Sins of the Fathers
A Redcross and Winterborough Novel by Kim Orsel
The Little Chapel was without doubt the oldest building still standing on the estate (the main house having burned down after a particularly raucous party somewhere in the 18th century, only subsequently rebuilt); its walls and some foundations were claimed to be medieval, together with its gothic windows. The stained glass in the windows was decidedly not medieval, but Astin thought they were the best thing about the place. The theme had been kept medieval, but instead of religious, the scenes depicted were more chivalrous, depicting rumours of family history; a knight making ready for war, a rose garden, with in the distance something resembling the west wing of the old house (copied from old sketches, he thought), a lordly lover courting his mistress, a hunting tableau, and the Redcross coat of arms and Standard.
Especially the courting scene Astin found somewhat disconcerting; though the courting gentleman was observed from behind, rendering him unrecognisable, the lady in question resembled his mother too much to be coincidence, and since it had been his grandfather who commissioned the windows in the early seventies, he had his doubts whether the likeness had been intended to suit the future master of the house alone. By the time he took over the baronetcy his father had enough reason to remove the window decoration in question exactly because it resembled his mother (though he never had), and so in hindsight Astin judged it to be self-indulgence rather than anything else. He had long decided that he was simply going to be grateful the artist had been ordered to create the windows in a romantic style, rather than something more modern that screamed the time-period at lookers-on.
He lit some candles at the front of the Chapel, then proceeded to the far end, where he collected a ring of ancient keys from his pocket and opened the small gate leading into the crypt below. The atmosphere there was not damp, not stuffy, just cold, with a lingering hint of incense having been burnt some time ago. Up on the level of the chapel there were plenty of signs indicating how many of the Redcross baronets were buried there. More recently (oh say, beginning two hundred years ago), great stone tablets had been put up above to indicate who lay directly beneath, but none visiting the chapel could imagine what the crypt looked like below.
It was a long hallway, with a great number of spaces in the walls accommodating various sarcophagi of ancestors. Luckily, he did not have to go far. The oldest graves were at the far end of the crypt, while the more recent interments were at the front. Perhaps it was ironic that Henry and Howard Redcross were buried beside each other, Howard on the right, Henry on the left, because there would be no wives to bury beside them instead. Henrietta Redcross had died giving birth to Henry, and preferred to be buried at the crypt of her parents, for whatever reason. His mother had expressed on several occasions that she had no intention of being buried anywhere near Henry, which appeared to have settled the matter.
It was strange to think that of the next two spaces in the hallway, one was likely to be his own last resting place. After the rather abrupt departure Robert Redcross had made from the family while alive, in death he had not wanted to return there; he had been buried in London. In not too long a while someone would have to start considering the remaining space here; the end of the hallway would have been reached, and there would be no further room for future burial. For the time being, it wasn't Astin's problem.
Death itself was easier to consider. The physical was temporary, so he didn’t particularly mind where he would have his last resting place. If there was something beyond, that was all well and good, and if there wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t suffer too much either, Astin thought with a smile. If it were possible to linger spiritually in order to trouble descendents about burying places the entire grounds would be haunted by moaning and snivelling ex-baronets, most likely.
Lighting some further candles on a convenient iron stand Astin sat down in the niche next to Howard Redcross’s and stared at the ceiling.
‘If there is something resembling Hell, I hope that the both of you are making each other absolutely miserable.’
As if he hadn’t thought it through (which he hadn’t, despite taking an effort at requesting Harris to collect the keys from whoever it was that kept them), he wondered why he was really there, exactly eleven years after his grandfather’s death. He should know the dead rarely gave away their secrets.
But was he really looking for answers? His mother had the answers, and she would only be too glad to give them. He had consciously turned away when he had encountered the answers on his own, and he didn’t think he had ever quite regretted that. It wasn’t the first time a generation of the Redcross family had made a mess of it. It probably was a precedent that two generations had made such a mess of it together, and so personally.
‘I think I’m here,’ he said, more to himself than anything else, ‘because I want to make it clear I don’t want to make your mistakes. I love her, and I want her to do whatever she likes, to keep the freedom she’s worked so hard for. But at the same time I don’t want to chase her away, and I want to keep her close, and going by how you two went about it, we’re not very good at it as a family. In fact, we’ve thoroughly mucked up the whole family thing, if you ask me.’
He breathed deeply and rose, pocketing both of his hands. He suddenly remembered why he disliked coming there; because it reminded him so potently of the fallacy of his ancestors, and therefore also his own. At the same time it made it clearer than ever that he had no desire to make the mistakes of either Henry of Howard Redcross, and he hoped with all his heart that it would never come about that way. He would father his sons personally, and love them, and remain loyal to his wife, and not allow anything to come between them. Or at the very least he would do his damndest to try and achieve it.
‘Because someone ought to get it right, this time around.’
The contents of these pages are © 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 by Carterhaugh
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