The Savage Inheritance

A Handkerchief

Watertown, 1745

Mercy followed close behind Bawden as they ventured through the windowless corridors, the only light omitted from a single candle he held aloft. The newly waxed floors gave way to stone, the cold enveloping Mercy. She tucked her shawl closer about her shoulders as they climbed a short set of stairs. She had lost count of the rooms they'd passed or corners they had taken, nor could she recall if they faced the front or rear of the Hall.

"Please, Miss Savage, stay close. I do not wish to lose you."

Mercy skipped up the last couple steps and drew up behind Bawden. 

"Is this an old building?" she asked.

"The stones were brought over by my great grandfather from the north of England, taken from from family's castle from the age of the Saxons."

Mercy arched a brow, but did not reply. Despite his obvious wealth, Bawden did not strike her as someone with an impressive lineage as English nobility. His beak of a nose was often red and running, his shoulders bent and narrow. Much less, his etiquette was hardly acceptable. Ramsey was far more knowledgeable in that realm and he had been raised in squalor, according to the kitchen servants' gossip. 

They turned a final corner to a dead end. The double doors creaked as he opened them.

"Oh," Mercy breathed as she took in the room.

She felt as though she'd stepped into a cathedral, with vaulted ceilings and high windows letting in the morning white light. Candles lined the spaces between book shelves. And the shelves themselves were filled to the brim from floor to ceiling with books of all sizes with fine leather bindings. Desks with papers and ink scattered the room. Ramsey sat at one under one of the windows, light spilling over his back. He did not turn to look as they entered the library.

"Your father did see this place once," Bawden replied, his tone dull with memory.

Mercy glanced over at the scholar. "How did you know my father, Mister Bawden?"

The scratching of Ramsey's pen silenced, but he stayed seated. Bawden cleared his throat. "We were childhood friends. Along with your mother. She was a distant cousin of mine."

Bawden swiftly moved towards a corner of the cavernous room where a trio of crates sat, their sawdust fillings dusting the stone floor around them. Mercy followed and peeked in to find the remaining books from her father's library.

"These are the last of the crates to be organized." Bawden lifted a volume from one and flipped through it. He clucked his tongue as he examined the spine. "Here, this one will go in that shelf at the far left. It's where I'm putting the ones to be rebound."

Mercy reached out for it, but Bawden hesitated, pulling it away. Mercy cleared her throat. "Do you wish me to place it in the shelf?"

He blinked. "Yes...of course. But first..."

Mercy suppressed a grin as he tugged a pair of dusting gloves from his pocket and held them out. She complied without complaint and he managed a quick smile. Finally he handed her the book. It weighed down her hands. She scanned the title.

"History of New England Witchcraft  by Cotton Mathers," she read aloud with a smirk. "A novel?"

Bawden stared up at her in horror. "Of course not. I would not keep such drivel as a novel on my shelves."

Mercy shrugged and meandered away. As she walked, she flipped open the front cover, her fingers tingling as she ran them over the words. Mercy halted as Ramsey came to stand before her. He snapped the book shut and took it from her hands without a glance. 

She took a turn about the room. Most of the books were concerned with proper business structure and tax law. Eventually, she came to a whole shelf and studied the odd titles of the books there. Experiments and Observations on the Occult. The Curse of New Land. Early Americas and the Native Gods. Trailing a finger down the spine of one, she let out a light chuckle.

"Are you are a student of... history, Mister Bawden?" she asked amiably, turning towards the men where they were stacking books out of the crates.

They stopped and stared towards her, silence falling heavily between them. Mister Bawden cleared his throat. "Of a sort."

"And my father, is that what he was studying all those years?"

Mercy shifted uncomfortably under their inquisitive gazes, rubbing her forearms in the following silence.

"You never knew?" Bawden scoffed, tucking a book under his arm and stepping towards her, his gaze dancing with amusement. "Edward... he kept it all from you?"

Mercy tried not to be insulted by the smug grin on his face. "My father was very private."

"I never married or had children, but I should hope I would have kept my offspring more enlightened than Edward did with you," Bawden spoke more to himself than her, Ramsey giving an obvious eye roll behind him.

Mercy stiffened. "My father made sure I was well educated, sir. But he also made certain I understood the difference between fact and fantasy. Tales of witchcraft and curses are for children. It never existed then or now."

Bawden turned a chilly shoulder towards her. "I fear then this work will bore you, Miss Savage. It may be better if Enoch showed you the way back to your room."

Whipping the gloves from her hands, Mercy slapped them on the table near her and lifted her head. "Please don't trouble yourself, Mister Ramsey. I can find my own way."

She strode towards the door, but was stopped in her path by the manservant blocking the way with his tall personage. Ramsey gave her a warning glance and reached for a candle. "It's no trouble, Miss Savage."

As Ramsey led her through the creaking halls, Mercy swallowed hard a surge of tears. Her throat constricted. She kept her gaze on her shoes, her face burning with anger. If she had known this would be her life at Northcairn, she never would have let her curiosity lead her here. She would have even preferred engaging the help of the odious Mister Cresswell than suffer this humiliation from the horrifically ill-mannered Cyril Bawden.

Ramsey halted and she realized they were standing in front of her rooms. She did not look at him directly, but tugged the shawl tighter about her shoulders and sniffed. Ramsey let out a sigh and dug a handkerchief from his coat. He offered it to her and she took it without a word.

"My employer is not accustomed to interacting with others. Even less with female company. You must excuse him," Ramsey explained in his throaty growl.

Mercy nodded, patting her cheeks. "I apologize. I do not know what came over me. You both must think me very rude."

"I believe neither of us know what to think of you, Miss Savage."

She looked up to find not his usual glare, but his expression calm as he studied her tear stained face. She looked away and held out the kerchief. "Thank you, Mister Ramsey."

"Keep it." 

He opened the door to the room for her.

A gush of air rushed out to meet them. The flame of the candle he held between them flared and horse hooves echoed on the empty forest road outside. Ramsey's dark eyes widened and he slammed the door shut before she could enter.

"What-"

Ramsey gripped her upper arm. "You best come with me."