The Heir Ch. 2

The interior of the house was unlike anything I had ever step foot in that wasn’t a museum. The spacious two story foyer alone put the exterior to shame. The walls were a golden brown wood and covered with paintings of country scenes and welldressed aristocrats. The staircase swooping around from the left to the back of the room had an intricately carved banister and a red carpet runner. Every which way there was something to catch your eye. I was awestruck. My desire to explore the space was mixing with my apprehension to create a rather paradoxical emotional state.

"Welcome to Marston House," said Mr. Cunningham from out of nowhere.

I jumped and turned to see where his voice was coming from. He was in the sitting room to the right of the foyer sitting in a wing backed arm chair. The room looked to be a tad bigger than my efficiency apartment back home. I cautiously moved into the doorway, taking in the grandeur of the room. The walls were covered in a deep green patterned wall fabric and like the foyer there were paintings on the walls. There were also curio cabinets full of knickknacks. On the far wall a fire burned in the grate. Somehow the décor remained welcoming instead of oppressive.

"I can see you are still tightly wound. No need to worry, I understand completely. Have a seat, my dear,” remarked Mr. Cunningham gesturing towards a rich green claw-footed sofa. “Mr. Tanner, your usual seat by the fire is waiting for you."

"Thank you, sir," replied Mr. Tanner moving eagerly towards his chair.

I took my place on the sofa I had been directed to, which was even less comfortable than it looked. I gently placed my school bag under my seat. Mr. Cunningham was enjoying this situation a little too much for my taste. He sat there with an annoying grin on his face, seeming to revel in my total confusion.

"Tea?" asked Mr. Cunningham.

"Huh?"

Would you like some tea?"

"Sure,” I answered automatically.

"Lesson number one: always say 'Yes, please' or 'No, thank you,’” corrected Mr. Cunningham.

I wanted to smack that smug grin off his face. I was in no mood to be played with or criticized at the moment. The small rebel in me decided not to play along anymore, so in my most accented vernacular filled voice I said:

"You listen here Mister, you tell me what's goin' on here and then maybe I'll let you boss me around like I'm five. Cut the crap, wipe that smirk off your face, and start talkin’. Y'all're holding all the cards here, so let's call off the tea party and get down to business.”

Mr. Tanner looked a bit shocked at my language, but gave an uneasy smile nonetheless. I stared Mr. Cunningham unwaveringly. Looking right back at me, he took a deep breath, and broke into a hearty laugh. He seemed almost proud of my boldness.

"As you wish, Miss Walton. The year is 1873. The date is September 23rd. As you know, you are in London. You have gone back in time. How? I do not know. Why? I do not know. All I know is that it happens.” Mr. Cunningham sounded as if he were reciting a shopping list. “Now, I need some information from you before we can proceed. You will need a cover story in order to develop your new persona. Where are you from?"

"Texas,” I answered. That was not the explanation I had been hoping for, but if I was to get any more answers I would have to play along. “San Antonio, Texas, but I'm going to school in Lubbock. Well I was... Before I ended up here."

"Texas, lovely, you will be a novelty and it will excuse any eccentricities you retain,” commented Mr. Cunningham with a clap and grin. “Birth date?”

"March 4th."

"Year, dear."

"1988"

"Wow," exclaimed Mr. Tanner under his breath.

"How old are you?" asked Mr. Cunningham.

"Twenty-two."

"You birth date is now March 4, 1851."

"Don't you want to know when I'm from?"

"Naturally. I'd also like to know a bit about your time. What year is it to you?"

"2012."

"Blimey!" exclaimed Mr. Tanner leaning forward in his chair.

"Boggles the mind does it not?" replied Mr. Cunningham to Mr. Tanner. "Something about the year starting with a two."

"Should have been there for the turn of the millennium. It took about a year to stop writing '19' in front of the year," I replied. I felt like I was at the doctor’s office being asked questions like ‘What medications are currently taking?’ at the beginning of an appointment before actually addressing the medical malady that brought me there in the first place.

"What do you think is important for us to know about your time?"

I arched a brow. "Could you be more specific?"

"Anything that comes to mind,” he replied with a gentle wave of the hand.

"Uh," I stalled trying to think of something. What did he want me to say? I went with the first idea that popped into my head. "Well, we have gender equality. I'm just as capable and valuable as any man. I am fiercely independent and that is normal, if not expected of women from my time."

"Anything else?" prompted Mr. Cunningham.

I shrugged. I still wasn’t completely clear as to what he wanted me to say.

"What do you see as being very challenging for you?” inquired Mr. Cunningham. “Other than antiquated gender expectations, of course."

I took a moment to look around the room, hoping for inspiration. Among the many contents in the room were one wall of books, a gas lantern, lace doilies, and a painting of an 18th century lady. The floodgates opened in my brain. I was in a completely different world, with different behavioral norms, technology, and clothing. I looked down at my clothes made of denim, cotton, and synthetic blends, then out the window to the men and women walking on the street. I did not fit in at all.

"Starting to realize how different this world is, I take it," said Mr. Cunningham. Once again he proved to be oddly perceptive. "Speak up, my dear."

"Technology, for starters. Things that I take for granted every day haven't been invented yet or aren't widely available,” I responded with a nervous laugh. “There are no cars, cell phones, computers, iPods, digital anything, almost universal electricity, advanced medicine, automatic paper towel dispensers, nothing!”

"What? I never heard of nothin' like that," exclaimed Mr. Tanner.

"I believe that you just proved her point," Mr. Cunningham commented politely. "Go on, my dear."

"Ya'll’s clothing is really different. I mean look at me," I said gesturing to my attire. "I'm wearing fabrics that haven't even been invented yet! I own a corset, but by your standards it's loose and it's for a Renaissance fair costume. Where I come from -when, sorry- corsets are barbaric torture devices worn by fetishists and reenactors! We make fun of bustles! The hair is ridiculous,” I continued emphatically and mildly panicked. “Y'all wear a lot more clothing on a daily basis than I ever have. See what I'm wearing? This is considered modest. I could walk around in shorts and a tank top and no one would care!"

"We'll address that later tonight," said Mr. Cunningham with a casual wave of his hand. He didn't seem shocked about my declarations about modesty. Mr. Tanner, on the other hand, was turning red even though he probably had no idea what a tank top was.

"Hold the phone," I demanded coming to my feet. "You're understanding everything I'm saying a bit too well. Who are you? You should be blushing. We're in Victorian England for crying out loud! This time period is prude central! You are upper class on top of that. You should have a very distinct speech pattern, including some really quirky vocabulary. Who are you?"

Mr. Cunningham took a slow breath before responding.

"Very well. My name is Andrew Cunningham,” he explained calmly. “I am a successful business man here in London. I was born in Uxbridge, and am an Oxford man educated in history at St. John's College."

"When?" I insisted now pacing the floor in front of the couch.

"I'm sorry?"

"When?" I demanded emphatically. The truth was coming together rapidly in my head. He would have to tell me the truth eventually. "When are you from?"

"She's a smart one. Not gettin' nothin' past her," smiled Mr. Tanner.

"No, I don't suppose I will," replied Mr. Cunningham. For the first time he did not have a smile in his eyes, or a quizzical grin. He looked pensive, as if formulating the best response. In the end, he opted for blunt honesty. "I was born in 1951. When I was twenty-two in 1973, I was walking down the aisle of a supermarket and found myself standing on the same cobble stone street we just departed from. The year was 1833."

I expected this answer, but hearing it out loud made it so much more real. I stood there in stunned silence waiting for him to continue.

"Mr. Tanner's father found me. Our families are linked somehow. In time, this Mr. Tanner's son will find your heir and his son will come tell you."

I had gone back in time. I was now the heir to a man from the 1970's. I was going to be here forever. This realization was quite shocking. I sat back down mouth slightly open, breathing heavily, eyes wide open. Forever was a very long time.

"You will never go home. I can see you have grasped that concept. A moment that I remember all too well," said Mr. Cunningham looking into my eyes. He then looked off into the distance as if remembering when he sat on this sofa across from a stranger. A young man probably in an ugly polyester leisure suit, and in desperate need of a haircut feeling exactly the same way I felt at that moment. More questions were forming in my brain than were being answered by the current course of the conversation. It was not helping that my emotions were running the gambit from sympathy to fear and a new and increasing emotion: anger.

"Why me?" I asked with a shaking voice. "Why am I your heir? I had a future back home. I had friends, family. I had plans. Now because of some mystical mumbo jumbo I end up on a different continent, in a different time, being interrogated by a policeman, still wearing my jeans!? Why me?"

By the time I had finished speaking I was on my feet again, yelling, shaking with anger, staring down Mr. Cunningham waiting for him to speak, but he didn't. His gaze didn't waver from mine. There was no anger being sent my way, only recognition.

"He doesn’t know," said Mr. Tanner breaking the silence. "No one does. This has been goin' on for centuries. It ain't just you. You don't think Mr. Cunningham 'ad plans? Quit lookin' at 'im like this is ‘is fault. You an Heir just like him, Miss. My family has been lookin’ after the Heirs the whole time and we don't even know why ya come."

"If there ever was a justification or reason it has been lost to the ages,” added Mr. Cunningham returning to staring longingly into the distance. “I have a degree in history from Oxford. I planned to begin my PhD that fall. I had plans, my dear, but I ended up down by the Thames just like you did."

"So there is no reason why it's me and not someone else?" I found that hard to believe. There had to be some pattern to this madness.

"I never said that," Mr. Cunningham turning his gaze back towards me. "Heirs tend to be of high intelligence, students of culture and history, sharp witted, and have strong personalities. There has never been a foreigner though. You're a first in that regard.”

"The strong personalities get in the way let me tell ya!" chimed in Mr. Tanner, smiling. "Mr. Cunningham used to 'ave quite a mouth."

"That I did." A small grin returned to his face. "I can tell Miss Walton is going to carry on that tradition nicely. Not the answer you were looking for, I take it."

"No,” I responded quietly.

"Would you be more comfortable if all this were for some higher purpose?"

"I don't know, maybe." I flopped back on the sofa. With my arms crossed, I asked: "So what do we do now?"

"First we sit up, dear," said Mr. Cunningham returning to his usual smiling self. I didn't move, but instead raised a quizzical brow. "As you stated, you are in a very different time with very different societal norms. I have to teach you how to live in this time period. Lesson number one, sit up straight."

"Two," I said as I sat up. "Lesson number one was don't say 'sure'."

"Too true," he replied with a chuckle. "Follow me."

The three of us rose from our seats.

"Am I needed, sir?" asked Mr. Tanner.

"No, old friend. I know you don't like leaving young Alexander unattended in your shop for extended periods of time."

"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to meet you Miss Walton."

"You too," I replied. I extended my hand, so he could shake it, but he took it and bowed. He turned towards the door and walked out into the street.

"You will get used to the bowing," chuckled Mr. Cunningham.

"I doubt it," I replied skeptically, rubbing my hands together.

"Remind me to tell you about when I shook a hand of a Duchess that I was supposed to kiss. That was embarrassing,” he recalled as he closed the door.

Mr. Cunningham led me up the stairs to the second story of his home. The wide hallway had subtly floral burnt orange wall fabric, and was lined with dark wood cabinets filled with china trinkets and other oddities. I was so distracted that afternoon that I didn’t take the time to admire the beautiful home.

As we walked down the hall he asked, “What was your field of study at University? History?"

"I got a minor in History. My major was Anthropology. I went to a small liberal arts school in San Antonio called Trinity University,” I answered conversationally.

"Fascinating. I always thought Anthropology a noble pursuit, but--"

"--the British education system doesn't allow for much variety?" I concluded knowingly.

"You choose your path and follow it. Precisely, Miss Walton. Very good."

"Call me Rebecca, Mr. Cunningham."

"Thank you. You may call me whatever you are comfortable with,” he said happily. ‘Mr. Cunningham’ is quite a mouthful. In public, others may expect you to call me 'Uncle'."

"Okay," I replied awkwardly.

"No need to worry. You have much to learn before I present you to society," reassured Mr. Cunningham.

"Or even let me out of the house I bet."

"You'll learn faster than you realize. This society is not as different as you think."

The annoying emotional roller coaster I was on seemed to be slowing down at the moment. My new “uncle” was kind, funny, patient, and understanding. He wanted to watch over, teach, and befriend me, so the least I could do was to try not to bite his head off and learn what I needed to. Mr. Cunningham showed me into a large suite at the end of the hall.

The design of the room reflected 18th century architecture of the rest of the house, but the furnishing were classic 19th. The wall fabric was a beautiful powder blue with a Napoleonic border. The furniture was made of rich woods, and blue patterned fabric. The room wasn't crowded. A pair of couches and an arm chair sat in the middle of the room around a coffee table. Cushioned window seats took up the sills of both large windows. A small side table with chairs was placed between them. Bits and bobs were scattered around the room to give it a homey touch.

"These are your rooms. We are currently in your sitting room. Off this room you have a study, bedroom, bathroom, and closet. If you ever need more rooms we can find more along this hall," Mr. Cunningham explained. “You can change to furnishings to fit your needs.”

"This is mine?" I asked. I was awestruck by the beauty of the room.

"Absolutely, Rebecca, you are the heiress to one of the most successful merchant businesses in the country," he replied in an overly dramatic fashion. "What kind of uncle would I be if I gave you any less?"

"This room is bigger than my apartment back home," I replied in a stunned tone.

A man came into the room behind us.

"Mr. Cunningham," said the man with a deep bow.

"Ah good, Mr. Lawson you're here. May I present my niece, Miss Walton from Texas?"

Mr. Lawson was a tall, impeccably dressed man that looked gaunt and kind of creepy. He looked me up and down quizzically.

"Ah, yes, she's run into a spot of bother,” continued Mr. Cunningham. “Someone had the nerve to take all her luggage and even the clothes on her back. That's why I sent for you."

"Yes, sir," he said, still scanning me judgmentally. "Do you desire a complete wardrobe?"

"Naturally. She cannot live in these rags forever, Mr. Lawson,” replied Mr. Cunningham patting the man’s ego. “As the best dress designer and maker in London you are surely up to the challenge."

"Do you know her measurements?" he asked dryly.

"No, she only arrived yesterday."

"Very well. I will take them and have your wardrobe completed in the coming weeks."

"Can you have a dress delivered tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir. If you could leave us I will begin."

My eyes bugged out of my head. I was going to be left alone? I looked at Mr. Cunningham begging him not to leave me, but he just grinned.

"I will be in the study," he replied comfortingly with a gracious bow. "Don't worry, Rebecca, Mr. Lawson is a gentleman. I will be but a room away."

With that he stepped into one of the side rooms, leaving Mr. Lawson and me in the sitting room. There was a long silence as Mr. Lawson put down his bag and pulled out his measuring tape and notebook.

"Remove your sweater please," he commanded condescendingly.

I did as I was told. Being measured for custom clothing was a new experience for me. I was used to buying from department stores, so I did not know what the process entailed. Also every moment was an opportunity to say something that would get me into trouble.

I heard Mr. Lawson take a small sharp breath when he saw my completely bear arms. Of course, the day I wear a tank top had to be the day I get sent back to a century where a woman's exposed ankles was a cause for alarm. Mr. Lawson regained his composure and began to measure me. Almost immediately he looked very confused about something regarding the measurement of my mid-section. His head cocked to the right, his body leaned over slightly and his already squinty eyes squeezed even tighter. "Have you never been corseted?"

"Uh..." I didn't know what to say to that, so I told him the first lie that entered into my head. "No, my parents wouldn't allow it."

"Why is that?" asked Mr. Lawson skeptically.

"Uh... My mom almost died in childbirth, and they blamed it on corseting," I said hastily.

It seemed logical to me, but I didn't know how Mr. Lawson would take it. His eyebrows were in imminent danger of disappearing into his hairline, but he seemed to accept it. Either that or he did not want to contradict Mr. Cunningham's niece.

"This will make things more difficult." Mr. Lawson clicked his tongue as he thought.

"I'm not opposed to it!” I added quickly. “Really! Just not as tight as most woman, since I'm not used to it. It's a bit late to start..."

"It is. I will make something custom." Mr. Lawson started scribbling away in his notebook. He occasionally gave me with judgmental glance. I obviously did not fit his expectations of femininity.

"You're a corset maker too?" Trying to stir up civil conversation.

"I employ one," he replied dryly. Mr. Lawson was beginning to rub me the wrong way. "Do you have any favorite styles or colors?"

"I don't know much about styles. London fashion is completely foreign to me but my favorite colors are purple and green. I trust your judgment."

Mr. Lawson made a judgmental noise and crinkled his nose as he jotted down notes. A few minutes and many "hmmms" later Mr. Lawson finally finished and Mr. Cunningham was allowed back in the room.

"Thank you, Mr. Lawson, for coming so quickly. Can you find your way out?"

"Yes, sir. I will have the garments sent over as they are completed," Mr. Lawson replied dryly and walked out of the room.

"I don't think I was what he expected," I said with a grin as I pulled on my sweater jacket.

"Of course not, my dear. I am 1.6 meters tall and you are taller than me. You are taller than a good number of men. Also, you do not look like you are going to blow away if someone sneezes in your general direction. Also, he saw your bare arms. It's a miracle he didn't swoon," chuckled Mr. Cunningham.

"Five foot ten, and proud of every inch!" I replied proudly. “I love being tall.”

"My goodness, you are tall even for a man in these times,” remarked Mr. Cunningham in fake disbelief.

"In my time I'm the average height for a man in my country."

"Apparently heights have increased," replied Mr. Cunningham happily. "By the way, nice improvisation about Mr. Lawson's corset question."

"What were you thinking leaving me alone like that?" I asked at a considerably high pitch. "I could have froze! He could have gotten suspicious!"

"But he did not. You will learn by doing, Rebecca,” explained Mr. Cunningham knowingly. “I can only talk at you for so long."

"You've barely talked to me about anything. Every question I ask is only vaguely explained and then you find a way to turn it back on me." I then flopped on the couch, crossed my arms, and started to pout.

"What do you mean?" he asked looking confused.

I looked up at him. "You only offer questions. I ask what will happen next and you ask me about my past. You have secrets. You have a plan. I'm just along for the ride!"

"This is a very complex situation, Rebecca,” he said wearily. “Not every question has an answer."

"But some do. Am I just supposed to sit here like a good little girl, and wait for you to teach me? Explain to me what is going on!"

"When I arrived here my aunt did the same thing to me. Aunt Patricia said I was not ready. I was angry and confused, much the same as you are. Now that I am in Aunt Patricia's place," said Mr. Cunningham in a soft, sad tone. He stepped over to the couch, sat next to me, and took my hands. "I realize she didn’t know what to say."

"Please try," I said, squeezing his hand.

"It's complicated.

"No duh,” I said with an encouraging smile.

Mr. Cunningham gave a small smile. "Come with me."

We stood up and he led me across the sitting room to my study. The room had warm wood paneling, a desk with small cubbyholes with beveled glass doors at the back, paintings and photos on the walls, trinket covered side tables, an overstuffed sofa next to the window, and three book shelves covering the left wall. My attention was only torn away from the décor by Mr. Cunningham clearing his throat.

"Are you ready?" he said dramatically as he positioned himself next to the book cases.

I nodded even though I had no idea what I was supposedly ready for. Mr. Cunningham pulled on the set of shelves of the left and much to my surprise it opened. Set into the wall was another bookcase half filled with books. He pulled open the right section, revealing another set of shelves. This set contained a series of small portraits on the shelves. Eight faces were now looking back at me. Five of them were men, and three of them were women. All of them were young, wealthy, and looked at you with soul piercing eyes much like Mr. Cunningham's. Using my limited knowledge of art history, I judged the style of the first painting to be late Middle Ages to very early Renaissance. It seemed that people had been up rooted from their time for a while now.

"These are the Heirs," explained Mr. Cunningham gesturing towards the portraits. Then gesturing towards the books said, "and these are their diaries."

Realizing that this many people had shared my fate was a humbling experience. I noticed then that under each portrait was a small brass plaque with their name and two numbers. I read each and every one of their names: Leopold Fitzpatrick, Arthur Gibbons, Genevieve Norris, Louise Abernathy, Malcolm St. Clair, Xavier Hunt, Patricia Marston, and Andrew Cunningham. The plaque under Mr. Cunningham's portrait read:

Andrew Cunningham

1973

1833

"Yours will say Rebecca Walton. 2010. 1873."

"These are all of them?" I asked enthralled by the faces before me.

"We don't know. The first known Heir is Leopold Fitzpatrick who was from 1702 and went back to 1578. Judging by his diary he may or may not have been the first. The Tanner family found him. He was taken in by a well to do man by the name of Cornish, but we know little about Mr. Cornish. We will never know for certain how far our line goes."

"There are only eight?" I asked, trying to find something semi-intelligent to say but failing.

"Eight in less than 300 years is about right. We tend to have long life spans. Aunt Patricia lived to be 87. I'm in my sixties and very healthy."

"Will I keep a diary?"

"I hope so. Reading the experiences of those that came before will be very helpful to you. Your life will help those after you. I took the liberty of providing one for you in the top case of your desk."

"All of these people, and all of these years yet no one knows why this happens?" I asked in disbelief.

"Sadly, no," said Mr. Cunningham turning towards the portraits. "If any of these men and women knew anything their secret has been lost."

We stood in silence for a moment. He stared at the portraits as if hoping they would provide some new insight into why our lives had been so drastically changed. Had one of those sets of penetrating eyes known our purpose for being here or had it always been a mystery? Did they know why we were chosen? Mr. Cunningham had probably come into this room over the years to do the exact same thing over and over again.

"You may read these diaries in this study as much as you want,” he explained, looking away from the portraits. “Just don't take them out of this room. Do not show them to any guest you might have. There is a hidden case for a reason. Also, no one from the outside is allowed in this room. Is that understood?”

I nodded. I understood the seriousness of his request. If anyone ever found out our secret it would pretty messy.

“No one can know who we are outside this family and the Tanners.” He continued in the same businesslike tone. “They wouldn’t understand."

"What if someone figures it out?"

"It has yet to happen," he responded quickly, turning his gaze towards the floor.

I got the feeling that this was a hard subject for Mr. Cunningham so I remained silent as he secured the secret bookshelves, but after a moment a question that had been eating away at me since my arrival at the house became too much to bear.

“Mr. Cunningham, how do you, I mean the Heirs, afford this house?” I clumsily asked.

“The Heirs own one of the most successful import and export businesses in the country,” he replied, politely ignoring my ungraceful stammer. “Currently, I am the owner. I oversee the operations, make important decisions, and the like. Someday, that job will fall to you. All of this will be yours.”

A stone dropped in my stomach. I walked over to the desk and pulled out the chair. Sitting, I took a few deep breaths trying to calm my newly trembling nerves. All of this would be mine? I would own a business? No matter how my brain stretched, it couldn't comprehend that. You would think that time travel would have been the harder concept to grasp than the realization that I was going to be part of Victorian society, and yet it decidedly was not. Tears were threatening to escape from my eyes as I thought of all living a new life meant. I felt like Atlas cursed to carry the weight of the sky upon my shoulders for eternity. Once again, I couldn't help but think that I would be here forever and forever was a very long time.

A hand appeared on my shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. “You can do this, Rebecca. I promise, you can,” said Mr. Cunningham.

A single tear ran down my face. I heard my voice waiver as I spoke. “How do you know?”

Mr. Cunningham chuckled softly. “No one has failed yet. You won't be the first.”

A second tear followed the first.

“Don't start crying now.” He held out a hand. “If you start this early, the rest of the day will be horrid and you'll have a headache.”

I chuckle as I wiped away the tear. “Okay. What's next?”