The Heir of Brownlie Manor Read online

  Bring something good to me, Thomas silently pleaded, wondering if this little butterfly might carry his hope upward to the God who he wanted to believe existed. The dainty wings suddenly fluttered and took flight, disappearing so quickly from sight that it was easy for Thomas to believe he might have imagined it. Fletcher and Ernie spoke of how they would later tell their wives and children about the untimely appearance of the little blue butterfly, reminding Thomas that it really had happened. But within minutes, he’d convinced himself that the strangeness he’d felt had all been in his mind, likely a part of some inner illness he’d developed that had irrevocably changed him and would be prone to haunt him for the rest of his life.

  * * *

  Five days following his return, Thomas began to feel he was on the brink of insanity. He’d taken to avoiding conversation or even interaction with anyone in the household as much as possible, if only to conceal his increasingly foul mood. He wanted to talk to his father, knowing that he too had endured the harshness of war, and perhaps he could help Thomas put the things he’d seen and done into perspective. His mother was too fragile for any such talk, but her guileless love for him would have surely helped soothe his wounds. He considered the possibility of talking with one of the other men in the household. He was close enough to more than one of them that he knew he could trust them with his deepest thoughts and feelings. But he felt hesitant to trouble anyone else with what burdened him. As it was, he felt alarmingly alone.

  Thomas took many long, brisk rides, pushing the horse sometimes to exhaustion until they would both rest in shaded grass near a stream. The sound of the water was soothing to Thomas, and sometimes he rode in the other direction, going as far as the sea. He would stand on the rocks above the waves and look out over the vast power of the ocean and feel so helplessly small. With every wave that rolled into and then receded from the shore, with every hoofbeat of the horse when he rode, with every sunrise and sunset, Thomas became convinced that the only way to ease his pain was to find some greater meaning or purpose in his life. It was as if something indefinably deep in his spirit believed that if he could do something meaningful with his life, he might feel worthy of being redeemed from the choices he’d made that could not be undone.

  On Sunday Thomas went to church; his hair was trimmed and he was wearing his finest clothes. He received warm greetings from many people he knew, but the level of society he technically belonged to had an air about it that heightened his guilt. He’d been blessed with so much while so many in the world suffered. And these people with their lavish clothes and outright obsession with formal parties and politics were entirely oblivious to anything but their own comforts. He’d never been more grateful to have been raised by parents who had taught him the equality of all humankind; who had taught him that when people were blessed with greater abundance than others, they had an obligation to do more, and to give more. But Thomas was doing nothing. He’d been raised to be a gentleman, and it was somehow—for reasons he would never understand—considered honorable and appropriate for gentlemen to do nothing.

  Thomas tried to focus on the sermon, but it felt so pious and full of hypocrisy. He wondered how Jesus would feel about the people of high society blandly putting a few coins into a collection box and treating their servants badly, and never even glancing toward beggars in the streets when they went into the cities. And Thomas wondered when and how exactly he had come to feel responsible for all of it. Every injustice in the world felt like a burden upon his own shoulders. He knew it shouldn’t feel that way, but it did. And he didn’t know what to do about it. He blocked out the sermon and silently prayed for hope, for understanding, for peace.

  The following day, Thomas felt no better. He rode to the sea and back. He helped in the stables and in the gardens. He wore himself out, but he still felt burdened by emotions that seemed as if they might explode. He went to the library after supper and poured himself a large drink, certain the servants knew how much he’d been drinking. Someone had to refill these decanters he was emptying. He slouched onto a comfortable sofa and stacked his booted feet on the table in front of him, gazing into the fire as it hissed and crackled. He didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until he heard a man clearing his throat in a way that was obviously meant to signal his presence.

  Thomas looked up without moving. “What can I do for you, Dawson?” he asked and took a long, slow sip of his drink. Frederick Dawson was a burly man who looked more like a rough sailor than a butler. But his dress and manner were always perfectly proper, even when he was expressing kindness—which he did often and with great finesse.

  “I do have something I want to ask,” Dawson said seriously, “but first I think that I must ask if you’re all right.”

  Thomas forced surprised innocence into his expression, but it quickly became evident Dawson wasn’t fooled. Thomas looked back at the fire. “I’m fine,” he lied.

  He heard Dawson sigh before he said, “Do you think you’re the first man I’ve seen come back from war with that look in his eyes?”

  Thomas said nothing, but he felt like a guilty child. He suddenly felt certain that Dawson had been on to him the moment he’d come home. And if he could see that look in his eyes, then surely others did as well. Still, he didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s not my place to intrude, sir,” Dawson said, “but I hope you know that I’m not just here to keep the house running smoothly.”

  Thomas sighed and felt softened. “I know that, Dawson. Thank you. I’m certain I just need some . . . time.” He wasn’t certain that was all he needed, but he had no other solution.

  “I will say this much, sir,” Dawson added, “only because I know for a fact your father would not be happy with me if I didn’t say it.”

  “And what’s that?” Thomas asked.

  “The drinking will never make the pain go away, Thomas. And the more you drink, the more you’ll feel the need to keep drinking.”

  “And what will make the pain go away, Dawson?” Thomas asked in a tone of mild pleading, even though in his mind he heard the words sounding snide and spiteful. But he knew better than to behave like an arrogant child with Dawson—or anyone else in the household, for that matter. No matter what the person’s occupation or position, speaking unkindly to anyone in this house was strictly forbidden.

  “Perhaps if you could talk about it, sir,” Dawson said, and Thomas felt as if his mind had been read. He wanted to talk about it, even if he didn’t know where to begin or what to say. “Again, I’m here, sir . . . should you feel the need to talk . . . until the time that your father returns.”

  “Thank you, Dawson,” Thomas said, feeling the tiniest bit better. Enough to at least set down his drink. Trying to draw the attention away from himself, Thomas asked, “Now, what did you want to ask me?” In a light voice, he added, “Are the kitchen maids arguing? Is the butcher trying to cheat us again? Give me a problem to solve, Dawson. I’ll give the maids a talking to and challenge the butcher to a duel.”

  “All is well with the maids and the butcher,” Dawson said.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Thomas motioned to a chair. “Please . . . sit down. I get the feeling you’ve come to me as a friend; at least I hope you have. Or if you’ve come to me as your employer, I shall do my best to fill my father’s shoes fairly in his absence.”

  “I wish to speak to you as a friend and my employer. I would have taken this to your father if he were here, but it is a great dilemma, and I don’t know if there’s anything that anyone can do; however, your father has made me promise many a time that if I ever needed help I should come to him.”

  Thomas scrutinized Dawson’s countenance and felt a little unnerved. The man was leaning his forearms on his thighs, rubbing his hands together nervously, staring at the floor. The confident and proper demeanor he’d worn only moments ago had completely vanished. Whatever the problem might be, it was weighing on Dawson
heavily, and Thomas hoped that he could help.

  “Out with it, man,” Thomas said gently. And to make a point, he added, “If you expect me to be willing to come to you and talk about my troubles, you must be willing to do the same.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dawson said.

  “Stop calling me sir and tell me what’s wrong,” Thomas said. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not me,” Dawson said, still looking at the floor. “It’s my niece; my brother’s daughter. He died some years back in a mining accident, and I promised his wife that if they ever needed anything, they could come to me. And now little Ruthie has shown up at the kitchen door just a while ago with a letter from her mother and a very big problem. I took her to my room without anyone seeing her, and I got her something to eat, but I need your advice, Thomas. I don’t know what to do. I can’t hide her here past breakfast, and the problem isn’t going away, and I just don’t know what to do.”

  “What exactly is the problem?” Thomas asked.

  Dawson looked up at him. “She’s pregnant . . . and not wed.”

  Thomas sighed. “I see. And how old is Ruthie?”

  “Nineteen, twenty, I believe. According to her mother’s letter, the father of the baby is a scoundrel who had convinced the poor girl he loved her and was intent on marrying her, but he’s moved on. And there seems to be some concern for her safety.”

  “She fears the baby’s father will harm her?” Thomas asked with all his forlorn feelings about the plight of humanity pressing down on him again. He wanted to demand to know how people could be so cruel and selfish. But there was no one to whom he could put such a demand.

  “That’s the impression I get, yes,” Dawson said.

  Thomas sighed again and pondered for a long moment. He couldn’t change the plight of humanity, but he was in a position to help one poor girl who had been cruelly taken advantage of and abandoned.

  “Dawson, listen to me,” Thomas said, and the men exchanged a gaze worthy of the bond they shared. “I’m glad you came to me, and I will gladly do what I believe my father would have done. If what I’ve been blessed with can help this poor girl, then I am happy to do it. Are there not places she could go to live until the baby is born? Are there not good people who will adopt unwanted babies?”

  “I believe it’s possible, yes,” Dawson said. “I know little of such things, but I’m certain we could find out. But there must be a great deal of cost for such things, and I could never ask you to—”

  “You don’t have to ask me, Dawson, because I’m offering. I will gladly cover all of her expenses so she can make a fresh start of her life. I can’t do anything about the emotional impact of such an event in her life, but I can make certain her physical and financial needs are met, as well as those of the child. It does seem the best option . . . as opposed to her raising the child without a father.”

  “It does,” Dawson said. “I agree. I . . . don’t know what to say. I was hoping for advice. I did not expect such generosity.”

  “Would my father not have been generous?” Thomas asked. “You have been with this family since before I was born. You are family to us. Have you ever asked for anything you haven’t worked for?”

  “A man should work for what he receives, should he not?”

  “In theory,” Thomas said. “But what have I ever done to deserve having more money than I know what to do with? I would be a fool and a hypocrite to think I’m more deserving of it than you or your niece . . . What did you say her name is?”

  “Ruthie.”

  “Ruthie.” Thomas stood up, inspired by a surge of that sense of purpose he’d been seeking. “Come with me now.”

  Dawson followed Thomas to his personal office, where Thomas unlocked a safe and took out some bank notes. He counted them out on the desk and put them into Dawson’s hand, chuckling at the butler’s astonished expression. “It’s only money, Dawson.”

  “And people starve without it, Thomas,” Dawson said, almost looking as if he might cry. “To say I’m grateful feels so inadequate.”

  “Perhaps when I start complaining to you about all of my woes—as you so kindly offered—you will quickly feel that we are even.”

  “Never,” Dawson said.

  “I’m thinking it might be wise to take her discreetly into town tonight to stay at one of the inns until arrangements can be made. And I’m also thinking that you are in need of a few days off. I’m certain everyone will manage without you for that long, and I assure you the house will still be standing when you return.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dawson said and surprised Thomas with a warm embrace, the kind that Thomas was looking forward to receiving from his father when he returned.

  “I’m glad to be of service,” Thomas said. A thought came into his mind, seemingly out of nowhere, and he put a hand on Dawson’s arm to stop him from moving toward the door. “Wait,” he said. “I know there is a certain respect and trust among the household, but I also know that gossip is abundant. It will seem strange for you to leave this evening, so unexpectedly, and so late. It would be terribly out of character for you and might start the servants chattering. I know how damaging even a little bit of scandal can be, and I don’t want this to fall back on you or your sister-in-law. Let me escort her into town. Tell the others I’ve decided to visit the pub, which I’ve not done since I returned, and I prefer going by carriage just in case I get too drunk to ride home of my own accord. Tell only Gib that I’m helping your niece. He’ll not ask for details and he can be trusted. Go and speak to your niece and discreetly get her into the carriage before I leave.” He pulled his watch out of waistcoat pocket at the same time Dawson glanced at the clock on the wall. “Say, nine o’clock?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s good that one of us is thinking clearly.”

  “And tomorrow at breakfast you can announce you’re taking some time off, that your sister-in-law needs you, and you can leave without any fuss and meet your niece and take care of the details. Take as many days as you need.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Stop calling me sir . . . at least when we are alone. This is all a matter of friendship, my good man.”

  “Thank you, Thomas,” Dawson said, again looking as if he might cry.

  Thomas hurried up to his room to make himself presentable enough to go to the pub, even though he had no intention of going there—or perhaps he might for just a few minutes, if only to give his story the ring of truth.

  Thomas stepped out the front door of the manor at exactly nine to find the carriage there, with Gib sitting atop it, the reins in his gloved hands. Clement was standing at the carriage door, ready to be of service, but Thomas knew that neither Dawson nor Gib would have told him anything of the truth.

  “Good evening, Gib,” Thomas said. “I hope I didn’t upset your plans for the evening.”

  “Not at all, sir,” Gib said. “’tis a fine evening for some fresh air.” He tossed Thomas a subtle smirk that implied he was enjoying his part in this haphazard rescue of a damsel in distress; his expression was completely missed by Clement, who was looking the other way. “To the pub, then?” Gib asked.

  “To the pub,” Thomas said, and Clement opened the carriage door for him.

  Thomas stepped inside, and the door was closed behind him before Clement stepped away. Since it was dark inside, Thomas saw only the vague outline of a figure in a hooded cloak, but the very mysteriousness of the moment made his heart quicken. He sat down across from the young woman, and the carriage rolled forward.

  Determined to not let this situation become awkward, he decided to try to initiate some simple conversation. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Thomas.”

  “I know who you are,” she said with a melodic voice that was heavy with sorrow. “I’m Ruth . . . Dawson, of course.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mis
s Dawson,” he said, wishing he could see her face. And he was glad she’d not introduced herself as Ruthie. He far preferred calling a grown woman by a proper name. “Ruth,” he added, both to hear himself say it and to make it clear that he preferred their encounter be on a first-name basis.

  “My uncle told me what you’re doing for me,” Ruth said from out of the shadows. “I never imagined anyone could be so kind.”

  “The cruelty with which you have been treated has led you to expect the same from others. In spite of my own keen awareness of how dreadfully unkind some people can be, I really do believe that many people—if not most—are good at heart. I’m only sorry that you find yourself in such unfortunate circumstances.”

  “You’re very kind, sir. But did I not bring this upon myself? I was foolish and naive.”

  “As we all are at some point in life.”

  “And I did make a terrible mistake . . . committed a terrible sin.”

  “You were deceived, were you not? I have seen many things, Ruth, and I have come to believe that accountability is rarely black and white. From what I understand, whatever mistake you may have made was never with ill intent. Consequences often far outweigh the choices that precede them.”

  “Perhaps,” she said as if she didn’t believe him. “And now my only choice is to raise an illegitimate child in poverty, or give my child away and never see it again.”

  Hearing it put that way, Thomas felt heartache on her behalf. He wished there was some other option. He felt compelled to say, “The very idea of giving your child away must be very difficult for you.”