Consequences

The funeral was mercifully short and so was his temper. James leaned back in his father’s desk chair and gulped his whisky. Mona had left out a sandwich and the bottle for him, perhaps hoping it might improve his mood. The study was an absolute mess, his father’s usual fastidious nature seemed to have abandoned him in the last years of his life. It was going to take hours to get through it all.

The Manor, servants and $20,000 in funds were now his and so was Mona; she was his responsibility. His father hadn’t left his ward anything in his will which made James slightly uncomfortable. Mona had nursed the old man through his worst years and even at his best he was an old ogre. She would, of course, get it all on James’s death: he had no next of kin but her. But he felt his father could have done more for poor Mona.

James had told her she was to stay at The Manor; it had been her home since she was five, since Claire had died. His hand went to the scar on his forehead and he rubbed it absentmindedly.

“Claire.”

Instantly her face, deathly pale and bloodied came to mind. The car tires squealing, Claire screaming, the tree appearing in the headlights. He had pulled Claire’s broken body from the car and sat beside her, knowing there was nothing he could do.

Earlier she had been angry with him. He had promised her he would stop with the women, booze and gambling. He honestly thought he could, for her. He had always loved her, but she chose the far more stable Theodore for her husband. Then Teddy died and at last he had a chance – and he blew it. After Claire’s funeral, drunk, he had grabbed handfuls of his father’s pills and written a suicide note. I can’t go on. Forgive me, even though I don’t deserve it. There didn’t seem to be a way for him to go on; he felt like everyone was watching him. His father was watching and got to him before he could do any damage. He told him to forget and move on.

James went on to live the life of the idle rich, one with few consequences.

He shook his head hard to remove the image. He tried not to think about Claire and the car accident. He would take care of Mona for as long as it took. He owed it to Claire.

A quiet knock on the door signalled the arrival of Mona. She came in with a tray of coffee and cups. He stood up to take it from her. She looked so small and frail, like a tiny bird.

“No, no I’ve got it,” she said with a smile.

He pushed aside a mound of journals, not caring as they fell to the floor. She laughed and placed the tray down in their place.

“If you can believe it,” she said as she poured the coffee, “I’ve actually tidied in here.”

James raised an eyebrow, “Where?”

She laughed again, a soft quiet laugh just like her mother’s. James winced slightly at the memory.

“I started with his journals.” She motioned to the far bookcase lined neatly with little black notebooks, their spines showing with dates in the bottom corner. “They were strictly off limits normally, but when he couldn’t leave his bed, I thought it would be safe to try and bring some order to the room. I had to have George swear not to tell him.”

James smiled. That wouldn’t have been hard, the servants adored Mona. They barely tolerated him.

She had grown into a pretty little thing since he had last seen her. He had to think hard to remember when that was: 10 years ago?

She was petite like her mother, with pale skin and her father Teddy’s big blue eyes. His mind went straight back to the battlefield, to those empty blue eyes. They had been neighbours for generations, the Wessex’s and the Craftley’s, and for generations the males of the families had caused mischief all over the Township. War had ended that, and those generations as well. He was the last Craftley and Mona the last Wessex. Her marriage would end that line.

He looked over to her, realising that at 20 years of age marriage wasn’t that far off. Did she have a beau? Should he ask? Was he even allowed to know? Damned awkward, this ward business.

His father had taken her in after the accident. Her grandmother had died a year earlier, and it had just been her and Claire in the Wessex estate. Claire’s tragic death had stolen both mother and home from little Mona. With no other relatives and an orphanage looming before her, Sir James had stepped up and insisted on taking her in as his own ward. Mona had been a godsend for him, James hadn’t stuck around after the accident and while his relationship with his father had never been healthy, it was toxic by then: his father despised him.

Remembering, James asked, “Did he ever call you into this study for The Talk?”

Mona looked confused “The Talk?”

“When you had done something wrong?” he smiled ruefully at her, “Then again, I don’t suppose you ever did anything wrong.”

Mona sniffed, ‘I’m not a saint, if that’s what you mean. If I ever did something I knew he wouldn’t like, I just ensured he didn’t find out about it.”

“Then you were far smarter than me. He used to call me in here, sitting at his desk as I am now. He would clasp his hand in front like this.” James put his palms together, curled his fingers around each other and leant forward, staring intensely at her. “Then he would say, “I know what you did.””

Mona looked fascinated, “What had you done?”

“Not much.” James admitted, “Small things. Throwing sticks at Mrs Markle’s chickens, stealing their eggs. General boy mischief. He would stare at me until I confessed, then he would take down one of his Journals and write it all down.” James pointed at the black notebooks. “I’m sure they are full of my misadventures.”

“You do realise he probably didn’t know anything?” she said, standing.

“Yes. But I fell for it.”

“I should burn them all.” He thought, “I hate it here.” He muttered.

“I love it here.” She said quietly, starting on a stack of books balanced precariously on an old teapot “Your father was very kind to me. He didn’t have to take me in, especially considering...” she faltered.

James looked at her curiously, “Considering what?”

“Considering my mother nearly killed you.”

He was too startled to answer. He saw her face flush. “She was driving drunk.”

James didn’t know what to say. He hoped his father hadn’t told her the details– why should she ever need to know that!

“She wasn’t drunk.” he croaked. When he found his voice, “She’d had a glass of wine. I was drunk.”

I was always drunk.

Mona shrugged, “She could have killed you too. He could have sent me away for that.”

James sat in silence. He was feeling uncomfortable and very irritable now. He wished she hadn’t brought it up. He didn’t ever want to think about that day again.

“You were very good for him.” He muttered “I’m glad he had you.”

“He was hoping you would come back, when you knew his heart wasn’t good.” Her look was a little disapproving.

James wriggled under her gaze, eerily like his father’s; of all the things she had to pick up from him!

“I wouldn’t have helped his heart.”

Mona sighed, “You were all that mattered to him really. For all his talk of you becoming a better man, there was little you could do that he would openly disapprove of.”

James eyed her suspiciously, “Did you read those Journals?”

“Maybe one or two.”

James grimaced, then with horror his eyes went to the notebooks. He scanned for the year of the accident – his father wouldn’t have written about that would he? Mona couldn’t have read about the accident.

Mona followed his gaze, saw his relief when he realised there was gap, a year was missing.

“He sent George to fetch that one on the night he died. We don’t know where he put it.”

“Were you there when he … passed?” James asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Yes.” She answered, “I was with him.”

“Did he say anything.” He asked, “Before he… I know it was sudden, unexpected.”

Mona looked at him, her face held no emotion. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. It was too soon.

“He said sorry.”

James stared at her. Sorry? Sorry for what?

Mona kept looking at him, emotionless. James held her gaze for as long as he could, then frowning at her he rose, “I need some air.” He said and marched out of the room.

He didn’t want to go back into that study, back to Mona’s blank gaze. He shouldn’t have asked about his father, she obviously wasn’t ready to speak of his death yet.

Sorry? What was he sorry for?

When he returned, the study was empty. Mona had stacked his father’s paperwork for him to go through, as well as a box full of medicines his father had been taking. It was a much bigger box than the first one – the one he had taken, these were all close to empty.

He swallowed his second tumbler of whisky.

As his eyes scanned the shelves he noticed with a start that the missing Journal was now in its place. George must have found it and replaced it. He made his way over and pulled it from the shelf, dropped into a chair by the fire and started reading.

His father was not an emotional writer: it was just the facts, in cold hard ink. He scrolled quickly to the page of the accident, hoping it was a short entry. It was short, but revealing.

Car accident - James had a large gash on his forehead and was obviously intoxicated. He said the Wessex chit had been driving and they’d struck the tree. Even intoxicated he had had enough sense to pull her from the car so no one would see she had been the passenger, not the driver. I made sure the authorities came to the same conclusion.

James attempted suicide, took my pills and whisky. Failed, thank God.

James’s stomach turned. He felt hot and sick. His father had known, known he killed Claire and helped to cover it up. He had loved him after all.

James suddenly felt tired, exhausted even. The journal started to slip from his hands, as he grabbed it up he noticed a familiar looking loose page. His fingers shook as he pulled it out and read I can’t go on. Forgive me, even though I don’t deserve it. His father had kept his suicide note.

James decided he would have to burn the journal. Mona should never see it.

He sat up, or tried to, only to find his legs wouldn’t work. He felt like a lump of stone, unable to move or talk. He tried to call for help, but all he could manage was a low moan.

The door to the study opened and Mona stepped in. He tried to convey with his eyes that something was wrong. Mona picked the medications, she placed them around him, she took the journal from his weak grip and placed it and the suicide note neatly in his lap for all to see. She made eye contact with him momentarily and her cold blue stare chilled him.

The pills in the whisky!

Mona sat at the desk in his father’s chair pulled out a small black notebook, laced her fingers together, stared at him and said …

“I know what you did.”