The Remnants of Henry

Norwich, Thursday, 6 February 1820

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“My dear brother Henry,

It is with the deepest sorrow that I inform you of the passing of our beloved father. He breathed his last on Wednesday night, in his bed, after a hard struggle against typhus.

I beg you to come to Norwich without delay so that we may together pay him his last respects. Our mother is inconsolable and needs your support and presence.

With affection and devotion, Your sister, Charlotte”

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And it was with that brief letter in hand that my story began — or rather, my undoing. Returning to Norwich is a torment to me, for nothing remains there since the fire that, so many years ago, took my dear friend Kiefe. I have taken refuge in London ever since, unable to bear the pain of that loss. Now, however, fate compels me to return: my father, long frail, has finally succumbed to the illness that consumed him, and it falls to me to watch over his body and honour his memory.

My name is Henry Conrad Brown. I am twenty-two years old, born in Norwich, to a well-to-do family. We are not lords nor nobles, but we are far removed from the rusticity of country folk. My father held fertile lands, which he leased to small farmers, and from that came our comfort. I must own we never wanted for anything. When I expressed my wish to study and open my own business far from home, he not only approved, but bore the cost of my journey and my first steps. And so I settled in London, where I keep a modest draper’s shop in the heart of the city.

Now, though, all of that must be left behind. I carry but a few trunks, and the weight that travels with me is not of clothes or belongings, but of memory and filial duty. I arrive by stagecoach, the rumble of wooden wheels still echoing in my ears, and I feel every step that draws me nearer to Norwich is also a step toward the past I so feared to revisit.

I am a young man of elegant bearing, of middle height, with dark hair always neatly combed and eyes of a deep shade of grey, which many say hold the melancholy of my soul. My countenance bears a certain gravity, as if every memory of days gone by has left a shadow upon my gaze. I carry firm features: a straight nose, and a mouth that rarely curves into a smile, for life taught me early the weight of loss.

There is in me the composure of one raised to respectability, but also the restlessness of one who harbours secrets that do not fade with time. I wear an expression that shifts between solemnity and longing, as though every passing moment is crossed by memories that refuse to fall silent.

I step down from the stagecoach to find a smaller carriage already waiting, driven by one of our household’s oldest servants, sent at my mother’s command. I climb inside, and as the wheels begin to turn over the rutted track, I draw my sister’s letter from my pocket and read it again, as if seeking to confirm what still feels unreal. The passing of the head of the family.

I know not what I shall find in those lands, for I left Norwich little more than a boy, barely turned sixteen. Since then, we have kept only the slender thread of letters that bound us, as I tried to follow my family’s fortunes from afar. Now this return weighs upon me like an inevitable burden.

The journey stretches across fields that are at once familiar and strange, and every bend in the road brings forth recollections I had thought buried. At last, after many miles, I catch sight of the hill where my old home stands. The great house, stately and silent, seems to watch my arrival with the same gravity I feel in my heart.

Hardly have I alighted from the carriage when I see my sister running toward me. Charlotte, now fifteen, wraps me in a warm embrace, and for a moment the weariness of the journey lifts. Her face still holds the softness of childhood, yet already shows the lines of youth; her brown hair falls loose about her shoulders, and her light eyes shine with the emotion of our meeting. There is in her a genuine joy, mingled with longing, that calls up the day I left Norwich and saw her for the last time.

— “Hello, Charlotte,” I say, taking her hands in mine. “It is a great comfort to see you again. You are quite a young lady now.”

She looks up at me, eyes glistening, yet her smile refuses to fade.

— “Hello, my dearest brother,” she answers. “I have missed you so. It has been so long since I saw you last, I had almost forgotten what your voice sounds like.”

That simple, heartfelt reunion brings back childhood memories I had believed lost. The warmth of her presence softens the grief that has clung to me, and I realise that, despite all the years apart, the bond between us remains unbroken.

I enter the house at Charlotte’s side. The great house rises on the hill with its austere façade, tall windows catching the pale light of afternoon. The main hallway, panelled in dark wood, holds the heavy silence only homes in mourning know. Every portrait hanging on the walls seems to watch my coming, as silent witnesses to a past that will not be erased.

— “Where is our dear mother?” I ask, striving to mask my unease. “I trust she is not unwell.”

— “She is with Mr Smay,” Charlotte replies. “Discussing father’s effects. She would not let me into the study. Said I am too young for such matters.”

We make our way to the study, the room that had always been my father’s domain. The heavy door opens with difficulty, revealing a sombre space: shelves lined with bound volumes, a sturdy desk piled with papers, and a grandfather clock marking the passing hours with a solemn, steady beat.

My mother sits there, her expression drawn and severe. Beside her, Mr Smay, the family lawyer, holds documents with a grave countenance.

— “Henry, my dear son. How good to see you,” my mother says, rising with effort.

I step forward and press a gentle kiss to her hands.

— “It is good of you to come, Mr Brown,” the lawyer says, standing also. “I was speaking with your mother of your father’s estate.”

— “My father is not yet buried, and already you speak of inheritance,” I reply, indignant. “This does not seem like you, mother.”

She lifts her gaze to me, steady: — “Do not be impertinent, son. This is a matter of great consequence, and I would not be here were it not.”

— “Where is father?” I ask, my heart tightening in my chest.

— “In his chambers, being watched over by your Aunt Ophelia and your cousins,” she answers. “They have travelled far to be here.”

— “I should like to see him, if you please,” I say.

Mr Smay intervenes, his voice grave: — “Pray be seated, Mr Brown. I fear the matter is most urgent. Your father can wait.”

I look to my mother, bewildered by all this, and at length take a seat beside the lawyer, ill at ease with the turn things have taken.

— “What can be so urgent?” I ask. “I cannot imagine it cannot wait until I have mourned my own father.”

My mother sighs, with a sharp, unexpected edge: — “Your father has left us in a dreadful mess.”

— “Mother!” I exclaim, shocked by her bluntness. “Thank heaven Charlotte is not here to hear you speak so.”

— “Forgive me, son, but there is no other way to put it. Your father made a new will shortly before his death, and instructed another lawyer — not Mr Smay — to witness it properly,” she says.

The lawyer adjusts his papers and speaks with solemnity: — “I hope you are prepared for what you must hear. I fear it will alter your life very considerably.”

— “Say on, then,” I beg, almost pleading. “I never cared for suspense.”

— “Your father has left everything to you,” he says. “The house, the lands, the deeds — all of it.”

For a moment, relief washes over me.

— “That sounds well indeed. I see no cause for such alarm. I shall sign whatever is needed to place you and Charlotte in charge of it all. If that is your concern — let it be so!”

My mother, however, shakes her head: — “I thank you, my dear. But you knew your father well. He would never have made things so easy for us.”

— “What do you mean?” I ask.

She holds out the document to me. As I unfold the paper, I feel the full weight of this inheritance descend upon me like a sentence.

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I, Edward Brown, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare and make known that upon my death all my property — including the house, the lands, and the deeds — shall be bequeathed to my son Henry Brown.

I do, however, establish as an irrevocable condition that the said heir shall enter into marriage within a period of no more than seven days following my death. Should this condition not be fulfilled, the property and deeds herein described shall pass into the administration of my nephew Jonathan Brown, until such requirement is met; or, failing that, shall revert for the benefit of the local community.

I sign this document of my own free will, in the presence of witnesses, to the end that it may be carried out as my last will and testament.

Edward Brown

Signed at Norwich, on the eighteenth day of January in the year of our Lord 1820.

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Reading this, I cry out in despair: — He did what?