Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 15: What We Might Leave Behind
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 15: What We Might Leave Behind - 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
“Friendships are a little like backyard gardens. We plan to tend to them. We just always seem to put it off till next week.”
— Jerry Espenson (as portrayed by Christian Clemenson), Boston Legal, Season 4, Episode 20: “Patriot Acts.” Written by Jonathan Shapiro, Sanford Golden, Karen Wyscarver, and David E. Kelley. Directed by Bill D’Elia. Created by David E. Kelley. Originally aired May 21, 2008. Copyright © 2008 20th Century Fox Television and ABC Studios. All rights reserved.
The house upon the modest rise in Wallingford was a simple affair with a quiet dignity in its wooden planks and weather-worn shutters. Thomas looked at the stoop from his carriage with a keen eye. He did not see the straight rows of winter cabbage but rather the thin trail of chimney smoke caught his eye.
On this morning, he was keenly aware that the conversation that was approaching would be uncomfortable to say the least.
The carriage came to a clean and purposeful halt on the dirt lane. The driver announced that they had arrived; though, the passengers knew well enough all on their own. The chauffeur dismounted and began taking care of the horse. He was not a cabbie, so he would accept no passengers except those employed by the Wolcott family. Thomas Wilson was such a mainstay of the family that his word was as good as any Wolcott’s, so the butler had a quick way and out of town should these parents prove to be violent or unproductive to the upcoming discussion.
In a dark frock coat that showed neither dust nor a single wrinkle despite the early morning’s ride, Thomas stepped out of the carriage first. He reached into his pocket and handed the driver a silver dollar with a slow, patience that told the driver that the butler would not be hurried even for the formality of the action.
After paying the man, he made his way back to the door and offered a hand for the young woman inside.
Lillian descended more slowly. The discomfort from being waited on was apparent from the features on her face. Her frame was slender but not slight, which explained the interest from Thomas’s employer.
She moved with the manner of a barmaid and farmer’s daughter; under different circumstances, she would have had a graceful gait born from instruction and a youth half-restrained.
Her hands clutched the large bag that she had packed from the tavern. Thomas could see her knuckles whitened from the effort. She did not look at Thomas, not from superiority but from shame. Her gaze was fixed on the modest farmhouse door ahead of her, and it became painfully clear that the young woman was concerned about what she would have to tell her parents.
When she walked up the steps, the wood creaked. Thomas observed the uncertainty in her steps and the shaking in her hands. She would not be able to knock on the door when the moment came.
Thankfully yet unfortunately, she did not have to.
The door opened with a sharp creak.
“Mother,” Lillian said.
Margaret Hallowell was a wife of a farmer and carpenter and mother of Lillian. Her hair, once auburn, now veiled itself in threads of grey, and her apron bore the honest marks of a morning’s work to feed men for a day’s labor.
She did not hesitate to run to her daughter and hug her.
“Lillian,” she whispered in exclamation as she wrapped her daughter up.
“Ma.”
There was no dramatic recoil or weeping. For this, a mother missing her daughter, the contact and closeness was enough. Only that single word was needed.
It was when Margaret looked up that a concern crossed her face.
“You’ve brought company.”
Thomas inclined his head. “Good morning, Mrs. Hallowell. My name is Thomas Wilson. I serve as the chief steward and butler in the household of Mr. Silas Wolcott of New Haven. I have escorted Miss Lillian home for her safety.”
Lillian looked at him, and gave him the smallest shake of her head.
Margaret’s brows rose slightly, but she said nothing for a long moment. Her eyes returned to her daughter, and something quiet — maternal concern, perhaps — moved across her expression like a shadow caught on glass.
“Come in, both of you,” she said at last, stepping back from the threshold. “Your father’s gone to the barn, but he’ll be back directly. No sense standing in the dawn like lost peddlers.”
Lillian stepped in quickly, perhaps too quickly. Thomas followed at a more deliberate pace.
When Thomas overtook the two of the women, the mother whispered to her daughter.
“I imagine there is a reason you have returned home?”
“I’m sorry, Ma,” Lillian said softly. She lowered her head. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You could have written,” her mother chastised. When she saw the shame and disappointment in her daughter’s face, she added kindly,” You could have come home sooner.”
“I was afraid,” she murmured.
Margaret nodded once. “That, I understand.”
She kept her arm wrapped around her daughter comfortingly. While it was clear she was confused by the presence of Thomas Wilson, she did not allow any prejudice to coat her features.
The love of her daughter had won out, and Thomas knew that she might be amicable to what he would inevitably have to say.
The corridors of Dreibruch University were quieter than they had any right to be. The cold stone underfoot exhaled dampness into the marrow of one’s bones, and the shadows did not seem to flee the flame but congregated in its corners.
For the first time in a long time, Jonathan Pellham was starting to feel as though he were walking in a place that Dante Alighieri might choose to write about.
The lawyer followed Dean Ashcombe down the narrow passageway. The facility had been built quickly but well with the time they had. The portion they walked through had views of experimental medicine. The Dean’s steps echoed louder than Pellham’s in a precise and deliberate manner.
In his sobriety, Pellham could not rid himself of a sheen of sweat that crept across his forehead as they passed a set of wide, segmented observation windows. Grotesquery could not begin to explain what was seen by the gentleman.
In the first chamber, a woman lay on a birthing chair. She was screaming as her face was overrun with paleness. Tears streaked across her face. For all of her struggling the sound that emerged was weak by comparison. Her legs trembled with exertion, and the attending doctors fumbled with the newborn, whose neck was cinched by its umbilical cord of slick flesh. The mother’s breath became more ragged and shallow.
Pellham looked away from the sight. The indecency of seeing a woman in such a state was not meant for him, and further, the amount of fluid being lost was entirely unbecoming to him.
The second window was not much better.
The cadaver of a man was laid open from throat to groin. His ribs were splayed like a butchered beast much to Jonathan’s misfortune. The lawyer had to hold back the food in his stomach as a wave of nausea struck him. Students were crowded around the specimen as a doctor and young assistant peeled back the sinews of the abdomen like the pages of a book. There was no more ceremony for the once-person in those moments.
With such disregard for the corpse, Jonathan wondered if Ashecomb even cared about the sanctity of the body or the uniqueness of the soul. As Jonathan’s stomach turned, he could not think of his superior’s philosophical beliefs.
The third window betrayed agony and added data that Ashecomb was unfeeling.
Here were the half-dead men that had been twisted by the kiss of flint and powder. Their groans were stifled behind thick glass, but they nevertheless kissed his ears in the most uncomfortable of manners.
Soldiers from war were often the greatest casualty to the weapons they wielded, and Jon could not help but sympathize with the pain even if he was not one to put himself in the position to be harmed by the tools of conflict.
Dean Ashcombe stopped once they had passed the rooms, which warned Jonathan that the Dean wanted him to witness all that was within.
“You look unwell, Jonathan,” he murmured, folding his hands behind his back as though admiring a painting. “I thought a man of your station would possess a stronger constitution.”
“I tried, but the blood and foul air...” Jonathan said stiffly, though his stomach lurched with every breath.
“The air,” Ashcombe replied, “carries the perfume of progress, my friend. That should be the true aim for any palace of study.”
Theophilus shook his head and a sneer ran over his facial features.
“Most men turn away from it because of fear or weakness,” he scoffed in disgust. “They close their eyes to the terrible cost of knowledge, but they will always be the ones to be thankful and beg to benefit from it. We do not have the luxury of ignorance, Jonathan.”
Jonathan straightened his coat and gave a nod of understanding.
“You were gone for some time,” Theophilus remarked. There was an edge of a threat on his tongue. “I hope you were not wasting away your time nor that of my goodwill to you.”
“Silas is somewhat occupied,” he said with some hesitation. “He is quite taken with a foreign princess ... Her Royal Highness, Sophia of Britain.”
Ashcombe’s brow lifted a fraction. He seemed genuinely surprised by the information. However, as was his way, he seemed to grow more interested in the development even if he did not particularly care about what that meant for him.
“Royalty?”
“Yes,” Jon said. “She seemed to have his attention for now, but he intimated to me that he would consider visiting Dreibruch within the next calendar year. His words, not mine,” he added with raised hands. “However, he seemed clear that his recent gift was one of benevolence, not one of habit.”
Ashcombe stared blankly out into the world.
“Then our efforts must turn toward invitation,” he said more to himself than to Jonathan. “You should return to New Haven and convince Mr. Wolcott to visit. I know you are very good at flattery. Remind him that colleges like ours cannot last without generous benefactors.”
“Do you want me to coax him with guilt?” Jonathan asked, the scent of iron clinging to his throat.
“Guilt, morality, kindness, God’s charity. Use whatever it takes,” Ashecomb replied seriously.
Ashcombe’s eyes turned back to his subordinate.
“What matters most is that you do your job. The world we are building here requires sacrifice. Right now, we need a purse that can fund our research until others see the benefit to what we are doing and they pay for the privilege.”
Jonathan Pellham felt, for the first time in many years, quite alone. He could not identify why that was, but he could sense that some part of the Dean’s plans were sinister in nature. The mystery was not for him to solve though, so like a good follower, he nodded.
“I will speak with him,” he said quietly.
“Very good,” said Ashcombe, and turned from the glass.
Behind them, the woman’s wail finally ceased. Whether in birth or death, neither man knew. One did not bother to inquire because there would be report on his desk by the next day, and the other did not investigate because he lacked the stomach for the blood and pain waiting for him.
The clatter of pans and the rustling of linens were already underway in the lower rooms of Wolcott Manor. After all, a servant’s day starts long before sunrise, and it can go all the way into the darkest time of dusk.
When Silas descended the narrow servant’s staircase just past the seventh hour of the morning, he looked in with a smile.
His presence was noticed by those preparing for the day. The aroma of yeast and the crisp promise of bacon halted his movements momentarily.
Eleanor Taylor turned first to see and greet her employer. Her sleeves were already rolled up as she did not want to dirty any of her clothes. That did not prevent flour from dappling her bodice.
“Mr. Wolcott,” she said in her steady, practiced voice, “you’re up earlier than usual and down here...”
“I am,” Silas replied.
While he was mildly nervous, he fixed his sleeves and gave his cook a smile.
“I am sorry, but I came down here to ask a favor of you,” he went on respectfully. “My guests will need a proper table this morning. As I have been regrettably negligent in finding Mr. Thomas’s temporary replacement, I must impose upon you all once more.”
“You scarcely impose quieter or busier mornings, sir,” said Eleanor, without blinking. She flashed him an understanding smile, and he knew all would be well. “You will have your breakfast that is to your, and your company’s, liking.”
“I am most grateful,” he said, pausing only as Mary passed by with a tray of silver polished to a shine. “Ah, Miss Mary! If you would be so kind, I should like a proper silver knife laid at my place this morning. It does not need to be ornamental, but I would like to ensure it being made of silver.”
Mary stopped, blinked, and glanced at Eleanor before nodding. The cook gave her a half shrug as she did not know what to do in this scenario.
“Yes, sir,” Mary replied.
Silas bowed his head with the quiet grace of a man aware he was being discussed even before he left the room.
“Thank you all. That is all I ask.”
He exited quickly. He was unaccustomed to lingering in kitchens, and his quickness displayed that.
Esther spoke up.
“Is it me or is having two unmarried women who are not his relatives, sharing the same roof with him, more odd than the request for silver?”
“Have you seen the dark one?” Mary asked. “Like something from a bad tale. He’s not from here. I know that much of it.”
“The princess is likely where his interests lie,” said Eleanor, resuming her mixing. “But titled or not, you are right. It is unseemly, especially with that Russian tart who thinks she owns the place.”
Esther leaned her elbow on the table.
“Maybe he thinks to marry one of them.”
Mary gave a dry laugh. “God help him. I’ve never seen a man with less understanding of how to court a woman. Or how to host one properly. If Thomas were here—”
“Thomas isn’t here though,” said a new voice, firm as a gate-latch.
Mr. Lyle MacPhee had entered from the back corridor with his coat already dusted with frost from the grounds.
“What I do know’s this—Thomas Wilson wouldn’t’ve stood for loose talk under this roof, so we’ll keep to tradition, even if he’s not about.”
“But—” Esther began.
“Enough,” said Eleanor, firm. “Get the porridge up, and we will be respectful of the master of the manor, as Mr. MacPhee has pointed out is our responsibility.”
The two women began getting ready to serve part of the breakfast, but they knew they would need to set the table. The cook had forgotten then, but they grabbed the silverware, and made sure Silas Wolcott had his perfect silver knife even if they did not know what it was for.
The sitting room at the edge of the Hallowell farmstead bore the hallmarks of the modest means of a proper farming content.
Thomas stood by the hearth with gloved hands, so as to give the family a barrier between their items and his skin. While he was unsure of their racial leanings, he knew that prejudice was not only skin deep for some people. For others, it was far more subtle in its manifestation. Because of this potential discrimination, he acted as submissive to their judgment as possible.
People were far more amicable and willing to give one what they wanted if they believed themselves to be the superior or have leverage over the other party.
“My daughter is a whore,” said the father.
He had heard Thomas’s story about Lillian’s misfortune, and it was clear from his face and the sentence spoken, that he had not heard Thomas completely.
“William!” Margaret exclaimed. “Whatever she might have done, she is our daughter!”
“I ask,” Thomas began, his voice level as a preacher reading from Scripture, “not for charity nor indulgence. Whatever transgressions you believe Ms. Lillian to have performed, I am presenting a proposal that will, if undertaken with prudence, preserve your family’s reputation and ensure your daughter’s future without the tether to scandal.”
William stood up abruptly.
“She still laid with a man before marriage,” he said, shaking his head. “These are just the natural consequences!”
Thomas knew that this was a man of weather and sweat. Whatever beliefs he held were firmly rooted in a life lived. Whether prejudice or being unfeeling to his daughter in her time of need, there was a reason for these beliefs. Somehow, someway, this man believed that he was doing what was best for himself and his offspring.
“We don’t need help from your kind,” he said, the last two words laden with a heat that had little to do with the fireplace behind Thomas.
“William,” Margaret murmured weakly.
Her voice was tinged more with weariness from him saying the words rather than a rebuke or condemnation of the words.
Thomas knew well enough when he could and could not win a battle. This was one he would not even fight. After all, he had lived his whole, long life with this problem. Margaret only dealt with it sometimes.
The butler inhaled and turned his gaze to Margaret instead.
“Mrs. Hallowell, if I may.”
She nodded to him before turning to her husband and said, “Let the man speak.”
“The pragmatic truth is this: I have access to a fund of approximately one thousand dollars at its current moment. This is not a bribe nor an attempt to blackmail either of you, nor is it charity as I know some farmers can be hard men, and they do not want to be looked down by others. This is a form of reparation to Ms. Lillian. The funds are to be used for renovations to your home, the hiring of additional hands to assist with the farm, and, more critically, for ensuring your daughter can carry this child safely and without the malicious scrutiny of neighbors or untrustworthy family.”
William folded his arms in what appeared to be insulted anger. His jaw was stiff and his eyes never left Thomas.
“What do you expect in return? That we lie about what our daughter did? The shame she brought onto this family? That we pretend her mistake never happened?”
“What your daughter did...” Thomas muttered. He restrained himself, for he knew that if he lost his temper, all would be lost. “Discretion for the next six to eight months, and Lillian remains here, quietly. Let no one know she has returned. When the time comes, Mrs. Hallowell will slip away with her daughter, and when the child is born, the family may present it as Margaret’s own. After all, women in her age have been known to receive this late, but not unheard-of, gift from life. No one but you would be the wiser.”
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