The Warden of Marquette
Only made it to round 7 with this Writing Battle story, but I loved writing it. Mystery, Disciplinarian and Urn. I really focused on character voice here.
The Warden of Marquette, Lord Methuse, a man who never heard the word no, lay dying in his ornate rice-carved four-poster bed, in the largest bedroom of the Great House on the hill.
“How much longer is this gonna take?” said Lucien, the Warden’s only son, who was pacing a channel into the imported exotic parquet flooring.
“He can hear you,” his sister Evelyn said, as she wiped a wet facecloth across her father’s forehead.
Doctor Lancot leaned closer, trying to get an ear near the old man’s face.
“I’ll whip the fucker,” dribbled out of the Warden’s mouth, thick with phlegm, as he pulled the black basalt urn he was cradling harder against his face.
“Dementia is a fickle sickness, but with the consumption, I’d stake my reputation that it won’t be long now,” the doctor concluded.
“Can’t you just come fetch me when he’s…finished?” Lucien asked.
Henry Blackwell, the Warden’s trusted Bookkeeper, who’d been sitting quietly in the corner, finally spoke. “Your father’s instructions on this matter are clear.”
“I’m sure Father wouldn’t want me wasting time watching him die when I should be out there overseeing operations,” Lucien said, pointing toward the windows.
“The mines can survive a day without you,” Henry said.
“And indefinitely without you,” Lucien threatened.
Henry ignored the jibe.
Lucien walked over and pushed the doctor out of the way. “Father, would you please hurry up?”
“Mine!” the Warden screeched, twisting the urn away.
“Lucien, stop,” Evelyn pleaded.
He pointed to the urn. “And why hasn’t anyone taken away that…statue?”
Henry answered, “It’s an urn.”
“An urn? Whose ashes are inside?”
“I cannot say, only that he wishes to be buried with it,” Henry said.
“Well, it can’t be mother. I saw her buried years ago.”
The Warden let out a labored wheeze, then coughed. All eyes found him, but his breathing recovered.
“It’s okay, father,” Evelyn said as she wrung the facecloth into a bowl on the bed, then dabbed his forehead.
“Stop pretending you care,” Lucien chided.
“I —” Evelyn started, but another coughing fit redirected her attention.
This time it was worse. The old man’s eyes flew open as his chest heaved, his cough presenting like the bark of a mad dog. One arm held the urn tight as if protecting a small child, while the other waved like a sword searching for a victim. He was fighting a battle no one else could see.
“Father, it’s me,” Evelyn tried, but it only drew his arm toward her, knocking the bowl of water across the room with a clatter.
Lucien smiled as a thin line of blood dripped from the Warden’s nose, while his eyes grew vacant.
“Finally,” Lucien exclaimed.
As the last of Lord Methuse’s struggle left him, the urn rolled down his sunken chest to rest on the blanket between his legs.
Evelyn wept as Doctor Lancot put a small mirror under the Warden’s nose. After counting off a minute, he said, “I’ll fetch the undertaker,” before taking his leave.
“Okay, okay, let’s get this over with!” Lucien said, turning to face the bookkeeper.
Henry stood and pulled out a rolled document from inside his overcoat. He broke the wax seal and read aloud the last will and testament of Lord Methuse.
Lucien became incensed. “What do you mean, all descendants of Methuse shall receive equal shares? You can’t split up his empire with her,” he said, pointing to his sister.
“As executor of his will, these are his wishes,” Henry reminded him.
“You’re both in on it, aren’t you?” Lucien accused.
“I knew you wouldn’t be happy with half,” Evelyn said.
“Father would’ve hidden a second copy, I know it,” Lucien said, ignoring her. He snatched the urn, and when he couldn’t figure out how to open it, threw it to the ground. The black volcanic rock exploded, releasing a cloud of white ash. Under the fragments, sat a small silver case.
“Hah,” Lucien said as he grabbed the case, opened it, and found a handwritten letter inside.
My Dearest Gideon,
The ashes you found were not of my uncle, but of our son. Scarlet fever took him in the night, and by morning, a tincture of hemlock had given us a new one. I held the beggar’s hand as she died, convinced I was doing right for her son. But those eyes knew my selfish truth. I couldn’t bear to be alone, not with five months until your return, not with you never getting to meet your son. But that insufferable child looks more and more like her every day. I cannot do this anymore.
I’m sorry,
Josephine
Lucien looked up. “Is this a joke?”
“No Lucien, it’s a confession from Mother.”
“You expect me to believe that’s…me?” He said, pointing at the mess on the floor. “That’s preposterous!”
“Father showed me the letter, thinking I was her. He cried, Lucien, and father never cries.”
“No, no, you wrote this!” Lucien said defiantly, holding up the letter.
“He wanted one thing, and you took it from him. You destroyed it. I was willing to give you half, but now you get nothing,” she said coldly.
“You can’t prove—” he began, but then took an awkward step. His eyes went wide as his legs gave out and he thudded to the floor.
Evelyn nodded to Henry, who pulled out a new letter and handed it to her.
She knelt down beside Lucien’s twitching body and whispered, “I soaked the letter in poison. Tell me, could you feel it in your fingers?”
Lucien could only let out a moan.
Evelyn carefully replaced the poisoned letter still held between his twitching fingers.
“I hope you understand, Lucien. It’s only business,” she said, standing up. “I’m sure Father would approve.”