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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781456736729 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 12/16/2011 |
| Pages: | 364 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.75(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Let Love be the Victor
By Jack R. McClellan
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Jack R. McClellanAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-3672-9
Chapter One
A scraping noise spiked the silence. Patience gasped as fear tensed her body. At her feet lay the dress she had just unfastened and dropped to the floor. "There it is again," she warned herself, "the same noise I heard last night when I undressed for bed. It began three nights ago, always as I undress."The noise stopped abruptly the moment she tilted her head to listen. She looked intently at the south wall trying once more to identify the source of aggravation, then she allowed her eyes to dart about the room looking for some promising clues. A flickering of candle flame interrupted her concentration and she stared at the commode next to her bed. "A draft," she recognized and glanced at the window. One shutter had blown open. She moved across the room to close it but hesitated as she reached the window to watch the turmoil of angry clouds flying landward over the English Channel.
Pushed by a freshening wind, a bubbling mass of grey and black clouds floated swiftly toward her, momentarily blurring the stars, then slashing them from view. Moonlight faded and the earth blackened. "Should I consider this darkening sky a bad omen for me?" she wondered. "Nonsense. You are too superstitious. It is only nature preparing to create sustenance for the earth of Castelamer."
The temperature dropped suddenly. What had been a warm summer day became within an hour a cool fall night. Patience shivered, closed the shutter, then returned to the foot of her bed where her nightgown lay. She was about to loosen her shift when she heard the scratching noise again.
"That noise!" she mumbled. "It sounds as if it is in this room, but I can't find what is causing it. I've looked everywhere. What is it?" The question was asked in desperation. Her right hand went to her neck in a gesture of frustration. She directed her eyes to the south wall once again. "There is nothing. I've searched every inch of those panels." Her conclusion evidenced despair and fear began to close in once more. Quickly letting her shift fall, she slipped into her nightgown and returned to the window. She adjusted the open shutter, leaving it slightly ajar. A brisk breeze that flowed through the opening carried with it a damp odor of rain. She breathed deeply, blew out the candle and crawled into bed.
Sleep was long in coming. Uneasiness nagged at her as she let speculative questions dart in and out of the recesses of her mind. She tossed and turned, buried her face in her pillow, stared at the ceiling, tried to think of her school lessons, but she could not prevent the jabs of concern from surfacing. "What is it that scrapes? Where is it? Is someone making the noise? Why always at bedtime when I am undressing?" It was the notion that someone might be disturbing her deliberately that created the most alarm. "But why? Who would want to do that?"
A roar of thunder disturbed the sleep that had finally replaced her anxieties. She became aware of a gentle rhythmic patter of rain, and it occurred to her that rain drops would be coming through her window. Reluctantly she arose, quickly closed the shutter and returned to bed. She was dozing when something startled her. Becoming alert she sat up, threw the covers from her and prepared to leap from bed. Shaking a trembling fear, she glanced at the window. The shutters remained closed. Rapidly she made a visual exploration of the room. All was in order. "You are not only silly but a bit daft to think anyone in this house would want to disturb your sleep," she told herself. "You know the sounds of storms. Go to sleep."
The admonition failed. She lay awake, conscious of every disturbing sound. A scraping noise, louder than the others alerted her. "It's the door!" She bounded out of bed, grabbed her robe, swirled it about her shoulders and hastened to the entry leading into the hall. Perspiration dampened her forehead. "Is someone there?" she called out. Her right hand went to her throat as she awaited a reply. No response. "It would be impossible for anyone to enter," she reassured herself. "The door is bolted." She checked to prove her statement but was startled to see that the bolt was not secure. "I'm positive I put that bolt in place!" Her fingers enclosed the door knob. It turned within her hand even though she had not gripped it! She shuddered, petrified. She fought an impulse to scream.
"It is your imagination," Patience cautioned herself. She let eternity pass as she tried to shed her terror. She directed her fingers to close about the knob. Slowly she turned it. Her hand, functioning automatically, pulled the door open slightly. She moved a step and peered out. The hallway was dark. She could detect no one.
Cautiously, silently, she stepped back into her bedroom, closed the door, slid the bolt into its holder and leaned against the wall. Her heart beat audibly in cadenced pumps. She felt faint. She got herself to the window and threw open the shutters. A light, moist breeze immediately bathed her face and she took a deep breath. Rain had stopped falling, clouds were clearing and the landscape lay in silence. It was the moment between night and day.
From the open window on the second floor of Castelamer, Patience watched dawn break, letting herself be calmed by the wonder of the scene as first light touched tops of hills, slowly filled vales, then illumined familiar objects in the garden below. In the clear atmosphere she could see the undulating landscape of Cornwall stretching inland from the English Channel toward Bodmin Moors. The serrated coast that wound a dizzy line toward Plymouth was fringed with white fuzz made by waves breaking rhythmically along the shore. In the foreground beyond the garden was Hythe Haven, a small natural harbor set within a spit of land extending from Bodacombe Bluff, the rising crest on which Castelamer had been built.
Feeling refreshed she returned to the foot of her bed, intent on discovering the source of her distress. As she turned to study each part of her room, her eyes embraced old keepsakes, a collection of knickknacks, a doll, books, the treasures a child collects. Each object contributed to a feeling of calm which was being restored gradually. The doll particularly gave comfort for it had been a gift from her mother the day before the boat accident, and it was still her dearest possession.
"How could anyone want to disturb this joyful room?" she questioned. Lovely linen fold paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Patience enjoyed letting her fingers roam about deep carvings just to feel the wood some hand many years ago had turned from flat surface to splendor with the wielding of a knife.
"This room I shared with my sister," she mused. "Here we grew up together. We played house, discussed secrets and told each other wondrous dreams. She moved to her own room. 'At fifteen you should be by yourself,' she admonished. 'And you, Patience, need to be more on your own.'
Her reverie was broken by a renewal of the scraping noise. "No!" Patience's heart beat increased to a frightening thump, thump, thump as fear took hold once more. She wanted to yell but her throat constricted. It could not produce a whisper. She wanted to move but alarm chained her to the floor. With the force of overwhelming determination, she took a step and then another until she reached the wall. Mustering what strength she had, she raised her arms and drove tight fists against the panel in front of her. They struck furiously again and again until she had no more strength to pound. She stepped backward exhausted and reached for her bed, falling onto it. Smothering her face in the covers, she wept.
She must have fallen asleep for bright sunshine flooding her bed awakened her. Rising quickly she washed her hands, bathed her face, then dressed for morning activities.
A knock sounded on the door. It opened before Patience could speak. It was Nancy, the upstairs maid who warned immediately, "Hurry, Miss Patty. You have breakfast awaitin' and Mr. Chivers will be here shortly for instruction. Penny is already at table. What a beautiful morning after that thunder storm last night. I wonder any one got any sleep. And the winds made all kinds of noises in the house. They liked to scared me out of my skin. Made me think someone was after me. Even Mrs. Battey said the same thing. That's all we talked about this morning. Hurry along."
"Good morning, Nancy. Let me get this locket on and I am out the door." Patience hastened along the hall thinking of Nancy's comments about the wind and feeling foolish for imagining the sound of scratching on the panels or the noises in the hallway. Down the back stairs she went and approached the breakfast room. She stopped abruptly, her hand clasping her throat. "The bolt! Nancy opened the door! That door was bolted." Before she could give it further thought, Mrs. Battey, the housekeeper, greeted her rather dolefully and added, "Penelope is not feeling well at all. Be gentle with her."
Although cautioned, Patience was not prepared for Penny's woeful appearance. Sitting down at table, she noted her twin sister had no color in her face and that she spoke without displaying any spirit whatsoever. That was not like Penny. Patience offered to do anything to help, but Penelope rose from the table saying she was not hungry and thought it best to return to bed.
Patience helped her stand up and noticed her sister's extended abdomen. "It is just bloated," came the explanation, but before questions could be asked, Mrs. Battey appeared. She motioned Patience away from Penny and then assisted the sick girl to her room.
Patience wanted to inquire about getting a doctor, but at that moment cook arrived with a tray. As the meal was finished, Nancy announced that Mr. Chivers had arrived.
Patience hurried to the school room where she was greeted by the tutor who, having been told Penny was ill, suggested a review rather than an introduction of new material.
Both had a jolly time testing one another.
Class over, Patience ran to Penelope's room but was told the sick girl was sleeping. She grabbed a shawl and hurried to the garden where the sun was bright and warm after the storm. A breeze off the Channel was brisk and stimulating. She found her favorite place on Bodacombe Bluff, a jagged cliff rising some one hundred feet above Hythe Haven, a small harbor snuggled within the curve of a cove protected by a spit of land jutting from Signal Bluff, a rising land opposite to Bodacombe Bluff.
Patience could identify the exact place in the sea beyond the spit where her father's boat was found. "Father was known as a fine sailor," she reminded herself. "People always said that Mr. Tatham was a master at sailing and gave his boat the utmost care. It happened on a Sunday. Seeing a gentle sea and feeling a sailor's breeze on his face, he talked mother into a sail. Off they went, gaily, arm in arm. They never returned or were their bodies ever found. The boat was located, a hole in the hull."
That hole continued to be a mystery and a source of considerable speculation. No one could reason how it got there. Even with the boat sinking so close to the harbor, nobody could understand why the Tathams did not swim to the spit since both were fine swimmers, but as some were want to say, accidents do happen and many are unexplainable.
Little was left by the Tathams in the way of material goods. What they had was sold to pay debts. A family in the north took their son who was seven while Patience and Penelope, then six, were taken by Mr. Tatham's cousin and his wife, Cecil and Anne Framsden, who inherited Castelamer shortly after the Tatham's deaths. They provided a tutor for classroom instruction, a seamstress to teach Patience needle work and sewing at which she became quite proficient, clothed the children and kept them in health.
Patience turned to face the great house which was the love of her life. The builder was a Norman who fought for William at Hastings and was awarded a land grant for loyalty. He had granite boulders pulled from the earth, shaped and sized, and then placed together to form the original part of the house, a massive entry two stories high, buttressed and topped with battlements. On either side of the entry were granite walls pierced with windows. He called his demi-fortress Castelamer, a corruption of "castle" for his adopted England and "la mer" in memory of his French sea. His descendants became one of the premier families of the west country, associates of the Gilberts and Raleighs, the Grenvilles and Drakes. Its members fought on Boswell Field for the Tudors, challenged the Spanish Armada for Queen Elizabeth and supported Charles II in his struggle to regain his throne.
During the sixteenth century, alterations were made in the original medieval house to modernize it. Two story Tudor wings were added. Each wing, identical to the other, was extended forward of the original granite building thus recessing the old entry which had been left intact. At the extremity of either wing a three story tower topped by a cupola and lantern was constructed.
Superb herringbone brickwork dominated the Tudor wing facades, a lasting tribute to the brilliant workmanship of bricklayers. At intervals, silhouetted against the sky, molded chimneys were stacked in twists and turns.
Patience liked to step gingerly to the edge of Bodacomb Bluff where it fell in a sheer tumble some one hundred feet to the beach below. She would get on her hands and knees then crawl to the very edge where she would stretch out on her stomach and gaze at waves crashing into a massive build up of boulders on the beach. The noise was loud and raucous as the sea rammed into the rocky barrier which protected a narrow strip of sand between the rocks and the base of the cliff. There was one opening among the rocks where waves could roll onto the beach unchallenged.
As she lay in solitude, she thought of stories she had heard of wicked men who, on stormy nights, posted lights on this bluff to guide an unsuspecting captain away from Hythe Haven and onto the boulders. When the ship floundered, these ruthless men would confiscate the cargo.
She was lost in musing when she thought she heard footsteps. Patience raised her head to listen but the noise stopped. She rolled over on her back to gaze at the heavens when all of sudden she found her eyes looking directly at the figure of Mr. Wyatt.
"Do not move, sweet child," he whispered, his eyes bright and eager. "Gently now. Stay as you are. You are a picture of heaven. Let me enjoy your loveliness."
Dudley Wyatt was a close personal friend of Mr. Framsden. He frequently was a visitor at Castelamer. He had the freedom to come and go and was entertained at house socials. Most often when he came calling, however, he was in private discussion with Mr. Framsden.
Prone as she was, Mr. Wyatt appeared to Patience as a giant. Actually he was of little more than average height and weight, but broad in the shoulders. There was the first suggestion of grey hair at his temples giving maturity to a handsome young face. His eyes had a green cast, and on this day they sparkled brightly in the sunlight. His mouth was in full smile, the kind a person uses to reflect appreciation. Fine white teeth added to the charm of his smile. Light brown hair was worn long. Usually he dressed in the latest fashion, but today he was garbed casually, wearing riding boots and a white shirt which was partially open at the chest.
He put out his hand to stay any move on Patience's part and began dropping to one knee. Without thinking she rolled quickly in the opposite direction and bounded to her feet while he was off balance.
"There, Patty, stay," he directed. "I want to spend a moment of this beautiful day with you. Tell me, what have you been thinking as you lay in the sunshine? Has it been of a young lover who chanced on Bodacombe Bluff, won your heart, and then carried you away in his arms? Tell me. Honest."
He extended his arm. She stepped backward to avoid his touch as he spoke amorously. "I could be that lover, Patty. No more longing for you. It could be real. Have you talked to Penny?"
Patience responded with a questioning tilt of her head when he spoke her sister's name and he immediately added, "Of course not. Innocent Patty. But not Penny. You think your sister was given her own room because you were old enough to be separated. A ha! Not so. She asked for her own room so I could visit her when it pleased her and that was often. I played with her. She was like a kitten wanting to be played with. We played often. Too often. That swelling which she wanted you to believe was a stomach bloating is my brat she is about to have!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Let Love be the Victor by Jack R. McClellan Copyright © 2011 by Jack R. McClellan. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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