Peter Bishop's Last Inheritance

Part I

Oh, what treacherous fate befell the once great Mr. Peter Bishop. A man of eight-and-twenty, he was believed to arise to great fortune beseeching a gentleman of high society. His features were quite handsome, and his physique promised good health, vitality, and strong heirs. Indeed, Mr. Bishop was prized a good match for any young maidens on the prowl of an advantageous marriage.

Gallant as he appeared, his impertinent manner unabashedly flushed the residents of Mortushire with great vexation. Mr. Bishop wore his pride and title from the arches of his brow down to the heel of his polished leather boot. Many mothers in the act of utter desperation urged their daughters whose age knocked on the doors of everlasting spinsterhood to display themselves in the hopes of catching Mr. Bishop’s piercing blue eyes. But alas, such attempts were in vain for Mr. Bishop cringed at matrimony with the same taste society had for unmarried women past one-and-twenty.

In accordance with the virtues of other men of fortune, our dear Mr. Bishop spent his time in the company of whore houses, using women of all shades and sizes in the manner he knew in his very fiber of which they were intended. Silent and on their backs. Mr. Bishop had no regard for the female sex, and it was said once he was completed with his woman of choice, the poor courtesan would suddenly vanish. “A trip to the country,” the others would say. But in truth, the well-being of such females were rarely the concerns of society. Whether the young ladies returned to their occupation could never be denied nor confirmed.

As luck would have it for numerous young men in the position of our protagonist, a distant relation fell into the arms of death leaving Bishop heir to yet another estate: Pearl Manor. The estate was grand, indeed. Perched atop the highest hill on the outskirts of Mortushire, the monstrous mansion looked as if an insufferable lord sneering down upon the common homes of the town below. A befitting abode for our dear young man. While grand and desolate on its hill, standing higher to the heavens than the rest of town, the manor was in fact quite hideous, its glory diminished by the hands of time and fists of negligence. Compared to the other dwellings of his inheritance, Pearl Manor was immediately deemed by far the most burdensome of all.

On the rarest occasions of the sun blessing Mortushire with its celestial rays, the new heir of Pearl Manor found himself before the ivy grown gates of the estate. “To sell it or burn it,” he pondered. Tearing it down seemed the easiest choice for the building already groaned from the weight of the shifting land and brutal winds. And while prestigious as the manor may had once been, a buyer with any ounce of rationality would neither dare nor fancy the notion of purchasing such a squander.

“Surely there are fortunes inside worth selling,” spoke his greed.

Spewing a spit of disgust towards the dirt, Mr. Bishop ushered his steed forward. The land leading towards the house seemed to worsen as he approached the front steps. Brittle weeds with just a touch of life evident in green smudges along their stems swayed with the wind, poking out of patches of dry grass that had once grown past the edges of the dirt path. Completely decayed weeds matching the hues of its foliage counterparts draped across the path like slain maidens. His horse whined with trepidation, slowing as they approached the front doors. Mr. Bishop gave it a sharp kick with the back of his heel, obliterating the poor beast with curses for its defiance.

“Ghastly beast,” he muttered, playing with the idea of purchasing a new horse. After all, great men such as he could always remedy problems with the almighty coin. For if your possessions suddenly became “defected,” replacing it with an improved version surely appeases the pleasures.

Much to his displeasure, the house was exceedingly more grotesque than what was visible from town. Dead leaves littered the stone steps and area proceeding the doorway. Mr. Bishop could not confirm the color of brick for thick tangles of vines covered every surface of the house.

“Condemning,” he spat, placing his gloved hands on the dirt covered door. With a swift turn and thrust of the rusted doorknob, Bishop prepared for the horror awaiting the interior of the house. But before he could bellow another puff of disgust, his perfectly clean face nearly collided with the decaying foliage blanketing the sealed door.

“Bloody hell! What now?” He twisted, pulled, pushed, and cursed, but the door remained the victor. “Damn this inferior house,” he shouted with reddening cheeks. The carnal instincts that possess men in heated ego-bruising circumstances rushed through his veins, calling upon his body to kick the damn door down. As he commanded his knee to rise and deliver the fiercest of blows, the door opened with a soft click, the heavy wood groaning ever so slightly on rusted hinges until a sliver of darkness peered on the outside world.

Mr. Bishop gently lowered his foot, staring at the open space while conjuring a rational explanation.

“Surely, I must have loosened it. And the wind pushed it open.”

When Mr. Bishop made peace with his surmise and nonexistent breeze that solely blew in his memory, he pushed the door until it revealed a complete opposite of what he’d envisioned in his mind. Save for the few leaves that waltzed in with his boots, the floor and furnishings of the lobby were spotless. The black and white checkered floor looked as if it was freshly polished, glinting with the small ray of outdoor light invading through the open door. His boots knocked loudly with each slow footstep into the house. The rich cherry wood of surrounding furnishings glowed with his reflection. A side table to his right echoed extravagant carvings that were mirrored in the crown moulding of the foyer. Atop the table was a brass candelabra with three fresh tapers. Sitting conveniently near the base was a small box of matches and a white envelop bearing a name in faint penmanship.

As the pale light from the outside dimmed with the gathering of clouds promising rain, Peter Bishop thought it best to light one of the tapers. “No need to burn through everything,” he rationalized, scanning the darker rooms on both sides of the open foyer. Of course, his vision could have improved had all three tapers been lit, but dear Mr. Bishop was a man of necessity.

The single flame danced wildly like a child at a first ball. Much to his satisfaction, the flame maintained a healthy bulb, providing sufficient lighting for his intentions.

“The other two shall surely be enough for today, lest I find more in the other rooms.”

His attention fell on the envelope and managed to interpret his name in the uneven script. Hoping the letter would answer all of his inquiries, thus relieving him of exploring the rest of the house, Mr. Bishop broke the wax seal and read to the best of his abilities with his single candle.

Dear Peter,

Forgive an old man for never calling upon his distant nephew. As you’ll come to know, Pearl Manor is enchanting. Treat her as you would your soul.

Godspeed,

Henry Van Dour

“What madness? Scribblings of a fool! Waste of paper, ink, and breath,” he muttered, crumbling the letter, and leaving it to fall on the floor with the dead leaves. Candelabra in hand, he ushered through the house with a touch of vexation, quickly canvasing each room for the signs of a study, and perhaps anything else of worth.

In contrast to the foyer, the rest of his newly acquired rooms were not as identifiable. Every table, chair, settee, and even light fixature were cloaked in protective white linens befitting the natural custom of long departures. Mr. Bishop approached the first room, preparing to pull away the cloths in hopes of revealing hidden valuables. But on closer inspection, he found each protective linen was also protected with an inch of settled dust.

“I should burn it all, indeed!” Snatching away his hand, he flitted through the house, passing room after room of furnishings hidden underneath white linen. After stomping through sitting rooms, a library, dining area, kitchen, and yet another sitting room with a piano forte all covered in white like huddled ghosts, Mr. Bishop exhaled a sigh of relief as he opened a door in the far corners of the left wing and beheld uncovered furniture at last.

An intricately carved desk sat to the right in front of a window with parted curtains. A cushioned sofa clad in emerald velvet and matching chairs were positioned directly in front. And the wall opposing the door bore built-in bookshelves, each shelf stocked with thick volumes of titles he’d yet to encounter. But the prized jewel of this study was not the impressive collection of books, nor the fully stocked bar with a decanter of whiskey or the fact that the room was perfectly polished, dusted, and free of sheet coverings. No. The breath caught in Mr. Bishop’s throat when his attention was drawn to a portrait hanging on the left wall, directly across the desk and exposed window.

Captured by oils and canvas was the full length of a woman in a garnet gown, black hair curled and pinned in a fashion from thirty-years past, and eyes as bright as emeralds focused ahead as if in appreciation of the autumn day passing outside the window. Her lips neither curled nor frowned but were rather steadied in a complacent expression and brushed with a soft rose tint. Ungloved hands clutched a bouquet of red roses at her waist.

She was an exquisite creature. The most gratifying woman he’d ever beheld. Indeed, the most delicate, pure, and captivating he’d yet to possess. But what is a beautiful creature truly worth until she’s owned by a great man of money, appearance, and title?

“What must I call you,” he whispered, brushing his fingers against the polished golden frame. He searched the bottom of the canvas for signs of a name, even a painter’s mark. All that lay in the bottom were fallen leaves painted in lifeless browns, grays, and faded oranges. His temper sparked for a breath, but seeing as he was already owner to the great lady’s portrait, he snuffed his angst with the thought of being one step closer to true possession of the lady herself. For she must be out there awaiting a husband as all young maidens.

With gathered strength, he tore his eyes from her face and strode towards the desk in search of clues to her identity and destination. The mahogany beast was bare of papers, letters, accountant books, and even a quill. It was as if Mr. Van Dour never occupied the room, and yet chose to maintain its cleanliness.

“What a fool,” Mr. Bishop muttered as he imagined the old man waddling in the room to polish before returning to the tattered bones of the rest of the manor.

Before he could finish his silent curse upon his predecessor, the soft groaning of a foot pressing on the wooden floor from the hallway startled Mr. Bishop from his thoughts. He snapped his attention to the door, anger mixing with a touch of fear, waiting for an intruder to waltz in the office.

“Who’s there?” he roared. “You are intruding in my house!”

Silence.

Mr. Bishop steadied his breathing, straining his hearing for quiet footsteps escaping the house. He rushed to the window, but the diseased yard remained unperturbed. When he turned back towards the room, his gaze was captured once more by the portrait. Much to his surprise, his gaze was met with that of the painted women.

His breath caught once more while his heart sped with confusion. “Must be an allusion,” he muttered as he slowly lowered himself in the chair in front of the desk. “Indeed, a simple allusion. Her eyes are painted so to appear as if following a person across the room.” For her eyes were truly following his every move.

And while most men of common mind and rationality would have seized the moment to escape back to reality, Mr. Bishop challenged his fear and focused on the beauty that was immortalized in the picture. Yes, only she possessed the nobility and elegance to carry his name. Oh, how he must find her!

As he blinked into focus, he was puzzled to find himself leaning back in the chair, the candelabra on the desk with its sole candle melted to a half-inch base. Faded scuff marks on each armrest presented the only signs of continued use as if each owner of Pearl Manor sat as its current heir, slouched with deprivation night after night, caught in admiration of the magnificent portrait.

A sudden rattle on the window awakened Mr. Bishop from his reverie. “Bloody hell,” he blurted, looking out to see a crow take flight from its altercation with the windowpane. “Such ghastly birds,” he said with a huff of annoyance.

As he focused on the desolate yard, another curse crossed his lips for the midday sun had now sunk to the brink of an approaching evening, its belly leisurely combing the horizon of Mortushire. Mr. Bishop turned on his heel with every intention of storming from the manor. But as he reached the doorway, the portrait sought his attention once more.

Like a newfound lover laying eyes on his admirer from afar, Mr. Bishop turned to the canvas to soak in every detail and curvature of the woman. As his eyes traveled from the hem of her gown to the corners of her eyes, he nearly forgot she was but a painting and caught himself on the verge of introducing himself aloud. For as he met her enticing emerald eyes, he was puzzled again to find the maiden staring back at him. He pushed his shoulders back as a chill ran down his spine.

“A simple painter’s trick,” he whispered, forcing himself from the room. As he mounted his horse, he wrestled with the image of her rose-tinted lips curved in the faintest smile.