Chapter 8: A Fall From Grace

“For the historical audit brings so much to light which is false and absurd, violent and inhuman, that the condition of pious illusion falls to pieces... ‘he who destroys illusions in himself and others is punished by the ultimate tyrant, Nature.’”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Thoughts Out of Season, Part Two: The Use and Abuse of History for Life (“Vom Nutzen und Nachtheil der Historie für das Leben”), originally published in 1874. Translated by Anthony M. Ludovici and Adrian Collins. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, Delphi Classics, 2015. Public domain.

Few pains in this world tried Jonathan Pellham’s constitution more than a hangover. When he was not around the Dean of Dreibruch or a clergyman, he would call it ‘A damned trial and then some’, but in the company of the poor or those that did not know who he was, he would openly call it, ‘A bitch and a half’.

So far as he understood the medicinal issue of a hangover, it was simply a matter of dehydration. One could regain sobriety by drinking water, milk, fruit juices, or even weak alcohol. That did not especially make his morning of bacon and eggs at the local tavern especially meaningful when he ordered whatever fruit juice they had and some cold water.

It all went down well enough, sure, but that did not mean he enjoyed the process of getting a clear head. Talking to Josiah only seemed to anger the Dreibruch lawyer. He had become an attorney for the University to help it educate young minds as well as further the interest of medicine and the sciences.

He did not have the mind for such learnings, but logic, reason, and arguments, Jonathan was good at, so he had become a lawyer to defend those practices. That and the pay was pretty good.

He made just over two thousand dollars a year. There was more money to be made in New York, and there were those that were corporate lawyers, who made excess of five thousand dollars a year, but he could not put a price on his comfort and ability to see old friends.

That was until he felt the chilling in the corridors of Wolcott Manor when Jonathan Pellham crossed the threshold into the study. He shivered at the development.

What sane man allowed his home to get so ... dead?

He had come to speak of endowments for Dreibruch and the noble duty of wealthy men to prop up institutions wiser than themselves, but as his gloved hand grazed the doorknob and the heavy wood swung open on protesting hinges, those finely prepared words vanished like smoke in the breeze. Concern for his once-friend entered his mind.

This was a strange sight, not of the components, which were Silas Wolcott seated near the window, or the books that were strewn, the light from candles rather than the sun at such an early hour.

It was the disheveled hair, and wrongness of his face that threw Jonathan off. Silas appeared, by Jonathan’s estimation, to be haunted.

Jonathan stopped at once.

“My God, Silas,” he said, quietly. “You look positively—ghastly.”

Silas turned toward him slowly. He did not rise, but he offered his guest a seat as a good host should.

“I imagine I do.”

“What has happened?” Jonathan asked as he accepted the chair to sit in.

Silas hesitated.

“I went looking,” he said, “for the truth.”

“Well,” Jonathan remarked blithely. “That’s certainly ominous.”

When he saw that words had no effect on the Wolcott, he abandoned the strategy of being casual or completely juvenile with the Dreibruch connection.

“Silas,” he said, gentler now, “I am guessing that your father’s death has weighed heavily on you, but what, for God’s sake, has you like this?”

“You remember my father?”

Jonathan nodded.

“Yes. He was a surly bastard, but a decent fellow, all things considered.”

“He was not the man I supposed he was,” Silas whispered.

Jonathan shook his head.

“Silas, that is nonsense. Your father was a boring coin counter,” Jonathan said. “No matter what you learned, the truth is you clearly need rest. You look as though you’ve swallowed poison.”

“I might have,” Silas said, his smile curdling.

“That’s it!” Jonathan exclaimed. “You’re coming with me tonight. There’s a tavern in town. You need roast beef, good wine, and foolish conversation. None of this crypt-mourning. Or cryptic secret-having nonsense! You’re not your father, Silas. Not if I have a say in it!”

Silas stared at the man as if he were drunk, which was not entirely far from the truth.

“Jon, that doesn’t...” he trailed off.

He could see that Jonathan’s exuberance would know no bounds.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Return by five o’clock, and we can go out.”

“Just like old times,” Jonathan said with a grin.

Eleanor Taylor busied herself by the hearth in the early afternoon light within the kitchen. Lunch had been served for the workers and Silas. She had received notice that Mister Wolcott would be dining in town with a friend, so she had an unusual amount of time with her.

She had a copy of Don Quixote in her hand. While she enjoyed the tale, she wished he had found dragons to tilt at rather than windmills. She had almost picked up the book The Monk, but she had heard questionable murmurings about that novel, so she had chosen something more agreeable to her simpler sensibilities.

When she looked up, Eleanor saw that Thomas Wilson was wringing his hands. This was something Eleanor had not seen him do in many years, and so, for him, it was altogether unusual.

“I wonder,” he said, softly, “if you’ve a moment, Miss Taylor.”

She set the book aside gently and dusted her hands with her apron.

“For you, Thomas, always,” she remarked honestly. “Sit yourself down.”

He complied before folding and putting his gloves on the table.

“Well then,” the cook asked sweetly. “What is troubling you?

“It’s Silas,” he said at last.

“That would make a reasonable amount of sense,” she said with a kind smile. “That young man has been struggling to find himself, and you have been helping direct him. Don’t you deny it? I have eyes to see even if the others don’t.”