R E Lowell and the tragedy at the Manor

Epilogue

The dust particles waltzed through the air as Margaret Rivers pulled back the heavy velvet drapes, unmasking the ceiling high windows, and the landscape below, the green grass glistening in the early morning light, the hunched willow swaying gently in the light breeze, the lake glittering like gossamer. She loved Rosewood Manor with its acres of estate at the edge of the town of Foxmoore, and how peaceful it was to just watch the songbirds sing in their soprano voices as their kin danced through the sky, beneath the fluffy clouds of wool. 

Rivers rapped on the Master's door of intricately patterned mahogany, before taking the brightly polished brass handle in her thin fingers, and entering the dark room. On one side stood a large, four-poster bed with drapes of burgundy pulled to the aforementioned posts with golden rope, the tassels shimmering as Miss Rivers pulled back the drapes of their bedroom, letting the light flood in. From this side of the house, a small Brooke was noticeable, and amidst the cover of nightfall, you could see the foxes who had so often tried to breach the small chicken coop kept by the kitchen, between the vegetable patch and stable. As well as This, there was a balcony with ornate railing, beneath which was the tea garden. 

Mrs François, the lady of the house, groaned,  as she did every morning, while her husband sat, bolt upright, reading the new paper that Miss Rivers had left on his bedside table as she entered. "Good morning, my lord, my lady, breakfast shall be ready in fifteen minutes" she smiled, as she cracked open the door to the balcony. "I must say, Miss Rivers, I did have the most peculiar dream last night" Mrs François stated as she arose, gracefully gliding to her vanity table, where she proceeded to brush her silky, mouse brown  hair. "Really, Mrs François?" Rivers enquired. " In my dream, it was Christmas, and Jon was a mere boy. The Severn children were there, playing with him and..and Lucia, but one of the boys wasn't there, but I can't recall which of them it was." 
"How odd" Rivers mused as she went about, dusting the fireplace. "And as I went to look out of the window, I saw this tall man with the most unruly hair and clothes, stood in the cold-" 
"That's quite enough, dear, I have the most terrible of headaches" Mr François barked in his gruff voice, reaching for his pipe. 

As Margaret left the room, she rolled her eyes at her master's bluntness. It was understandable to her though, as before he had inherited his father's tobacco company, he had been a colonel in the army, and a well respected one at that. As Rivers approached her youngest master's door, she noticed that the family's dog, a white borzoi that was a gift from Master François' great aunt, Mrs Odessa Orlov, was whining as he lay by the door. Rivers looked at him, he looked at Rivers, before turning back to the door and continuing to whine. Margaret rapped on the door, before calling out to the young master. "Jon, breakfast shall be ready soon." Margaret opened the door to the room. It was very dark, as the drapes were rather heavy, and as she pulled them back, she noticed that the window was cracked open, with a large crack running down it. Margaret furrowed her brow. "How peculiar" she said, before turning around to see the young master's bed sheets and pillows strewn about the matress, and so her confusion grew. 

Margaret walked across the room. "Jon? Wake up, breakfast is in twelve minutes and you're not even dressed! It's going to be your faver-" she stood in shocked silence as she noticed the small pool of blood at the side of the bed. "Jon?!" She asked, her voice getting louder. She reached out to him, pulling back the covers and revealing his mangled corpse. His crystal blue eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling in shock and terror, his night clothes stained with the blood that was clotting on his chest from the gaping wound visible through the white cloth, clots of blood entangled with his coppery hair. Margaret let out a blood curdling shriek, and was quickly joined by Mr François. "What on earth are you screaming for, Miss Rivers?" He asked rather loudly, before noticing his son, laid in a puddle of his own blood, and his face immediately turned as white as an apperition. 

He turned to Margaret, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Rivers, go to Piper and tell him to call the police, I do not want Mrs François to see him in this state, and there is to be no more raised voices, is that clear?" He said in a hushed tone, his charcoal grey eyes  leering into hers. She nodded, before hurrying to the butler's chambers. Mr François hurried back to his and his wife's chambers, taking the key from his sons dresser and locking the door, pocketing the key, beforehand. "Darling, why on earth was Miss Rivers screaming so loudly?" She asked from behind the divider, where she dressed every morning and evening. "Oh, well.." Mr François stuttered, something he very rarely did. "Well, my darling.. a great tragedy seems to have befallen this household." 
"Oh?" Mrs François said, sensing her husband's discomfort. 
"You see, my dear, our son.." His voice trailed off once more 
"Our son what?" Mrs François asked. Silence filled the room, before Mr François finally spoke.
"He is dead."