Chapter Text
May 1, 1811
As Dean Winchester enters the breakfast room, he is already thinking of all that needs to be done that day. Sam will be graduating from Cambridge in a few days and has plans to start an apprenticeship at the Inns of Court come autumn. Dean and his parents will travel first to Cambridge for Sam's graduation ceremony. From there they are to London for the end of the Season. A congratulatory ball will be held at their Aunt and Uncle Singer's home in a week's time. Robert Singer is a judge and Sam's sponsor in both his Cambridge legal studies and his apprenticeship. Since they will be away for several weeks, there is much that needs to be done in preparation of their departure.
His mother and father are already at breakfast when he enters. Dean rounds the table to his mother's side and busses her on the cheek.
He greets his mother warmly, "Good morning, Mama. Father." With a nod at his father, Dean goes to the sideboard, fills his plate, and takes his seat.
His father was reading correspondence as Dean entered and has hardly acknowledged Dean's presence. Dean waits dutifully for him to pass on the notes and letters he will not wish to personally manage, which of course will be most of them. Or at least anything that resembles work. Dean tries to dismiss the thought. It will not do to let his frustration show. It will only delay him from accomplishing the many things that need to be done around the estate.
While he waits, he thinks through his list. He must personally visit the tenants. His mother made her rounds last week, but the men are generally more apt to speak to Dean about issues that arise. Mama is adept at uncovering general discontent and perfectly capable of hearing their complaints on leaking roofs or flooded fields, but some of his tenants are rather old fashioned. After his tenant visits, he will need to do an inspection ride of the estate. The borders and fields especially will need to be checked. They have had a very wet spring and if they do not make the repairs before summer they will have a pitiful harvest. He will then need to meet with the steward. He may also need to speak with the housekeeper, though Mama may have already done so. And then there is whatever correspondence has his father in such a fit…
John huffs and drops the letter he had been reading onto a pile, disturbing Dean's thoughts.
"What is it, John?" Mama asks. He brushes her concern off with a fluttering of his hand. Dean clenches his teeth and breathes deeply through his nose, again reminding himself of how inconvenient an argument with his father would be. In truth, he is not sure what has possessed him of late. Usually it is Sam that is hot to the trigger and quick to quibble.
John passes all but one of the letters to Dean. Dean uses the distraction to calm himself. It is resentment, he knows. He has been letting it fester and it has only worsened as Sam's graduation approaches and Dean's fate grows more certain. It is monstrously unfair. By accident of birth Dean is stuck with the management of an estate for the rest of his life, while Sam is free to pursue his dreams.
That was mean-spirited. Dean would not for a kingdom deny Sam his dreams. He would not even let on that he is unhappy with his lot. It is ridiculous, he knows. Most brothers feel envy in the opposite fashion. Dean should be grateful for his future inheritance. Grateful for the privilege and the responsibility. He should be grateful he has a duty to uphold. A purpose in life to keep the blue devils away.
His father interrupts his thoughts again. "We are to Cambridge and then to London in three days. I have some business that necessitates my leaving ahead of you. I shall have to meet you in Cambridge for the ceremony."
Dean makes some noise of agreement, but does not trust himself to speak. Instead, he has to work mightily to suppress a scoff. John Winchester's only business is vice. He is a negligent landlord at best. The only area of estate management he has ever excelled at is hunting. Lawrence Park's grouse and venison populations are always very well maintained.
No, if John has "business" in London it is in a gambling den of some sort. Likely he failed to settle some one or other of his debts the last time he was in town and the piper has now called for payment. They are lucky John has not yet gambled away the whole of their income for the year, though there is still time.
Dean excuses himself as respectfully as possible, wishing his father farewell and easy travels. His man has already called for his horse when he steps out. He will have to remember to leave something extra for Lafitte come quarter day. The valet has been with him since he left Cambridge four years prior and began to take over the running of the estate.
Dean rides out to the furthest of the tenants first. Several thatched roofs need repairs and it is always more convenient to handle them in the summer months when the weather is agreeable to the purpose. The Chambers need a new door and the Fitzgeralds have the beginning of rot on a few planks. That will need to take priority. He makes a mental note to speak with his mother about extra baskets for the Banes and Fitzgerald families. They both have babies due to arrive within the next few weeks. And Miss Krissy Chambers has apparently refused an offer from the youngest Banes boy. Privately, Dean thinks she has made the correct choice. She has only recently turned sixteen and it is almost certainly calf-love on the part of Maxwell Banes. He is green as a pasture and has no independence to keep a wife. Dean has some intention of offering the boy a position in service. He will make a fine Tiger, if he gets the training. He intends to speak to Crowley, their stable master and gamekeeper, about the idea before the family leaves Lawrence Park for the summer.
At any rate, the Chambers and the Banes are direct neighbors and the rejected proposal has caused endless disputes over all manner of things, from the laundry left to dry too long on the shared line to the Chambers cow reaching over the fence for some variety in her palette. Mr. Chambers has accused Mr. Banes of opening their coop door and letting a fox in. The Chambers hound chased the bugger off, but nearly all of their daily eggs and one hen was lost in the meantime. These are the sort of disputes Sam and Mama are much better at mediating. Dean means to beg his mother on bended knee to intervene in his place.
All of that aside, however, it is not until Dean gets to the Moseley residence that he comes across anything truly out of the ordinary. The Moseleys are fairly new to Lawrence Park. Mr. James Moseley, his mother, and his daughter make up the small family. August will bring them to a year since they took over the tenancy when Walker passed. Mr. Moseley seems very reluctant to speak to Dean or to admit to anything being amiss.
It is his mother, Mrs. Missouri Moseley who takes it up with Dean.
"Tell Mr. Winchester, James. What you told me."
"Mama, leave it. We should not bother Mr. Winchester."
Dean immediately disclaims any bother and encourages them to share whatever it is that they are concerned with. "Even if it is not something you feel necessary for me to remedy, Mr. Moseley, I would hear your complaints all the same."
"No, Sir. I have no complaints to share, I am glad to say."
Dean refuses to be deterred. "Not a complaint then. Perhaps a dilemma?"
The Moseleys share a significant look and Dean keeps silent and waits.
"It is only that the farm here extends to the eastern border, Sir."
Dean nods his agreement. The Moseley farm is the furthest east of all the tenant farms. The Walkers held the tenancy and managed the farm and the eastern woods since long before Dean had been born. Likely even before his father's time, if he were to speculate. The Walkers were a self-sufficient sort, preferring to run their farm their own way and the Winchesters let them have their way for the most part. They had never caused any trouble or reported any issues with the lands east of Lawrence's border.
But perhaps with the Walkers gone, the Moseleys are having troubles with relations between the neighboring estates' tenants? Dean considers that. The Hanscums live to the east of Lawrence Park. Mr. Douglas Hanscum is the magistrate for the area and though he bores Dean to tears, he has never heard an ill word of him. Mrs. Hanscum is friendly and good-humored and a favorite of Mama's. She was married young and is very unlike her husband. Dean likes her prodigiously.
Mr. Moseley has again gone silent in reluctance with his mother taking up the thread of conversation. "Forgive me, Sir. But my son has encountered some strange goings on in the eastern woods."
That presents Dean with a fair bit more questions than answers. "What is it exactly that you have encountered, Mr. Moseley? Trespassers? Poachers perhaps?"
"I could not rightly say, Mr. Winchester. I have heard some noises what could be trespassers and the like. But when I go look, they are always further away. Very good at escaping notice, Sir. I set a basket with the lunch Mama and Patience packed for me on a log exactly so, while I worked at clearing some bramble in the path. And when I turned back to fetch it and go on my way, there was no basket and no sign of it. Not a footstep to be tracked. And I have plenty of practice with tracking, Sir. Tools, too, have gone missing. I have had to replace my spade three times for want of finding it. And I thought at first to look to my neighbors' children. But when I asked the menfolk if they knew anything of it, well they. . . "
Mr. Moseley trails off and his mother picks it up again. "They acted as if the devil himself was in those woods, Mr. Winchester. Could not get another word out of them once they heard where we were having the trouble. It was very strange."
"That is strange," Dean agrees. Some people are more prone to superstitions than others, but Dean has never heard of anything superstitious about the eastern woods of Lawrence Park.
"We would not bother you with any of this, Sir. It is nothing to us if the neighbors think the woods are haunted. And it is like that it was the children having a lark. We carried on with it. That is, until yesterday morning. When we discovered Patience was missing."
Dean feels himself grow pale. Moseley's daughter, Patience, cannot be more than twenty years of age, though Dean does not know her exact age. Dean understands now why they were reluctant to share. If it is made known that Miss Patience is missing, her reputation will be tarnished regardless of the truth of it. "What has been done to recover her?"
"I am a decent tracker, as I said. I followed her trail from the house here to the woods. But the trail vanishes and no other picks up."
"Were there any other footsteps alongside hers? Any sign of struggle?"
"No, nothing at all. The trail ends cold in the middle of the woods. I had hoped she might turn up still, but by nightfall I knew I would have to make it known she was missing. I have no hope of finding her by keeping silent."
"You have done the right thing. I am glad you told me. Will you show me the trail? I would like to look at it as well. We shall organize a search party on my return. She will be found, Mr. Moseley."
Mr. Moseley does not appear to be consoled by Dean's reassurances, but he does show Dean where the trail began. He competently points out his own prints as well as those of Patience.
Mrs. Moseley steps forward as if to share something further, but changes her mind and steps back. Dean makes note to inquire with her on his return. Perhaps she knows something further. In a case such as this, you never know what might be important to finding the girl.
Dean sets off on foot, choosing to leave his horse behind so as not to further complicate the trail. He takes care to step where Mr. Moseley stepped. His consciousness is split between the footsteps on the ground and the woods around him.
He would like to say that he has walked or ridden every inch of the estate, but the truth is that he rarely goes through this particular area. His nurse used to tell him stories about haunted woods, and now he wonders if she did not mean these very trees. Though Dean is not familiar with this particular area, he has grown up out of doors. He feels at home in nature.
Dean's father taught him to hunt at a very young age. His mother, too, is a very capable huntress. Dean is an excellent shot, a competent tracker, and a reliable hand at laying traps. But these woods feel like nothing he has ever felt before. They are rife with tension.
There is no better way to describe it. The animals are hushed and the trees seem to tremble. Silence hangs like heavy smoke over the brush. Even the insects seem held in suspense. The only sounds Dean hears are his own careful steps, and the forced steadiness of his breathing.
Stepping further into a copse of trees, Dean has the sudden feel of cotton being stuffed into his ears. If he had thought the woods were quiet before, it is nothing to the absolute silence that he hears now. Silence that seems to come from within him. At the exact moment the trail ends, a feeling of being watched washes over him.
Instinct has Dean crouching behind the brush for cover, head swiveling to look for the danger. His heart beats unnaturally fast. A primal terror settles in his gut and with a clarity only prey can comprehend, he is certain he is being hunted.
Dean waits with bated breath, eyes sweeping towards the most probable exit routes. Movement to his left sends him scrambling backwards, crawling like a crustacean on hands and feet. He may have screamed, but the sound is swallowed by the fear choking his lungs. His eyes find his assailant, at last. A fluffy white rabbit leaps out and away from the bushes he had been hiding behind.
Dean dissolves into relieved laughter that borders on hysteria. It could as easily turn to crying from the shifting extremes of his emotions. He slumps against the tree at his back. A hawthorn tree, he realizes. The May tree. His nurse used to tell him stories about hawthorn trees on May Day. Stories about the folk—
He does not finish the thought. Against all logic, Dean falls backwards into the hawthorn tree. He flips upside down and then he is falling in a seemingly endless spiral. He searches for a handhold to grab in the low light, but even if he could find one, he is falling too fast to grab hold. He gives up on the endeavor and instead concentrates on looking towards the bottom. It must be soon. He feels as if he has been falling for a half an hour. He wonders if it always feels so when a person falls a long distance. Perhaps he should feel more panicked at his impending death. Perhaps he should say his final prayers.
Perhaps he is not falling at all. Perhaps he hit his head when the rabbit startled him and he is having some sort of apoplexy. Perhaps Mr. Moseley will find him and take him back to the manor. He will wake up in his bed with a bump on his head. It will be embarrassing, to be sure. He was meant to be looking for the girl. Not rendering himself unconscious—
The bottom finds Dean rather suddenly. Only he must have become turned around somewhere because it is not truly the bottom that finds him. It is the top. He lands, rather inelegantly, in a slump. His bottom thumps loudly on the ceiling and for a moment Dean thinks gravity will pull him down to the ground. Thankfully, gravity does not cooperate and instead tips the world upside down. Or is it downside up?
Groaning as he crawls out of the tree hollow, Dean wonders if perhaps he is dead.
