The Shropshire Defenestration

In 17th century Shropshire, a young noblewoman’s quest for justice leads her down a perilous path of rebellion and revenge. As she uncovers dark secrets within her family’s estate, she must confront the consequences of her actions and the true meaning of honour.

I. A Fateful Night

The night air was thick with the scent of rain and treachery as I stood before the imposing silhouette of Whitcombe Manor. The ancient Tudor house loomed against the starless sky, its windows like hollow eyes staring down at me. I pulled my cloak tighter, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and resolve. This was to be the night when everything would change.

My name is Elizabeth Whitcombe, and I was about to commit an act that would forever alter the course of my family’s history.

As I approached the house, memories of my childhood flashed before my eyes. I remembered running through these very gardens, laughing with my brother Edward, blissfully unaware of the dark secrets that lurked within the manor’s walls. How naive we had been, how innocent.

The sound of raised voices drifted from an open window on the second floor. I recognised my father’s authoritative tone, followed by the pleading voice of Mr. Holloway, our steward. My hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath my cloak. I had not wanted it to come to this, but I saw no other way.

With practiced ease, I slipped through the servant’s entrance and made my way up the back stairs. The voices grew louder as I approached my father’s study. I paused outside the door, my breath catching in my throat as I listened to the heated exchange.

“You cannot do this, my lord!” Mr. Holloway cried. “Think of the people, the families who depend on the land!”

“I will do as I see fit with my property,” my father growled. “The deal is done, Holloway. The land will be sold, and the tenants will be evicted. That is final.”

I closed my eyes, fighting back tears of anger and frustration. This was why I had returned, why I had abandoned my life in London to confront the injustices that had plagued our estate for far too long.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door.

II. Confrontation

The scene before me was one of barely contained violence. My father, Lord Richard Whitcombe, stood behind his massive oak desk, his face flushed with anger. Mr. Holloway, a man who had served our family faithfully for decades, cowered before him, his normally neat appearance dishevelled.

Both men turned to stare at me as I entered, their expressions a mixture of surprise and confusion.

“Elizabeth?” my father said, his voice softening slightly. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in London.”

I stepped further into the room, my eyes fixed on my father. “I’ve come home, Father. I’ve come to put an end to this madness.”

Mr. Holloway’s eyes widened with hope, but my father’s face hardened once more. “This is none of your concern, daughter. Return to your room at once.”

“No,” I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. “I will not stand by while you destroy the lives of innocent people. I know what you’ve done, Father. I know about the forged documents, the bribes, the threats. It ends now.”

My father’s face paled, then flushed with rage. “How dare you speak to me in this manner! I am your father and your lord. You will obey me!”

He strode around the desk, his hand raised as if to strike me. But I stood my ground, meeting his gaze with a determination born of years of pent-up anger and resentment.

“I am no longer the obedient child you can bully into submission,” I said. “I have evidence of your crimes, Father. Evidence that will see you stripped of your title and lands if it comes to light.”

For a moment, fear flashed in my father’s eyes. Then, with a snarl of rage, he lunged at me. I stumbled backwards, my hand fumbling for the dagger beneath my cloak. But before I could draw it, Mr. Holloway intervened, placing himself between us.

“My lord, please!” he cried. “This is your daughter!”

My father’s attention shifted to the steward, his face contorted with fury. “You!” he roared. “This is your doing, isn’t it? You’ve poisoned my daughter’s mind against me!”

With a strength born of madness, my father seized Mr. Holloway by the front of his coat and began to drag him towards the large bay window that overlooked the gardens.

“Father, no!” I screamed, realising his intent.But it was too late. With a final roar of rage, my father heaved Mr. Holloway through the window. The sound of shattering glass filled the air, followed by a terrible silence.

III. The Aftermath

The moments that followed seemed to stretch into eternity. I stood frozen, unable to comprehend the horror of what I had just witnessed. My father, breathing heavily, turned to face me, his eyes wild with a mixture of triumph and fear.

“There,” he panted. “It’s done. The meddling fool is silenced.”

I stared at him, revulsion rising like bile in my throat. “What have you done?” I whispered.

My father straightened, smoothing down his coat as if he had just completed a mundane task. “What was necessary,” he said. “Now, you will listen to me, Elizabeth. You will return to London immediately and forget everything you think you know. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll…”

His words were cut short by a commotion from the gardens below. Voices raised in alarm, the sound of running feet. My father’s face paled as he realised the consequences of his actions were about to catch up with him.

In that moment, I made a decision that would haunt me for years to come. With a swiftness that surprised even me, I drew the dagger from beneath my cloak and advanced on my father.

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice suddenly pleading. “What are you doing? I’m your father!”

“You stopped being my father the moment you chose greed over the welfare of those who depended on you,” I said, my voice cold.

He backed away, his eyes darting between my face and the blade in my hand. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

“Wouldn’t I?” I asked. “After what I’ve just witnessed, what makes you think I’m incapable of such an act?”

As he reached the shattered window, I saw a flicker of realisation in his eyes. He knew, in that moment, that I was truly my father’s daughter.

“Elizabeth, please,” he begged. “We can fix this. Together, we can…”

I never learned what he thought we could do together. With a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I shoved him backwards. For a moment, he teetered on the edge, his arms windmilling as he fought for balance. Then, with a look of utter betrayal, he fell.

I stood there, listening to the sounds of chaos from below, feeling nothing but a hollow emptiness where my heart should have been.

IV. The Price of Justice

The days that followed passed in a blur of confusion and grief. The official story, carefully crafted by the family lawyer and supported by my tearful testimony, was that my father had gone mad with grief over the accidental death of our loyal steward. In his despair, he had taken his own life by following Mr. Holloway out of the window.

Few questioned this version of events. My father had not been a well-liked man, and many were secretly relieved to see the estate pass into my hands. As the sole surviving heir, I inherited everything — the title, the lands, and the burden of the secrets that came with them.

I threw myself into the task of righting my father’s wrongs. The sale of the tenanted lands was cancelled, and I set about implementing reforms that would ensure the welfare of those who depended on the estate. It was gruelling work, but it gave me purpose, a reason to face each day despite the weight of guilt that threatened to crush me.

Nights were the hardest. In the quiet darkness of Whitcombe Manor, I was haunted by the memory of my father’s face as he fell. The look of betrayal in his eyes, the unspoken accusation — these were the ghosts that no amount of good deeds could exorcise.

As spring turned to summer, I received a visitor who would change the course of my life once again. Thomas Holloway, the son of our late steward, arrived at the manor seeking answers about his father’s death.

I received him in the very study where the tragedy had unfolded, the repaired window a constant reminder of that fateful night.

“Lady Whitcombe,” Thomas said, bowing stiffly. “I appreciate you agreeing to see me.”

I gestured for him to sit, studying his face. He had his father’s kind eyes and determined set to his jaw. “Of course, Mr. Holloway. I owe your family a great debt.”

He sat, his gaze never leaving my face. “My lady, I mean no disrespect, but I find the official account of my father’s death… difficult to believe.”

My heart began to race, but I kept my expression neutral. “Oh? And why is that?”

Thomas leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “My father was not a clumsy man, nor was he one to engage in reckless behaviour. The idea that he would accidentally fall from a window stretches credulity.”

I took a deep breath, weighing my options. I could continue the lie, maintain the facade that had protected me thus far. Or I could unburden myself of the truth that had been eating away at my soul.

In that moment, looking into Thomas Holloway’s earnest face, I made my choice.

“You’re right, Mr. Holloway,” I said quietly. “The official story is a lie. Your father did not fall accidentally, nor did my father take his own life in grief.”

Thomas’s eyes widened, but he remained silent, waiting for me to continue.

And so, I told him everything. The years of my father’s misdeeds, the confrontation that night, and the terrible acts that had followed. I spared no detail, not even my own role in my father’s death.

When I finished, silence fell between us. Thomas sat very still, his face a mask of shock and grief.

“I understand if you wish to go to the authorities,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I will not resist. Perhaps it’s time I paid for my crimes.”

Thomas stood abruptly, pacing the length of the study. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “My father always spoke highly of you, Lady Whitcombe. He said you had a good heart, that you were nothing like your father.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the sting of tears. “Your father was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

“No, he didn’t,” Thomas agreed. He turned to face me, his expression conflicted. “But I’m not sure justice would be served by revealing the truth now. My father believed in redemption, in the power of good deeds to outweigh past sins.”

Hope, fragile and tentative, began to bloom in my chest. “What are you saying, Mr. Holloway?”

He approached me, his gaze intense. “I’m saying that perhaps the best way to honour my father’s memory is to continue the work you’ve begun. To use your position and resources to help those who need it most.”

I stood, hardly daring to believe what I was hearing. “You would keep my secret?”

Thomas nodded slowly. “On one condition. That you dedicate your life to making amends, not just for my father’s death, but for all those your family has wronged over the years.”

“I swear it,” I said fervently. “I will spend every day working to right the wrongs of the past.”

Thomas held out his hand, and I took it, feeling the weight of our shared secret and shared purpose.

“Then let us begin,” he said.

V. A New Chapter

In the years that followed, Thomas Holloway became my closest confidant and ally in the fight for justice and reform. Together, we transformed Whitcombe Manor from a symbol of oppression to a beacon of hope for the community.

We established schools for the tenants’ children, improved working conditions on the farms, and used the estate’s resources to support local industries. The burden of guilt I carried began to lighten, though it never fully disappeared.

As Thomas and I worked side by side, our relationship deepened into something more than friendship. On a crisp autumn day, five years after that fateful night, we were married in the small chapel on the estate grounds.

Standing before the altar, hand in hand with the son of the man my father had killed, I felt the full weight of the journey that had brought me to this moment. It was a path paved with tragedy and redemption, with darkness and light.

As we exchanged our vows, I silently renewed the promise I had made years ago — to dedicate my life to making amends, to using the power and privilege I had inherited for the greater good.

The window in my father’s study remained a constant reminder of the past, but it no longer filled me with dread. Instead, it served as a symbol of the transformative power of truth, justice, and love.

For in the end, it was not the act of defenestration that defined us, but the choices we made in its aftermath. And I chose to build a legacy of compassion and hope, one that would endure long after the echoes of that terrible night had faded into history.

Bob Lynn / 20-Oct-2024