Just A Point - a little fiction from Lyssa Medana #HazardousToYourSanity
Kent waved the letter at his wife. "It's
the valuation," he said as he ripped it open. Rupert watched carefully,
unnoticed in the corner.
"You can't be thinking of selling it,"
Alison said. "The portrait been in your family for generations." Her
voice dropped to a whisper. "And you know the painting
is haunted. Look what happened last time it was sent for cleaning."
Rupert nodded. At least someone else was
paying attention. The last time that the portrait had left the building there
had been two smashed vases, three blown lightbulbs and the temperamental phone
system had refused to work until his portrait had returned.
"Those sort of accidents are normal
for a house of this age," Kent said, looking uneasily over his shoulder. "And
we have to face reality. We live in a Grade I listed English Stately Home and
the roof leaks. You know how much it’s going to cost to repair. We can't just
get any old tiles from the local builder's yard. We can’t call up half a dozen
firms and go with the cheapest quote plus scaffolding. One firm in this
part of England was willing to take the job and they’re charging an arm, a leg
and a kidney. We need the money."
"Do you want to
sell it?" Alison asked as Kent twisted the rich, cream envelope.
Kent kept his eyes on the envelope. "No,
not really. It’s always been there, all the time I was growing up,” he said. “I
was always fascinated by the old man in the picture. There were times when I
swore I could feel him watching over the family.” He swallowed. “I wish we
could keep it, I really do. But sentiment won't patch the roof and that’s the piece
that’s least likely to be missed for the guided tours." He slit the envelope
and pulled out the letter but placed it on the desk without unfolding it. "I
wish we didn't have to lose the portrait. I wish there was another way. But
there isn’t." He looked at Alison with something of his old spirit. "But
if I'm not getting a good enough offer, I'm keeping it. There are grants, after
all."
Jenkins stuck his head round the door. "It's
Soames about his business proposition. He's in the study, sir," the butler
said.
“I’ll be right there,” Kent said. “Please could
you send up some refreshments.” He looked at Alison. “I can’t believe that
there’s any business that can save us,” he said quietly. “Perhaps we should
give up.”
Alison glanced around their drawing room. “It
may not come to that,” she said. “Your family have seen tough times before and
come through.” She pointed at the portrait hanging near the window. “He went to
India and Jamaica before winning all that farmland in Devon in a game of dice.
He even had to lay low in the American colonies after killing someone in a duel
and only got back here because of the Revolution.” She put a comforting hand on
Kent’s arm. “He didn’t give in.”
Kent managed a tired smile. “You’re right,”
he said. “And perhaps we won’t need the offer after all.”
***
Rupert waited until Kent and Alison had
left the room before standing in front of the portrait. Yes, those adventures
and escapades had saved their estate, but those were different times. The world
was bigger then. It took months to get to India and a stay in Surat was almost
like dropping off the edge of the world. Now the world was smaller and Kent
could get to Boston within a day or two. Rupert shook his head. It took longer
than that to get to London at the time the portrait was painted.
The old ghost returned to the letter. He
had pulled strings, pushed ideas and worked to keep this estate together, no
matter what. The centuries had rolled by but Rupert had not abandoned his duty.
Selling the portrait would be a short term measure. It would perhaps pay for a
patched roof, but when the next repair came in, what would they sell next? How
long before they had nothing left to sell? He turned to the letter, still in its
envelope.
Rupert had spent decades practising his
skills and extracting the letter was no trouble. The contents, however, were a
problem. Kent would certainly sell for £350,000 but while the figure was
flattering, he could not let his portrait go. Rupert had changed a few documents
over the years, but it was never easy. It took time, effort and concentration. He
had better get started.
Rupert was exhausted and beginning to fade by the time Kent and Alison returned but it was worth it. The letter now was firm - £35,000, take it or leave it. Kent would never settle for that. The portrait would be safe for now. Rupert tapped his ghostly finger on the polished mantle. He needed to rest and recover but then he had to get busy. He’d let things slide for the last few years and it had to stop. Kent was a good man and his wife was a powerhouse but they lacked ideas and direction and he was just the ghost to help out. Now, how could he help with this business idea?
