Heir of Wolcott Manor
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 4: Kindness is its Own Reward
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 4: Kindness is its Own Reward - 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
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
— Grandfather Robert Tyre Jones (as portrayed by Dan Albright), Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius (2004), written by Rowdy Herrington and Mark Frost, based in part on The Grand Slam: Bobby Jones, America, and the Story of Golf by Mark Frost. Directed by Rowdy Herrington. The line also reflects a well-known Christian proverb of medieval origin, popularized in English-language sermons. Copyright © 2004 by Stroke of Genius LLC and Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment.
The sky beyond the tall windows of the Wolcott study had faded to a bleak shade of pewter, as though winter itself waited just beyond the glass, drawing its breath. The hearth crackled with life rather than the simmerings of only a few days back. The study no longer felt like the antechamber to a tomb, but rather bustling with busyness and life.
Two figures sat across from one another: one was a young man cloaked in inherited melancholy but finding an intentional function in society; the other was a man of steady service sharpened by moral principle but tempered by long decades of loyal observation.
When Silas made a motion at the ledgers in front of him, not understanding some number or other, Thomas Wilson stood up and got behind the great desk. His glasses were low on his nose, guiding Silas through the intricacies of the family’s ledgers. A brass lamp spilled golden light upon the spread of parchment and numbers that spoke in quiet arithmetic of life and death, of winter preparations, and of humanity’s deep, unceasing hunger for more.
“As of the first day of November,” Thomas said, tapping the open book with a callused finger, “your incomes for the year have drawn in eighty-nine thousand five hundred sixty-seven dollars and sixty cents, sir.”
“Where will that leave us by new years?” Silas asked.
He was following the pointed finger with his eyes even as he grabbed another leather bound journal of records.
“The final earnings for the year may very well reach one hundred and twenty thousand—should the river traffic favor us.”
Silas leaned forward, resting his elbow on the desk and his temple upon his fist. He was resisting running his hands through his full brown hair. Though he was a practical man, vanity was a sin he was guilty of. He feared going bald or graying early.
“Do we truly charge for the river’s use? Especially for Christmas shipments and so on?”
Thomas gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Your father did,” he said simply, neither condemning nor approving.
This was just how things were. It was as though he were saying the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Thomas held no more power over the Earth’s revolution anymore than he could alter the way the family made money.
“The people pay it without complaint as they believe the State of Connecticut is charging the fee, much like with the Boston Harbor.”
“Is the State charging them?”
Another shrug came from Thomas.
“I believe the State has workers there. They report the earnings, and your family loses the first twenty percent to the State and the workers, but otherwise, they deliver the earnings every month to your account. No one questions the toll of a river. It works, Master Silas.”
“Mister Silas,” the Wolcott corrected. “I am no more your master than I am any other man’s.”
Thomas inclined his head to store the correction for later use.
The young master was silent for a moment. Silas straightened himself to appear more dignified, but his eye caught a detail worth noting in the ledgers for the December of 1821 and 1820.
“And these here? Customary donations?” he asked. “To the tavern and the hospital?”
“Yes, sir. Since the family quietly owns both, the family makes certain accommodations for both. The inn shall receive one hundred dollars’ worth of goods to keep Christmas warm for travelers without a place to stay or family to celebrate the day with. Usually, this can cover a week’s stay. If ever they need more, we ensure more is given to the establishment. As for the hospital, blankets and food are provided for the families of the ailing, so they may eat with dignity beside the unwell.”
Silas nodded once in response. While this was a solemn business, he could not help smiling. The purpose Thomas spoke of was already in motion. He only needed to follow the course of the previous actions.
“Good. That is ... good.” His voice faltered as though finding footing on unfamiliar ground. “What would be the most cost effective way to continue this charity, Thomas?
Thomas regarded the question quietly.
“Are you seeking the greatest good ... or the smallest legal fuss?”
“The latter,” Silas replied without pause. “If Josiah is any sort of representation of the lawyers at our disposal, I assume they circle my actions in hopes to pounce like animals.”
Thomas paused to consider the inquiry. His employer’s intentions were noble, so he needed to know how best to counsel him since Silas seemed to be interested in heeding the advice given to him.
“My suggestions would be endowments to universities, hospitals, or a park, sir. Philanthropy is seen as legacy-forging, which other men will ignore because they see it as a rich man’s vanity masquerading as useful.”
“What would be a good endowment to ... say ... my old alum?”
Thomas considered the question with care. Richard Wolcott only donated money when he needed something from Harvard, Yale, Dreibruch, or Brown. He always made contributions based on what he needed as well as what his counterparts from New York and D.C. gave.
“I believe for someone of your station, a notable donation of five to ten thousand dollars would be expected since you were trying to impress your former school. It would send a statement. However, any sum more than twenty thousand would be viewed as obscene and showing off, which might be the path you want to take, sir.”
Silas’s lips curled into a smile similar to that of a child about to break the rules and get away with it.
“Good,” he said. He pulled out another ledger just for himself and Thomas. “That is a start.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow to the sentences.
“And where shall we help next?”
Silas turned his body toward the fire while shifting his head to Thomas.
“I should think that would be obvious, Thomas.”
“I do not follow what you mean, sir.”
“Your family,” Silas said softly. “Then Ellie’s sons. Lyle’s sister. Mary’s parents. Esther’s dreams of Boston ... I think a vacation is in order for her. All of those are going to be helpful.”
“The families, sir? Not the servants themselves?”
He did his best to remove the emotion of surprise from his voice, but his efforts were in vain. It was clear from knowing Silas all his life that Thomas had expected to know and anticipate the young man, and the shock and disappointment of failing in this moment showed to the young Wolcott.
Silas looked up at him then, his eyes clearer than they had been in weeks.
“Yes. The families and a small vacation from an unknown benefactor,” Silas said. “I think I put them through a bit, so let’s give them something to celebrate before I show my gratitude more personally.”
He paused, then added, with humility uncommon for men in his position,
“I believe that I should apologize properly to them with changed conduct,” Silas remarked.
Thomas gave a small but approving look to his patron. For the moment, no words were spoken because they were unneeded. In a small way, this was the hug that Thomas could provide that Richard Wolcott had neglected in his son.
Part of the elderly butler hoped that Richard’s neglect had helped make Silas a better man unknowingly. The world would be grateful for the positive outreach Silas Wolcott could do with his resources and finances.
“Well then,” said Thomas at last, his voice a gravelled balm, “let us begin.”
The Connecticut River bustled with life, much like a vein quickened by warmth. In addition to his philanthropy, Silas had communicated that he wanted the toll lowered for the holiday season until the year 1823, and with a lowered fee, certain transport vessels came and went with the understanding that it might be time to do more work while there was a discount.
It was the Christmas season, after all, and some great unseen hand had bid these shipments mercy to the weary barge-hand and these frost-bitten crews. For workers, a toll being lightened was cause for Christmas cheer and so the boats ran freer for it.
Even in the gray of late November, the streets of New Haven bore an almost imperceptible lift of spirit in anticipation for the coming month. At the southern edge of the township, the tavern glowed like golden amber.
Within, the air was thick with warmth, woodsmoke, and conversation. A harpist from New York had come to play in the corner. Tables were crowded with sailors, cart-drivers, schoolmasters, and the occasional half-frozen preacher from the countryside. A great crock of stew simmered by the fire, rich with root vegetables and beef donated by a patron who refused to give his name.
“They say it’s the young Wolcott lad,” muttered the innkeeper to a farmer’s wife, polishing a mug already clean.
Others whisper: “Don’t say it aloud, mind you.”
“That’s the word.” “What a good boy.” “He put coin in the poorbox” “Extra blankets got to the hospital.” “He’s a recluse but sweet.”
Meanwhile, at the hospital across town, the light of the setting sun streamed through the frost-laced windows. The smell of newly-laundered linens permeated the second floor. In a corner room, a pale child slept soundly beneath a thick quilt of gray. Her mother dozed beside her with warm bread in her lap.
The nurses walked the halls with less haste or worry. There were more than the norm on duty, so stress was gone and warm hearts were allowed to be had. There was food in the larder and coal stacked high.
For a week, at the very least, there would be no fears of freezing.
A Dr. Levens was the hospital’s graying overseer. He had not had time in the last five years to just stand by the fire and watch the snow fall gently in the courtyard. This was a lovely experience for him
He contemplated how a little extra money made the holiday season all the better. This was not some miracle from heaven but the mercy of a generous angel in human form. That was the rarer sight indeed.
Outside, a church bell rang in the dusk. It promised a joyous month of goodwill towards men, and a love of a babe in a manger. In that vow, the town stirred with the soft warmth of hope that only people unaccustomed to kindness without cost could appreciate.
And far up the river, the Wolcott manor loomed against the cold sky.
A young man smiled in glee for all the smiles he could not see but knew existed.
Frost from winter clung to the windows of Wolcott Manor the week of Christmas like a guest who was reluctant to leave. In the hush before dawn’s full arrival, the kitchen glowed with a soft, orange light from the fires of the cast-iron stove. The scent of rising bread mingled with that of salt pork and boiled chicory.
At the long, polished kitchen table, there sat the household staff of Wolcott manor. The fire would warm the room soon enough, and eradicate the winter’s frosty chill. However, it was the promise of breakfast and company that brought the color to their cheeks.
Thomas Wilson stood at the counter with a bundle of letters in one of his gloved hands. His spectacles were perched low on the bridge of his nose, but he never allowed them to fall far enough to inhibit his ability to see. He cleared his throat before speaking, which allowed the room to know he had words for their ears.
“The morning post has arrived,” he said. “It would seem that Saint Nicholas worked through the United States Postal Service this year.”
He handed out each letter to the corresponding worker that it belonged to. The papers were crisp and cared for. A few of the staff exchanged glances between one another. While letters from family were to be expected, there seemed to be an ambiance of joy to be had.
Eleanor Taylor brushed her apron because it was already dusted with flour from her making of cakes for later in the day. When she received her envelope, she blinked curiously at the neat handwriting on hers. It was unmistakably her son’s; however, it was far neater in the ink and the parchment was cleaner than anything he had given her in recent years.
She opened it with the coarse kindliness of a woman who had raised children with her hands more than with words. After all, she was not one to spoil any child.
“Bless his soul,” she murmured. “My Archie’s been made supervisor on those new-fangled rail lines. Can you imagine it?”
She could not help but smile as she continued to read the Christmas letter.
“It says the hours are less and the monthly pay is more. Finally got him some boots that don’t leak. Said so right here!”
The excitement in her voice was palpably more infectious than any winter cold.
Lyle MacPhee’s large, calloused fingers fumbled briefly at the delicate envelope, but he quickly managed it. He was far more accustomed to the roughness of greenery and stone, so the delicate nature of paper stumped his sensibilities. All too soon, his usually hardened expression found itself softening from reading the script.
“My sister’s wee lass is being moved to a better hospital in Rhode Island. Doctor there thinks he can fix her lungs, or near enough to it. They’ve even sent a carriage to fetch her.”
His voice, which usually dropped like an axe, trembled slightly. Tears welled in his eyes despite how much he was clearly fighting the feeling. In the end, he could not help but let out the exaltation.
“The Lord be good.”
Mary, the older of the serving girls, was quiet while reading her own letter. While she was probably aware of what was going on, she was scared of her letter...
“Mama’s got herself a proper nurse coming by regular. She’ll see to Papa’s back, too. Says she’s got a gentle hand and talks about church while she works. They even got a new rug in the sitting room!”
Esther heard the good news of her compatriots, and she tore open her letter with the unrepentant energy of excited youth. She prayed that her news was comparable
“Oh! Oh—oh heavens above! Look here!” she cried, her words hopping like pebbles down a hill. “I’ve been given a trip to New York! Three days! Paid and proper at the City Hotel! The one on Broadway where the gas lights don’t flicker and there’s goose feather beds!”
“The City Hotel?” Eleanor repeated, one hand on her hip.
The City Hotel was the oldest and most reputable place to stay while in Manhattan. There was a history to the building, and many servants dreamed of going there. With bills, family, and a struggle to live, it was often seen as improbable for most until the near end of their lives.
“Well, I never,” Eleanor breathed.
Thomas chuckled at their happiness. There was no letter for him, and he did not need one. The deep joy that exuded from the lungs in his chest was all he needed/.
The table burst into delighted talk; all of their voices danced together and overlapped in a pattern he did not fully understand.
The butler turned back to the table and poured himself a modest cup of chicory. He raised it in an invisible toast, then said aloud:
“It seems that we have all received fine Christmas gifts this year.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.