Short Story: Bountiful Harvest by Dan Boylan
Sir Henry stared absently through the French windows at the long avenue of beech trees. A Clydesdale, shoulders down, hauled a wagonload of hay towards the great timber framed barn and a group of labourers, scythes and rakes over their shoulders trudged wearily behind. It was all lost on the ageing patriarch whose stare was almost transfixed. A clerk tapped gently on the door and brought in a wad of papers. “Daily returns, Sir Henry.” he muttered.
The landowner turned, as if awoken from his daydream, “What, what say?” he snapped.
“Daily returns sir.” He dropped the sheaf of papers on to the vast oak desk and slithered away. Sir Henry turned his attention again to the French windows and a deep furrowed frown appeared on his brow. He turned to the desk, opened the top drawer and selected a slim panatela from the box. He sniffed it appreciatively before striking a match and slowly coaxing it into life. He returned to the French windows and puffed deeply on his cigar.
The image of the woman came to haunt him again; her forthrightness and impudence still left him reeling. He had just begun his morning ride and as he approached the five barred gate at the end of the beech tree avenue the woman in a frayed dress, shawl and clogs and carrying a small child, stepped from the undergrowth and pushed the gate shut.
“Open the gate, woman!” he demanded.
She stood deliberately in his path, turned the child to face him and called,. “This is your grandson, Sir Henry, though I doubt he’ll ever grace your table. He is another of your useless son’s bastards. The swine fed my young daughter too much cider last harvest, then led her to the hayrick and took her maidenhead,” she held the child aloft again, “this is the result, sir!”
Sir Henry had sniffed and made no effort to deny the charge or to offer an apology or make amends. “Send me a letter with all the details and I’ll see what can be done.” He offered.
“No!” she spat with a determination that took him quite by surprise, “No, not this time. This time he, or you,,will pay for his sins,” and she held the child towards him again, “this time the bastard-child will have all the privileges of life that one of your legitimate grandchildren could expect, he will have…………”
Sir Henry growled, spurred his mount and the mare leapt forward. He raised his crop over his left shoulder and was about to strike her but she lifted her arm in defence and called, “There are others watching from the woods, there are many witnesses. Strike me down and the whole county will know by sundown. I will drag you through every court in the land sir; further, I will expose your feckless son for the abuser of young girls that he is. I will ruin your name.”
He lowered his crop and curbed his rage. “What is it you want woman?” he demanded.
“I want a cottage for my family, a full time job for my husband and an allowance to pay for the upkeep and education for the boy until he is old enough to support himself. I have written several letters about your son’s weakness for young maidens, for all his child bastards and for your repeated efforts to hush-up his numerous misdeeds. I will expect to hear from you before sundown with a written agreement signed by a lawyer or the letters will be posted to the high and mighty of the county. I am Maud Sykes of Summerton and you haven’t heard the last of me. Good day sir!” and she turned sharply and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Sir Henry blew out a long plume of cigar smoke as he slowly paced the room. A clerk entered with another sheaf of documents but was dismissed with the curt wave of the hand. He slipped his half hunter out of his waistcoat pocket and checked the time, conceding that he had but a few hours to repair the situation and preserve the family name and reputation. The woman had been correct in her statement that he had indeed covered up his son’s string of indiscretions, an observation which rankled and irritated him. He further realised that this time he would not be able to buy off the injured party with a barrel of ale or a few shillings. This time the price would be much higher with the possibility that she may return for further instalments. He gritted his teeth but even now felt no urge to send for Morley the solicitor.
He glanced at the small paintings of his grandfather and father which graced the wall over the mantle shelf. His grandfather, the village rector, tall and godly had been left a modest inheritance and bought a small farm across the dale. The estate had become one of the finest in the region. His pride was now dented with yet another of Master Charles’ improprieties. His stern warnings to Charles had gone unheeded and the youth had gone from one wild escapade to another. Sir Henry had continued repeatedly to cover up his excesses and debts as a man does for his youthful son.
His thoughts were fluctuating between family and reputation, right and wrong and to his obligation to the family of his new grandson. His clear thinking and determination to protect the family name was obscured by the recent revelation of a new family member, to which he was slowly feeling a growing sense of attachment.
His lunch sat on his desk untouched and any staff that had the temerity to enter his inner sanctum was dismissed with an impatient flick of the wrist. He knew that he had an hour, or so, to find a solution.
The air grew thick with cigar smoke and he became resourceful and determined. A solution slowly came to him. He would send the youth to an isolated private college which applied a strict regime. If the boy failed to achieve, he would lose all his allowances and support and would be permanently excluded from the estate. Sir Henry mulled over the implications for some time.
The afternoon wore on and as the sun began to drop towards the western hills, he pulled the cord and summoned his clerk.”Fetch George Perkins, the coachman.” he ordered.
“Perkins, do you know the hamlet of Summerton?”
“Yes me lud!”
“Take the trap there, find a woman called Sykes, I spoke to her this morning, persuade her and her daughter to come here……………I have an urge to speak with them and to rectify a great injustice. If you can, try to coax them to bring the new child!” he said, his voice calm and even.
oooOooo
Author: Dan Boylan
Author Bio:
Dan Boylan is a retired Yorkshireman, living in Hampshire, England. He has been writing articles and travel features for a series of magazines and other publications for some 25 years. His favourite genre is short fiction which is liberally sprinkled with intrigue and the unexpected, often with humour and a twist in the tail/tale!
He creates imaginative story baselines with colourful character profiles and intriguing plots. He has been a member of various writers’ groups for 25 years producing more than numerous travel articles, 60 short stories, dramas and rattling good yarns.
His first full length novel, Lomax at war was published in February 2023 and his next novel, The pioneers, is due for publication in mid 2023.
He is well read, interested in fiction, travel, news, history, geography and all/any aspects of humanity and human behaviour.
His daughter claims that he is an absolute mine of utterly useless information.