finally knew who she was speaking to. He was the Devon half of the partnership. Michael Devon Jr. She saw the shocked expression in his watery blue eyes and he nervously took the glasses off to polish them on the sleeve of his black jacket.
“No, most definitely not. You may never sell the manor.”
“Mr. Devon, that doesn’t make sense. I inherit an estate but I can’t do anything with it?”
“All holdings, jewelry, furniture and historical artifacts must remain intact and with the estate. You have been granted access to the considerable fortune to maintain the estate and for your own use throughout your lifetime, but it has limits.”
“Meaning that I have to remain in England and live here?”
“Exactly. The responsibility I referred to—is that you need to ensure the continuation of the Jackson line.”
Sharin burst out laughing. “Now this is cute. I don’t have a husband. Matter of fact, I don’t even have a boyfriend at this point.”
Again that disapproving cold stare. “A partner will be provided for you.”
“Right! Okay, now I’ve heard everything without even hearing you read the will. I’m taking the first flight back to New York.”
“Ms. Jackson, your ticket was one-way.”
She felt a moment of panic and cursed herself for not examining the ticket closer, but then thought about her fairly solid bank account in New York. “Thanks for nothing. You bring me all the way over here to hear such nonsense, and now I have to pay for my own ticket back as well?”
“Ms. Jackson, you can at least visit the estate. Let me read you the will. You need to listen to what your uncle had to say and wished for you. If after that, you decide you wish to return, we will pay for your return flight.”
She clamped her lips together and fought the urge to run out of the office and never look back. Devon’s droning voice started to grate on her nerves as he read page after page of legal mumbo jumbo. It slid past her, faded into the background and she focused her thoughts on an unexpected holiday in London instead and what she’d do.
“…this key will unlock the windows to the soul and open the door to a life never imagined and it is only possible to enter by one who is of true blood. My niece, Sharin Jackson, daughter of my long lost brother, will therefore inherit the key and carry on the legacy…”
The sentence penetrated her thoughts and she perked up to listen more carefully.
“I herewith bequeath, for her use and occupation during her lifetime, my entire estate, to be administered to and advised by Michael Devon and his successors as it has for centuries past and will be for centuries to come, to Sharin Jackson, daughter of Lord Shaughnessy William Frederick Jackson the tenth and Lady Wilhelmina Elizabeth Mary Jackson, and her descendants.”
She was so shocked, she couldn’t move. Her father and mother, Bill and Liz Jackson, were related to this unknown uncle? Her father and mother had titles?
“I see you are shocked. May I offer you a cup of tea?” Devon asked.
“Tea? Ah…yes, please,” she said while trying to collect her thoughts. “I’m trying to piece all of this together. If this Lord, the one who died, had the title, how could my father have a title? I don’t understand any of it.”
“Your father, Lord Shaughnessy Jackson, was the older brother of twins. It was his duty to carry on the legacy. He rebelled against it and left England with his cousin when he was very young.”
“Cousin? My father married his cousin?”
“She was actually his aunt, but he preferred to call her a cousin. Your grandfather had a daughter very late in life by another woman and your mother and father grew up together. It is our belief that your parents were never legally married according to English and American law.”
“I don’t know about that. All papers and anything relating to my parents are gone because our house…”
“Your home burned to the ground. You were saved but your parents succumbed to the fire and all was lost. We did a thorough background search and it revealed that your parents never married. Because they had the same name, people in America assumed they were husband and wife, and they continued to live that way.”
“My birth certificate says…”
“Has your parents listed as William Jackson and Elizabeth Jackson. We know. Allow me to finish the reading of the will.”
She sipped the tea that had been brought in by the austere receptionist while Devon’s voice droned on with more legal paraphernalia, much of it Latin to her. Finally he was finished and he placed the will back into its folder and he handed her s
ome papers and a long, slim velvet box.
“Once you’ve visited the estate and you’ve made your decision, I’d like you to sign these and return them promptly with the chauffeur. Here is the key I am to give you. Guard it carefully. If, after you have visited the estate, you are still of strong mind that you will not accept your inheritance, you must return it to me.”
“If I am the last of the line, then what will happen to it?”
“There is one other.”
“But…you just finished telling me that I am the last of…”
“The English blood line.”
“I see. So I have more family floating around somewhere. At least tell me where they live. It’s a nice thought that I have at least some family.”
“They are not within your reach at this time, but if you accept your inheritance, you will meet them, I have no doubt. This other branch has already started legal action to claim the estate, but since we have finally located you, they cannot stake their claim. Unless of course you decline, and even then we would fight to keep the estate from them. The legacy would not be continued and the estate would default to the government and Jackson manor would become a museum. All this was discussed with your uncle before he left this life. Now, we have talked enough. All questions can be answered after your visit to the manor. The limousine is waiting to take you to the estate. I will await your answer,” Devon said and looked pointedly at the door.
She’d been politely dismissed so she put her cup of half finished tea on his desk, nodded and left his office. In a daze she went down in the elevator and headed for the waiting limo, the envelope containing the papers and the velvet box clutched in her hand.
Silently she climbed into the back seat and hardly felt the limo leave the curb. Her father had married his aunt, or half aunt? It was a miracle that she’d been born without birth defects. Often, such marriages, centuries back, among royals, had caused hemophilia, a bad blood disease, but mostly predominant in boys. That thought scared her. What if her sons ended up with such a condition?
“There are refreshments in the bar,” the chauffeur’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at the buttons on the panel that slid out from nowhere. “If you push the red button, the bar will open,” the chauffeur’s patient voice told her as if he had eyes in the back of his head. He, too, was very old, almost seemed too old to be driving anymore. It was almost as if she were walking among the living dead now. She shivered and looked at the array of small bottles of liquor, the small ice dispenser, and the crystal glasses. She was basking in the lap of luxury and wished she had a man to share this adventure with. Choosing champagne, she took a whisky glass and opened several bottles at once filling the glass to the brim with the bubbly liquid.
Gulping it down, it soon went to her head and she felt a delicious wave of languor wash over her. Suddenly, the whole thing didn’t seem that weird anymore. After filling the glass a second time she settled back against the seat and closed her eyes.
The air around her filled with pastel colors, soft rose colored puffs floating around her, surrounding her, stroking her skin. The rainbow appeared, bright, glowing, inviting her to slide down it. She felt it mold to her skin as she lay down, the colors blending with her body, one leg hanging over each edge. She started to slide, faster, faster, toward the bright scarlet light that appeared in the sky. It grew brighter and brighter and settled at the end of the rainbow. She lifted her head slightly and again gazed at the man with scarlet hair, bronzed glowing skin and fiery eyes. Just like before, he was naked, his swollen cock poking out, inviting, throbbing. Soft music played in the background. It was a haunting tune, a tune she knew. She hummed along automatically, her hands stroking her body, feeling for her clit. She felt the lips open in invitation, the hole stretched for his entry. She held her breath as she slid nearer, her stomach up in her throat somewhere, butterflies racing all through her body. Just as she felt that delicious prick touch her clit and her body was completely on fire awaiting it to slam into her, there was a jolt.
“We’ve arrived at the estate, Ms. Jackson,” the chauffeur said.
To her consternation her panties were soaked and she quickly withdrew her fingers away from her clit, thankful that the chauffeur was separated by shaded glass. She sat up to gaze out the window. The huge cast iron gates opened automatically and they drove silently through. She saw no manor, just a somber, thick forest.
“The estate is very large, Miss. It’s about a fifteen minute drive before we get to the manor.”
He had answered her unspoken question. The forest looked eerie, like something out of a horror movie. Any moment she expected a vampire to pounce on the vehicle, carry her off and suck the lifeblood from her body. A pang of fear settled in the pit of her stomach. She was going to Frankenstein’s castle, she felt sure. The fear caused a different kind of ecstasy. It gnawed at her stomach, traveled down to her clit, and she squirmed uncomfortably.
Now that she was alert again, she opened the velvet box. On a bed of white silk lay a long red wand, its end shaped into a scarlet star. “This is a key?” she whispered as she took it out and fingered it. “It looks more like a wizard’s wand.”
A soft glow lit up the star as she twirled the wand, the glow crept up her fingers, her arm. She felt a weird sensation steal through her body, settle in her heart, her mind, and suddenly she had a furious desire to get to the manor. All her misgivings and reluctance disappeared as if the wand was indeed magic and it had erased her hesitation to accept the inheritance. But nothing could quiet the little nagging voice in her mind that told her, “You’ve got a good job back home. You’d be crazy to stay here.”
The limo exited the forest, but the sky was gray, so the scene that greeted her looked even more somber than the neglected grounds made it appear. The manor loomed before her eyes. Tall, historic, still intact, but also sorely uncared for. Its brick walls were covered with vines that would be thick with green ivy in the summer. She could imagine the spiders it housed and shivered.
The limo pulled up before a wide entrance. Steps led up to large oak doors beautifully crafted and hand carved with intricate designs. As the limo stopped, the doors opened wide and an entourage of servants filed out to flank the steps on either side.
Sharin started to feel the importance of her suddenly obtained rank as the chauffeur opened the door for her and he touched his cap as she got out and started for the steps. Each of the servants curtseyed when she passed them, their heads bowed, their eyes cast down, fixed on the gray granite steps.
She got to the top and faced a very old woman all dressed in black, her gray hair severely drawn back from a lined face into a thick bun that rested in the nape of her neck. The man standing next to her looked about two hundred years old. His hair was silver and he had piercing black eyes and more lines on his face than a road map. He was dressed in black as well.
“Good afternoon, Lady Jackson,” the woman said and curtseyed. She straightened and looked directly into Sharin’s eyes. “My name is Mary Jones and I am the housekeeper.”
The piercing blue gaze seemed to penetrate to her very soul and Sharin shuddered. She held out her hand, but the housekeeper stepped back as if she were handed a poisonous snake. “I was born on the estate, as were my mother before me and her mother before her,” she informed Sharin. “The same with Thomas here, my husband.”
“Then you’ll be able to tell me about its history, Mary,” Sharin murmured and held out her hand to the man who took it and shook it lamely. “Hello Mary, Hello Tom. I haven’t made up my mind whether I want to stay, and you don’t have to be afraid I’ll take over here.”
“Oh, but you must, Milady,” Mary said with sudden ardor, fire flashing from her icy eyes. “We cannot bear the thought of the other one being in residence here.”
“The other one?”
“Yes. If your ladyship declines the inheritance, then the other one will come. The bad seed.”
“This is getting better all the time.
And I’m the good seed?”
“Yes. If you are like your dear father and mother, you are goodness itself. I helped raise your parents.”
“Really? You can tell me all about them then. You see, I was very young when they…”
“Died. We know.”
Sharin thought she saw a fleeting moment of pain in the woman’s eyes, but it quickly disappeared and once again the blue eyes became hard and unreadable.
“Please follow me and we will give you a tour of the manor.”
Sharin glanced behind her. The chauffeur stood silently beside the limo, his eyes downcast. The row of servants waited, their heads bowed. Awed by this sudden reverence, she turned back to Mary and Thomas who stepped aside and motioned her to enter.
A strange feeling of déjà vu came over her as she stepped into the dim interior, as if she’d been here before. “Why are all the lights out?” she asked, looking up at the chandeliers covered with dust covers.
“Lord Jackson was ill for many years. He stayed in his room and never came out, so we closed the remainder of the house. It didn’t make sense to keep all the rooms open, the chandeliers and furniture to gather dust, to waste electricity, not if none of it was in use.
“But there are a lot of servants.”
“They have recently been called back into service in anticipation of your arrival. Only Thomas and I remained at the manor during his Lordship’s illness. If you decide to stay, the servants will remain as well.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“No one knows. The doctors and specialists couldn’t diagnose him. His Lordship claimed he knew what was wrong but wouldn’t talk about it. He said there was no cure for what ailed him. The last eight years he was obsessed with the search for his brother, which eventually led to you. When he found out that his brother and wife had died, his dearest wish became to meet his brother’s daughter and future mistress of the estate and the carrier of the legacy. Alas, it was not to be fulfilled. If only the detectives had located you earlier…”
Stardust, Starlust Page 11
