Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 10: Life is a Party
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 10: Life is a Party - After his father's passing in 1822, Silas Wolcott returns home to discover he has inherited a fortune beyond necessity. However, soon, he must uncover the secrets of his House and bloodline. With the help of his stalwart butler, a seductive vampire, and his own intellect, Silas must navigate a power FAR greater than any of mortal comprehension.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Historical Alternate History Paranormal Vampires Cream Pie Halloween Royalty Violence
“Living in a world where people measure their happiness by self-indulgence and decadence, is like watching a whole society being pushed into the abyss of perpetual decay and aberrations.”
— Husam Wafaei, The Art of Living in Your Heart: Peace and Freedom of Being, self-published via AuthorHouse, 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Husam Wafaei.
The quiet early morning at Wolcott Manor was interrupted by the sound of hooves upon the gravel drive. It was a sound not uncommon to the area.
Within the study, Silas Wolcott looked up from his correspondence. He had a feeling that it would be the man who turned his world upside down in a few visits would do so again.
Moments later a confirmation was given to him with the unmistakable voice of Jonathan Pellham coming up from the hallway.
To a degree, this man was annoying with his ever-exuberant behavior. Silas was a creature of habit and rules. That Jon could just burst into a room unsettled Silas, but the Wolcott supposed this was what he had chosen by inviting Jon into his house.
Silas had barely risen from his seat when the door burst open.
“Silas!” Jonathan declared when he crossed the threshold.
“Yes, Jon?” Silas said as understanding as possible.
“I apologize for my behavior, but I bring important tidings that I could not be slowed by propriety.”
“Of course you were,” Silas replied, knowingly. Silas crossed his arms and flashed a sardonic smile. “In the future, you might at least pretend to knock.”
“I did,” Jonathan faux-whined, entirely unrepentant. “In spirit.”
Silas gestured for him to sit as a good host should. Jonathan refused the offer in his energized hurriedness.
“Well then,” Silas said with a sigh that concealed amusement, “what event has summoned you to my home at such a pace? Is there a war on? Maybe a duel in town?”
“Better!” Jonathan beamed. “Guests!”
Silas blinked. “Guests? For my party?”
“Not just guests, but aristocrats.” Jonathan lowered his voice as though revealing a conspiracy. “There’s a clutch of them from England. They’re on some tedious banking business in New York and making their way to New Haven. It so happens they’ve heard of a certain Mister Wolcott, of fine estate and finer wine cellars, and would be most pleased to attend a social gathering during their stay.”
Silas narrowed his eyes in mild suspicion.
“And how, precisely, did they come to hear of this supposed Mister Wolcott?”
“I may have ... mentioned it to a friend in passing.”
He had the charm of a feline that had knocked a saucer of milk. It was clear he had done a disservice, but it was always in a way that was forgivable.
Silas turned toward the window. He could think about anything while looking at the winter New English weather. It was not a sun of the spring to Autumn season. The dreary weather was to act as a deterrent.
“This was meant to be an intimate affair, Jon,” he said at last. “This would not be like the parties at university or even a ball for showing off as they do in New York. I was thinking of a modest supper accompanied with music by candlelight.”
Jonathan’s expression softened but his grin never faded.
“It can still be that. But these people are precisely the sort of people one, such as you, might benefit from meeting. You are worried about your soul because of financial influence, so you should connect to those with influence in art and poetry, Silas. Nobility and royalty are the ones who fund the arts and help push society forward in that direction. Isn’t that what you want?”
Silas turned from the window and regarded his friend.
“And you are quite certain,” he said, “that you are not merely trying to secure a larger celebration before you return to Dreibruch?”
“Entirely certain,” Jonathan said with a laugh. “I won’t pretend I mind the idea though. My business here should be concluded soon.”
Silas exhaled slowly, the ghost of a smile returning to his face.
Frustrated though he might be by Jonathan, he could not pretend that he was not infected by the excitement that his friend generated. If he was going to follow his friend into this endeavor, he should go all the way. There were greater sins than having a good time.
“Very well. I will move the date to next Friday, then,” Silas said with finality. “But do not make a habit of expecting me to throw elaborate entertainments at a moment’s notice.”
Jonathan was already halfway to the door. “We’ll see.”
She was born Lillian Pratt. However, everyone who knew her called her Lily.
At that particular moment, her name did not matter as she was sat hunched upon a narrow cot. Her body trembled from a cold feeling that crept along her skin despite the fact that the air was temperate.
A basin lay on the table beside her. It emitted the faint sour scent of illness from its most recent use.
She had risen early, before the rest of the house, and crept upstairs after retching uncontrollably for the third morning in a row.
At first, she had dismissed the sickness as a passing guilt from being bed by that Wolcott man. After all, she had given her propriety to a man that was not her husband (though she was not married), but what else could she do? Everyone had heard the stories. He was the reason the area was improving.
Men like him often get what they want anyway. Besides, he was handsome and drunk. There was no reason to say no. It would be one night where she could have an adventure that she might one day tell her friends or daughters once she was married.
She was the sort of common girl who worked too hard, slept too little, and ate too seldom, so when the chance at a one night torrid love affair was offered, she had said yes. Why should she not?
As she leaned her head against the wall and listened to the muffled sounds of pots clattering below, she knew quite well why she should have denied that night. The truth of consequence was blooming within her like a dark flower.
She had not had her monthly bleeding. She should have had it seven days earlier.
Lily did not cry immediately. Sometimes, a bleeding was late by a day or two. As she stared at her hands, which were rough from soap and ash, she tried to reconcile the girl of twenty that she was with the woman she would soon be with dreadful clarity.
A lateness meant that she was with child, and that meant her life was over. No self-respecting man would want her now. A bastard baby would bring shame onto the family. She was a miller’s daughter, and she worked at a tavern; what honor or privilege was there for her?
The memory of the affluent man ran through her mind like a dream. He had been generous as she had understood it. Her mother and aunt had warned her that she might not feel pleasure on her first time, but Lily had felt taken care of. Well, as taken care as she could be in a night of drunken intercourse.
This led her to wonder: Who could she tell? What could she say? Would anyone believe her?
A gentleman had chosen her, a barmaid, for a single night’s tenderness, and then vanished like a ghost at first light?
No. They would likely believe that she had made the whole story up to sleep with some farmhand of her father. But that was not who she was. That was not the type of girl she had been raised up to be.
Lily curled forward and pressed her fists to her eyes. The tears came without her bidding. She was quiet in her sobs. She did not want anyone to hear her. She would not be given any pity or compassion in those moments. This was hers to struggle through ... alone.
Her father would have to be told. What would he say? What of her mother? She would throw the whole Bible at her or at least a preacher until she felt Lily had learned her lesson.
The tears flowed with a slow helplessness of her situation.
The man had been kind and good by all accounts. She had heard horror stories of rich men taken advantage of women, and leaving them like dirt after forcefully ravaging them and making them do all sorts of filthy things. He had been tender, slow, and while the lovemaking had not been excessively long, Lily could have a good memory of that night if only there had not bee consequences.
Did that mean she should tell him?
But what then? What if he denied the event had taken place? And what future would be left to her? There were homes for women of ill-repute. Lillian was no whore. That was not for her. There were no nunneries to hide her off to like in Europe.
The door creaked somewhere below. The morning had begun at the tavern. This was a problem for tomorrow. For young Lillian, she could only deal with the moment and the right here and right now, so she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and stood.
Straightening her bodice and steadying her breath, she stood up straight without any dramatics. She would face the day with the credibility of a good woman who only had made one mistake.
In her heart though, a bell had been struck. Its sound would echo in her soul for years to come, whether she knew it or not.
The servants’ dining room of Wolcott Manor had gathered its usual ensemble, as was the custom, to share their evening meal and their speculations in equal measure.
Mary sat primly with her napkin folded across her lap with a preciseness in her manners. Esther, by contrast, perched on the bench like a restless bird.
“I don’t understand it; I really don’t,” Esther said, shaking her head. She clinked her spoon against the bowl. “Why is he having a big party? What could Mr. Wolcott be thinking?”
“It is not for us to question the master’s wishes,” Thomas replied.
It was clear that there was a restraint in his voice. The others could not know why, but their curiosity for Silas and his choices rather than the aged butler.
Birdie Taylor snorted softly through her nose. She was not one to minx words, but when she had an opinion, there was not a power on the earth that could prevent her from speaking her mind,
“The house has barely served a half-dozen callers since the elder Mr. Wolcott passed, and now we’re to accommodate carriages from New York? How?”
“Purchases have been made, Miss Taylor for this festivity,” Thomas remarked. “There is no concern about the supply of food, but we will be working around the clock that morning, but other servants have been contracted out to serve the guests.”
From the corner, Lyle MacPhee grunted before standing up. He did not seem to have an opinion one way or another. He was a worker at heart the day before, and whether there was a celebration or not, he would be a worker tomorrow.
“Ah well, I’d best see tae the lanterns, then,” the caretaker said. “That garden’s a wild tangle as it is, an’ them hedges’ll look like coffins in the moonlight if we dinnae cut ‘em back.”
Thomas Wilson was as composed as ever. He laid down some cutlery as he watched the grizzled brown haired and bearded Scottish-Ulsterman caretaker leave. The butler understood that, no matter how much the man did not speak against Silas Wolcott, there were feelings of confusion and disappointment.
His voice was deep and deliberate as most of what he did was. He was a man of precise action, whether it was speaking or cleaning off a suit. He was purposeful and fulfilled his obligations to their full extent in splendor as well as sorrow.
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