| General Fiction posted June 14, 2022 | Chapters: |
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Rich man, poor man
A chapter in the book Sinclair Pickens-Smythe
Sinclair's Story
by damommy
It had been a horrible day for Sinclair Pickens-Smythe (that’s hyphenated, spelled with a y and an e on the end). In fact, he couldn’t remember having a good day for quite some time now. Whenever he introduced himself, he always included the parenthetical line, for he was tired beyond belief of being called Pickens-Smythy.
It was exactly one year, three months, and four days since his marriage to Miss Arabella Frances Lassiter, the cosmetics heiress. From what Sinclair could see, she felt duty-bound to try all the products at once. He suspected she put her makeup on with a putty knife, and, if the grimace she called a smile got any wider, it would all crack and fall from her face.
Arabella looked down on her husband, both socially and physically. She came from old line money, while he had worked his way up through the ranks, so to speak. Also, at her height of five feet nine inches, she was already five inches taller than her husband. Putting on high heels, well, you do the math. Little did she know Sinclair knew the cosmetics empire had gone bankrupt, and there would be nothing left for her to inherit there.
She rang for the butler, who oddly is named Butler, but she calls him Buggles because she said you can’t have a butler named Butler. Waiting with the foot-long cigarette holder hanging from the corner of her mouth, she wondered just where her moron of a husband was hiding.
“You rang, Madam?” How could he sneak up on her like that? One could never hear him coming.
“Yes, Buggles. Do you know where the master is?”
“No, Madam,” he sniffed. “He left early this morning, saying he’d not be home for lunch. Is that all, Madam?”
Smarmy little snot, but he does lend a certain air to the estate. One must have a snotty butler to give prestige. Where is Sinclair?
Sinclair Pickens-Smythe (that’s hyphenated, spelled with a y and an e on the end) was hiding in the tulip garden, thinking of his dilemma and contemplating what his next step would be. Nothing came to mind that he liked. With his little pudgy face frowning, he raked his fingers through non-existing hair. What was he to do? And why so many gardens? Tulip garden, rose garden, dahlia garden. Heaven forbid that flowers should be mixed!
He wanted nothing more than to go into his room and lie down, but he couldn’t do that since he’d told Butler, er, Buggles that he wouldn’t be home for lunch. If only he could ask Papa for advice. He refused to call him Pa-pa’ like Arabella did. She thought that made her sound upper class. It wasn’t looking good for Papa health-wise, but he had to keep that from Arabella. She’d be falling all over herself to win her father-in-law’s affection.
He knew Arabella only married him in hopes of his inheritance. It certainly wasn’t for his physique or bubbling personality. Sinclair knew he was dull. He even bored himself to death.
Maybe he could sneak past everyone to get to one of the seventeen bedrooms. No one would think of looking for him there, if they looked for him at all.
It was exactly twenty-seven minutes later when Sinclair settled himself in the farthest bedroom in the mansion. Rest first, plan later. Exactly three minutes later, he was fast asleep.
To be continued . . .
It had been a horrible day for Sinclair Pickens-Smythe (that’s hyphenated, spelled with a y and an e on the end). In fact, he couldn’t remember having a good day for quite some time now. Whenever he introduced himself, he always included the parenthetical line, for he was tired beyond belief of being called Pickens-Smythy.
It was exactly one year, three months, and four days since his marriage to Miss Arabella Frances Lassiter, the cosmetics heiress. From what Sinclair could see, she felt duty-bound to try all the products at once. He suspected she put her makeup on with a putty knife, and, if the grimace she called a smile got any wider, it would all crack and fall from her face.
Arabella looked down on her husband, both socially and physically. She came from old line money, while he had worked his way up through the ranks, so to speak. Also, at her height of five feet nine inches, she was already five inches taller than her husband. Putting on high heels, well, you do the math. Little did she know Sinclair knew the cosmetics empire had gone bankrupt, and there would be nothing left for her to inherit there.
She rang for the butler, who oddly is named Butler, but she calls him Buggles because she said you can’t have a butler named Butler. Waiting with the foot-long cigarette holder hanging from the corner of her mouth, she wondered just where her moron of a husband was hiding.
“You rang, Madam?” How could he sneak up on her like that? One could never hear him coming.
“Yes, Buggles. Do you know where the master is?”
“No, Madam,” he sniffed. “He left early this morning, saying he’d not be home for lunch. Is that all, Madam?”
Smarmy little snot, but he does lend a certain air to the estate. One must have a snotty butler to give prestige. Where is Sinclair?
Sinclair Pickens-Smythe (that’s hyphenated, spelled with a y and an e on the end) was hiding in the tulip garden, thinking of his dilemma and contemplating what his next step would be. Nothing came to mind that he liked. With his little pudgy face frowning, he raked his fingers through non-existing hair. What was he to do? And why so many gardens? Tulip garden, rose garden, dahlia garden. Heaven forbid that flowers should be mixed!
He wanted nothing more than to go into his room and lie down, but he couldn’t do that since he’d told Butler, er, Buggles that he wouldn’t be home for lunch. If only he could ask Papa for advice. He refused to call him Pa-pa’ like Arabella did. She thought that made her sound upper class. It wasn’t looking good for Papa health-wise, but he had to keep that from Arabella. She’d be falling all over herself to win her father-in-law’s affection.
He knew Arabella only married him in hopes of his inheritance. It certainly wasn’t for his physique or bubbling personality. Sinclair knew he was dull. He even bored himself to death.
Maybe he could sneak past everyone to get to one of the seventeen bedrooms. No one would think of looking for him there, if they looked for him at all.
It was exactly twenty-seven minutes later when Sinclair settled himself in the farthest bedroom in the mansion. Rest first, plan later. Exactly three minutes later, he was fast asleep.
To be continued . . .
It was exactly one year, three months, and four days since his marriage to Miss Arabella Frances Lassiter, the cosmetics heiress. From what Sinclair could see, she felt duty-bound to try all the products at once. He suspected she put her makeup on with a putty knife, and, if the grimace she called a smile got any wider, it would all crack and fall from her face.
Arabella looked down on her husband, both socially and physically. She came from old line money, while he had worked his way up through the ranks, so to speak. Also, at her height of five feet nine inches, she was already five inches taller than her husband. Putting on high heels, well, you do the math. Little did she know Sinclair knew the cosmetics empire had gone bankrupt, and there would be nothing left for her to inherit there.
She rang for the butler, who oddly is named Butler, but she calls him Buggles because she said you can’t have a butler named Butler. Waiting with the foot-long cigarette holder hanging from the corner of her mouth, she wondered just where her moron of a husband was hiding.
“You rang, Madam?” How could he sneak up on her like that? One could never hear him coming.
“Yes, Buggles. Do you know where the master is?”
“No, Madam,” he sniffed. “He left early this morning, saying he’d not be home for lunch. Is that all, Madam?”
Smarmy little snot, but he does lend a certain air to the estate. One must have a snotty butler to give prestige. Where is Sinclair?
Sinclair Pickens-Smythe (that’s hyphenated, spelled with a y and an e on the end) was hiding in the tulip garden, thinking of his dilemma and contemplating what his next step would be. Nothing came to mind that he liked. With his little pudgy face frowning, he raked his fingers through non-existing hair. What was he to do? And why so many gardens? Tulip garden, rose garden, dahlia garden. Heaven forbid that flowers should be mixed!
He wanted nothing more than to go into his room and lie down, but he couldn’t do that since he’d told Butler, er, Buggles that he wouldn’t be home for lunch. If only he could ask Papa for advice. He refused to call him Pa-pa’ like Arabella did. She thought that made her sound upper class. It wasn’t looking good for Papa health-wise, but he had to keep that from Arabella. She’d be falling all over herself to win her father-in-law’s affection.
He knew Arabella only married him in hopes of his inheritance. It certainly wasn’t for his physique or bubbling personality. Sinclair knew he was dull. He even bored himself to death.
Maybe he could sneak past everyone to get to one of the seventeen bedrooms. No one would think of looking for him there, if they looked for him at all.
It was exactly twenty-seven minutes later when Sinclair settled himself in the farthest bedroom in the mansion. Rest first, plan later. Exactly three minutes later, he was fast asleep.
To be continued . . .
 Recognized |
My first try at telling an on-going story.
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