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The Hidden Estate

a Sequel to Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities

By Donna StrowPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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The Hidden Estate
Photo by Anastasiia Chepinska on Unsplash

“Your Honor, this is for you.” The messenger handed him a wax-sealed envelope. “You’re the executor.” At this, the judge tore the envelope open in a hurry. It seemed his old governess had fulfilled her final hour in peaceful slumber that same morning, Friday April 13, 1827. As executor he would undertake the archaeology of her apartment at his family’s home. “So,” he mused aloud, “I am to search for stone tablets.” It was his attempt at levity; the lady had been so old there was no telling what artifacts he might uncover. Judge Sydney Carton Darnay arrived home to find his sister and his elderly parents in tearful mourning. He ate with them almost in silence. Even the servants were dressed in black, for Miss Pross had been everyone’s friend.

Sydney, or Little Syd as they all called him, was the baby of the family. He was named for the late Sydney Carton, who had given his life to save his father Charles Darnay. Because Carton had looked just like Charles, he had been able to take the latter’s place at the guillotine during the French Revolution without arousing suspicion. Little Syd was a dead ringer for both of them. His pretty sister likewise favored their mother, and was by most accounts the handsomest lady in London at the time. He would enlist her help.

It was Monday when the grown up Darnay children, Little Syd and Lucie Belle sat on their late governess’ death bed and went through the contents of her storage chest. There were many paintings their mother had done in her youth, a few treasured Georgian artifacts from Pross’ own youth, her own plain, unpretentious garments – and a score of hefty wooden boxes beneath a false bottom in the chest. These bore the wax seal of Tellson’s Bank and were dated 1793. “She never opened them!” exclaimed Lucie. With a glance Syd besought Lucie to open the first box, and they were soon looking at a heap of old coins. In all there were 20 thousand Spanish dollars in those boxes, and the last box contained a slim black leather-bound volume signed by none other than “John Barsad??” Lucie wrinkled her delicate nose.

Neither of them knew that Barsad had been Miss Pross’ estranged brother, and they never figured out how she had come into his estate, but they did recognize the name as that of the man who had first denounced their father to the crown, but had then helped Carton to rescue him years later. These stories had been imparted to them by their late godfather Mr. Lorry. From the book they gleaned that Barsad knew right well that he had robbed everyone listed in the book’s featured ledger by cheating them at cards. He knew wrong from right and made no pretense about having done wrong. “I guess it was just in his nature to choose evil,” concluded Syd, “at least until he met Carton.” He continued to peruse the book and found a folded up document which turned out to be the deed to an estate in Cheshire, at which he heard a gasp from his sister.

“That would be Carton’s!” she declared, and indeed the document confirmed it. “Oh, my, Sydney. Carton told me all about his first encounter with an unnamed cheater at cards in his youth, and how he was swindled of his ancestral estate.” She left out the part about Carton hurling said cheater down the stairs of the inn.

That spring it was Judge Sydney Carton Darnay’s pleasant task to use the silver coins to make reparations to the long list of John Barsad’s old victims and their survivors, for which he garnered much favor from many influential persons. An associate whispered to him that he would be considered for the chancellorship, so popular had he become. Of course the last item on the list was the estate in Cheshire. Since Carton had long been the sole survivor of his family of origin, the executor would need to find clues as to the proper disposition of the estate. Lucie Belle would accompany him on his journey.

The Darnay children took a series of roads and canals to the address on the deed, but found only thick briars at the end of the final dirt road. “I guess nobody kept the place up,” said Lucie, “but I’m sure there’s a way in somewhere.” It was Sunday, and presently they became aware of the music of an old pipe organ in the distance, beyond the thicket.

“Would somebody kindly show me in!” called Syd, “I’m the executor!” At this a gang plank fell open from an unseen wall, crushing the briars beneath it and granting the pair admittance. There was no one in sight, so Syd winched the gate closed himself, and they strode in the direction of the music. The extensive grounds were lovely and well kept, with rose of sharon, lilies, wrought iron and stone fences – as though the residents’ sole concern in life was the beautification of the place. Birds and butterflies frolicked in the gardens. Friendly ponies ran wild, and a few came up to greet them. An enchanting little village was visible in the distant west, down a hill. Closer at hand was the manor house and a Norman vintage chapel. “No wonder Carton was so woebegone.” There was reverent sorrow in her voice as she said it. They continued toward the chapel, entered, and stood in the back as the service was concluded.

Little Syd wasn’t at all surprised by the reception he got as the people passed him on their way out. “Our master Carton!” they cried (for he was the spitting image.) The people hugged him and said to one another, “And look, he has brought his elegant lady!” When the crowd was gone to banquet, and only the pastor remained, the two introduced themselves. He in turn presented them to over seven score attendants at banquet, after which Lucie arose and told the tale of their old master Carton’s derring-do, and Barsad’s deeds, both good and evil.

“Well we wot of Barsad!” cried an old man from a nearby table, to audible affirmations all around, “All he ever did for us was to get us all evicted from this place!” The affirmations became more audible.

“And how did you get back in?” asked Syd, slipping into the persona of an eager and curious young lad despite his 33 years.

“One Christmas afternoon we heard a thunderclap from the East and the gate flew open.” Lucie shivered. “1793,” he added as Lucie nodded. That was the moment Carton had died. No doubt he had let them back in on his way to the next world. Was this the clue they sought? Were these people Carton’s rightful heirs?

The manor house in which the banquet was held had become a common space for the villagers to enjoy. Many of the most honored residents of the estate jointly took up the light and rewarding work of keeping the manse clean and repaired. They obviously took great pride in the décor. Most of the people lived in the village, providing for one another and sharing in the simple duties of agrarian community life. They harvested, spun, cleaned and sewed. But the usual economic burdens created by myriad bargaining tables in which slight differences in leverage accrued to the ultimate ruin and drudgery of all but a few (and the outright beggary of most of the rest,) were happily lacking. Thus there was little to do on one another’s behalf as far as the necessities of life were concerned, and people set themselves to the more pleasant tasks of making music, art and friends, and educating the young people beyond any tutelage the Darnays had enjoyed. Lucie knew four languages; Syd knew five; but the children of the estate knew over a dozen. The Darnays could calculate, but the villagers knew the intricate secrets of the triangles with respect to calculations.

The Darnays were thrilled to walk through this wondrous habitation, this labor of love for one’s fellow villagers. They watched as a tall man lifted a little girl into the branches of a pear tree to pick the fruit, whereupon she scampered about limbs too slender to bear the weight of an adult, gathering the fruit for both of them. The value of cooperation over competition wasn’t lost on Syd and Lucie, who got the impression that each resident did his part to pick up where the strengths of others left off. That is, until they met the twins.

On a certain day, when a young maiden had the privilege of guiding the Darnays’ daily journey of discovery, they stopped at the largest and most elegant abode in the village and were admitted by two handsome and intelligent looking lads of about five and twenty, decked in splendid raiment. Their eyes were profoundly expressive but neither could speak, so the maiden told their tale. Georn and Delhen had undertaken no work in the village. They occasionally wrote even though they had not the power of speech. Three years ago Delhen had written an urgent admonition for all who dwelt at the estate to take cover in the spacious cellar of the manor house. When they emerged, they found that a wind storm had leveled the village and had taken out some of the windows and roofing on the larger structures. Thanks to Delhen, all had survived, and they quickly repaired and rebuilt.

The twins were maintained in luxury not because one of them was a hero, but because both had requested many pretty things ever since they were able to write – at about the age of three. The villagers never requested that the twins work, because all work in this estate was voluntary. They simply supposed that the two had no calling for the usual work, and that the gifts they had to give were rendered to God in the secret of their hearts. The young maiden who told the tale had eyes for Georn, who returned her affection and would soon marry her. “I suspect Georn will write important things someday,” she smiled, “But even if he doesn’t, he’s my man.”

When summer was replete, and duty called back in London, the Darnays took their leave, promising to return in time. “They are Carton’s rightful heirs,” said Syd to Lucie, “There is no need for an executor here.”

fan fiction
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About the Creator

Donna Strow

Doct

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