Birthright

287 words


“An accident!” shouted a breathless Jim Bates “’is lordship’s coach, an’ it don’t look good.” Annie grabbed her shawl, following the boy out into the stormy night.

They hurried along the dirt lane to the edge of the swollen river that threatened to burst its banks. The coach driver was dead; lost control driving too fast across the rickety wooden bridge, Annie surmised. She’d seen it often. The two-horse team were unhurt but whinnied as they struggled to get back on their feet in the sludge.

While Annie checked the interior of the upturned coach, Jim freed the horses and they galloped off in the direction of Holston Manor.
"Run to the tavern, Jim, and get help," ordered Annie.

Also dead, inside the coach, were Lord Holston’s arrogant heir, Sir Charles, and his young wife. Annie sneered then caught sight of the child, barely alive but desperately hanging on. She scooped the infant into her arms. He uttered his last plaintive cry then was limp. “Poor little mite,” Annie muttered.

She glanced behind her and saw that Jim was still in sight. Cradling the dead child she crept unseen, to her rundown cottage.

Inside the dimly lit dwelling, Annie’s daughter, Polly, tossed and turned on a palliasse, sick with childbed fever. Beside her, in a makeshift crib, slept her malnourished son.

Deftly, Annie swapped the babies clothing. Gently laying the dead child into the crib, she wrapped Polly's son inside her thick shawl and ran swiftly back to the coach.

As she laid him beside the dead woman, she heard voices in the distance, signalling Jim's return from the tavern. Annie felt no guilt. She had done no more than right a wrong; ensured her grandson’s birthright.