The Savage Inheritance

The Scottish Gentleman in the Oxblood Coat

The carriage stopped at the tavern in the twilight to change horses. After having ridden from Boston, Mercy had begun the journey west away from the sea. At the dinner parties held by the Missus Winter, who had hosted her, she had earned many a shocked and fascinated inquiry to her plans.

One gentleman, a highly fashionable man named Creswell who had made the party fourteen, had suggested she find a way to wiggle out of her obligations. Perhaps he could talk to some lawyer friends of his to see if she could forego the doom waiting her in the desolate, swampy nothing of Watertown. He claimed that a lovely, young lady as herself shouldn't be left to such a fate, it was unconscionable. She thanked him kindly, but declined his help. 

Though well connected, she quickly observed that men like Creswell often leeched on to those who seemed the best means of upward social mobility. Wealthy, young, and though not beautiful but pretty, Mercy knew she made such a target, despite her father's notorious name as a ruthless money lender. His religious fervor had erased any doubt of his character in public conversation, especially after his generous donation for their rich neighborhood's new church steeple. But there was still a frozen quality to the smiles when she was introduced as the daughter of the dead usurer.

After years of being cloistered away like a nun, unless she attended events alongside her dour father, Mercy easily slipped into the glimmering trance of Boston society. However, she couldn't help being drawn into the mystery of her father's last wish. Mister Bawden, though presumed moneyed and landed with a plantation like Northcairn, wasn't a name any were familiar with. Even as she waited for the horses to be refreshed, those she met in the tavern knew little of him.

With the grit of the road dusting her skirts and her nerves raw from miles of rough roads, she found a quiet anteroom adjacent to the pub. The bar keep, smelling money in her fine clothes, had drawn a thin curtain over the doorway and promised her solitude. After taking her request for tea and a plate of seed cakes, he left her to the quiet crackle of a small hearth. Mercy removed her gloves and bonnet. Rubbing her aching neck, she closed her eyes.

A shudder passed over the quiet room, the walls creaking as though a heavy gale accosted them outside. The fire behind the iron grate dimmed and the twin tallow candles bleeding greasy wax flared. The forlorn echo of lonely horse hooves echoed down the road outside. Numbly, she noticed that the voices of the men at the bar had muted as though underwater. Or perhaps she was the one submerged.

"Miss Savage. How you have grown."

Mercy peered through the shadows as the curtain was tugged aside. A man entered the room and meandered towards the hearth, perching an elbow against the mantle with a smug grin. His ragged, yellow hair was loose and too long to be considered proper without a queue. It put to mind certain romantic poets with wicked reputations. Dark, deep set eyes under sandy brows took her in approvingly.

"You have your mother's beauty. I can only imagine how many proposals you would have received had you stayed any longer in Boston. Though from those keen eyes of yours, I believe you possess your father's intelligence as well. But perhaps not his shrewdness. We shall see," the stranger spoke, a light Scottish brogue tinting his words.

Mercy squinted in the odd light. "I am sorry, but have we met?"

His oxblood coat rustled around his legs as he moved towards a seat by the small window. Arranging himself elegantly in the chair, the crisp white cravat at his throat loose, he regarded her again with the same strange, half smile.

"Oh many years ago. You would not recall. You were only a small child when your father brought me to you. You were asleep in bed, I did not want to disturb you." He reached towards her ear with calloused fingers. She froze as he curled a strand of her hair around a knuckle. "You seem to be missing something."

Mercy blinked out of her stupor and tore away from his touch. "Sir, I beg your pardon, but what right have you to speak to me in such a way. I have no memory of our acquaintance-"

"But you see, I do have certain rights where you are concerned, Mercy Savage. Your father saw to it."

Mercy gave a stunned scoff. "And why is that?"

"Your father was not always the self righteous man that he became in later years. Not too many years ago, he took something from me. It was allowed by my own benefactors, but debts eventually must be paid." The Scottish gentleman cocked his head to the side in a predatory fashion. "And sooner than later in this case, I believe."

Wetting her lips, Mercy smoothed out her skirts. She felt the same revulsion towards this stranger as she did with Mister Cresswell at the dinner party. Though the setting had taken an odd turn, he was the same kind of man bent to use her for his own means. 

"Sir, I am tired. I have traveled a great distance today and I would appreciate my privacy."

The Scottish gentleman rose to his feet with a consenting nod, hair the color of antique paper brushing his shoulders. "Of course, my lady. Please forgive my intrusion. I felt this was the best time for our introduction. When you arrive at Northcairn, I am not sure when I may see you next. But do not fret, I will return. You see, Cyril and I have an understanding as well."

The curtain in the doorway sliced open and blew out one of the candles on the hearth. The fire roared to life and the window outside reflected the red brick of the building next door. Except for herself, the room was empty. Mercy rubbed her eyes as though she had awoken from a quick sleep, her senses dazed.

"Oh I am most sorry, Miss! I do hope I didn't disturb you-" the bar keep exclaimed, the tea pot and plate with the yellow cake rattling on a tray.

"No, not at all." Mercy waved a hand in the vague direction of the squat table in front of her. "I must have dozed off. Thank you."

After finishing a cup of tea, Mercy found she had no appetite for the cake. It was for the best as the coachman entered the tavern to inform her that the carriage was ready to take her the final few leagues. Fighting a wave of exhaustion, Mercy moved to replace her bonnet on her head. She ran her fingers through the mussed curls above her ear and supposed she must have worried them while she had slept with such strange dreams.