by Heather Beck
Sir Tristan’s Estate
by
Heather Beck
Smashwords Edition
Scanning, uploading and/or distribution of this book via the Internet, print, audio recordings or any other means without the permission of the Publisher is illegal.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
Sir Tristan’s Estate
Copyright © 2010 Heather Beck
ISBN: 978-0-9867952-2-0
Photos: Man © MAXFX/photoxpress.com
Castle © Arvydas Kniukšta/photoxpress.com
All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part constitutes a copyright violation.
Published by
Diamond Dust Books on Smashwords
* * * * *
Sir Tristan’s Estate
By
Heather Beck
Twenty-year-old Skye Huntington gazed out the airplane’s window as it descended towards the ground. Her view of the tree covered hills was obscured by the settling dusk. She turned her eyes towards the brightly lit runway and watched as the neon orange line simultaneously grew closer and lost momentum.
Skye grasped the sides of her chair as the airplane shook. To supercede her nervousness, she thought about the reason for her trip.
She was assigned to capture the sadness behind the Sir Tristan Estate. Honored that the editor of America’s Amazing Architectures Magazine would choose a photographer who had only been working professionally for a year, Skye enthusiastically accepted the assignment. She knew very little about the estate; however, what she did know intrigued her.
The estate was built in the late eighteenth century by the Tristans. It had ten acres of cotton fields, worked by slaves. The decline of the estate was partly due to the loss of the slaves, which occurred before the civil war and President Lincoln’s declaration of human rights. Since Sir Tristan was responsible for freeing the slaves, the government of Virginia honored him by renaming the estate. The government’s decision to do so wasn’t a difficult one. Sir Tristan was, quite literally, a martyr with ambitions to free all the slaves of the South and gain equality for women. Although he achieved many of his goals, they came with a price – his happiness.
Sir Tristan, an only child, died alone at the estate on October 28, 1860. He was unmarried and left no heirs. After his death, the estate became the property of the government, who turned it into a profitable tourist attraction and bed and breakfast one hundred years later.
That was the extent of Skye’s knowledge of the estate. Perhaps that’s why the editor of America’s Amazing Architectures Magazine had requested the presence of a historical interpreter.
Skye watched as the conveyer belt turned round and round. Her eyes scanned the surplus of luggage until the familiar dark green suitcase appeared. She grabbed the suitcase before it could make its second trip around the belt. Although her eyes were alert, her mind was foggy.
She whistled down a taxi and watched as the driver exited the vehicle to help her put the luggage into the trunk.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” the taxi driver, who was a young man of about twenty five years, replied. “Where to?”
“The Sir Tristan Estate, please.”
The driver turned to cast Skye a curious glance. “Excuse me, miss?”
“The - Sir - Tristan - Estate,” Skye repeated slowly.
“Are you sure you want to go there?”
“Of course.” Skye was annoyed at the driver’s uncertainty. “Is there any reason why I wouldn’t want to go to the estate?”
“Yes.”
Skye looked at the roof of the taxi, as if seeking unknown help. “And why is that?”
“It’s been closed for a week.”
Skye’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s not possible. I’m here on business. My boss has made arrangements for me to photograph the Sir Tristan Estate.”
“Oh,” the driver muttered, turning in his seat. “I guess they made an exception for you.”
Skye settled back in her seat, glad they were finally on their way, but confused about her situation. “Why have they closed the estate to the public?”
“It’s a pretty amazing story,” the driver replied, glancing at Skye quickly in his rearview mirror. “During an independent tour with his family, a ten-year-old boy discovered an old document in a desk which presumably belonged to Sir Tristan. The boy didn’t inform his parents about the discovery; instead, he placed it up his t-shirt and tried to exit the estate with it. However, as he was leaving, the document slipped out from under his t-shirt. The boy’s parents, who thought he had stolen it from the gift shop, scolded and lectured him. Meanwhile, the woman at the exit was in shock. Being a fifteen year employee of the estate, she was flabbergasted at the boy’s find. She knew it wasn’t a fake; it was a real document containing unknown knowledge.”
“Really?” Skye leaned forward. “What kind of document?”
“It was a birth certificate.”
“Whose?”
“Miss Kathleen Tristan.”
Skye looked at the driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Her mind raced as she tried to fit together the broken pieces. “Who was Miss Kathleen Tristan?”
“No one knows.”
Then I shouldn’t feel so bad for not being able to figure it out either, Skye thought. “You haven’t explained why the Sir Tristan Estate has been closed for tourism,” she reminded.
“Although no one knows who Miss Kathleen Tristan is, there are suspicions that she is Tristan’s daughter from an affair he had with a peasant girl.”
“I thought he didn’t have any children, and having an affair isn’t a common trait that martyrs share.”
The driver shook his head. “We didn’t know that he had a child either.”
Skye got the feeling that the driver was purposely ignoring her last comment about Sir Tristan’s sainthood. She quickly promised to keep her opinions to herself. After all, the residents of Virginia were very proud of Sir Tristan and his humanitarian work.
“So, why is the estate closed?” Skye was tired from the flight and wanted nothing more than for everything to make sense. She was confused, frustrated and felt as if her head may explode at any given moment.
“If there is a living descendant of Sir Tristan, the estate belongs to that individual.”
Skye leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. She thought about what the taxi driver had just said in regards to the estate’s closure and wondered why she hadn’t been informed about this earlier. What if she, like the public, was locked out of the estate? Where would she stay?
She opened one eye and saw the taxi’s clock state 9:12 in a bright green color. Closing her tired eyes, she gave into the temptation of sleep.
Skye woke suddenly as the taxi began to shake. She looked anxiously out the window to see that they had turned off the highway and were now traveling down a dirt road. Skye felt herself being thrown around in her seat as the taxi bumped over the small stones that lay on the ground. She winced as the coarse seatbelt sliced into her stomach.
“I thought this was a tourist attraction. Don’t tell me the government didn’t have enough money to pay for a paved road,” she muttered, more to herself than the taxi driver. Nevertheless, she received a reply.
“The government wanted to keep the estate authentic.”
“Yet they were willing to add a gift shop,” Skye commented.
“I’m not a politician
,” the driver said, obviously tired of Skye’s questions and complaints. “Therefore, I have no say in what happens at the estate.”
Respecting the driver’s wishes to a certain degree, Skye remained quiet while entertaining the thought of not giving him a tip. In fact, she considered running out of the taxi and not paying him at all. No, that would never work. For one reason, he knew where she was staying.
Skye looked out the window. Darkness had fallen and the abundant rows of trees that lined the poorly maintained road were almost invisible. The road seemed to continue forever. Fear began to creep into her emotions, adding to the anxiety she already felt about driving down a deserted road with a complete stranger.
I wonder where the nearest house is. Probably miles away.
As Skye continued to watch, the large estate suddenly loomed proudly in front of them. Everything came alive in an instant; the moon seemingly appeared out of nowhere to cast down its bright beams, while lights flickered in several rooms of the estate. The finer details were hard to see despite the enthusiasm from the moon and the glowing lanterns. This didn’t upset Skye since her attention was drawn to a more interesting object, the man standing outside the imposing metal gates.
The driver rolled down his window. “Hello, I have a woman here who claims she has some sort of business to take care of in regards to the estate.”
Skye felt her cheeks redden at his words. Not only was the taxi driver making her sound foolish and incompetent, he was actually putting her in danger. The man at the gate could be anyone, she thought angrily. He could be a murderer or a pervert. Was it really necessary for a singular and feminine pronoun to both be used?
“Skye Huntington?” the man at the gate leaned closer.
The taxi driver turned around in his seat and looked expectantly at Skye. It suddenly occurred to her that they hadn’t introduced themselves to each other.
“Yes,” she said, her voice strong and confident, just in case the man was a homicidal pervert.
“I’m Tom Dove,” he replied. “I’ve been expecting you. I’m your historical interpreter on behalf of the Sir Tristan Estate.”
“Then all plans are go?” Skye asked casually, peering at Tom through the opened window. She remembered being told that the interpreter’s name was Tom Dove. She’d never speculated that he would be so handsome.
The light, which came from the lantern he held in his hands, highlighted his features. He stood tall at five foot eleven and had a lean, muscular build. His face carried his most magnificent features: blue eyes that sparkled with life and lips that formed a smile with every word he spoke. Tom’s short brownish blond hair complimented his face in the most beautiful way.
“Of course the plans are still active,” Tom said, breaking Skye’s reverie.
Not knowing what to say next, Skye simply smiled and exited the taxi. The driver was about to step out of the vehicle as well, but Tom stopped him.
Tom took control, in an efficient yet courtly manner. “Are the lady’s belongings in the trunk?”
“Yes,” Skye answered, pointing to the trunk.
“I’ll get them,” Tom offered with a smile.
Skye smiled back in appreciation and then paid the taxi driver.
“Thank you,” Skye said, bidding goodbye to her short-term companion.
Skye shivered as the taxi disappeared down the dark road. I hope there are other people in the estate. She glanced sideways at Tom. He looked like a kind, handsome man but she didn’t want to be deserted in the middle of nowhere with him.
“Let’s get you inside,” Tom said, stealing Skye’s attention away from the empty road. “Virginian nights can get very cool.”
Skye followed Tom as he placed the lantern on the ground and unlocked the gate with a large silver key. Skye bent down to pick up the lantern, and Tom had the same idea. They both knelt at the same time and almost knocked each other’s head.
Tom laughed. “Would you like to carry the lantern?”
“Since you’re carrying my suitcase, it’s the least I can do,” Skye replied.
“Sounds fair to me.” Tom smiled as he locked the gate behind them.
“Am I correct in saying that you work at the Sir Tristan Estate?” Skye inquired.
“Yes. But I’ve only worked here for a few weeks. Although I’m new around here, I know a lot about the Tristan family.”
“Since you know so much,” Skye began to pry, “can you answer one question that I’ve been dying to know?”
Tom stopped walking and looked curiously at her. “If I can.”
“What was Sir Tristan’s first name?”
Tom paused, a sly smile forming on his face. “I can answer that question but I’m not going to – not yet.”
“Why is Sir Tristan’s first name so confidential?” Skye pressed. She couldn’t stand not knowing. Perhaps that’s why she was such a talented photographer; her attention to detail was superb.
“It’s not his actual name that matters,” Tom said passionately. “It is the significance of the nature of naming that matters.”
“You’ve completely lost me,” Skye said, shaking her head in confusion.
“What does a name mean to you?”
“I guess…a name describes an individual,” Skye replied, after a brief pause to think about her answer.
“An individual is a human, correct?”
“I…I guess,” Skye answered, startled at the obscurity of Tom’s question.
“Humans are represented by their physical and emotional needs. Sir Tristan suppressed those needs in order to help others. Therefore, he doesn’t need a name; he wasn’t really a human. He shouldn’t even be called Sir Tristan, but alas, our society feels compelled to name everything.”
“Helping others should be beneficial to both parties,” Skye pointed out. “Sir Tristan died in sadness.”
“And your conclusion is…?”
“Although Sir Tristan helped a lot of slaves and women, it left him void of happiness and led to the destruction of his estate,” Skye replied. “Therefore, his actions were done…in vain?”
Skye and Tom approached the door to the estate. It loomed ten feet tall, with fine details of roses and their jagged stems engraved into the door. When Skye held up the lantern, she saw the marvelous work more clearly.
“If only Sir Tristan knew that at the time,” Tom said with a heavy sigh.
“What?” Skye asked. She had been so engrossed in the design on the door that her mind was no longer concentrating on their conversation.
“If Sir Tristan knew how to live a balanced life maybe he wouldn’t be doomed to come back to Earth to find that moderation.” Tom used the same large silver key to open the estate’s door and waited for Skye to enter. “Are you going to stand out here all night?” he asked with a laugh.
“Do you really believe that Sir Tristan’s ghost has come back to look for happiness?” Skye was a believer in ghosts. She had even thought she’d seen one while photographing the interior of Sterling Castle in Scotland.
“He’s back,” Tom said, his voice now more formal and chilling. “But he’s not only looking for happiness; he’s looking for that balance I mentioned earlier.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“I know all about the estate,” Tom replied. He sounded like an automatic telephone recording, not the passionate individual he’d been just moments ago.
“Okay,” Skye said, rubbing her hand against her forehead. “I’m really tired and I’m starting to develop a headache. Can you take me to the estate’s bed and breakfast?”
“Of course,” Tom said as he led her throughout a dimly lit hallway.
They reached a more modern part of the estate a few minutes later. Everything looked like a normal bed and breakfast and Skye felt her previously tense body relax as she traded the lantern for her suitcase.
“Mrs. Bradford will give you the key to your room. You should feel honored – she’s been ordered to stay in the estate especial
ly for you!”
“Poor woman,” Skye muttered. “What would have happened if my flight was delayed?”
“Nothing, the owner of the estate wouldn’t let her go until you came.”
“Poor woman,” she repeated. She stepped towards the woman behind the desk and suddenly whirled to face Tom. “Hold on a minute,” she retraced her steps. “I thought the government of Virginia owned the estate.”
“Not anymore. The blood relative of Sir Tristan owns the estate now. It’s back in family hands, where it truly belongs.”
“They found the descendant of Miss Kathleen Tristan?” Skye asked in surprise.
“Yes.”
“This is too much for me to comprehend all at once,” Skye said, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. “If you would be so kind as to explain everything tomorrow morning, I’d really appreciate it. However, I just want to sleep right now. I think I’ll fall over if I don’t get to a bed soon.”
Tom chuckled. “All right, Ms. Huntington. Go see Mrs. Bradford; she’ll show you to your room.”
“Thank you for all your help!” Skye called out as Tom walked away.
“Have sweet dreams.”
Tom’s wishes for a good night seemed unusual to Skye. Instead of analyzing it, she decided to blame her sleep deprivation on her view of his evasive nature.
“Can I get my room please?” Skye asked.
Skye had only been asleep for an hour when she heard people shouting. The shouting was indecipherable but very nearby. Groggily, she stepped out of the bed and into her white fuzzy slippers. Just like the change in the bedroom’s temperature, her slippers were suddenly very cold.
Skye tiptoed towards the bedroom door and listened silently. As her ear pressed against the cold door, she strained to hear the conversation that seemed to be happening beneath her.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Skye heard a young man say regretfully. “But I cannot marry Eleanor.”
“She’s a fine woman,” the mother argued. “You’ll never find a wife better suited for you. She’s a fabulous homemaker and comes from the best breed in all of Virginia.”
