The Heir

Chapter 10

The days became too short for my taste as November marched on. Socially, life was slowing down. I had more time to read books, practice my new 19th-century skills, and relax. One day, I sat in my sitting room wearing my simple navy house dress instead of the usual ruffled mess. I felt normal in this so-called "simple" dress; my usual attire made me feel like an overdone doll. Sitting in my window seat, I watched the icy wind chase people as they ran past. It was no wonder that many people call London depressing. Too many people were crammed into a filthy city that spent most of its time in fog, rain, or darkness. On days like that, I missed my home even more than usual. It didn't help that the holidays were approaching.

Mr. Cunningham came in and noticed me staring out the window forlorn. "What's the matter, my dear?"

"Nothing," I lied.

He knew from experience that I wasn't telling the truth, but he didn't press me.

"The sun will come back in a few months," he said as he moved next to the window. "I'll take you to the coast then. We have a home on the Atlantic you will adore."

"Something to look forward to, I guess," I replied numbly.

 I rose from the window seat and moved to stand by the fireplace. The blues had ahold of me today. These episodes of melancholy struck me sometimes. Mr. Cunningham assured me it was normal and they would lessen in frequency and intensity in time.

Mr. Cunningham smiled, determined to cheer me up. "Christmas is before then. You do still have Christmas in the 21st century?"

"I love Christmas." I smiled, but my heart wasn't in it. "And Thanksgiving."

"Thanksgiving?"

"On the fourth Thursday of November, Americans gather with family and friends to give thanks and eat a lot. We watch football after dinner. It's a thing." I smiled as I thought about the many fun family Thanksgiving Days I had spent at home. I even missed the annual blowout with my mother over the cooking schedule. "It's one of my favorite holidays."

"Then we shall celebrate," said Mr. Cunningham with a clap of his hands.

"Really?" I smiled at him, feeling happier.

"Of course," he said with a casual shrug. "My dear, is this what's had you so down?"

I rushed across the room and hugged him. "Thank you so much, Uncle Cunningham!"

Suddenly, the door opened, and Mary rushed in. She looked flustered and out of breath.

"Mr. C, Miss Rebecca, you need to come with me, please," she panted. She turned and rushed out again. We hurried after her.

"What is it, child?" asked Mr. Cunningham as we ran down the stairs, through the first floor, and back to the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen area, Mary said, "It's Malcolm, sir."

Malcolm was one of the teenage lads employed in the house. When his parents, who worked in the household, died when he was five years old, Mr. Cunningham took Malcolm in to keep him out of the workhouses under the pretense of job training and being an errand boy. He now sat in a chair in the kitchen holding a cut of meat up to what I assumed was a nasty black eye. Ingrid, who raised him, looked distraught at the sight of her boy.

Mr. Cunningham rushed to Malcolm's side. "Mary, send for a doctor!"

I knew he was flustered because he took great pains to call Mary "Mrs. Tanner" in front of the other servants.

"It's done, sir," was the housekeeper's calm but panting reply.

I went to comfort, Ingrid. She was gathering towels, boiling water, and cooking soup. I tried to convince her everything would be alright, but what maternal figure could relax when something happened to their charge? I told her to warm some damp towels and get something cold to help with Malcolm's swelling which was more sanitary than raw meat. She gratefully set about her tasks, desperate to keep busy.