The Heir of Brownlie Manor Read online

  Cover image: English House © RMAX, courtsey of istockphotography.com

  Cover design copyright © 2016 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2016 by Anita Stansfield

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: July 2016

  For Evelyn Alexandria

  Chapter One

  SEEKING PURPOSE

  Hampshire, England—1808

  Thomas Quincy Fitzbatten pushed his steed upward against the steep incline and halted abruptly as he came to the crest of the hill. This view of Brownlie Manor and its surrounding lands was deeply familiar to him, and therefore of great comfort. He drew that comfort into his aching spirit and sat atop the fidgeting horse for more than a minute, just gazing at a view he’d not been privileged to see for nearly three years.

  The manor where he’d been raised was breathtaking, and he loved it dearly. But it was not its majestic structure and unique stonework, nor the lush gardens and grounds surrounding it that warmed his heart. He’d known perfect love and tenderness from parents who were less than perfect but who had given their whole hearts to him for as long as he could remember. Unlike many families of substance with whom he’d been acquainted throughout his life, the Fitzbattens were well-known—often with disdain from others—as kind and generous people who treated every member of the household as family. Even the boys mucking out the stables and the girls scrubbing pots in the kitchen were known by name to Thomas and his parents—which made Brownlie Manor a coveted place of work for the serving class, and a place looked down upon by many of those belonging to the upper classes. For these reasons more than any other, Thomas was proud of his upbringing. He far preferred the company of those who lived and worked at the manor than he did of those who lived in similar grand structures in the area who considered themselves entitled to a better life simply as a result of being born with a proper name and a large bank balance.

  After breathing in the palpable solace of the view, Thomas stirred the horse to a brisk gallop, suddenly anxious to be surrounded by his family. He’d been born and raised an only child, but he’d never wanted for company or love in a house full of the numerous trusted people who had been carefully chosen to care for the multitudinous needs of a manor house so large and complex. As he came closer to the manor, Thomas realized that he’d never considered his home extravagant or lavish but rather a grand place of refuge and beauty. Brownlie Manor was like an island of stability and strength in the sea of a wavering and ill-fated world. Thomas had once heard his father say that he didn’t see the vast amount of servants in his employ as people being there to serve his family’s needs; he rather saw Brownlie Manor as the means to give good people honorable employment for fair wages—and a place to offer them a refuge from the horrors that were more often than not the fate of the lower classes. Thomas had never completely understood what his father had meant until he had fully ventured out into the world himself. After what he’d experienced during these years while he’d been away, he longed for the security of home and felt no desire to ever leave here again.

  Thomas dismounted some distance from the stables and led his horse by the reins, ambling slowly while he breathed in the Hampshire air and took in the beauty of his surroundings, blanketed by a typically overcast sky. He finally saw his first sign of human life when he stepped through the open stable doorway. At the other end of a long row of stalls stood Chip, noisily repairing a hinge on a stall door. Chip was at least ten years older than Thomas, lanky and bald, with a wife and children who lived in one of the many small homes situated on Fitzbatten land.

  Thomas smiled while observing Chip, who had grown balder but no less lanky. He finally shouted to be heard over the clanking of Chip’s tools. “Can a man get any decent feed and water for his horse around here?”

  Chip turned with a start, broke into a grin, and set aside his tools before he strode eagerly toward Thomas, his hand outstretched. “Well, I’ll be!” Chip said, shaking Thomas’s hand firmly. Thomas was so glad to be home that a handshake didn’t seem sufficient, so he put his other arm over Chip’s shoulders and gave him a warm, manly pat.

  “Hello, Chip,” Thomas said, stepping back from their quick embrace.

  “Well, hello there, Captain!”

  “Oh, please, please . . . don’t call me that.” Thomas shrugged his shoulders, which bore the weight of the red coat of his uniform, and absently pressed a hand down the standard white waistcoat. “I can’t wait to get out of this uniform, and I’ll be glad to set aside everything that reminds me of it.”

  Chip’s eyes showed a glimmer of concern, but he smiled it away and said, “Then I’ll settle for saying welcome home, Thomas. It’s good to see you alive and well and back here where you were sorely missed.”

  “Thank you, Chip. And I’ve missed all of you . . . and everything here . . . more than I can say. You look well. How is Agnes? And the children? I believe Mother wrote to tell me that you were blessed with another son while I was away.”

  “Indeed we were,” Chip said proudly. “Three boys now. And they’re all doing well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Thomas said.

  “You must be tired,” Chip said, taking the reins of the horse. “You look downright worn out, I’d say. Best get yourself into the house.”

  Thomas’s heart quickened at the thought of seeing his mother and father, and he was glad to leave the horse in Chip’s care, suddenly wanting to break into a run. “Are my parents—”

  “Oh, sir,” Chip interrupted, looking grim. For a moment Thomas feared that something terrible might have happened since he’d last received letters. But Chip only said, “I fear they’re not at home. Vacationing, they are. Went across the channel. Be gone a month or so, from what I understand.”

  “I should have considered such a possibility when I decided to surprise them.” Thomas swallowed the depth of his disappointment, hoping it wouldn’t be too evident in his voice. “It’s my own fault for not writing ahead to tell them when I was coming.”

  “They’ll be mighty sorry to learn they weren’t here when you returned.”

  “I’m sorry for that too,” Thomas said, trying not to betray how deeply sorry he was. Not wanting to draw any attention or pity from Chip, he smiled and added, “Their return will give me something to look forward to.”

  “Indeed it will,” Chip said. “Indeed it will.”

  Thomas thanked Chip and walked the short distance from the stables to the house, entering through a door most commonly used by the servants. He knew well where he was most likely to find friendly faces gathered and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen. A pleasant aroma greeted him, but he could hardly recall a time when he’d gone down to the kitchen without the lure of good food wafting through the air. He approached quietly and hovered discreetly in the doorway, taking in the pleasing and familiar sight of Deloris Darby—the head cook for as long as he could remember—chatting and laughing with Candy, her most trusted assistant of many years. Liddy and Selma worked as maids in the house, and they were obviously enjoying their morning tea. There were nearly a dozen people—both men and women—gathered around the large table, and Thomas knew
them all. There was Dawson the head butler, and Clement and Crawford, who did whatever Dawson asked them to do. Sitting among them was Gib, the driver who cared for the carriages, and Fletcher, who was the head gardener, and Ernie, who assisted him. Thomas knew there were more than twice this many who worked the house and the grounds, and it was typical for them to take their breaks in shifts. But Thomas had had the good fortune of coming upon some of those who were dearest to him, and he breathed in the sights and the sounds of home. Short of seeing his parents, this was the sweetest form of reunion, the kind of scene he’d imagined while he’d been away. And now he was here, and everything that had been horrible and wretched felt far away and unimportant.

  Thomas couldn’t hear anything that was being said, but a sudden roar of laughter from the group made him smile. Unable to recall the last time he’d genuinely felt the urge to smile, he felt his face threaten to crack, which could perhaps explain the sting of tears in his eyes. Swallowing his emotion, Thomas bellowed lightly, “The mice do indeed play when the cat’s away.”

  All eyes turned toward him as he stepped into the room. In a flurry, the servants pushed their chairs back, and they all rushed toward him, offering warm greetings, firm handshakes, and a few embraces. He felt surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins, even though he shared no blood with any of them. But he had no blood relatives to speak of, and this was indeed his family. He was easily coerced into joining them for tea but resisted any questions about his time away, insisting instead that each of them give him a quick update of what had taken place in their lives while he’d been gone. They all had something to tell him of his parents, of their travels, of the parties they’d thrown, of the cold his father had endured a few months earlier just as winter had been turning to spring. Now spring had fully taken hold, and the good weather had drawn Quincy and Yvette across the channel to bask in the sun in one or more of their favorite travel destinations, which meant they were either in France or Spain. Thomas missed them, but he didn’t long to be accompanying them. He was glad to be home and felt no desire to leave—perhaps ever again.

  Thomas finally told them all to get back to work, pretending in the lighthearted way he’d learned from his father to be the tyrannical master of the house. But they all saw through him and laughed as they scattered away to their duties and Thomas went up the back stairs to his own rooms. He found fresh water in the basin there and wondered who had sneaked up here while he’d been having tea. Everything was tidy and free of even a hint of dust, and he knew his personal living space had been kept consistently cleaned in anticipation of his return. He considered—not for the first time—how it might have been for the people he loved if he’d not returned. Knowing beyond a doubt of the sorrow he would have left behind, he could only figure it was an indication of how thoroughly he knew he was loved. If not for that love, he wondered now if he could find the will to live and to believe that life might bring joy again. Physically he’d come home, safe and sound, but no one here knew of the inner festering wounds he’d brought with him. And he far preferred to forever keep those wounds to himself and prayed that with time they would heal.

  Thomas gratefully peeled off every stitch of his uniform and tossed it in a heap at the bottom of his wardrobe, resisting the urge to burn it. Had there been a fire in the grate, he might have. He washed up and dressed in clothes that had once been familiar and comfortable to him, clothes that had never seen the ugliness of war or the depravity of which some men were capable.

  Buttoning a brocade waistcoat of dark green, Thomas pondered his reflection in the mirror. The dark shadow on his face betrayed his avoidance of a razor these last few days while he’d only wanted to get home. But shaving could wait until the next morning. His nearly black curly hair was in sore need of a trim, which left it mostly a windblown mess—but then it usually looked like that unless it was cut very short, which was a look his mother had always declared did not suit him well.

  Thomas debated whether to lie down and rest for a while, feeling indeed tired from his journey, or go back to the kitchen in search of something to eat, now realizing he was also hungry. He was pondering whether fatigue or hunger would dominate when he answered a knock at the door and Liddy entered the room with a tray.

  “Mrs. Darby thought you’d be hungry,” Liddy said, setting the tray on a table near the window where he often ate breakfast or lunch when his parents were away. “You know we’d never let you starve.”

  “I would never worry about that,” Thomas said. “Thank you, Liddy.”

  “Will you be wanting to take your supper in the dining room?” she asked on her way back to the door. “Or should I bring that here as well?”

  “I’ll come to the dining room, thank you,” he said, even now dreading the thought of eating there alone. In spite of the camaraderie in the house, there was still a division between classes over certain matters, and none of the servants would ever sit at the formal dining tables. But he could remedy that. “Actually, Liddy, would you tell Mrs. Darby that I loathe eating alone and I would like to join the rest of you in the kitchen when you have your supper?”

  Liddy smiled. “I’ll tell her, sir. That’ll be at seven o’clock, sir.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Thomas relished the bread and stew that tasted of home. It was as if Mrs. Darby had some secret ingredient that made everything she cooked taste differently—and better—than he could ever find elsewhere.

  With his stomach full, Thomas stretched out on top of the bedspread, pulling up a blanket that had been neatly folded at the foot of the bed. The room wasn’t cold enough for a fire, but it was still a bit chilly. By the time the sun went down a fire would be welcome, but he was home and he knew that everything would be taken care of. Feeling completely safe and secure for the first time in years, he drifted into a pleasant slumber, but he came awake sometime later, breathing harshly and overcome with a cold sweat. He could only recall bits and pieces of his dream, but those fragments meshed into the actual memories that haunted him. His surroundings had a calming effect, although the angle of the sunlight in the room indicated he’d slept a long while.

  Before supper, Thomas wandered idly through the house, merging his memories into the present reality of truly being home. He lingered in his parents’ rooms, missing them but comforted to know that it wouldn’t be so many weeks until they returned. He ended up in the library, which had always been one of his favorite rooms for relaxing, either alone or with his parents. A fire was lit and lamps were burning there, and he smiled to think how someone had anticipated he would come here.

  Thomas perused the vast shelves of books, recalling all of the adventures and learning he’d gleaned from these pages. He was a little startled to turn and see the usual decanter of liquor and clean glasses sitting there. They’d always been found in that exact spot, but he felt a little taken off guard in light of how he knew he’d taken to drinking too much in order to dull his senses, and now he felt as if he’d confronted an enemy here among his safest surroundings. He stared the golden liquid down for only a moment before it conquered him, and he poured himself a glass and sat down to drink it, enjoying its soothing effect far more than he knew he should. He promised himself that he wouldn’t get carried away and felt certain that being home would help him keep his drinking to a minimum.

  Thomas enjoyed supper in the kitchen, and he enjoyed a good night’s sleep in his own bed. He was only awakened once by a nightmare and was quickly able to go back to sleep. Following a shave and a hearty breakfast, Thomas knew he needed to find something with which to occupy himself. He helped Chip and Herman in the stables, then he helped Gib repair an axle on the wagon used for acquiring household supplies in town. After lunch, Thomas helped Fletcher and Ernie in the gardens, pulling weeds from around the vast array of rose bushes where buds of many colors were just starting to appear.

  Thomas enjoyed listening to the ligh
thearted banter between Fletcher and Ernie, who had been friends all their lives since they’d both grown up on this estate, the children of people who had worked for Thomas’s father and grandfather. Both men occasionally asked Thomas a question to include him in the conversation, which he would politely answer, then fire questions back at them, far preferring to just listen and be distracted from the dismal tendency of his thoughts.

  Fletcher interrupted his own topic of conversation to say, “Well, would you look at that!”

  “Oh, my giddy aunt!” Ernie declared with such enthusiasm that Thomas turned to see what all the fuss was about. “It’s rare to see a blue one at all, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen one so early in the year.”

  Fletcher chuckled. “Must be some kind of good luck, eh?”

  “Right you are,” Ernie agreed.

  Thomas felt entirely confused until he realized they were looking at a butterfly with bright blue wings flitting about in front of them. He too became fascinated with the brilliant color of the little creature’s wings, as much as with the way it kept hovering nearby, as if it were as curious about the men pulling weeds in the garden as they were of it. While Thomas was staring at this wonder of nature, it lighted on a rose bush directly in front of him. Its delicate wings glimmered in the sun while Thomas dared to imagine that it might be some kind of mythical creature come to bring him a secret message. At the very moment he scolded himself for having such a vivid imagination, he heard Fletcher say, “Would seem the good luck it brings belongs to the young master, here.”

  “I’d say so, for certain,” Ernie replied. “Just you wait and see, Thomas, something good’ll come to you. A blue butterfly ’tis better than throwing a coin in a fountain, it is.”

  “Is it now?” Thomas asked absently, hypnotized by the butterfly and its apparent contentment to remain so still and clearly in his view. He watched it for a few seconds that seemed like much longer, wishing from an aching place deep inside himself that what Ernie had said might be true. Oh, how he needed something good to come to him! He needed purpose and meaning. He needed some kind of redemption to purge away the guilt and remorse he felt over events he couldn’t bear to think about but which wouldn’t leave him in peace. He had everything here that a man could ever want, and yet he had nothing when it was all so brutally overshadowed by memories that haunted his mind night and day.