The Savage Inheritance

Arrival at Northcairn

Watertown, 1745

The land flattened and sank, heavy with thick forests and murky haunts as the carriage clattered closer to her destination. Mercy slid open the short window and peered out into the gathering darkness. She squinted against the failing light, trying to make sense of the landscape and holding on to her bonnet, the loose silk ribbons curling in the rushing air. 

She had not seen the place where she had been born since she was a child. Her mother was buried in a lonely plot near their family's tavern. Her father had abandoned their inn abruptly after her mother's death, uprooting them for Boston almost over night. She had been barely nine years old. Though she had been old enough to have memory of that place, her recollections were few. Mostly, her childhood was shrouded in a forgetful fog.

Mercy never inquired too closely about her mother or their former life in Watertown. From an early age, she was under the impression that the grief had been too much for her father to bear. He shied away from the subject of her mother's unexpected loss, coldly cutting off any questions.

Resting her forehead against the window frame, she winced as the carriage driver cursed the team of horses as they struggled through the mud on the country road. The crack and snap of his whip echoed in tandem with a rapidly encroaching thunderstorm.

Lightening illuminated the woods beyond, the trees thick and numerous. The flourishing branches waved frantically with the vicious tempest. Mercy bit her lip hard and found she could not look away from the dramatic scene. 

A strange, floating light lingered on the edge of the copse, bobbing from the soggy ground and hovering like a beacon. Mercy rubbed her eyes. A silhouette of a man appeared against the gloom as another lightening strike crackled in the heavens. The figure vanished as the thunder roared. The floating light blinked out of existence.

Mercy raked the window shut with a gasp, her heart racing. She drew the short curtain over the window, enveloping herself in shadow. However, she still could not slake the overwhelming dread, as menacing as the thunder overhead. 

"Come on you sons of devils!" The driver shouted. 

Mercy wet her dry lips and with trembling hands, fumbled for the small Bible that had belonged to her father out from the silken folds of her skirts. She rode the rest of the way in the dark, clutching the book in her hands and explaining away what she had seen in the wood.

*** 

"Oh my, if you could- Ramsey- Mister Ramsey! Please make sure they use the gloves," Mister Cyril Bawden fretted, pointing an accusing finger at the men carrying the crates of books through the misty night. "Please. Be most careful, sirs."

Enoch Ramsey, Mister Bawden's employee of little known origins, slapped a pair of dusting gloves on the chest of one of the movers and arched his dark eyebrows without a word. The men complied dutifully. One of them muttered something about being ordered about by an Indian, but was quickly hushed by another with a fearful glance in Enoch's direction. 

He was known in the town and surrounding parishes. He was not a servant, not a butler or valet, that much was known. What purpose Enoch Ramsey served for Mister Bawden was as mysterious as the man himself. For all intents and purposes, he was known as the business executor of Northcairn Hall, as Mister Bawden rarely left his grounds. 

"At least Edward had the sense to see them properly packaged," Mister Bawden murmured as he ran nimble fingers down the side of a wooden crate, his bulbous eyes alight with greed.

"I do believe the man was dead before they were packed away," Enoch replied dryly, cracking open the edge of the crate.

"Yes, you are correct. Quite dead, if I'm not mistaken. There wasn't anything left of him to bury after the fire-"

"Except for the hands," a female voice, a strange sound for the halls of Northcairn, stated plainly. "I am surprised you were not informed of that macabre detail."

A young woman stood in the wavering torchlight, fires burning on the twin sconces by the stone archway before the front doors. She calmly removed her gloves and bonnet as though she were the lady of the house returning from a trip to town. She gave Mister Bawden a weary, but cordial smile. Her buckled shoes were silent on the stone floor as she moved towards them. 

Mister Bawden's jaw slackened. He had forgotten entirely about the young woman accompanying the books despite the fact that she was their true owner. He straightened his posture and gave a short bow, holding out a hand to take hers. Enoch Ramsey shrugged in apathy then continued to open the crate.

"Miss Savage, may I introduce myself. I am Cyril Bawden." He took her hand and gave it a light shake though his eyes drifted towards the next round of boxes being lugged into the abbey. "I hope your journey wasn't too taxing. I myself am not fond of travel."

"It was tiring, but I was able to refresh myself at several establishments along the way."

A moment of awkward silence passed, the young woman waiting for the proper welcoming measures. Mister Bawden rarely had guests, much less one like Miss Savage. As his ward, she was to become part of the household. He hardly had any notion on how to address such a circumstance. 

And the books... his mind spun as he tried to calculate how many he now possessed, if there would be room in his library for them all, when he could get them rebound for certainly the smoke from the fire must have damaged more than a few of them-

"Mister Bawden, I would be obliged if you could show me to my rooms," Miss Savage interrupted his distracted thoughts.

The tall, bone thin man in the powdered wig jolted as though she had woken him from a dream. He gave a curt nod and motioned for Enoch. "Yes, of course. I do apologize. You must be weary. Mister Ramsey, if you please?"

Miss Savage gazed after him in surprised amusement as he left her for an open crate. Bawden's manner was nothing to be expected in a gracious host. Even though he had spent his ragged childhood starving among the bogs of Dogtown outside Gloucester, Enoch Ramsey had quickly attuned to the rules of proper etiquette, if only to make up for his employer's short comings.

"Miss Savage-" Enoch rose to his feet and looked her in the eye for the first time.

A vision of shadows drifted around her shoulders and curled under her chin like ivy vines. It was a wild, strange effect that made the light hazy around her. He had seen this a time or two before on other people. Something ancient, malevolent even, clung to her like dust. His mouth suddenly dry, Ramsey swallowed and glanced at Bawden. The skeletal man was digging gingerly through the crate he had just opened, oblivious to what he had invited into Northcairn.

This cursed maiden was the reason why Enoch Ramsey had come under Cyril Bawden's service.

"I should very much like to rest," she stated, the edge to her weary voice barely concealed.

Enoch Ramsey drew close and studied her till she looked away from his probing gaze. There was no guile in her weary gaze, but he would keep close watch on her just the same.

"If you will follow me, Miss Savage." 

Enoch lit a candelabra and led her into the depths of Northcairn Hall.