Epilogue
“Is e ùine a nì thu dheth.”
(Time is what you make of it.)
—An Old Scottish Saying
London, England, September 17, 2009
“Miss, if you’ll follow me.”
Claire still didn’t know what this was about. A letter and phone call to appear at Lloyd’s Leadenhall Street offices in London. “You say I have an inheritance? From whom? I have no close family.”
“That’s right, miss. You are the last direct descendant of the Sparhawk family, your mother’s family, correct?” The associate who’d met her at the reception desk in the Lobby, a Mr. Benson, gave her a searching look as they entered the elevator.
“You have the paperwork. The Sparhawk family seemed to have a great many girls, so my mother was the last Sparhawk. But whatever family inheritance there was, I received after my mother and father passed away.”
“This is more of a legacy, but a significant one for our bank.”
“Mr. Benson, would you please explain.”
“Miss Winston, I can’t fully, though I would dearly love to. There were explicit instructions on how we were to handle this particular inheritance, unsealed when you were found.”
“What is this about?”
“Lloyd’s oversees a number of long-term accounts and trusts. However, the instructions for your inheritance were left with Lloyd’s in 1856. Quite out of the ordinary, particularly when the continued storage and banking was paid for in continuance, including legal oversight.” They exited the elevator, and the man strode quickly down the hall.
“What?” She had to trot to catch up with him.
“Yes, a separate, American legal firm was tasked with monitoring the trust Lloyd’s maintained. How they knew Wells Fargo would be continuous, I don’t know.” Mr. Benson stopped by a door, solemnly unlocked it, and ushered her into a wood-paneled room containing one table and plush chairs. On the table sat a folder and a metal container the size of a shoe box. It was odd. The box had what looked like a rubber seal covering a good portion of the box lid.
“Please have a seat. If you will sign the release forms, I will leave you to examine everything.” She penned her name, Claire Melissa Winston.
Mr. Benson collected the paper, officiously checking the signature. “Once you’ve reviewed everything to your satisfaction,” he intoned, pointing to the phone by the door, “I will be available to answer any more questions you might have concerning banking arrangements and such.”
“Banking arrangements?”
“Why yes, miss. You have inherited quite a large fortune, having accrued interest for over a century and a half.” He pointed to the papers and turned to leave but stopped. “Oh, and this is the strangest instruction. Did you bring the required cellphone battery?”
Frowning, she nodded. “That couldn’t be one of the instructions from 1856.”
“Yes, miss, it is. As I said, I can’t explain it. Until a year ago, no one could have fulfilled that particular battery request.” And with that, he turned to the door.
“Wait. Aren’t you going to go over the bank records with me?”
Mr. Benson shook his head. “No, miss. The instructions were exact. You were first to be left alone with the paperwork and that box. The bank has provided a carrying case by the door.” He handed her a small key and with a perplexed grimace, said, “I will be next door when you are ready to discuss the banking arrangements.” He turned the lock on the door before leaving.
Claire eyed the box and folder for a moment, deciding to look at the paperwork. The bank records started in eighteen fifty-six and continued until today, recording the growth of the initial investments. She stared at the current value. She was wildly rich. It required time to come to terms with that information.
Still dazed, she saw included in the folder with the bank records was a brittle, very thick manila envelope sporting several unbroken wax seals across the flap. On the outside was written, TO OUR LAST KITH AND KIN in bold block letters. Inside were more than one hundred numbered, handwritten pages in the same block letters, now faded. The first page began:
October 6th, 1856, Aston Abby
Dear Family:
If you are reading this, then you are our last direct descendant—at least at this point. My name is Richard Riggs Starke, captain in the United States Army, 75th Rangers, serial number 14 12 345 678, now Lord Regginald Sparhawk, Baron Aston. Our family story begins on February 12th, 2010, for me, and for my wife Melissa Graham Sparhawk, December 29th, 1809. If that sounds cockeyed, it is, but still the truth.
Before reading further, please open the box. You should have a key, which can also be used to break the rubber seals. The enclosed items are meant to confirm the following story, but also as heirlooms and subject of future research. The cell phone passcode is 4019150.
Claire had to pry the case open, the brittle rubber breaking away. There was a hiss of air rushing into the box. Vacuum-sealed. Upon opening the box, underneath a paper inventory were six items: A cell phone, an ancient-looking medallion and chain, two miniature portraits of a man and woman, a large brass coin, and a larger black knife.
She knew the cell phone shouldn’t be there. Impossible. She returned to reading, about Captain Starke being assigned to instruct the Spanish Army and then traveling back in time. It was a horrific story in many respects, but compelling. Until she saw her name mentioned as someone he had met in Spain, Claire Winston, where he had shown Melissa pictures of her on his cell phone.
She grabbed the cell phone and following the instructions she’d downloaded, replaced the battery, and turned the phone on, holding her breath. It lit up, dim but readable. She quickly tapped in the passcode and went to photos. Revealed were pictures of another world. A handsome couple smiling in period dress before a stone mansion, and then in woodlands, Starke/Sparhawk and his wife, looking very much like the enclosed miniatures. Then several dark pictures of a different location. The wife, Melissa, looking gaunt and mussed, sitting in a sleeping bag, a clapboard wall, and horses behind her. They were taken when Starke showed Melissa his cell phone. Swiping further, the pictures she needed to see were there. Her with Richard Starke.
She stared at the pictures and their dates for the longest time, trying to understand the future she was seeing, her future, on a hundred-and-fifty-year-old cell phone. She went back to reading the story, finishing several hours later. It ended with:
We’ve had a wonderful life together, exciting and fulfilling. My beautiful Mel suggested we might pass the medallion on to a future relative rather than have to choose between our grown children. Deciding that, we have written our tale, only for you, dear relative. We never told our family the full story, omitting the time traveling and magic. It seemed a burden they didn’t need, particularly if they had believed us. Our four children now have satisfying lives of their own now. Our oldest, Robert, stands to inherit Aston Abby. Our fifth, John, joined the army and died a colonel in the Crimean War. Thomas, Tess, and Claire have fine families and careers of their own.
About the medallion, the Nathair òir. It is yours to wear. Perhaps you can discover more about its powers. We have not, other than it has been in Mel’s family Graham, long past recorded memory. We hope this legacy is not a burden, but a comfort, monetarily and spiritually. Be well.
Sincerely,
Lord Reginald Sparhawk, Baron Aston
Lady Melissa Graham Sparhawk
Overwhelmed by it all, Claire gathered up everything in a daze and called Mr. Benson to say she would be back tomorrow to discuss the banking arrangements. The sky was growing dark when she stepped out onto busy Leadenhall Street. She would drive back to her university apartment. She had classes tomorrow.
Or did she?
She drove her little Volvo to the London Regency nearby. She got herself the best room in the hotel, ordering in dinner, maxing out her credit cards. Not that it mattered now. She sat on the huge bed and laid out all the items she had taken with her. She felt she knew this Rig Starke after reading his astonishing story. Melissa too. It was a strange emotional state she mulled over long into the night. Sad, elated, astonished, and yes, grateful for being the recipient of such a legacy, gaining such an intimate knowledge of distant relatives and incomprehensible magic.
She stared at her picture from Spain in February of next year. No, not so distant. Could it be that warm in February? Apparently, from her dress, it was. She certainly recognized her own clothes. Then it struck her. She knew where she would meet Rig, in Madrid in front of Spanish army headquarters. He wrote it down. She didn’t know the exact time and date, but she would figure it out—obviously had. Money could buy information and she had more than four months to plan.
Claire laughed. She was going to meet her ancestor, her benefactor. She stood to grab a hotel note pad and pen to make plans when she froze. Did she have to be the last direct ancestor? There was a beautiful irony in the thought as she began to write down what must be done before meeting Captain Richard Starke. She chuckled: A mission study.
THE END