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  Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

  Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

  www.hartwoodpublishing.com

  The Heir to Evercrest Hall

  Copyright © 2019 by Andrea M. Theobald

  Digital Release: March 2019

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The Heir to Evercrest Hall by Andrea M. Theobald

  The last time Maria Smithers saw her childhood friend was when he passed through the stone wall of his family’s property. Maria vows to hate him forever for abandoning her, but an accident reunites them years later. Since he doesn’t recognize her, she gives him a false name and says she is holidaying.

  Albert Davenport is a handsome, well-educated man and an heir to a vast property. Those credentials ought to make him the gem of every woman’s eye. However, his rumored mental setbacks—supposedly due to witnessing his parents’ murders—are the talk of the countryside, casting a blemish on his character.

  A situation of cattle theft has Maria defending herself when the heir to Evercrest Hall catches her on his land. She proves to him that she is not one of the rustlers and thinks this will put an end to their acquaintance. But against her wishes, Albert hires her to work in his household, giving her no alternative but to accept.

  Strong feelings constantly overwhelm Maria. She cannot endure the pain of having her heart broken again, and by the same person. The realism that men of Albert’s social class rarely marry women like her should be a strong enough deterrent to keep any self-respecting female from fanciful beliefs; unfortunately, this only makes her longing for the man much more profound, until she hears of his engagement to a rich neighbor’s daughter, which is just another loveless marriage of convenience.

  Matters come to Maria’s attention regarding Albert’s history—he is not as blemish-free as she had thought. When she investigates the events surrounding Evercrest Hall, she discovers the murders of her mother and Albert’s parents are closely intertwined, leading her to find out the shocking truth of who her father really is.

  Prologue

  Before I reached womanhood, two memories stood out firmly. Firstly, my mother hurrying me into the wardrobe where I watched through the gap of the door someone storm into her bedchamber. I could not see her attacker’s face at the angle he stood. The only thing that was distinguishable was the ring he wore. It had a marble that illuminated like blood in the candlelight, and holding the stone in place, just as fiercely as the long fingers wrapped about my mother’s throat, were the golden legs of a scarab beetle. As the light faded from the glorious red emerald, so did the light from my mother’s eyes. Secondly, experiencing the hurtful abandonment dealt to me by the heir of Evercrest Hall.

  Chapter One

  The rhythmic drone of the lonely church bell empowered the air as the two identical hearses rolled out of the church grounds. The first carriage with its see-through exterior held the coffin of Lord Richard Davenport and following at a respectable distance, the carriage containing his wife, Lady Harriet.

  Sporting an extremely short haircut—a radical treatment from my aunt to void me of the head lice, which was epidemic in the village—I draped my body lazily over the small stone wall outside our humble little cottage. My main purpose was to glean enough information from the mob of mourners to satisfy a never-ending appetite to know everything, oftentimes resorting to a self-taught skill—reading people’s lips. All I knew was the couple’s killer had been the Davenport children’s governess, and the woman had been sentenced to be hanged.

  As the leading carriage approached, I squirmed about with excitement.

  “Maria, stop fidgeting and stand up properly,” said my Aunt Pam, only to be distracted by a voice nearby.

  “My husband said they’ll be interred in the mausoleum.” It was Mrs. Jenkins, who held her chin up high, barely looking at the group huddled deliberately near her. Her husband was the Davenports’ head groundskeeper, who kept her well-informed on the comings and goings at Evercrest Hall.

  Her audience nodded solemnly, some exchanged confused looks at one another, shrugging briefly, only for Mrs. Jenkins’ moment to be trodden on by an old man as he moaned, “It don’t matter where ya buried. We’re all fodder for the worms at the end of the day.”

  There was a lot of “shushing” under the breaths of the offended quarter, and reserved chuckles from some of the men. But the old man’s negativity did nothing to dampen my interest, though. The sound of a mausoleum sounded like a secret place where the ever-yielding doors devoured the bodies of all those with the same family name, in this case, Davenport. Everyone, including the church minister, Father Davidson, regarded these fellows as holy-of-holy, their bodies too sacred for sharing the common grave with the rest of mankind. I was yet to be enlightened on the vast chasm of the English, social class system.

  All the men who normally would have been working were given special time off to pay their respects to their late landlord and employer were joined by their families. As the first carriage passed them, every grownup’s head was bowed, the men especially having taken off their hats and placed them respectfully before their waists. Unfortunately, while one mother had her head bowed, I watched as her toddler ran out into the path of the leading horse team. The mother cried out. All of a sudden, there was a straining of wheels as the front carriage came to an abrupt stop, causing the large flower wreath on the earl’s coffin to come to grief somewhere on the hearse floor.

  As would have been the case, in normal situations, the driver would have reproached the woman for her careless mothering skills. But in respect of the two deceased lying somewhere behind him, and to uphold dignity for the family and friends farther behind, the driver remained quiet, watching with darkened brow as the red-faced young woman fetched her culture-oblivious offspring.

  It just so happened the third carriage had parked before me. Just like the hearse carriages, it was strapped to a fine team of four horses with long black feather plumes between their ears. I studied the image on the door—what I was to learn later was the family’s coat of arms. It depicted a large white-tailed eagle holding a blue shield with a gold-trimmed red cross on it. The bars of the cross were symmetrical at all angles. I went to great lengths to scan this for capturing on paper later, taking in the pale color of the eagle’s head, its fine detail in the beak and eyes and plumage, and of its large sharp talons, grasping—like desperate mother’s hands—the top of the shield. Casually, I looked up from the eagle and at the scrupulously clean window glass. To my surprise, a pair of eyes looked down on me. The brightest part of him was his hair, but his dress and expression were anything but. For the remaining time the carriages were stationary, the two of us stared at one another until the view of the boy’s haunting face was replaced with the large contingent of horse teams following from behind.

&nbs
p; Two months had elapsed since the funeral. Another burial had taken place, this time the dowager Lady Davenport. Most villagers blamed her sudden death on having a broken heart through losing her favorite son, whereas some reckoned she had been poisoned. There had not been the same turnout as her son’s farewell, and disappointingly for me, I did not see the boy in the carriage, who, I’d discovered in discussions at our dinner table, was her grandson and heir in waiting.

  Life churned on as normal. One would have thought the Davenport funerals would have put a stop to discussions about the big house, but mutterings of discontent reached our dinner table about those who had taken over the Davenport estate. Lord Davenport’s only sibling, who I had heard Mrs. Jenkins say, “You’ve got to watch your daughters with that one,” and his new bride, were now both the Davenport children’s legal guardians.

  “Well, fancy him marrying her!” was the usual lament from the women, though the men would say, “He got himself a real looker there.”

  In my aunt’s vocabulary, the new lady of the house was known as “that woman,” as there had been a rumor that “that woman” had been the late Lord Davenport’s secret mistress, Charlotte Parker, earning her the comment, “That one don’t let the grass grow beneath ‘er feet.”

  It was just another midsummer's day, and like the weather, I felt bright and energetic. Eagerly, I ran a brush through my hair, which was now a respectable shoulder length, although I was still mistaken for a boy because I was allowed to wear my youngest cousin’s hand-me-down clothing.

  The gate protested with a groan as it opened and closed; barely had I secured its latch when I caught sight of a group of children huddled together. The closer I got, the louder the cussing words. To my astonishment, I saw there were four boys hovered over two boys rolling about in the dirt, fighting as callously as two drunken sailors. Funnily enough, it was the smaller of the two, the one with dirty fair hair, who was getting the upper hand, and when he let out one vicious punch at his opponent’s nose, the boy who possessed it screamed like a baby.

  I sprinted over as two of the spectators dragged the fair-haired boy off his victim, but they weren’t intent on letting him go because the two others, seeing this boy was safely restrained, dealt punches to his abdomen. The bigger one of the group, meanwhile, held his bloody nose with his hands and languished like a dying animal in the dust.

  “Stop it! Get off him, you brutes!” I cried, leaping between the pair of punchers and the victim without concern for myself. Immediately, there was a refraining of fist blows, the reason being, and I was well aware of it, if anyone dared strike me, my cousins —known as the three reds because of their hair—would give no thought in dishing out justice for harming their only relative. “Let go of him now!”

  The two boys who held the victim in a crucifix position released their hold, causing him to fall backward with an unglorified thud to the ground. I yelled, “Bugger off,” and waited until the group all skulked away before aiding the lad to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, noticing he was the exact same height. He held one side of his abdomen, yet surprisingly, his face showed no agony.

  “I am fine, thank you.”

  “You have a queer-sounding voice,” I said. The boy did not speak colloquially like us common folk in spite of wearing clothing to match. “What is your name, and where are you from?” I tried to place the familiar face.

  There was a long pause on his behalf. “I am here visiting, that is all.”

  “Aw, is that so?” I sensed he didn’t wish to reveal his identity. It was a skill I had acquired from my cousins when I asked annoyingly intrusive questions only to be met with the look when one does not want to answer, just as this boy was doing. I persisted with my interrogation. “So, what is your name?” There was more silence. “Oh well, if you’re going to be rude, goodbye then!” I began to march off.

  “My…my name is Alby.”

  I stopped in my tracks and twirled about. I bit my lip to stop from giggling. I should have bitten my lip harder when the words fell out of my mouth. “What kind of silly name is that?”

  “Alby is short for Albert.” The boy’s brow darkened. “You don’t have to be so rude.”

  “Sorry, Alby, just that it sounds kind of strange. Anyway, for your information, all my friends call me Maa-rie.”

  Alby looked about at the surrounding cottages and toward the boys disappearing into a cottage farther along. “Hello, Murray,” he said, putting a dirty hand out toward me. I, in turn, shook it, making sure to squeeze it hard, so he flinched.

  From that day, I had decided Alby was to become my friend. Soon we spent most of our daylight hours together. He owned a little black pony named Troy, which I thought he liked too much because its coat was always shiny, and we would double-back and traipse about the countryside to our favorite secluded places. We would swim, climb trees, pretend we were swordsman having a duel, and roll about in the dirt and have play fights. It didn’t matter that our clothes got dirty. All we had to do was leap into the river and then lie about slothfully and talk about our dreams until our garments dried.

  In one of these carefree moments of lying on our backs with our hands behind our heads, looking up at the shapes in the fluffy clouds, I hesitantly shared with Alby that I wanted to be a painter. To my surprise, he did not tease me about doing such a silly thing like the other children did. On the contrary, he wholeheartedly agreed being a painter was a grand occupation. He even suggested I follow in the footsteps of the masters. I watched his lips as he rattled off his tongue several complicated-sounding names, which I could not quite hear properly, so I nodded eagerly in an attempt to pretend I did know these people. Furthermore, he described the different types of paints used, and the names of many forms of artwork, leaving me dumbfounded. Perhaps he had realized my ignorance, because he changed the subject quickly, pointing up to a cloud, and crying, “Look, there is Pegasus!” I was dumbfounded as to who that was too.

  So much was my determination to impress Alby, I showed him a charcoal sketch of the two of us together. I gave the drawing to him and felt pride when he said he would treasure the picture for the rest of his life. He, in turn, shared his dreams. One of them was being able to fly in the sky in a special carriage and take people to foreign lands that was only met with giggling from me and made him frown. His other desire was for him and I never to be separated, which warmed my heart, for I secretly desired that too.

  One day he let me in on a secret. He pulled up at a stone wall, beyond where oak woodlands stood like ancient giant soldiers in formation, and we slid off the pony’s back. Because I knew it was the property of the Davenport family—where the notorious murders had taken place a few months previously—I felt uneasy. He passed the reins to me and gestured for me to wait above while he disappeared below the bobbing grass tops. For several minutes, there was the sound of rocks scraping against one another, and when Alby finally made his appearance, he snatched the reins from my hands and said excitedly, “Go and take a look.”

  With trepidation, I followed the grass trail and looked down into the grassy depths at the daylight coming from beneath the wall. I cried in terror, “You’ve wrecked the wall, you idiot! You’ll get hanged for sure.” I ran back to him and looked about for anyone who might’ve witnessed this crime.

  “No, I won’t. It is a secret entrance that my father used to use. You and I can meet up in the woods in future.”

  “Well, I think your father is a big fat criminal.”

  His sunny countenance clouded over. “My father is not a criminal! He was a good man, better than any other.”

  “Huh, not as good as my father; no one can beat my father when it comes to goodness, except for Jesus Christ.” The shameful secret was I didn’t know who my father was. I sensed he hadn’t died at sea like Aunt had told me.

  Alby said with a snarl, “Your father is just a commoner.”

  I snapped, “Yours is too, and not a very good one!”

&nb
sp; Without warning, Alby lunged at me and forced me to the ground, and we rolled about. Somewhere in the action, he had relinquished the hold of his pony, and it had bolted off in the direction of home, wherever it was.

  I shouted, “You are a bastard!”

  In silent retaliation, he rammed dirt into my mouth and forced my chin up to prevent me from spitting it out. When I viciously pulled his hair, he leaned down and sank his sharp teeth deep into my neck, causing me to nearly choke on the mouthful of filth that I managed to spit in his face.

  Alby forced my hands above my head; his body weight crushed down on my chest. He yelled, “You take back what you called my father!”

  “Your father is a criminal…your father is a criminal…” I struggled to sing.

  “I’ll break your nose.”

  “You can break every bone in my body. If you do, my cousins will seek you out and kill you.”

  The boy looked down at me and the anger transformed to fear. I couldn’t help think my cousins’ reputations stood out firmly before them.

  To my surprise, he rolled off and sat beside me with his arms wrapped about his bent up knees before lowering his head and sobbing. There was a moment of awkwardness, then he mumbled, “My father is not a criminal! He is…he was a good man.”

  I slowly sat up. My heart was still pounding as I unsteadily uttered, “Is your papa dead?”

  Alby nodded; his face still in his hands.

  I tried to ignore the wet, warm trickle attracting the buzz of flies at my neck. I shuffled up close to him, and then I realized why the boy’s face had been so familiar—it was the same haunting one I’d seen in the frame of the carriage window. This time the boy was dressed like a scruffy urchin with tussock strewn hair, not tidily combed to one side, and crying wholeheartedly before my eyes.

  “Alby, I am dreadfully sorry. I take back everything I said earlier. Your father was a great man.” I ignored Mrs. Jenkins’ voice about how Lord Davenport had used to spend a lot of his time with “that” woman. I placed my arm about Alby’s shoulders, though I didn’t really need to I asked, “You’re Lord Davenport’s son, aren’t you?”