Sir Tristan's Estate (Legends Unleashed Vol.1)

Sir Tristan’s Estate

by

Heather Beck

Smashwords
Edition

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means without the permission of the Publisher is illegal.

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any
similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, are
purely coincidental.

Sir Tristan’s Estate

Copyright © 2010 Heather Beck

ISBN: 978-0-9867952-2-0

Photos: Man © MAXFX/photoxpress.com

Castle © Arvydas Kniukšta/photoxpress.com

All rights reserved. Except for review
purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part
constitutes a copyright violation.

Published by

Diamond Dust Books on Smashwords

* * * * *

Sir Tristan’s Estate

By

Heather Beck

Twenty-year-old Skye Huntington gazed out the
airplane’s window as it descended towards the ground. Her view of
the tree covered hills was obscured by the settling dusk. She
turned her eyes towards the brightly lit runway and watched as the
neon orange line simultaneously grew closer and lost momentum.

Skye grasped the sides of her chair as the
airplane shook. To supercede her nervousness, she thought about the
reason for her trip.

She was assigned to capture the sadness
behind the Sir Tristan Estate. Honored that the editor of America’s
Amazing Architectures Magazine would choose a photographer who had
only been working professionally for a year, Skye enthusiastically
accepted the assignment. She knew very little about the estate;
however, what she did know intrigued her.

The estate was built in the late eighteenth
century by the Tristans. It had ten acres of cotton fields, worked
by slaves. The decline of the estate was partly due to the loss of
the slaves, which occurred before the civil war and President
Lincoln’s declaration of human rights. Since Sir Tristan was
responsible for freeing the slaves, the government of Virginia
honored him by renaming the estate. The government’s decision to do
so wasn’t a difficult one. Sir Tristan was, quite literally, a
martyr with ambitions to free all the slaves of the South and gain
equality for women. Although he achieved many of his goals, they
came with a price – his happiness.

Sir Tristan, an only child, died alone at the
estate on October 28, 1860. He was unmarried and left no heirs.
After his death, the estate became the property of the government,
who turned it into a profitable tourist attraction and bed and
breakfast one hundred years later.

That was the extent of Skye’s knowledge of
the estate. Perhaps that’s why the editor of America’s Amazing
Architectures Magazine had requested the presence of a historical
interpreter.

Skye watched as the conveyer belt turned
round and round. Her eyes scanned the surplus of luggage until the
familiar dark green suitcase appeared. She grabbed the suitcase
before it could make its second trip around the belt. Although her
eyes were alert, her mind was foggy.

She whistled down a taxi and watched as the
driver exited the vehicle to help her put the luggage into the
trunk.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” the taxi driver, who was a
young man of about twenty five years, replied. “Where to?”

“The Sir Tristan Estate, please.”

The driver turned to cast Skye a curious
glance. “Excuse me, miss?”

“The - Sir - Tristan - Estate,” Skye repeated
slowly.

“Are you sure you want to go
there
?”

“Of course.” Skye was annoyed at the driver’s
uncertainty. “Is there any reason why I wouldn’t want to go to the
estate?”

“Yes.”

Skye looked at the roof of the taxi, as if
seeking unknown help. “And why is that?”

“It’s been closed for a week.”

Skye’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s not
possible. I’m here on business. My boss has made arrangements for
me to photograph the Sir Tristan Estate.”

“Oh,” the driver muttered, turning in his
seat. “I guess they made an exception for you.”

Skye settled back in her seat, glad they were
finally on their way, but confused about her situation. “Why have
they closed the estate to the public?”

“It’s a pretty amazing story,” the driver
replied, glancing at Skye quickly in his rearview mirror. “During
an independent tour with his family, a ten-year-old boy discovered
an old document in a desk which presumably belonged to Sir Tristan.
The boy didn’t inform his parents about the discovery; instead, he
placed it up his t-shirt and tried to exit the estate with it.
However, as he was leaving, the document slipped out from under his
t-shirt. The boy’s parents, who thought he had stolen it from the
gift shop, scolded and lectured him. Meanwhile, the woman at the
exit was in shock. Being a fifteen year employee of the estate, she
was flabbergasted at the boy’s find. She knew it wasn’t a fake; it
was a real document containing unknown knowledge.”

“Really?” Skye leaned forward. “What kind of
document?”

“It was a birth certificate.”

“Whose?”

“Miss Kathleen Tristan.”

Skye looked at the driver’s reflection in the
rearview mirror. Her mind raced as she tried to fit together the
broken pieces. “Who was Miss Kathleen Tristan?”

“No one knows.”

Then I shouldn’t feel so bad for not being
able to figure it out either
, Skye thought. “You haven’t
explained why the Sir Tristan Estate has been closed for tourism,”
she reminded.

“Although no one knows who Miss Kathleen
Tristan is, there are suspicions that she is Tristan’s daughter
from an affair he had with a peasant girl.”

“I thought he didn’t have any children, and
having an affair isn’t a common trait that martyrs share.”

The driver shook his head. “We didn’t know
that he had a child either.”

Skye got the feeling that the driver was
purposely ignoring her last comment about Sir Tristan’s sainthood.
She quickly promised to keep her opinions to herself. After all,
the residents of Virginia were very proud of Sir Tristan and his
humanitarian work.

“So, why is the estate closed?” Skye was
tired from the flight and wanted nothing more than for everything
to make sense. She was confused, frustrated and felt as if her head
may explode at any given moment.

“If there is a living descendant of Sir
Tristan, the estate belongs to that individual.”

Skye leaned her head against the window and
closed her eyes. She thought about what the taxi driver had just
said in regards to the estate’s closure and wondered why she hadn’t
been informed about this earlier. What if she, like the public, was
locked out of the estate? Where would she stay?

She opened one eye and saw the taxi’s clock
state 9:12 in a bright green color. Closing her tired eyes, she
gave into the temptation of sleep.

Skye woke suddenly as the taxi began to
shake. She looked anxiously out the window to see that they had
turned off the highway and were now traveling down a dirt road.
Skye felt herself being thrown around in her seat as the taxi
bumped over the small stones that lay on the ground. She winced as
the coarse seatbelt sliced into her stomach.

“I thought this was a tourist attraction.
Don’t tell me the government didn’t have enough money to pay for a
paved road,” she muttered, more to herself than the taxi driver.
Nevertheless, she received a reply.

“The government wanted to keep the estate
authentic.”

“Yet they were willing to add a gift shop,”
Skye commented.

“I’m not a politician,” the driver said,
obviously tired of Skye’s questions and complaints. “Therefore, I
have no say in what happens at the estate.”

Respecting the driver’s wishes to a certain
degree, Skye remained quiet while entertaining the thought of
not
giving him a tip. In fact, she considered running out of
the taxi and not paying him at all. No, that would never work. For
one reason, he knew where she was staying.

Skye looked out the window. Darkness had
fallen and the abundant rows of trees that lined the poorly
maintained road were almost invisible. The road seemed to continue
forever. Fear began to creep into her emotions, adding to the
anxiety she already felt about driving down a deserted road with a
complete stranger.

I wonder where the nearest house is. Probably
miles away.

As Skye continued to watch, the large estate
suddenly loomed proudly in front of them. Everything came alive in
an instant; the moon seemingly appeared out of nowhere to cast down
its bright beams, while lights flickered in several rooms of the
estate. The finer details were hard to see despite the enthusiasm
from the moon and the glowing lanterns. This didn’t upset Skye
since her attention was drawn to a more interesting object, the man
standing outside the imposing metal gates.

The driver rolled down his window. “Hello, I
have a woman here who claims she has some sort of business to take
care of in regards to the estate.”

Skye felt her cheeks redden at his words. Not
only was the taxi driver making her sound foolish and incompetent,
he was actually putting her in danger.
The man at the gate
could
be anyone
, she thought angrily.
He could be a
murderer or a pervert. Was it really necessary for a singular and
feminine pronoun to both be used?

“Skye Huntington?” the man at the gate leaned
closer.

The taxi driver turned around in his seat and
looked expectantly at Skye. It suddenly occurred to her that they
hadn’t introduced themselves to each other.

“Yes,” she said, her voice strong and
confident, just in case the man was a homicidal pervert.

“I’m Tom Dove,” he replied. “I’ve been
expecting you. I’m your historical interpreter on behalf of the Sir
Tristan Estate.”

“Then all plans are go?” Skye asked casually,
peering at Tom through the opened window. She remembered being told
that the interpreter’s name was Tom Dove. She’d never speculated
that he would be so handsome.

The light, which came from the lantern he
held in his hands, highlighted his features. He stood tall at five
foot eleven and had a lean, muscular build. His face carried his
most magnificent features: blue eyes that sparkled with life and
lips that formed a smile with every word he spoke. Tom’s short
brownish blond hair complimented his face in the most beautiful
way.

“Of course the plans are still active,” Tom
said, breaking Skye’s reverie.

Not knowing what to say next, Skye simply
smiled and exited the taxi. The driver was about to step out of the
vehicle as well, but Tom stopped him.

Tom took control, in an efficient yet courtly
manner. “Are the lady’s belongings in the trunk?”

“Yes,” Skye answered, pointing to the
trunk.

“I’ll get them,” Tom offered with a
smile.

Skye smiled back in appreciation and then
paid the taxi driver.

“Thank you,” Skye said, bidding goodbye to
her short-term companion.

Skye shivered as the taxi disappeared down
the dark road.
I hope there are other people in the estate.
She glanced sideways at Tom. He looked like a kind, handsome man
but she didn’t want to be deserted in the middle of nowhere with
him.

“Let’s get you inside,” Tom said, stealing
Skye’s attention away from the empty road. “Virginian nights can
get very cool.”

Skye followed Tom as he placed the lantern on
the ground and unlocked the gate with a large silver key. Skye bent
down to pick up the lantern, and Tom had the same idea. They both
knelt at the same time and almost knocked each other’s head.

Tom laughed. “Would you like to carry the
lantern?”

“Since you’re carrying my suitcase, it’s the
least I can do,” Skye replied.

“Sounds fair to me.” Tom smiled as he locked
the gate behind them.

“Am I correct in saying that you work at the
Sir Tristan Estate?” Skye inquired.

“Yes. But I’ve only worked here for a few
weeks. Although I’m new around here, I know a lot about the Tristan
family.”

“Since you know so much,” Skye began to pry,
“can you answer one question that I’ve been dying to know?”

Tom stopped walking and looked curiously at
her. “If I can.”

“What was Sir Tristan’s first name?”

Tom paused, a sly smile forming on his face.
“I
can
answer that question but I’m not going to – not
yet.”

“Why is Sir Tristan’s first name so
confidential?” Skye pressed. She couldn’t stand not knowing.
Perhaps that’s why she was such a talented photographer; her
attention to detail was superb.