Master
Surely, surely, Finlay had heard wrong, read wrong. He must have, dear merciful God, please ! It could not be true, he wished not to believe it. He narrowed his already blurred sight to reread the black marble wall plaque. Unfortunately, it still read the same:
Sir Thomas Sharpe, Baronet
Beloved brother, husband and master.
He collapsed with great heaving sobs against the wall, his further blurred sight falling sideways onto that terrible tomb. Good Sir Thomas was dead, murdered in cruel and torturous ways, by his own sister's hand. How could he not remember the kind little blue-eyed boy who had guided him those first weeks after his sight had nearly vanished. Young Thomas had been the only good thing to come from Allerdale Hall in all his years of service with how horrid Sir Michael and Lady Beatrice were and how vindictive little Lady Lucille was.
All he had ever wanted was to give young master Thomas an honourable paternal figure, instead of the walking boor that called himself a man and a gentleman. In that way, he supposed he had because the master had stayed sweet all his short, tragic, life. Especially, when the young master had found that sickly babe abandoned on the threshold and taken her in. How devastated poor little Thomas was when the girl finally succumbed to her disease.
Sir Thomas had always understood when he had needed his pay early to keep his family fed and the house over their head. He had never cared for the villagers that spread false rumours of his master's romantic interests. Those bloody things were false by God or he was dead too ! Master Thomas was much too virtuous to partake of the mortal sin of incest. His poor master slandered all his of life for that which was beyond his control. At least, at least, now that he was dead those blackguards at the Red Hand could do no more damage without feeling guilty.
When he had regained control of himself, Finlay whispered, "G-good-bye, Sir Thomas, God rest your gentle soul."
Nearly he burst into tears when a queer warmth settled itself on his right shoulder and, "Good-bye, dear Finlay." echoed from some far off-place. Like the sun evaporating the last of the morning dew the younger man's presence disappeared.
On trembling legs he got up and made his way out of the mausoleum, around the house to close the gates behind him. The path that he had spent over thirty years of his life on would never be opened again. The path where his own little Horace waited with the covered wagon and helped him clamber in.
His son turned Starlight around to head back down the path, murmuring, "I would'a lioked ta 'ave met 'im while 'e lived Pa. Good sort 'e seemed ta me what wit' keepin' you on w-hen de Lady would'a fiored you."
With a short nod he agreed, "That he was, that he was. Let us go home he would have wanted me to find more work as soon as possible."
Perhaps he would go work in one of London's general stores. In London one was far more likely to run into servants than aristocrats or nobility personally. It would also still allow him to help people. Yes, that was what he would do. What Sir Thomas would want of him.