Prodigal Son
Rather than wait for the butler to show his guest out, Lucian Somerset himself walked Dr. Newsome down the stairs and across the foyer to the front door.
"You will let me know if there is any change in your father's condition during the night?" the physician inquired.
"Certainly, Doctor."
"Otherwise, I'll stop by either tomorrow afternoon or the next day and check on him."
Sixty-four-year-old Frederick Somerset, despite his vast wealth, lay on his bed in the second-floor master bedroom, slowly wasting away. Lucian, the younger son, would keep vigil over his dying father throughout the night. He did so not out of a sense of obligation but out of love for his only surviving parent, his mother having passed away five years earlier.
In the servants' dining room, located in the rear wing of the mansion, the kitchen maids were setting the table for dinner. Bess Audley, the plump cook, had prepared a lamb stew, always a favorite among the domestic staff. After placing the soup tureen in the center of the table, Bess took her seat next to Joan Lansbury, the housekeeper. They were soon joined by Oswald Molesey, the butler—who as the highest ranking servant took the seat at the head of the table—and an assortment of footmen and maids.
"Dr. Newsome has gone," Oswald announced as Bess handed him a bowl of stew and a thick slice of freshly baked bread.
"I don't suppose there's much he can do for poor Mr. Frederick now," Joan said.
"Except try to keep him comfortable."
"I remember when I first came to Woodbury Manor," the cook mused. "I was but a girl of thirteen, come to work in the kitchen. Mr. Frederick and Miss Althea—God rest her soul—were so young, and their sons were both small children at the time."
"Speaking of the children," one of the young maids asked, "does anyone know when Master Randolph will be arriving? Should I prepare a bed for him just in case he shows up unexpectedly?"
Mention of the oldest son brought frowns to the faces of the butler, housekeeper and cook.
"I suppose that might be the wise thing to do," Joan agreed, her face still showing signs of distaste.
"I wonder if Master Lucian was able to get in touch with him," Bess added.
"Who knows?" Oswald replied. "I imagine he's somewhere in Europe enjoying himself while his brother is left alone to deal with the unpleasantness of their father's illness."
Although not one of the servants would ever voice their opinions of Randolph Somerset to anyone else, they frequently expressed their dislike of the older son to one another. Not a one of them had anything good to say about the arrogant, self-indulgent, selfish young man. Lucian, on the other hand, was held in high esteem. Unfortunately, when Frederick Somerset passed away, the estate would go to the older son, not the younger one.
"I can't imagine working for that wastrel," Oswald complained.
"You're not considering looking for another position, are you?" Bess asked.
"I suppose I'll remain here after Mr. Frederick passes on—at first, anyway. If the situation becomes too intolerable, I might see if there are any other openings for a butler."
"I'm afraid I could never leave Woodbury Manor," Joan declared. "I was born here. My mother was the elderly Mrs. Somerset's lady's maid, and my father was the coachman. This is the only home I've ever known."
Several of the other staff members were second-generation employees, as well. They, like the housekeeper, viewed Woodbury Manor as much their home as the Somerset brothers did.
"My entire life I've taken care of this house," Joan continued, on the verge of tears. "Before I became the housekeeper, I was a maid. I scrubbed the floors, washed the windows, polished the furniture, beat the carpets and laundered the bedding. I know every inch of this place. How could I leave it now even if I had somewhere else to go?"
"Maybe we're being unfair to Master Randolph," Bess suggested optimistically. "It's just possible he's sewn his wild oats and is ready to settle down now."
Oswald raised his eyebrows, a clear sign of his skepticism.
"Well, let's hope so," he said. "I would hate to leave Woodbury Manor, too. I doubt there is another cook out there that can make lamb stew equal to yours, Miss Audley."
* * *
Moments after Frederick Somerset's Austrian-crafted cuckoo clock chimed three in the morning the cancer-ridden owner of Woodbury Manor breathed his last. Sitting beside the bed, holding the old man's hand, Lucian, bereft at his father's passing, lowered his head and wept. Nearly an hour later, he wiped his tears and summoned the strength to stand and walk out of the room. He did not head for his own bedroom since he could not possibly sleep under the circumstances. Knowing the servants were in bed asleep, he walked down the back staircase to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee.
A light sleeper, the cook was awakened by the sound of footsteps and went to investigate.
"Oh, Master Lucian!" she exclaimed when she found the young man sitting in the butler's chair at the servants' dining table. "I didn't expect to see you in this part of the house."
"I needed a cup of coffee, and I didn't want to wake anyone."
"You mean to say you made it yourself?"
"Believe it or not, Miss Audley, I am capable of doing some things on my own."
"Forgive me sir," she said, flustered. "I didn't mean to imply ...."
"No need to apologize. I'm not offended."
"Can I get you anything to eat with that?"
"No, thank you. I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite. What time do the others get up?"
"Usually just before dawn, sometimes a bit sooner. Why, sir? Is there something you need done?"
"I wanted to break the news to them myself."
Bess saw the pain on the young man's face and accurately surmised the cause.
"Is it about Mr. Frederick?"
"Yes. He died around three o'clock."
"I'm so sorry. Your father was such a good, kind man. We will all miss him terribly."
"Thank you. It means a lot to me that you all thought highly of him."
"Is there anything I can do to help you at this difficult time?"
"I'll be relying on you to provide some form of repast to feed the mourners after the funeral."
"You can count on me, Master Lucian. Do you know when the service will be held?"
"Before I decide on any arrangements, I'd like to get in touch with my brother. The last I heard he was somewhere in France—Paris, I believe."
The housekeeper, having heard voices, entered the kitchen, clutching her bathrobe over her nightclothes.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"It's my father," Lucian answered. "He passed away during the night."
Like the cook, Joan Lansbury offered her heartfelt condolences.
"Would you like me to wake Mr. Molesey and the other servants?" she offered.
"No. Let them sleep. I'll be back later this morning to talk to them. Meanwhile, I'll try to find out where my brother is currently living."
"If you need anything ...," the housekeeper said.
"I know. I can always rely on you."
When Master Lucian left the servants' wing, Bess and Joan sat down at the kitchen table to have their morning coffee. Neither felt like going back to bed.
"Even though I knew it was only a matter of time, I still can't believe Mr. Frederick is gone," the housekeeper declared, valiantly holding back her tears.
"Me either," the cook agreed. "It gives me some comfort knowing he's probably reunited with Missus Althea. They were so happy when she was alive."
"I can't help wondering what will become of Master Lucian now that his father is gone."
"I imagine he'll remain here at Woodbury Manor. After all, this is his home."
"But the house belongs to Master Randolph now. I somehow can't see the two of them living under the same roof. Although there is only a ten-month difference in their ages, those two are as different as night and day. There are bound to be problems."
"But it is an awfully large house," the ever-optimistic cook pointed out. "Besides, Master Randolph travels much of the time. Someone will have to stay here and keep an eye on things."
"Well, I dare say young Master Lucian will be good at that. It's such a shame he was the second-born, not the first. By rights, Woodbury Manor ought to go to him. He was the one watched over Mr. Frederick while he was dying. It doesn't seem fair that the other one should be allowed to waltz in and take over everything now that their father is gone."
"I agree with you wholeheartedly. There's no doubt in my mind that Master Randolph is the prodigal son."
Still, Randolph Somerset was his father's legal heir, and the opinion of two servants would not change that fact.
* * *
By one of life's uncanny coincidences, Randolph Somerset returned home from Europe the very morning of the day of his father's funeral.
"Where have you been?" Lucian wanted to know. "I've been trying for days to reach you."
"I've been in Barcelona. Why? What's your sudden interest in my whereabouts?"
"I guess you haven't heard. Father is dead."
"Really?"
There were no tears. In fact, there was no sign of any emotion, beyond a mild curiosity.
"The funeral is this afternoon."
"I suppose I'll have to find something appropriate to wear then."
"Is that all that you can think about at a time like this? What to wear?"
A sardonic smile appeared on the older brother's face.
"No," he answered, "but since the funeral is today, it is the most pressing."
Randolph then called for the housekeeper.
"Have my room made up," he instructed when she appeared.
"It's already been done, sir. We've been expecting you."
Joan did not expect a please or a thank you, so she was not disappointed when neither was given. Randolph was not the kind of man to request the assistance of the domestic staff; he was one to issue orders and demand obedience.
"I'm going to freshen up. Tell the cook to prepare something for me to eat and have it ready by the time I come downstairs."
"Yes, Master Randolph."
"And in the future you will refer to me as Mister Randolph. I'm not a boy anymore."
"Certainly, Mr. Randolph," Joan said with a respectful nod of her head and sedately headed toward the kitchen to speak to the cook.
It's started already, she thought. He's home for only a few minutes, and he's acting like he owns the place.
Only hours after Frederick Somerset's body was interred in the family crypt, Randolph called for a reading of the will. To no one's surprise, the bulk of the estate went to the oldest son, and a much smaller amount of money was bequeathed to Lucian. While it was hardly enough to see him through to his old age, it was sufficient for him to begin a small business, at which, hopefully, he would prosper. Bearing his sibling no great love, he departed from Woodbury Manor within days of his brother's arrival.
That same afternoon a houseguest appeared, packed bags at her side. The young woman—given her dyed hair, painted face and sluttish attire, she could hardly be called a lady—insisted upon seeing Randolph Somerset.
"Is Mr. Randolph expecting you?" the butler asked haughtily.
"That's none of your business, is it? Now go tell him Lulu is here."
Oswald's face reddened with anger at being ordered about by such a woman. Still, he did as he was told.
"Excuse me, Mr. Randolph," he said, finding the new owner of Woodbury Manor overseeing the removal of his father's belongings from the master bedroom. "There's a Miss Lulu here to see you, sir."
"Lulu! Send her up."
Sending an unmarried woman into a bachelor's bedroom went against every notion of moral decency Oswald Molesey held. After conveying the message to the woman in question, he went downstairs to the servants' dining room to compose himself.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" the cook offered.
"Yes, please, Miss Audley. I could certainly use one."
As the two domestics shared an afternoon break, the butler proceeded to describe the houseguest in the most unflattering words possible.
"Hopefully, she won't be staying long," Bess said.
Suddenly, the housekeeper stomped down the stairs and entered the kitchen.
"In all my years of service I've never encountered such an unpleasant person!" she exclaimed.
"Would that be Miss Lulu?" Oswald asked.
"You've met her, too?"
"That has been my misfortune."
"What's she done to upset you?" the cook asked.
"She told me to prepare a hot bath for her, unpack her bags and press her clothes. I tried to tell her that I'm a housekeeper, not a ladies maid, and she told me to do what I was told or I would be dismissed!"
"No!" Bess cried. "She can't do that, can she?"
"I wouldn't think so, but ...."
"But what?"
Joan blushed in the presence of the butler.
"When I told her I'd have a room made up for her, she informed me that she would be staying in the master bedroom with Mr. Randolph."
The other two servants were aghast by the highly inappropriate sleeping arrangements.
"I can't imagine a woman like that sleeping in poor Miss Althea's bedroom. You don't suppose they're secretly married, do you?" the cook asked.
"Good God, I hope not!" Oswald exclaimed. "It's bad enough having a ... a strumpet staying under this roof, but having her as the mistress of the house? That I could not bear!"
* * *
When autumn waned and the brilliantly colored leaves began to wither and fall from the trees, Bess Audley's thoughts went to the approaching holiday season. In previous years, there were scrumptious feasts, sweet candies and baked goods of all sorts. The maids, under the close supervision of the housekeeper, decorated the parlor and foyer with greenery, scented candles and festive ornaments.
"Christmas has always been my favorite time of year," the cook announced nostalgically, "especially when Miss Althea was still alive."
"Yes, she was such a wonderful lady and such a kind mistress to work for," the housekeeper agreed. "Christmas was never the same once she was gone."
"I do hope Master Lucian will come home for the holidays. That will give us something to look forward to."
"I doubt he will," Joan opined. "He and his brother never really got along as children, and their relationship didn't improve when they became young men."
"You mean I'll have to cook for just Mr. Randolph and—her? What meal can I prepare for two people?"
"Make your usual holiday fare. Whatever they don't eat, the servants will. God knows we deserve something to be merry about. Frankly, our lives have been pure hell since poor Mr. Frederick passed away."
During the first week of December, the butler had one of the footmen cut pine boughs and shape them into wreaths. Joan and the maids then decorated them with ribbons, sprigs of holly, red berries and pine cones. When they were hung on the doors, their pine scent mixed with that of the cook's gingerbread and mulled punch.
It was while the kitchen helpers were sticking whole cloves into the skin of oranges that a horse and rider approached the front door of Woodbury Manor.
"I wonder who that can be," the cook said, hoping she would not have to stop baking bread to prepare a meal for one of Randolph Somerset's friends.
Several minutes later the kitchen door opened, and the butler stuck his head inside.
"It's Master Lucian," he announced. "He's come for a visit."
"That's wonderful!" Bess exclaimed, bubbling with joy. "It will be a happy Christmas, after all."
"Why don't you have one of your girls bring him a glass of spiced cider and a piece of your fruitcake?"
"I'll bring it out to him myself. It will do me good to set eyes on him again."
"Miss Audley! It's good to see you," Lucian cried when the cook walked into the room carrying a tray for him.
"I'll go tell Mr. Randolph you're here," the butler said.
"Don't bother. I didn't come here to see him. I wanted to talk to you and the other servants. Would you have Miss Lansbury join us for a few minutes?"
Hope surged through Bess's heart. Had the young master come to invite his family's domestic staff to go and live with him in his new home? She did not care if it was as fine a house as Woodbury Manor. She would gladly leave and live in a shack if Lucian asked her to.
"Mmm! You always did bake a superb fruitcake, Miss Audley. I'm certainly going to miss it."
The smile abruptly vanished from Bess's face.
The housekeeper entered the parlor, following on the butler's heels.
"Good, you're all here," the young man said, putting down his glass of cider. "I have something to tell you, and I'd like you to tell the others, as well. First, I want to thank you all for everything you've done for me over the years. I wish I could show you my appreciation, but I'm not a wealthy man. Second, I want to wish you all a merry Christmas. Lastly ...."
Lucian closed his eyes and swallowed. It would be unseemly for a grown man to shed tears in public.
"Lastly," he continued once he had gotten control of his emotions, "I want to say goodbye and wish you all the best in the years to come."
The three servants stared at him, open-mouthed and dumbfounded.
"Goodbye?" Joan finally echoed, as though she was not sure what the word meant.
"Yes, goodbye. You see, I'm going west to make my fortune. It's doubtful I'll ever return."
"What ... what exactly will you do?" the butler stammered.
"There's a lot of land out there for the taking. I might farm or start a cattle ranch."
Before any of the three servants could offer their opinion on the young master's decision, Randolph and Lulu came down the stairs and entered the parlor.
"Lucian! I thought I heard your voice. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?" the older brother asked.
"I came to say goodbye to the staff. I'm leaving at the end of the week—heading west."
If anyone in the room had hoped Randolph would try to talk his younger sibling into staying, they were soundly disappointed.
"Good for you," he answered. "There's nothing like a fresh start in life. I'm going away myself. Lulu and I are going to Paris next week."
"You'll not be home for the holidays?" the cook asked with surprise.
Randolph stared at her as though she were a delinquent child.
"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I'm off to Paris next week. After that, I'll travel to London, and then who knows where."
"What about Woodbury Manor?" Lucian inquired. "Who'll look after the estate while you're away?"
"I've decided to sell it."
"But the place has been in the family for five generations!"
"Dear brother, I'm not cut out to be a gentleman farmer. I've contacted a realtor who assured me that although the house itself isn't worth very much, I can get quite a substantial sum of money for the land. This county is growing, and there's a need for new roads."
"You mean they're going to tear down our home?"
"Don't be so sentimental," Lulu said, butting into the conversation. "It's just a house."
Although he normally had impeccable manners, Lucian ignored Lulu just as his brother had ignored the cook when she spoke. Nor did he have anything further to say to his brother.
"Mr. Molesey," he asked, turning toward the butler, "could you bring me my bag?"
"Aren't you going to spend the night, sir?"
"No. I'd rather sleep at the inn in town."
* * *
Once Lucian left Woodbury Manor, all preparations for Christmas ceased. What was the point? No one would be there for the holidays anyway.
"I suppose we'll all need to find new positions now," the butler said as the servants gathered around the table at dinner time.
"I'm not hungry," the housekeeper said, pushing her bowl of stew away.
"I've said it before, and I'll say it again. It's so unfair," the cook declared. "Master Lucian should have inherited Woodbury Manor. He would never have considered selling the place."
One by one the other servants finished eating and glumly left the table until only Bess, Joan and Oswald remained.
"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat, Miss Lansbury?" the cook asked the housekeeper.
Joan shook her head in reply. Moments later she burst into tears.
"There, there," the butler said consolingly, patting her on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry. I'm just so devastated at the thought of leaving Woodbury Manor."
"It's a damned shame!" the butler thundered. "We care more about this house than the owner does."
"That's because we're the ones who have spent our lives taking care of it," the housekeeper added. "We've put our blood, sweat and tears into this house. Why, it's the only home I've ever known. I was born here, and I thought I'd die here, just like my parents before me."
"If you ask me," the cook cried, "someone ought to die here, and not one of us!"
A silence fell over the room. Oswald's anger subsided, and Joan wiped the tears from her eyes.
"Listen to me going on! I don't know what made me say such a foolish thing," the cook quickly said as her two coworkers stared at her.
"You're right," the butler agreed. "Someone ought to die, and we know who that someone is."
"Are you suggesting ...?"
Bess could not verbalize her thoughts. The butler hung his head, ashamed he had spoken so recklessly. It was Joan, the prim, middle-aged housekeeper, who finally put into words the idea that was foremost in their minds.
"This is our home. We have a right to defend it. Are we going to skulk away like cowards and let it be torn down and a road put in its place?"
Her question received no answer. However, the eyes of the cook and the butler revealed their agreement. After careful consideration, the three retainers devised a plan to poison Randolph Somerset.
"Since we've already begun the preparations, we'll cook a feast," Bess proposed. "We can say it's our way of bidding farewell to him. You know he'll want a glass of brandy once he's done eating. We can put the poison in the decanter."
"It might work," the butler said.
"What have we got to lose?" the housekeeper asked.
"And once he's gone," the cook continued, "Master Lucian will inherit the estate."
"He won't have to go west," Joan added. "He can stay right here at Woodbury Manor where he belongs."
* * *
The day of the anticipated feast arrived. Randolph and Lulu, who were to sail across the Atlantic the following morning, were both eager to embark on their European trip. Knowing the meal would not be ready until late in the afternoon, Randolph decided to go hunting after breakfast. Bored, Lulu went along with him.
Bess and her helpers toiled in the kitchen, occasionally jumping when the loud crack of gunfire took them by surprise. Joan helped by setting the table, and Oswald brought a bottle of Randolph's favorite brandy from the wine cellar. With the housekeeper shielding him from view—should any of the other servants enter the dining room—the butler removed a small vial of poison from his pocket and, with a trembling hand, emptied it into the brandy.
"God forgive me," he said beneath his breath.
"I'm sure he will," Joan assured him.
Ten minutes later, Bess barged into the kitchen, carrying a platter of ham. The footman followed with a roasted turkey. In his wake were several helpers loaded down with vegetables, breads and fruits. There was one last gunshot followed by the sound of footsteps on the gravel driveway.
"Right on time," the cook announced. "Sounds like Mr. Randolph is done hunting."
The front door opened and in walked not Randolph Somerset, but his brother.
"Master Lucian!" the housekeeper exclaimed. "We weren't expecting you."
"Why all the food?" he asked. "It isn't Christmas yet."
"We were having a farewell party for Mr. Randolph," the butler answered. "He's leaving for Europe tomorrow."
A strange look came over Lucian's handsome face.
"My brother may be leaving Woodbury Manor but not to go to Europe."
"But he's already booked passage," the housekeeper argued.
"I'm afraid there's been—for lack of a better word—an accident," the young man announced. "Miss Lulu has been shot, and the police will no doubt want to question Randolph."
The servants stared at one another, and then the butler ordered the footmen and the cook's assistants to go about their duties in the kitchen, leaving only the three senior domestics in the dining room with Lucian.
"Should we send for Dr. Newsome, sir?" Oswald asked.
"I'm afraid it's too late for that. I've contacted the police. They're on their way. No doubt they'll arrest my brother and throw him in jail."
"Because of an accident?" Bess wondered.
"It wasn't really an accident, Miss Audley. It was murder."
"I can't imagine Mister Randolph murdering anyone, least of all Miss Lulu," Joan said. "He seemed genuinely fond of her, despite her common breeding."
"What does it matter?" Lucian asked with a look of satisfaction on his face. "He'll be accused and convicted, and Woodbury Manor will come to me."
The possibility that the younger brother was the killer came to the three servants at the same time. The young master read their thoughts on their faces.
"You didn't think I would stand idly by and let him sell our home? Let it be torn down and have a road run through land that's been in my family for generations?"
How could the servants fault him for doing what they had planned to do themselves?
"It's a shame to waste all this delicious-looking food," Lucian said, taking his brother's seat at the head of the table. "Especially the turkey. It's always been my favorite. Won't the three of you join me?"
"We'll have something down in the servants' dining room," Joan told him.
"Nonsense! I've always considered the three of you part of the family. You'll eat here at this table with me."
"Thank you, Master Lucian," the cook said. "I'll just go get the rest of the food."
"We'll help you," the housekeeper offered and headed for the kitchen with the butler.
Meanwhile, Lucian got up to pour himself a celebratory drink. When the servants returned to the dining room, they saw him with a glass of poisoned brandy at his lips. Before any of them could warn him, he drank it.
"I think there is something wrong with ...."
The young man was unable to finish his sentence. He doubled over in agony, and moments later his body fell to the floor, upsetting the nearby table. Bottles shattered, spilling alcohol, which was ignited by the candles of the fallen candelabra.
"The drapes!" Bess screamed. "They've caught fire."
"Do something, Mr. Molesey!" the housekeeper cried.
"I'll get some water," he said.
There was little the butler could do, however. The flames were spreading too quickly. Within minutes, the dining room was ablaze. The lesser servants were able to escape the inferno, but the three retainers who had conspired to murder Randolph Somerset, were killed in the conflagration that destroyed Woodbury Manor.
* * *
Fate once again smiled on Randolph Somerset, always the luckier of the two brothers. Although mortally wounded, Lulu clung to life until the police arrived. With her dying breath she told them that it was Lucian who had shot her.
The day after his intended murder, the heir to Woodbury Manor boarded the transatlantic liner and sailed to Europe as he had planned, albeit without Lulu. With the money from the sale of his family's estate, he lived the high life in Paris, London, Madrid and Rome. However, his excesses eventually took their toll on his health as well as his bank account. Within ten years of his arrival in Europe, he died of malnutrition in a London hospital for the poor.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the ghost of Bess Audley prepared an imaginary turkey dinner and all the trimmings. She was assisted by the spirits of Joan Lansbury and Oswald Molesey, who, like her and Master Lucian, were bound for all eternity to Woodbury Manor, a phantom house that, like the mighty Phoenix, arose from the ashes.
As she watched the butler carve the turkey, the housekeeper smiled. Woodbury Manor was her home. She had been born there and, as she had always longed to do, she died there.
I tried to explain to Salem that Rhett Butler was not a servant, but, frankly, he didn't give a damn!
