‘Giddy up!’, coachman Harry called out to the two Bays as he rounded the final bend towards Ansfield Manor. Ansfield Manor  was  aglow, among the trees, with their reddish brown, autumn colors.

Just like Harry, the Bays were familiar with every stone on the road. Harry had been coachman at Ansfield for nigh on forty years since he was a young lad of twenty.

 Changes were afoot at Ansfield. His Lordship, Lord Edward, had been absent  for almost a year. Lord Edward, now in his twilight years, rarely stayed away longer than one month.

 Rumours were swirling  among the staff. Lord Edward’s son and heir, Squire Charles, having led a somewhat profligate life of idleness and hedonism was not disposed to take charge of the Manor. Whispers abounded that Lord Edward would be obliged to change the terms of his will. Charles was the only living, legitimate heir. Lord Edward wondered If his bastard son, Marquis Lancelot, sired beneath a tropical sky, might wish to come and reside in a foggy city of London.

As the bays trotted rhythmically through the Manor gates Harry noticed two men standing by the main door. A ‘For Sale ‘sign lay on the cobblestones. Harry’s worst fears began to take shape.

The sound of loud voices could be heard coming from the servants’ quarters. Having untethered the horses, Harry went downstairs. Nothing seemed the same. Chrissie, the cook was bewildered, exclaiming,’ dunno, two teaspoons o’ cinnamon, or is it one for His Lordship? Been such a long time.’ Maggie, her young assistant was  flustered, adding salt instead of sugar to the apples stewing on the stove.

Footman Fred feared his services may be no longer be needed. As if to reassure himself, he paced to and fro, checking the lustre of the shine on  the   riding boots that stood  on the wooden bench. Blowing  particles of dust from the toecaps, he polished vigorously with his well-worn chamois.

Just then the clip clop of horses’ hooves could be heard retreating from the Manor. Peering through the  lattice window, Harry saw the two men with the ‘For Sale’ sign exiting the entrance gate.

‘For Sale’ sign is gone’, Harry shouted to no one in particular. On hearing those words, Chrissie the cook added another teaspoon of cinnamon to the apple strudel and Maggie piled in a small fistful of sugar to the stewing apples. Footman Fred ceased checking the lustre of the toecaps.

Harry however, felt a distinct frisson of fear.

‘Game’s up,’ Harry muttered as he ascended the stone steps from the servants’ quarters.

Joe, the newly -arrived gardener sprinted along the path  from the Orangerie, with his  hoe and spade piled into his wheelbarrow.

‘End of an era, Joe,’ Harry said.

Joe brought his wheelbarrow to a shuddering halt. ‘Ye,’ Joe answered,’ Big House has passed its sell by date.  Grandeur costs money.’

Harry felt a little less fearful.

‘Aye,’ he muttered,’ you young guys  are right. Time to move the dial forward.’