At Barton

Chapter I

May 27, 2016

C.D. Lamarr

Mrs. John Dashwood stood aghast as though turned to stone, her features pale and ashen, her hand

clutching the jewels at her throat.

"Do you mean to say to me Sir", she asked sitting down hard, "That this Estate—that all this Estate is—?"

"Entailed Ma'am", Mr. Shepherd supplied helplessly.

"All of it?"

"I fear so Madame."

"B-but my—but my son Harry—?"

"Is—well—dead Ma'am. And with his decease the Entailment goes into full effect as of—well—today."

"Today?", Fanny shrieked.

"To your—ear—next of kin on your husband's side.

"I-I can't believe it."

"Er-his name is Sir Basil Morley of Houndslow in London Ma'am—half brother to your late Father In Law, Mr.

Henry Dashwood—.""

"But he's not even a Dashwood!", Fanny said sourly, "He's a Morley—for God's sake!"

"A necessary step Ma'am."

"Necessary? What do you mean?

"Well, you see Mrs. Dashwood, he had to assume the name in order to assume the Title he now bears—but I

assure you he is the legitimate Heir." Smithers—Mrs. John Dashwood's Butler—stood back and a little off to

the side of his Mistress careful schooling his features in a vain attempt to keep from smirking.

"This is an outrage", Fanny spat starting up our of her chair, "And it will not be borne-indeed it will not!"

"But—Madame—!"

"Get out!"

"Ma'am", stammered Mr. Shepherd starting back into his chair, "T-there's nothing to be done! You must

accept the terms of the Bequest—!"

"Accept!", Fanny snarled. And beside her Smither's coughed, shifted his position slightly, pulled at his cravat

the better to hide the smile that escaped him. The current Mistress of Norland Park the amiableness of whose

character had compelled her to drive off her late husband's Mother in Law and her three daughters had

never been a favorite with several of the Norland Staff who'd stayed on after the Misses Dashwood had

quitted it.

Reducing them to near poverty and depriving them of the only home they'd known had been considered by

Mrs. John Dashwood a rather pretty attention. The women should have been grateful for the indulgence.

"My Lawyer Lord Tukesbury will here of this", snarled Mrs. Dashwood in impotent fury, "As will my mother's

Solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn! This is not over!"

"But—Madame—!"

"Get out!"

"Ma'am?"

"Get out!" Mr. Shepherd complied at once quickly gathering up his papers and beating a rather hasty retreat,

the huge Dresden that suddenly darted across the chamber providing a good deal of incentive.

Mrs. John Dashwood stood, shoulder's rigid—demeanour icy—glaring at the door behind which the man had

just retreated, pieces of shattered Dresden lying everywhere.

This Smithers though his manner towards his new Mistress had been everything that was polite and

respectful, had detested the new Mrs. Dashwood from the instant she entered the house as its Mistress. And

the past ten years of her presiding there had done much to increase his abhorrence of the woman. Her

treatment of the former Mistress of Norland, Mrs. Henry Dashwood— a woman ten times her consequence,

her ungracious behaviour, her manner of taking over the house with neither apology nor compunction had

been every moment provoking him.

Finally her day had come.

And Smithers—standing by with head bowed, hands folded reverently before him was enjoying the

performance of it all with sardonic glee. Mrs. John Dashwood whirled on him suddenly.

"Well!", she snarled, "And what do you want?"

"Ma'am", he said instantly cloaking the amused expression he'd been wearing, "Shall I fetch some wine

Ma'am?" Fanny stared at the man as though he'd just proposed a trip to the moon.

"Wine?", she hissed balefully, "Wine? At a time like this you ask me about wine?"

"I merely thought Mistress that—." The old Butler realised his mistake the moment he encountered his

Mistress vengeful glare.

"Wine? Wine?" Not to mention the missile in the form of a second Dresden that came hurtling through the

air—right at the spot where his head had been only seconds before.

The old Butler extremely agile for a man of his years, had ducked away, narrowly avoiding being brained.

"Did I asked for any man? Did I?"

"Er-well-er—no, Mistress, I-I merely thought—." That was as far as he got.

"I don't pay you to think you Mooncalf! Get out! Out!"