Chapter 28: Return to Wolcott Manor

“ ... we’re settled where we should be...”

— Bertha Russell (as portrayed by Carrie Coon), The Gilded Age, Season 1, Episode 1: “Never the New.” Directed by Michael Engler and written by Julian Fellowes; the series was created by Julian Fellowes. The episode premiered on January 24, 2022.

Thomas Wilson began his morning as he had begun so many mornings since the terrible death of Jonathan Pellham. He was within the deepest recesses of the house while being respectful in his placidity.

The basement of Wolcott Manor bore the character of a sepulchre and a laboratory combined. A single lamp burned near the iron table.

Princess Sophia hung upside down by a contrivance of Thomas’s making and Silas’s approving instruction. Her long body was draped in pale stillness save for the faint tremor of her irregular breath. She was a grand creature even in such ignominy; one might almost have supposed that the world itself ought to apologize for obliging her to remain in so unbecoming a posture.

Nevertheless, there she was, a terrifying monster, upside down and leaking blood into a basin.

That receptacle below her received the blood in a slow, crimson stream. The liquid was already being transferred by Thomas into stoppered glass jars. Those containers would carefully be wrapped and sealed.

Silas had explained that her life fluid would be useful somehow, but Thomas did not know in what way. Instead, he trusted his employer entirely rather than concern himself with what he did not know.

He was, after all, as a servant of prudence, Thomas understood a fundamental fact about the importance of trifles disguised as details; trifles, when rightly managed, preserved empires. For what Silas had planned, Thomas would need to ensure that his superior had all of the resources necessary in his quests.

He tightened the lid upon the final jar, set it in the wooden case prepared with hay for movement. When he placed the lid atop the container, he drew his gloves on with the grave neatness of a man performing his duty.

He blew out the candle-lantern and made his way up the stairs out of the basement.

If there was death below, the manor above was all living movement.

At the front door Thomas received the morning post, as he received nearly every practical necessity within the household: with a composed countenance, a ready hand, and no expectation that gratitude should ever be more than a passing courtesy.

The postman, a stout fellow with a ruddy nose and a manner too cheerful for the hour, doffed his cap.

“Morning to ye, Mr. Wilson. A fine stack this day.”

“Thank you kindly,” Thomas said as he accepted the bundle.

The mailman tipped his hat and left respectfully.

He looked through the delivery, and among the usual receipts, notices, and dreary circulars lay one envelope more distinguished than the others.

Then he tucked it safely beneath his arm and moved toward the kitchens.

There, the house possessed its true voice.

Eleanor Taylor stood by the hearth with one sleeve rolled high and the other dusted with flour, directing the morning’s labour with the air of a woman who had long ago accepted that the world might be disordered, so long as the meal was not.

She was practical in all things and possessed of a certain selfless quality that made others look at her with scorn. As for Thomas, he was grateful to her because these qualities made her steadfast and true even in the hardest of times.

“Thomas,” she said, glancing up from the stewpot, “you are looking as if you have discovered a corpse in the linen press.”

“No need to be dramatic, Miss Taylor,” Thomas remarked, flashing a smile. “Only the usual burdens of the day.”

“We both have our burdens, Mr. Wilson. Why not exemplify the work?” she countered.

He shook his head at her, which was enough of a response for the cook.

At the long table nearby sat Lyle MacPhee. He had the admirable misfortune of being both Scotsman and Ulsterman, which made him a curiosity in polite company and a plain nuisance among the more exclusive gentlemen of Britain; in New England, however, he was tolerated with an odd affection, as though the Americans had collectively decided that any man who sounded as if he had personally wrestled a mountain was suited to the work of keeping one.

He looked up from the lantern he was polishing and grunted.

“Ye’ve the face of a man carrying bad news, Thomas.”

“I have the face of a man carrying correspondence,” Thomas replied succinctly.

“Same difference, then,” Lyle said, entirely satisfied with this philosophy.

Thomas Wilson almost rolled his eyes, but after the loss of Mary and Esther, he cherished the two coworkers all the more. Their loyalty to Wolcott Manor made him wish he could hug them, but this would not be right or proper, so he flashed an endearing smile as he went on.

Eleanor gave a little laugh; though it was of the sort not meant to encourage foolishness despite the fact that when MacPhee wanted to get up to something, he was very much a child about the matter.

“If it is another note from a lawyer, I shall declare myself a widow and move to Boston.”

“That would be most inconvenient, Miss Taylor,” said Thomas, “as the house relies upon your soups and your good sense in equal measure.”

“Good sense, perhaps,” Eleanor replied. “The soups are better than the company.”

“At present,” Lyle said, wagging the spoon in his hand like a sceptre, “I’d argue the company’s improved. Master Wolcott seems to be far more active as of late.”

Thomas, who never entirely trusted mirth in the morning, allowed himself the faintest trace of amusement.

“We should be grateful for any improvements,” Thomas pointed out.

“Will he be in attendance for his luncheon?” Eleanor asked.

“I shall endeavor to do my best that he will,” Thomas vowed.