Thorncroft Manor (A Novella)

by Nora Covington

  Best Man

  Bramwell stood in front of the mirror in his black frock coat, adjusting his silk cravat about his neck. He felt ill. Nausea gnawed at his stomach like a rat, draining his patience to tie the damnable knot that he woefully fingered. Even the clothes on his back irritated him. His linen shirt felt like straw, his trousers were too tight around his midsection, and his collar was stifling. He could not remember the last time he had donned a decent set of clothes. Surely he would suffer for it the entire evening.

  “Pearson!” he bellowed. Bramwell continued to fiddle with the knot until a knock came at the door and slowly opened.

  “You rang, sir?”

  “I yelled, sir, you mean. You might as well say what you are thinking, damn it.”

  “Yes, sir. You yelled. Is there something you require?” Pearson’s eyes darted about the filthy room, visibly horrified about the state of affairs.

  “Is everything in order downstairs?”

  “Yes, sir. The staff has taken care of all you have asked. Mrs. Williams has the menu as you requested of fresh pheasants acquired by your unfailing shot, and Millie has set the table. We will both serve this evening.”

  “Very well, Pearson. See to it that Merlin is locked in the kennel. We would not want the young ladies to be licked by my slobbering dog, now would we?”

  After eventually succeeding in tying a presentable knot, he scrutinized his appearance in the cheval mirror. All of the buttons of his burgundy silk vest were closed and straight. His knee-high leather boots needed a good polishing, but he concluded no one would be looking at his feet during dinner.

  He had pulled back his longer-than-normal hair and fastened it with a black ribbon at the back of his neck. It appeared uncouth and definitely not the hairstyle of the day, but he had not felt inclined to cut it for the past six months. No doubt he would shock the women over his outrageous look, but they would just have to deal with his appearance.

  “Well, then, I suppose I will try and relax a moment before my guests arrive.”

  Pearson nodded but paused before departing. “Would you like me to have Millie tidy up your room for you, sir? It looks a bit—”

  “No, absolutely not,” interrupted Bramwell. “I like the filthy mess just as it is.”

  A dastardly mess, Bramwell thought. It mirrored the filth of his soul, and he felt at ease in his disarrayed bedchamber.

  “Very well, sir.”

  He glanced at his faithful servant as he left the room. Pearson, now in his midfifties, had been with him for over ten years. The gentleman showed no indication of declining in energy and did a fine job of keeping his household in order. More importantly than being a good butler, he possessed the uncanny ability of putting up with his various mood swings, which often included yelling at everyone. Bramwell knew beyond a doubt that he had a trustworthy ally at his side.

  Before going downstairs, he walked toward his window and unlatched the lock. With both hands, he pushed open the panes and inhaled the fresh air. The sea sounded quiet with a low rush of water sloshing upon the crags below. Moonlight danced upon the waves, and the memories of years past haunted him. Saddened, he closed the window to shut them out of his mind.

  Darby had talked him into inviting Georgina and her mother over for dinner as well as her cousin’s family who had arrived from London. It was all part of a busy week leading up to the wedding, which Bramwell had to find the strength to endure.

  Bramwell found Darby’s impending marriage and departure to London difficult to accept. They had known each other since childhood and were the best of friends. Without Darby in his life, he knew that by now he would have gone stark, raving mad.

  Ready for the evening ahead, he trotted downstairs. The aroma of cooking pheasant and fresh bread filled his nostrils. After glancing about, he decided the subdued lighting did not make a welcoming atmosphere. He normally preferred it that way, but with the arrival of guests, it seemed improper.

  “Pearson, light some more candles and oil lamps,” Bramwell barked. “It’s far too dark.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pearson scurried off.

  Bramwell felt a nudge and lowered his eyes to see Merlin rubbing his head along the side of his leg. “What are you still doing here?” Annoyed that the dog had not been put out, he seized the animal by the collar and headed toward the back of the house. As he marched through the kitchen, he found Pearson gathering more candlesticks.

  “I thought I told you to put him out.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was busy with some other matters. I will see to it now,” Pearson replied with a nervous hand reaching toward the dog.

  “No, I’ll do it. See to your duties about the candles before the guests get here.”

  Bramwell flung open the door and stepped out into a cool, misty breeze. After a short walk a few yards toward his shed, he opened the fenced kennel and led Merlin inside. The dog turned and whimpered. He knew what the mongrel wanted.

  “Not tonight, Merlin. We will have to put off our walk until tomorrow eve.”

  Bramwell patted the dog’s head and smiled at his faithful pet. “Soon you will be my only friend in this miserable world. You will have to keep me in line rather than Darby, eh?”

  He lifted his eyes toward the road leading to his house and saw a carriage approaching. Bramwell closed the gate and headed back into the house fighting the gnawing discomfort of an impending social gathering.

  “It smells enticing, Mrs. Williams,” he complimented his cook upon entering the kitchen.

  “Indeed, sir, they were excellent birds with plump breast meat.”

  “Well, I am sure my guests will have no complaints about your cooking.”

  “It is a jolly thing you are having visitors again after such a long time. The house needs to be filled with life.”

  Bramwell perceived the sincerity in her words but could not agree. “Life again? Indeed. Perhaps one day I will enjoy it.” He went to the dining room to find Pearson lighting another oil lamp.

  “A carriage is approaching, Pearson. Finish your duties quickly. They will be here at any moment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bramwell entered the grand sitting room to check the flames in the fireplace. It had always been his favorite spot in the manor but difficult to keep warm because of the tall ceilings and drafty windows overlooking the ocean. It felt chilly, so he grabbed another log and threw it in the hearth. After a few stabs into the burning wood with an iron poker, the fire regained momentum. The tall flames illuminated the room further, but Bramwell was well aware the interior of his house appeared dark because of the aged oak paneling on the walls.

  As he stood with one hand leaning against the mantel of the fireplace, watching the flames dance before his eyes, he heard the sound of footsteps and Pearson’s voice call.

  “Sir, Mr. Darby Wilson and company have arrived.”

  Bramwell released his tight grip and turned around. Out of nervous habit, he pulled at his frock coat to straighten it and then took a step forward, extending his hand to his old friend.

  “Ah, Darby. Good to see you,” he said with an enthusiastic handshake. He glanced over at Georgina, who he had to admit glowed like the sun. “Georgina, keeping my friend on the up and up, as usual?” Georgina flashed her usual feigned smile of greeting.

  “Yes, of course, Bramwell.”

  Darby made the introductions. “Bramwell, may I introduce you to Caroline Woodard, Georgina’s cousin, and her mother Doris Woodard and Bernice Woodard, her younger sister?”

  Bramwell surveyed his three guests. The middle-aged mother looked amicable enough while she curiously gazed at his attire. By the look in her eye, he wondered what had been spoken about him already.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam,” he said, forcing a smile. He bowed at the waist and then turned his attention to the younger woman by her side, whom he surmised to be about thirteen years of age. She giggled.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said.

&nb
sp; “Mr. Croft, it is very gracious of you to invite us to dine with you this evening,” Mrs. Woodard said with excitability. She turned her attention upon her daughter Caroline, obviously wanting him to take notice.

  Bramwell scrutinized Georgina’s cousin. She stood rigid with a superior look upon her face. The way she eyed him up and down took him by surprise. Her gaze, however, held more than mere curiosity, which immediately placed Bramwell on the offensive.

  A hasty, superficial glance of her appearance did not leave a lasting impression upon his mind. Caroline had brown hair and fair skin. Her height was shorter than he cared for in a woman but her figure acceptable. The young lady’s gown did an ample job of showing her plump breasts. He surmised her age to be in the midtwenties.

  “Miss Woodard,” he said coolly. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” After a quick bow at the waist, Bramwell immediately pulled his eyes away but not before noticing her left hand bore no ring on her finger. Why had he cared to take note? Frankly, he had no interest in women since the last one departed from his life.

  “Please, rest before the fire and warm yourselves. Dinner should be ready within a half hour. May we provide any refreshment while you wait?”

  Bramwell caught sight of Pearson off to the side waiting to take orders.

  “My usual glass of brandy will do,” Darby hastily ordered. His face turned into an embarrassed, apologetic frown. “Ladies, forgive me for being so rude. I usually have a glass of brandy with Bramwell.”

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” Georgina replied.

  Pearson looked over at the other three guests. “No, thank you,” responded the elder Mrs. Woodard.

  “Well, I would enjoy a glass of wine,” interjected Caroline in a bold voice.

  Everyone eyed her in astonishment. A lady usually turned down libations at such social functions. Her forthright request surprised Bramwell.

  “White wine, if you have one,” she said, looking at Pearson. “I’m guessing that the aroma I smell is fowl.” She turned her head and looked directly at Bramwell. “Am I correct?”

  Bramwell lifted his brow over one eye but did not answer her question. “Pearson, I am sure you can find the lady a nice, mild white wine in the cellar. Brandy for me as well. See to it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bramwell pulled his eyes away from Caroline, who watched him as a curious object of interest. Her attitude irked him. He glanced over at Georgina, who looked uncomfortable like she always did when in his presence. Had she told Miss Woodard about his sordid past? No doubt their tongues had wagged in gossip.

  “Georgina, where is your mother?” Bramwell inquired, suddenly realizing she was not part of the dinner party.

  “She has a slight headache and decided to stay home and rest.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear of it. Hopefully, she will be on the mend soon enough.”

  Pearson returned with crystal glasses on a wooden tray and offered Miss Woodard the wine. She removed the glass and held it. Caroline looked at her mother’s noticeable disapproving glare and then brought the wine to her lips and took a sip. She crumpled her nose.

  “Not to your liking, Miss Woodard?” Bramwell inquired. He retrieved his glass from Pearson.

  “Oh, no. It is quite to my liking, thank you.” Caroline took another sip, this time drinking without a reaction.

  Bramwell recognized that she wanted to impress him. Childish, he thought. Disgusted, he turned his attention to Darby, who gulped his glass of brandy down his gullet.

  “So how are all the preparations for the wedding going? Rehearsal still set for Thursday?” Bramwell broke the silence.

  “Yes, for Thursday,” answered Georgina. “Do not be late.” She flashed a stern glare.

  “And you, Darby, how are you holding up, eh? My old friend is about to marry and give up his bachelorhood.” Bramwell snickered as Darby squirmed in his chair.

  “Yes, more than ready to take a bride,” he said. He reached over and squeezed his fiancée’s hand. Georgina gave him a sickening, sweet smile in return.

  Bramwell’s gut tightened. He should have been holding his lover’s hand at that moment. Instead, his fingers grasped a cold crystal glass of brandy. “Yes, I am sure you are.” Bramwell tried to make light of the situation. His eyes lazily moved over to the two women and youngster who sat on the divan across from him. Caroline took another small sip of wine. Clearly, she hated the taste of it. He was not about to cater to her need to impress him.

  “So, Miss Woodard,” he began, looking intently at Caroline. “Darby tells me that you are from London. How do you like Cornwall’s fresh air?”

  “It was a bit chilly and rainy when we arrived, but it seems to have cleared up. I must admit, though, I am not partial to small towns. There is very little in the way of society to keep a young lady’s fancy entertained.”

  “Really,” drawled Bramwell. “We have much to entertain,” he countered. His voice tightened with irritation. “I would not judge our way of life, Miss Woodard, until you have lived here long enough to sample all that it may afford a young lady such as yourself.” Bramwell brought his glass to his lips and drank the brandy to wash away his disdain over the woman’s shallow-minded opinion.

  “After all,” he continued. “Georgina has found an exceptional man among our ranks, has she not?”

  Caroline glared back at him. He had hit a nerve. It was clear as the snobby nose on her face that she was jealous of her cousin’s good fortune. Since she neared the age of eternal spinsterhood, it probably had much to do with her attitude. Who would be attracted to such a pretentious personality?

  “Yes, and as her cousin, I share her joy,” she said. She smiled at Georgina, who sat quiet as a mouse. Darby continued to remain silent staring at his empty glass of brandy.

  “Oh, it is not that she hasn’t had suitors,” interjected Bernice. Her eyes glowed mischievously. “She is just too picky,” she giggled.

  “Bernice, that will be enough,” chided Mrs. Woodard. Caroline shot her sister a dark glare as she snickered with enjoyment for exposing her secrets.

  “Darby tells us that you are a mine owner,” Mrs. Woodard stated.

  It appeared that her mother endeavored to change the conversation to spare Caroline further embarrassment. “Yes, my father left me his mining business to oversee.”

  “And what is it that you mine, might I inquire?”

  “Tin, madam. I mine tin.”

  “Mining is dangerous work. Surely, you do not enter the mine. You must employ managers to oversee the workers, correct?” she asked, sounding like a typical caring mother.

  “Yes, of course I do. However, I have been descending down into the mine since I was a boy. I often followed my father to observe the excavations.”

  “As a boy? Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  “Even now we employ many children at the mine and some women,” he said.

  “I deplore child labor,” Caroline spoke. “I think it is cruel.”

  “Deplore, do you?” Bramwell snapped. “I put them in no harm’s way, and the wages help to support the poor families in our area and put food on their tables.”

  “You do not make them go down into the tunnels, do you?” Caroline shot him a dark glare.

  Darby interjected. “No, he does not, Caroline. Mining work is for the menfolk, not children. They, along with the women, break up the rock into smaller sizes before loading them into the crushing machines.”

  “When the boys turn twelve, and if they are good workers, they can begin working in the mine,” Bramwell added.

  “How frightful,” Mrs. Woodard commented. “Children put in danger where terrible mining accidents can occur.”

  Bramwell sighed over the interrogation about his livelihood. The practice of mining and child labor had been a way of life for decades. The snobbish London guests would never understand. Surely poor children toiled in menial jobs in London as well.

  He looked at Caroline who seemed entertained b
y the fact that her mother had placed him in an unfavorable light.

  “My father and I have always focused upon the safety of our workers. Yes, mishaps do occur. Nevertheless, with proper mining techniques and careful planning, you can minimize such incidences.”

  “Yes, perhaps, but accidents do occur,” Caroline reiterated, scowling at him as if she were an authority on the matter.

  “Dinner is served.”

  Thankfully, Pearson had arrived at an opportune moment to stop him from verbally lashing the snippy spinster in return. “Well, enough of mining talk. Shall we eat?”

  His guests entered the dining hall. Darby and Georgina sat to his right, and the Woodard party to his left. Bramwell took a seat at the head of the table.

  “I hope you enjoy the meal.” He picked up his napkin, flipped it open, and placed it on his lap.

  “Smells like you had a good hunt,” announced Darby. “Pheasants are no match for you and your fowling piece.”

  “Indeed. Not much is a match for me,” Bramwell agreed, with a smug look upon his face. He glanced at Miss Woodard to observe whether she caught the drift of his remark. Her face teemed with irritation. Now that he had the upper hand, it was time to enjoy the meal.

  Pleasant Pheasant

  Caroline’s eyes roved over the dingy dining hall of Thorncroft Manor. The large multi-stemmed silver candelabras cast a pleasing glow, but the interior of the room remained dark and shadowy in the corners. A chandelier hung above the table, but it failed to bring adequate light to the large room.

  The walls, like the other rooms she had seen, were paneled in dark wood with inlaid carvings. The atmosphere mirrored the man who sat at the head of the table. Her cousin had been right. Bramwell had an aura about him that frankly sent a chill down her spine. Because of her uneasiness, she had put on a front of being forthright and curt. After all, she did not want to appear like a timid woman in the presence of an overbearing male. With all the secrecy surrounding him, she did not know what to expect. Admittedly, the moment she saw him, she did feel intrigued but wary. Perhaps her jumbled emotions had incited her to play a game of mutual banter.