Chestnut Hollow

A cloudy day doesn’t necessarily mean something bad will happen. It is not the weather that dictates the way of life; it is only a complementary detail to an already established path. Most people would be rather content with rain while they are inside, watching their favourite show with a warm cup of tea in hand, snuggling into their cosy blanket. But some people are caught outside, with nothing to shield them from the rain, with wet hair and clothes, with horrible traffic, and a strong desire to disappear.

For some, a cloudy day is just as bad as a sunny one, especially when brought home from work in beautiful and warm Greece. For some, a sunny day complements bad news better than heavy rain and damp weather.

Three men and two women were standing in the office of their family's lawyer, each with their own thoughts but all with the same sour expression.

“So this is it, hm? He’s gone, for real,” one of the men started, his expression turning bitter. “He died in complete secrecy, just as he abandoned us.”

“Robert-“ the older woman hissed at her son.

“What? You expect me to mourn a father that left us just because he was a coward? And what’s this?” Robert asked, pointing at a red leather book innocently placed in his sister’s lap.

“His journal. You heard what Mr Ashbury said. Your father wanted you to know that-“

“That he was too afraid of what his beloved society said if he were to disobey its rules, right? So he abandoned his family in order to go and create a new one. Am I wrong?” Robert asked, his indignation clear on his face.

Nobody commented because his words were true. Indeed, their father, Charles Wilmington, left when his youngest was barely one. Now, that same little boy stood by the window with no real sadness for a man whom he had never met.

“That’s not the problem,” The eldest brother started, his eyes stuck on his sister. “He left everything he owns to you, Freya. Is that even possible?”

“He insisted that Miss. Freya should be his only inheritor.” Mr. Ashbury stated with a nod. “If Miss Freya decides that she cannot solve Mr Wilmington’s plea, then the inheritance will go to a cousin from Bath,”

“And three innocent girls will be left with nothing.” Their mother added, “It is not their fault, it is not yours either Freya. If you don’t want to do it, I’m sure we can think of another way.”

Robert scoffed loudly but understood that ultimately it was Freya’s choice. She was silent the whole time, almost as if she dissociated and all she could think about were the fun memories she had with her father. He named her after a Norse hero, he taught her history and how to love history and then one day he just left and never returned. She was ten back then, the oldest out of his four children, and the only girl. And now, as Mr Ashbury kindly briefed them, her father wanted her to go to his estate and help her half sisters (whom Freya did not know existed before) marry men with good prospects. She couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I came all the way from my excavation site for this,” she muttered, feeling like the hole she tried so hard to fill ever since she was ten, emptied with just two words. “How bad would their lives be if I don’t go?”

“Maybe one of them will be lucky to marry a gentleman but that is very unlikely if all their inheritance is passed on to Mr Wilmington’s cousin. They will be penniless.”

Freya sighed and looked at her father’s journal. It was his final wish for Freya to help the three sisters marry well and live good lives, send them an allowance every year and make sure his legacy won’t die. But glancing at her brothers, it was rather infuriating. What about them? What about her mother, and what about Freya and her feelings of betrayal?

“Read his journal and give me an answer by the end of the week. I will have to return and make all the arrangements.” Mr Ashbury said with a sympathetic smile.

Ashbury was actually not that old, he must have been in his mid forties. He was a good friend of her father’s, as well as his lawyer and sometimes accountant. He was the only one who knew about the Chestnut Hollow.

As the story goes, Eleanor Bedley was a young student in London when she decided to take a stroll through Greenwich Park, where she saw a man dressed in old clothes, staring at everything with amazement and fear. That was Charles Wilmington, owner of the Wilton House, named after Charles’ great grand—father’s nickname. Wilton House was not in London, it was a few kilometres north, in Northamptonshire, near a small town called Ashbey.

Charles alleged that he leaned against the tree when suddenly he fell inside through a hollow and ended up in London. He alleged that he was from the late 1700s, and that he was very well off. The two fell in love, but they did not marry. They went on to have four children an then…Charles left because his father was dying. He left and never returned.

“He has some nerve to tell us to help the sisters that we never knew we had, not that we care about them,” Will, the youngest brother, finally spoke. “How old are they anyway?”

“16, 18 and 19.” Mr Ashbury said.

“They are so young. Practically children,” Miss Bedley said, glancing at Freya.

“We were also children when he abandoned us,” Robert added.

Freya closed her eyes and grasped the leather cover of the notebook.

“I’ll go. But only for one year, no more. I cannot abandon my team. I’ll let them know that I will take a year off for a very important family event. But they will still have to inform me if they find something or if there are any issues.”

“That won’t be a problem. Your brothers and mother can write you letters,”

“How delightful,” Robert hissed and rolled his eyes.

Freya was in the bus, holding the notebook tightly. A pair of green eyes were staring at her, she could see them in the window.

“Why are you taking the same bus? Don’t you live in the opposite direction?”

Alfred Bedley, also known as Alfie to friends and family, shrugged.

“Why did you agree to go? You suffered the most out of us since you spent the most time with him,”

“That’s exactly why. I suppose I want to see why it was more important to go there than stay with us.”

“The responsibilities of a regency gentleman are different. Just read Austen or the Brontë sisters. You don’t know how harsh society is until you feel it on your skin.” Alfred said.

“Are you worried?” Freya asked in a teasing tone.

“Yes. Aren’t you? Reading history and living it are two different things” He said, being the most mature and calculated out of the Bedley siblings.

“I’m a historian though. That’s probably why father named me in his will,”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s because only another woman can decide what man is best to marry a 19 year old,”

Freya chuckled but Alfred was serious.

“They are not even adults yet. In America they wouldn’t even be able to drink.” Alfred said with a sigh, “They will hate you. A stranger, who literally fell though a tree, waltzes in and takes charge of their house, land, money and even lives. Besides, you are 33 this year. You’re old,”

Freya listened with wide eyes before she started to laugh.

“That is the last of my problems,”

Alfred pouted and decided to remain silent. He wasn’t much younger either. He was the second oldest, only two years apart from Freya. Then came Robert who was 27 and Will who was 24.

“Don’t worry, Alfred. I’ll be fine.” She said turning to look out the window. Honestly, Freya was more worried of what she was going to uncover while reading her father’s journal.