Chapter 7: The Last D’Claire
The study smelled of old books, lemon polish, and decades of dust.
The large window let in a muted light, casting soft shadows over the emerald green carpet.
Sir Richardson, the oldest and most experienced of Butlers employed on the estate, stood by the fireplace, arms behind his back, his expression unreadable.
His previous interaction with Lucien has caused him to take the boy a bit more seriously than just a child throwing a tantrum.
Thus, leading to this discussion.
Lucien sat in the high-backed chair usually reserved for guests—though it felt more like he was in an interview than a meeting.
“So let me get this straight…”
Sir Richardson finally spoke, voice calm but edged with wariness.
“You plan to revive the east orchard, harvest the fruits, and sell them wholesale to nearby merchants or buyers?”
Lucien nodded.
“Exactly. If we time it right, we might even make it a seasonal venture. And with some basic tools and effort, we could turn a decent profit without needing to invest money we don’t have.”
The butler raised a single silver brow.
“And who, exactly, will oversee the cleanup, the harvest, the sorting, packaging, preservation, and eventual transport?”
Lucien didn’t blink.
“Me.”
A pause.
The silence in the room grew heavier.
“You,” Richardson echoed, as if tasting the absurdity of it on his tongue.
“Yes, me. I’ve got no sword master. No magic tutor. No cash. No connections. What I do have is free time and a lot of unpicked fruit rotting into profitless mulch.”
Lucien leaned forward, his tone firm but steady.
“If I just sit around hoping for things to change, I’ll be six feet under or begging for tuition by next year.”
Sir Richardson turned slightly toward the window, gaze distant.
“You understand that this isn’t… elegant work. It’s not noble.”
His voice was careful, slow.
“You will be seen, and perhaps mocked. Word might spread.”
“I’d rather be mocked with food in my belly than praised while starving,” Lucien shot back.
“Besides, I’m the last D’Claire on this estate even if I don't carry the name, I do still carry the blood of that bloodline. I cannot let this entire estate eat itself to stay alive. If I don’t get dirt under my nails, who will?”
Richardson’s back remained turned, but Lucien could see the faintest twitch of his jawline.
The flicker of a withheld emotion.
“…You’ve changed, young master.”
Lucien shrugged.
“Maybe.”
For a long moment, Richardson said nothing.
The clock ticked above the hearth.
A breeze rustled the curtains.
Then, softly, Sir Richardson exhaled.
“You’ve started to act like her.”
Lucien blinked.
“Her?”
“Your mother,” Richardson said, turning at last.
His eyes, usually so sharp and severe, had softened—not with nostalgia, but with recognition.
“She ran this estate herself during the war years. Strong-willed, sharp-tongued, but always working toward something. And she always—always—put her people first.”
The old man let the memory settle in the room like dust.
“I will reach out to a few old merchant contacts,” he said after a beat, his voice once again composed.
“Quietly. If anyone can be convinced to buy your first harvest, I’ll find them.”
Lucien sat up straighter, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips.
“Thank you, Sir Richardson. Really.”
The butler raised a hand.
“Don’t thank me yet. We still cannot afford to hire someone to manage the orchard. And if this venture collapses, it may take the estate with it.”
Lucien nodded.
“Understood. I’ll do the work myself. Planning. Oversight. Labor, if I have to.”
Another pause.
Then Lucien stood, reaching across the table with a hand extended.
The butler looked at it.
A handshake?
He blinked once, as if the gesture hadn’t registered.
“You want to… shake hands?”
Richardson asked, slightly confused.
Lucien smiled.
“It’s how we seal agreements”
A second’s hesitation.
Then, with a small huff of amusement, the old butler extended his hand and grasped Lucien’s.
Their hands met in the middle, firm and determined.
The quiet clap of skin on skin wasn’t much, but it echoed in the room with the weight of generations.
Of tradition, hardship, and the decision to try.
Somewhere deep in Sir Richardson’s chest, the faintest flicker of hope stirred.
***
In the early evening, just before dinner preparations began, the servant courtyard buzzed not with work, but with speculation.
The laundry lines hung still in the breeze.
The watering cans lay untouched.
And five women stood in a tight circle behind the greenhouse, where they assumed no one important ever wandered.
“I’m telling you,” whispered Mina, one of the younger parlor maids, eyes darting left and right.
“Old Man Richardson hasn’t done his nightly walks for three days straight.”
“Three,” echoed Estelle, the senior kitchen maid, as if confirming a sacred number.
“I saw him once,” chimed in Lydia, the head of linens, “but only through the east wing windows. He had books. Books, girls. Stacked like towers.”
“Books?!” Mina gasped.
“Are you sure?”
“I’d bet my washboard on it,” Lydia said with a decisive nod.
“That’s not normal,” Estelle muttered.
“Not for him. Man hasn’t touched a novel since Her Grace passed.”
“Exactly!”
Clara, a scullery maid, leaned in with wide eyes.
“And now he’s just… in his room. Never shouting. Never correcting anyone’s posture. That’s sinister.”
“Or he’s dying,” Lydia added with morbid certainty.
“Oh my gods,” Mina slapped her arm, “don’t say that!”
“I’m just saying,” Lydia shrugged.
“If I vanish into my room and stop criticizing people, I’m either dying or possessed.”
“Possessed!” Clara’s eyes lit up.
“Maybe that’s what’s happening to him! What if Lucien is possessed, and he’s trying to corrupt Sir Richardson from the inside?!”
Everyone paused.
Then Estelle said, “I don’t think demons make you mop your own sweat.”
“I’m just saying,” Clara defended, “Lucien was all sweet and polite for a week, and then he meets with Sir Richardson and the old man locks himself up. Correlation. Obvious.”
Mina crossed her arms.
“No, no. What if Lucien—pretended—to be good so he could get Sir Richardson alone and say something truly vile to him?”
“You think he cracked?”
“Maybe he said something about Lady Crowley,” Mina whispered dramatically.
“And that broke the butler.”
Estelle gave a shocked gasp.
“You mean—this whole week of manners and ‘pardon me, miss’ was just… an act?!”
“Like a performance!”
Lydia said, nodding furiously.
“And we fell for it. Like fools.”
Clara leaned back against a wheelbarrow with a sigh.
“And here I was, thinking maybe the young master was going to turn the orchard around.”
Estelle groaned.
“Ugh, don’t bring up the orchard. You know who’s been asking about crates and rope lately?”
“Not the gardener?”
“No. Lucien. Himself.”
Everyone paused again.
“…Wait,” Clara said slowly, “what if he actually is working on something with Sir Richardson?”
“Maybe they’re… plotting,” Mina offered.
“Or writing a manifesto,” added Lydia with a grim nod.
“Oh dear gods,” Estelle muttered.
“This is worse than we thought.”
“Do we tell someone?”
Mina whispered.
“And say what? ‘The young master might be planting apples for dark purposes’?”
Lydia scoffed.
“We’d be thrown out!”
The circle went silent.
Then Clara raised a hand.
“I’m just saying, if in a few weeks the estate turns into a political cult run by orchard monks, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“…I’d join,” Mina mumbled.
“Anything’s better than polishing the east hallway chandelier again.”
They all nodded in agreement.
And so, with no real information and all the confidence in the world, the estate’s most unofficial investigative committee disbanded for the day—firm in their belief that they were onto something.
Even if that something was probably nonsense.
***
The study in Sir Richardson’s quarters was a modest room.
Bookshelves lined with ledgers, estate records, and dust-bound volumes covered the walls.
A simple oil lamp cast a flickering amber glow across the oak desk, its light wavering every time a breeze slipped through the window panes.
Sir Richardson sat upright, posture still unbending despite the wear of his years.
His spectacles perched at the bridge of his nose as his hand moved with practiced grace, ivory-handled pen gliding over parchment.
He dipped it again in ink, the quill silent but purposeful.
Letter to the Everwind Trade Association — Handwritten by Sir Richardson.
[To the Esteemed Members of the Everwind Trade Association,
It is with respect and renewed greetings that I, Richardson Crowhurst, in service of House D’Claire and current steward of the Crowley Estate, reach out in consideration of a potential opportunity.
Recent events have sparked a reconsideration of how the Crowley lands, specifically the gardens and orchards of the D’Claire
inheritance, might once again be utilized to produce and distribute quality agricultural yield.
Should such efforts bear fruit, quite literally, we may require the assistance of a trustworthy association to act as intermediary in the distribution of our produce throughout the region.
I am aware this is a rather forward assumption of success, but I would ask that the Everwind Association consider reserving capacity and logistical attention for such an arrangement—should it come to pass.
Moreover, I trust you remember the kindness once extended by the Lady D’Claire to the association’s founder during the Northwind Drought, and the agreements of mutual aid that followed.
If there are any echoes of that goodwill remaining within your ledgers, I would most humbly ask that they be considered at this time.
Yours in Service and Sincerity,
Sir Richardson Crowhurst
Acting Steward of House Crowley and D’Claire Estate]
He signed with a practiced flick, then set the quill down and let out a long, exhausted breath.
The flickering lamp danced in his spectacles as he leaned back and rubbed his weary eyes.
“Lady D’Claire…” he murmured, voice gravelled with age and memory.
He looked to the far wall—bare, but once adorned with a portrait of her.
It had been taken down after her passing, at the request of her son.
“If you were here still… this place wouldn’t have fallen to such rot. You had an eye for beauty. A hand for kindness. And a spine stronger than any steel I have known.”
He stood, cracking joints stiffened by years of routine, and moved to pour himself a modest cup of tea from the kettle kept warm by a low ember stove.
“He was a boy robbed of a mother too early,” Richardson continued, speaking aloud to no one.
“And left with a father who could barely remember his name unless it came with a scandal or a bill.”
He sipped slowly, eyes far away.
“For a time, I thought him lost. Bitter, spoiled, wasteful. As many do still.”
He smiled faintly, a rare thing on his face.
“But now… now I see glimpses. Little sparks. Things you’d have nurtured yourself if fate had let you. He speaks of honor. Of work. Of responsibility.”
Richardson turned his gaze to the parchment again.
The words still fresh, still wet in spots, like an oath made in ink.
“…Perhaps you are watching over him still. An angel with your hand on his shoulder, tugging him from the cliff’s edge.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head.
“And perhaps I’m a senile old man with too much nostalgia and too little sense.”
He drained the last of his tea and blew out the lamp.
In the darkness, the ink dried—and the first threads of salvation were sent down the line.
***
