Serial Sundays: The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter 7 continuted

The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter7 Continued, 
     and  Chapter 8 part one,


First, my apologies for missing last week's post. I've had some family health issues that have taken up my time. My husband has been ill and in the hospital, so I missed last Sunday. I'll make it up to you with an extra post this week.  Plan on visiting again Wed for a scheduled post.

 

Chapter 7 Continuted.

        After peeking at the new arrival in the courtyard, Zara made a hasty retreat to her attic.

       The man was younger than she imagined he’d be. He looked to be no more than thirty. She’d expected some sour old goat, pleasantly plump with gray hair and suffering from gout.

       What arrived was quite the opposite. A young, trim handsome fellow dressed in a heavy redingote, gray pants and the ever popular Hessian boots that men of wealth seemed to never be without. He had russet brown hair and seemed taller than the others in the courtyard. His tall beaver hat might be responsible for that assessment, she realized, and the fact that she was looking down at them from above. He was well dressed, and although somewhat stoic, he seemed uncommonly pleasant for a rich Gadje. He’d paused to chat with the two old retainers instead of bustling rudely past them when they emerged from the front door to welcome him.

         The arrival of the master worried her. It changed everything. She couldn’t stay here now, not when the house would soon be full of servants. She’d be noticed. But she really couldn’t leave, not now with the skies threatening snow and winter setting in. She’d starve out in the woods, and worse. With no shelter, she’d be exposed to the elements and soon sicken and die. Damn—what was she to do now?

        

Sitting cross legged on the mattress in her secret fortress above the house, she fiddled with a red ribbon she’d snatched from the lady’s chamber and wrapped it around her finger. Over the past week, she’d picked out a few serviceable dresses from the lady’s wardrobe downstairs, nothing too fancy, so as to attract attention, but nothing too plain either, as the woman didn’t possess plain clothing, and Zara didn’t want to be taken for lower class servant by those she encountered when she did enter the world outside this refuge.

She was Miss Sarah Jennings, from Martinique. She’d been traveling with her elderly uncle through the Lake District, when their coach overturned and went down the side of a steep hill. Her uncle Jasper had been killed, as had the coachman. She’d been thrown from the open coach door and survived, or so she’d tell those who wanted to know, but the coach was at the bottom of a ravine. She’d wandered the woods for some time, dazed, unable to find her way. That was as far as she had come in weaving her story.

        The wrecked coach was not a flim flam. While running from the hunters she’d encountered an abandoned coach at the bottom of a ravine some miles from here, and had taken the coin from the spilled trunks along with a few other small treasures that the dead men no longer needed. It was a gruesome undertaking, but she’d learned at an early age to be practical in such matters as a matter of survival. Every gypsy child understood by the time they eight years of age that when the troop encountered a moldering corpse in the woods the only thing left to be done for the poor soul was to check the pockets for valuables and say a prayer of thanks over the body for whatever small bounty might be found among their earthly remains. Thanks to the coach accident, she not only had an explanation for her wandering through this shire, but she had plenty of coin and some jewels she might be able to sell in a larger city. The clothing, however, had been distinctly male, so she left them scattered on the ravine floor.  

        Aside from the few well worn muslin dresses she’d scavenged from the lady’s room here, she’d found a few cast offs from an early time in the attic trunks, a very practical and serviceable winter cloak. The outer material was of green velvet and the fur lining was a rich sable. And wonder of wonders, there was a matching sable fur muff. Zara marveled at the item and found herself putting her hands into the delicious nest of soft hair several times, just to experience the luxury and warmth it afforded. She also found some more practical woolen drawers and matching woolen underskirt that obviously were from an earlier period as the ladies in current fashions were wont to wear flimsy, often sleeveless gowns of sheer muslin, even in the winter.

        Distant voices in the servant’s quarters opposite the attic startled her. Zara burrowed down beneath the cache of coverlets and blankets she’d acquired for her mattress bed, and remained still in anticipation of the attic door at the interior end of the room being thrust open. She lay quietly beneath the blankets, and after hearing nothing for several moments, she sat up and looked over the barricade of furniture, trunks, and discarded portraits that cluttered the oblong attic room. The door, being at least thirty feet away from her at the centre of the house, remained closed. The grey light coming in from the dormer windows in the long, narrow room  made it easy to navigate the jumble of discarded household items during the day. For night wandering, she’d made a careful path through the assorted refuse that was easy to traverse with a low tinned lantern. The door remained closed, and the voices she’d heard seemed to have moved on to the servant’s quarters on the opposite wing that housed the attic storeroom.

         Curious, Zara crept from her hiding place and tiptoed to the door. She pressed her ear against it and listened. The old woman’s voice rang loud and clear beyond the wooden barrier. It was plain the cottager’s wife was used to speaking loudly for the benefit of her spouse.

               “. . . and don’t be worrying none about being alone up here, Maggie. We should have another girl or two in by the end of the week. Ah, there’s a good lass, you’ll be cozy and warm that room. And see, it overlooks the lake.”

        Zara heard the muffled reply of the so called Maggie and then girlish giggles.

       “Oh, yes.” The cottager’s wife went on, “As first to arrive, you have the first choice of a room. I’ll not hear of anyone turning you out to a less welcome room, so never ye mind about that. You have any trouble with any of the servants, you just come to me, you hear?”

        Damn! More of them to come. Zara nibbled her lower lip, and considered her options. She could flee in the night. She had coin, and some clothing that would allow her pass as a Gadja woman of some means. Still, she’d have to take lodgings at an Inn and she knew that a woman travelling alone was considered improper. It would raise more questions for her to arrive at a local inn unescorted right now, and she didn’t want anyone to be suspicious when the villagers in Lexford were searching for her. It was a little over a week since the Widow’s murder and if they were still searching for her, she might encounter trouble along the way if not at the inn itself. Besides, if she spent her coin wintering at an inn she’d deplete it quickly. It would be much easier to stay here for a little while, until she could figure out an alternative.

        The voices came nearer again. She realized they were heading toward the stairs, but retreated behind an old portrait leaning against the wall at an angle just to be safe. As she suspected, the female voices grew distant once more as they descended the stairs, leaving her alone on the third floor.

        She slipped out from behind the shadows of the portrait, and returned to her small ‘camp’ at the far end of the room. She slumped down on the bed, and nibbled at a meat pie she’d grabbed from the kitchens last night after the old couple retired. The pastry was very tasty. The old woman was a good cook. And there would more tasty delights to pilfer tonight, as she’d caught the fragrant aroma of roasting venison wafting through the house when she’d snuck down to the lady’s room this afternoon to look for reading material. She dared not go to the first floor during the day, not with the old couple in residence. And now that the master had returned—with his manservant and a girl—oh bother—she’d best be careful not to stray too far from the attics until after everyone retired for the night.

 

                                                  Chapter Eight

       

  Stephan sat before the fire in the study, his conscience doused in a generous libation of brandy. The flames swam before his eyes, fluid and sizzling, the red orange tongues licking the darkness and making it melt beneath their steady actions.

         The house was empty, still, in the midnight hour. The servants, the sparse few that resided here, had all gone to bed. Four of them, a miserly number, compared to the full staff that inhabited these thick, ancient walls before he fled. Jasper and Annie were sleeping in their room off the kitchen, while Brisbane and Maggie had each retreated to their attic rooms. He was alone in the main part of the Abbey, alone with his muddled thoughts, alone with the misery that never seemed to relent. Misery of a man betrayed by the woman he loved—and the brutal knowledge that her demise might very well be his own fault.

          He poured himself another glass of amber courage, and cradled the cool crystal between his palms. Coward, the house seemed to scream at him in the pensive silence. Only a weak man turns to strong drink to evade his conscience.   Julia may have been a light skirt, but she didn’t deserve to die for her indiscretion. She didn’t deserve to have her throat ripped out by a savage beast, by a cursed man who had once claimed to love her.

          Fool.  He tossed back the goblet and finished the fiery liquid in one long draught. He gasped in satisfaction as the harsh liquid burned through his throat and down into his belly.

          He was not a man given to melancholy, but the scandal of his wife’s peccadilloes, coupled with her violent death had made mincemeat of his heart and left only a hollow cavern where he once might have possessed a soul.

          Perhaps coming here was a mistake. He fled this place two years ago when his wife’s body was brought from the nearby woods where she’d been slain. After the funeral he’d had the house closed up and sent all the servants away, vowing to never come to this cursed place again. But thoughts of Julia stalked him wherever he went, and vicious nightmares claimed his unconscious mind whenever he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It was apparent that running away from what happened here was not the answer.

         No, he must face his demons, at least the beautiful, dark haired temptress who once ruled his heart. He loved her still, despite her shocking betrayal of their vows. He would always love Julia, and may the devil take his soul for the fool he was for loving his tormentor.

         The heat of the fire and the soothing tendrils of warmth curling through his blood as the brandy seeped through his body made him drowsy. Stephan stretched his legs out in front of him, his booted heels resting on the carpet, his knees splayed and his hands curled over the arms of the chair. He tipped his head back and let his eyes close and his mind drift. Perhaps, in coming here, he could make peace with her death at last and vanquish the dark dreams that haunted his mind. Perhaps, he could find out what really happened to her that night, and stop imagining that he had transformed into a crazed creature and wreaked a primitive vengeance on her and her lover for conspiring to destroy him.

         The crisp, crackling sound of the fire echoed in the large study. It felt good to be home. He’d spent many happy days here as a boy, hunting in the woods, riding with his father, playing with his three sisters. The Abbey had been a cheerful place while his parents and siblings inhabited it. If only he could erase the blight of his disastrous marriage from this place. Her blood seemed to stain the wood of each room, her blood seemed to seep into the foundations and give birth to monsters and demons whose only purpose was to shackle his dark soul.

         Stirring from a light, inebriated doze, Stephan sighed as he opened his eyes. He started, sat forward and clutched the arms of the chair as he took in the apparition lingering near the door. It must be some trick of his imagination, too much alcohol after a long, wearying journey through a desolate winter landscape. His Julia could not be standing in the shadows watching him. Yet, the slight, dark haired lady in white bore a frightening resemblance to the woman he had loved to distraction, and lost. Or was it that he’d never really had her at all? Yes, truth might be a bitter drink but it had a way of cutting through a man, bringing instant sobriety.

        “Speak, spirit!” His bitterness rose up from somewhere within, chasing the stunned coward from his bones. “Don’t lurk and watch me from the shadows, speak, do your worst, damn me to hell if you will, I don’t care. I’ve been in hell these past years, all for you, Julia.”

         The spirit did not move. She seemed startled that he would speak to her, that he could see her at all. Perhaps she was not accustomed to being visible to the mortal realm. She retreated  into the deep shadows. All that remained of her was a halo of white against the stark cloak of black night evading the yellow flames.

         “Well, then, a fine ghost you turn out to be, too timid in death to speak to the man who made you thus.”

         “Not timidity but prudence binds my tongue.” Said she.

         Stephan knew in that instant that he was either too drunk or not drunk enough. The blood ceased to flow at the sound of her voice and his heart refused to pick up its erratic beat for a defiant moment. He gasped, struggling to keep his composure and not bolt from the cold stone room lit only by the eerie flicker of shadow and flame from the fire.

 copyright Lily Silver 2013

 

The Romance of Springtime in a Renaissance painting

Bottecelli's  "Primavera"c. 1482

Ah, spring, when forest nymps frollick, gods and goddesses embrace humans, and when the earth bursts with new lush growth and a renewed spirit.

Historically, springtime is a time of renewal and rebirth. The easter bunny has nothing on the ancient religions, with Beltane, Ostara,  Spring Equinox, May Day, and the rites of spring.

The painting is Renaissance Art, by Bottecelli. The layers of meaning are endless, as art historians love to interpret the scene in many different ways.  Note the couple in the far right corner, they are Chloris, a forest nymph, being seized by Zephyr, god of the wind.

 

Next to the maiden Chloris, who is being passionately embraced by a very determined god, is Flora---actually another Chloris, who is transformed by love into Flora, the goddess of flowers, who symbolizes the onset of spring.  Another source claims that Zephyr doesn't just grab her but also rapes her. Nasty man. It's said that he was so sorry for his act and so he married her and made her the goddess of flowers, Flora.

  In the very center of this tableau is Venus herself, the goddes of love. She also guards and protects the institution of marraige. She's dressed in the pink flowing train, with lovely long blondish red locks. You've seen this woman before, in The Birth of Venus. Who was this lovely creature? Someone Bottecelli loved,  a beautiful model, or one of the Medici's?  The painting was commisioned by the Medici's so it's speculation as to who she is and why she's in more than one painting by the famous artist.  

The Birth of Venus, Bottecelli

 

The three women in the painting symbolize the Three Graces, Chastity, Beauty and Love, the companions of Venus. Next to them is Mercury, the god of the Month of May.  

 And don't miss Cupid, hovering above ready to fling his arrow and an unwitting victim.

The tableau is ripe, if you'll forgive me the pun, with images of spring and fertility. The myrtle plant surrouding Venus traditionally symbolized sexual desire, marriage and fertility. The oranges in the painting also represent fertility or bearing fruit through sexual union.You'll notice flowers everywhere, hanging from every bough, draped amid the trees, springing from the ground. Ah, springtime, when hearts lighten and a young man's thoughts are turned toward love . . . . 

Bottecelli's masterpiece has a very etheral feeling. It's love personified, as a lovely woman, as innocence, and as a violent force with the male god Zephyr physically seizing the object of his obsession, Chloris, and his possession of her transforms her into Flora, the goddess of flowers. It's rumored that a Medici patron had this painting commissioned in honor of a family wedding, and that the painting hung in the bride's bedchamber.   So, Spring is here. Feel like frollicking in the forest . . . watch out, the wind gusts might bring the lusty god Zephyr your way and you'll be transformed by the wonder and splendor of love! 

Addictive Reads, the best of many genres in a Free Giveaway

 

Happy April Everyone!  

You know the old saying, April showers bring May Flowers. Here's hoping we'll have some rain soon to wash away the snow in the northern regions like Wisconsin, in the USA. I'm part of an incredible author's network called Addictive Reads. This week, we're having a special event in celebration of springtime. 

We're a dedicated bunch, and we strive to bring you books from all genres. Our goal is to provide you with well-written and entertaining reads.

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§  LET'S SCARE CANCER TO DEATH Anthology (Horror) with short stories by Rhonda Hopkins & Gregory Carrico

§  EVIDENCE OF TRUST (Romantic Suspense) by Stacey Joy Netzel

§  DEADLY OBSESSION (Romantic Suspense) by Kristine Cayne

§  ETERNITY OF ROSES (Paranormal Romance) by Natalie G. Owens

§  BIRDS DO IT! (Contemporary Romance) by *lizzie starr

§  AIR: MERLIN'S CHALICE (Fantasy) by Meredith Bond

§  ANGEL OF DEATH (Fantasy) by Anna Erishkigal

§  WANING MOON (YA Dystopian) by P.J. Sharon

§  TRUST NO ONE (Suspense) by Diana Layne

§  ALWAYS REMEMBER (Contemporary Romance) by Sheila Seabrook

§  STARS, LOVE AND PIROUETTES  (Contemporary Romance) by Alicia & Roy Street

§  REVENGE (Romantic Suspense) by Dana Delamar 

>>>>>HERE I AM>>>§  SOME ENCHANTED WALTZ (Time Travel Romance) by Lily Silver

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Serialized Sunday: The Gypsy's Curse Rough Draft

 

Hello everyone, If you've been following this blog, you're aware that I do a free chapter of my WIP every Sunday, in an event called Serialiced Sundays. I'm featuring a work that I've been trying to finish for some time, in the hope that by posting my progress each week I'll be held accountable, sort of like Dean Wesley Smith is doing with his Writing in Public posts. 

Here is the next installment of The Gypsy's Curse,  Paranormal, Historical Romance set in Regency England.  The heroine is a gypsy accused of foul things that are not true. She is in hiding, in an empty manor house. The hero is a wealthy merchant's son who owns the house, and has a few problems of his own, one of them being a werewolf. Ah, did I mention recently that I love, Love, LOVE a good Gothic Romance?  Well, here's my latest effort on that front:  

Chapter Five

Copyright Lily Silver 2013

            The main floor of the manor house was harder to navigate than the second floor had been.

 There were twists and turns that led one astray, much like a garden maze. Zara meandered about the grey halls, peeking into rooms until she despaired ever finding the kitchen.

            After several false starts and turning back to retrace her steps, she finally encountered the ancient chamber. It was huge, with low beamed ceilings and stone flooring that gave it a cave-like appearance. She stood in the center of it, clutching her bag to her chest, just staring at the huge fireplace taking up one wall. It was unlike anything she had ever seen before. She set her bag down on the stone floor and stepped close to the massive opening. Crouching slightly so she didn’t hit her head on the low mantel, she tiptoed into the large, clean stone chamber that made up the fireplace. It was nearly the same size as the interior of a caravan wagon.

            The ironwork gratings had to have been created to specification to fit this enormous hearth. She could only imagine the gigantic feasts that must have been prepared here centuries ago. It almost seemed as if this house had been built around an old castle. The kitchen and the rooms adjacent to it were made of ancient stone, including the window and door frames.

             She stepped out of the cavernous fireplace. Zara was intimidated by the prospect of starting a fire here. She’d have to find another room, one with a more manageable hearth in which to set up her camp. Still, the large stone chamber was a wonder to behold. The windows were mullioned, like in the old castles she’d seen during the caravan’s travels.  Uncle Lothar marveled at the Gadje’s penchant for building newer and bigger right over the old. He loved pointing out the differences of styles within one home to her as they sat in the wagon seat watching the countryside move slowly by. What would her uncle make of this place? An ancient monk's abbey that might have been converted into a garrison by the conquering Normans and then transformed into a residence when the Saxons had been subdued by their overlords? 

            The unguarded thought awakened a fierce choking sensation. With tight lips to contain the aching emptiness, Zara turned away from the great fireplace and her fanciful daydreaming to apply herself to a more practical task; finding food.

            For an empty house, the larder was surprisingly well stocked with all manner of dry goods. She found dried beans, some hairy onions, a few cabbages, carrots and potatoes from the garden, flour, sugar, oil, tea and a generous store of berry preserves. The basement storeroom had a smoked ham hanging from the rafters, along with a side of fresh venison. She unwrapped the ham, cut a small piece from it, and then re-wrapped it carefully so her intrusion would not be noticed. The cottagers must keep food on hand in anticipation of their lord’s hasty visit and make use of it themselves before it spoiled, and keep replacing the stores throughout the winter. Ah, the wealthy Gadje had their hirelings well trained, like dogs who eagerly traipsed behind the master, anticipating a few crumbs tumbling to the floor for them to devour as a reward for their faithfulness. Stupid, docile beasts. They’d be better off looking after themselves first and finding ways to profit from their dealings with the idle rich, like the gypsies did.

           After choosing a few root vegetables to cook in a stew, she rummaged about the kitchen for a small cooking pan and a bowl that she could use to soak her injured hand. She had to make a poultice of comfrey leaves and goldenseal to draw out the infection and she would need hot water to cleanse the wound and let it soak for a time before re-bandaging it. Her bag was already too full with the vegetables and the meat so she looked about the kitchen for a basket in which to place the two pots and the bowl in.

          The larder gave her what she was searching for. Satisfied that she had gleaned the makings for a good earthy stew, Zara set her bag and the reed basket on the counter and searched for a water pitcher. She’d have to step outside for a short time to get water from the well in the kitchen courtyard and to grab a few sticks of firewood from the pile near the door. She didn’t relish leaving the protection of the manse as she gazed out the mullioned windows overlooking the back courtyard. The wind was wiping the trees as if they had offered it deep offense. The rain sloshing down the windows looked like it could freeze at any moment.

           There was no use for it. She might be able to stick a pan out the door and have it filled with water easily, but the firewood was another matter. Of course, it would be soaked, and thus, it would not light. There had to be some inside, hadn?t there? She gazed about the grey stone kitchen. There was a tinder box above the massive hearth on the mantle shelf. A metal box of sulpher sticks, a recent Gadje invention that seemed practical, for once. She took a handful of the sulpher sticks and put them in her pocket. The tinder in the box was low, just a few shreds of yarn and some wood shavings. Well, she?d claim it. Who ever came to light a fire for the master when he returned would just have to improvise.

           The dry wood was going to be problem. There had to be something in here, a few twigs stowed away, a few dry pieces, for pity’s sake. She checked the heavy oak door with the pointed archway, the doorknob gave way and the bolt clicked with just a twist of the wrist. Whatever was in here wasn’t considered too precious, if they didn’t bother to lock it. No silver, she gathered, as she stepped into the small enclosure. It was little more than a closet, a pantry that didn’t hold food. Oh yes, the butler’s pantry, the Widow Kendall had told her of those curious little closets that held precious items the head servant of the house needed to keep the master and mistress happy. Widow Kendall had been in service and her husband had been an under butler in a great house many years ago.  

            She wished she had a candle so she could see what was on the shelves. The light from the large mullion windows behind her didn’t penetrate the dark cubby. She felt among the shelf, and withdrew a dusty bottle. The label said ‘Claret’, if she were right, it was some kind of wine. She took it and closed the small cupboard. As she leaned her hip against the door to make it latch, her eyes fell upon the odd cabinet just below the windowsill to her right. The cabinet itself was rectangular in shape, but the wooden top was built tilted at an angle like a deep slope on a hillside. There was a handle on the bottom, and hinges on the top. She lifted it, and nearly squealed her delight wood! Dry wood. There would be warm fire and some good stew tonight. As soon as she found a safe room to conceal her trespass.

            Unwilling to leave her prizes on the counter, lest someone come in the kitchen door and discover the intrusion, she swung the heavy laden bag over her shoulder, placed the wine bottle and a few small pieces of wood in the basket, and moved toward the interior door that led her to this wonderful old room. She didn’t relish wandering amid the dark halls again, but now that she had food and fuel she must find a small room in which to set up camp. She’d come back here later for the water, as she couldn’t manage to carry another stick, let alone a full pitcher.

            It took Zara nearly an hour to find that one isolated, lonely room that would be her campsite for the night. It was at the end of a long sequence of hallways and turns, an interior parlor that appeared to be abandoned. Ignoring the glowing white shrouds of furniture that rose up from the dark gloom, she set her gear near the fireplace before shutting the door. Once the door was closed, she’d have no window light to guide her in the small room. She remembered the sulfur sticks she found in the kitchen and put in her pocket as she looked about for a candle. A single brass candlestick was on the mantle shelf, with a half burned candle still in it.

         

   It didn’t take long for Zara to get her camp fire going in the fireplace. The small hearth was very cozy, just right for her purposes. She set up her bed roll and sat on the floor. After removing the riding boots, she sat with her legs crossed at the ankles and jutting out from her hips in a manner the Widow had always chided as unladylike. She pulled up her skirt to the knees, and admired the red silk stockings in the firelight. They made her feel pretty. Just knowing they were there, beneath her skirts brought a sizzle of pleasure and a quick smile to her lips. Oh, she’d managed to grab a pair of serviceable woolens, too. Those were in her knapsack.

            Once the fire was going steady, she returned to the kitchen for water. While her simple stew cooked she tended her hand. Upon removing the bandages, she winced at the angry color of her skin where the flesh was parted. Infection was setting in. Three days since the injury, and despite her best efforts while on the run the wound was not healing as it should. She grimaced at the pain and rummaged through her sack with her good hand for the comfrey leaves and powdered goldenseal she kept there. A paste of those two herbs, along with a good soak in some hot water should work well in reversing the infection.

            As the sun began to set, Zara relaxed after a cup of tea and some vegetable stew. She didn’t put the chunk of ham in the pot but instead kept it stashed in her pack for the days ahead. She’d need some substance while travelling. She set a couple of potatoes near the flame of the hearth but not close enough to burn them, just enough to bake them through. Those she intended to pack in her bag for the journey ahead, along with the ham. Some bread would be nice, but she didn’t want to mess up the kitchen by trying to make it and go through the proofing and rising. Alas, it was not to be.

            At least she had the bottle of wine. That would go a long way toward lifting her spirits and keeping her warm on this chill winters eve. Tomorrow, she would set out again toward the east, putting more miles between herself and the angry villagers who hunted her for the old woman’s murderer.

            Zara went over the scene again in her mind as she sipped the wine and gazed into the fire. She’d gone to bed that night in the attic room, where the widow’s daughter had slept until her marriage. She didn’t remember anything until she awakened later in the parlor in her night clothes, with two bodies in the room beside her. The widow, a sweet, gentle creature, had been slaughtered like an animal. It was horrifying to think that anyone would want to harm the gentle old woman. The widow’s nephew was lying near the door. He was badly mutilated. She didn’t recall his being at the cottage when she went to bed that night. What was that wicked man doing in the widow’s parlor in the middle of the night?  

            A chill went through her despite the warmth of the flames and the fire of wine spreading through her belly. Something wasn’t right. There was something, just beyond her memory that nagged at her. Jasper was a pig, a repulsive man who seemed to think his aunt was crazy. He kept claiming he’d commit her if she didn’t give him what he wanted. He wanted the deed to the farm. He believed the old woman owed it to him and she should just turn her home over to him. He believed his aunt had money hidden away, lots of money. He was the crazy one.

There was something else . . . a horrible howling came from outside the farmhouse that night . . . a nerve shredding cry that was unlike anything she?d ever heard before living in the woods. It wasn’t an animal cry. It was the cry of a demon, a hound from the depths of hell.  

The memory brought shivers and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She reached for her uncle’s big hunting knife. The wind outside the manor made eerie, keening noises. Lothar’s knife seemed smaller as she listened to the mournful wind. And somehow, this big, empty manor house was not as comforting to be in all alone at night as it was during the daylight hours.

                                                                                   *    *   *

           

Stephan turned Maggie over to his valet when she arrived the next morning. He asked Brisbane to befriend the girl and try to find out why she had been at Covenant Gardens that night and what she might have seen when she found him wounded there.

            As the carriage drew away from Grosvenor Square Stephan gazed out at the city.

           This was not the first murder in the past weeks that had ripped the headlines. Nor was it the first time he?d grappled with the growing presentiment that he might be the perpetrator. Each murder reported in the papers coincided with one of his blackouts. Each time he awakened, he had the disgustingly sweet taste of blood in his mouth. Ten unsolved murders had taken place during his two month stay in London. That was a lot of bodies. He thought it best to leave the city before he found himself in a situation that would shame his family and sully the name of St. John forever. He couldn’t help but wonder if leaving the city were wise. No matter where he went, if he were indeed the one responsible for the murders, death would surely follow him.

         The papers had been rife with speculation regarding the murders. It was rumored that a beast had killed the last couple, not a man or group of men. The rumor was substantiated when the physician examining the bodies said no knife could do such damage, that the slashes on the woman’s torso more closely resembled the rough claws of an animal; a wolf or perhaps a bear. The difficulty remained in that assessment as there couldn't be a wolf stalking the city streets, nor had any animals escaped from the London zoo recently. 

          Stephan had his own hypothesis, one that defied reason. He believed the animal responsible was within himself. And he was leaving London before anyone could make the connection between the murders and his aimless wandering of the city streets in the midnight hours. James Hadley, Lord Cavendish, had been no help in the matter. James had no head for liquor, he reminded Stephan grimly of that fact when asked about the events of that particular night. He did not recall anything more than Stephan had about their wanderings that night. Like Stephan, he did not recall how he made it back to his home. He simply awakened in his bed the next morning, hung over like his companion. Unlike Stephan, however, James Hadley did not harbor any nagging fears that he may have committed unspeakable and heinous acts during his memory lapse.

            The slow progress of the coach was something Stephan couldn’t fix. They would be traveling for several days before they reached the Lake District, and that was with good weather. The roads were usually not bad at this time of year. It was too early to snow and if the rains held off they’d be at Huntingdon Abbey by the end of the week.

           Stephan ordered Maggie to sit outside, up with the coachman for this stretch. The weather was tolerable. The sun was out and it wasn’t cold. Having taken her under his wing to be a servant and perhaps saving her from falling into prostitution in the streets due to her desperate situation, he felt there was no need to pamper the girl and give her the impression he was her guardian instead of her employer. Brisbane sat opposite him, and like Stephan, had the foresight to have chosen a thick volume to occupy the time.  They would be stopping at a posting house for luncheon and to rest the horses, and then they would make their way to the Inn in Haversham for the night.

        He did not understand why he let himself be hoodwinked into taking the girl on as he had. He could have given her a few guineas for helping him and sent her on her way. He must be getting soft, he decided, as he stared out the coach window at the passing scenery.

       And yet, there was also something to be said for removing the witness from the scene of the crime. The London constables would not trouble themselves to travel 120 miles north just to question an adolescent girl of little consequence about what she may have witnessed on the night of the latest murders. Perhaps he wasn’t so soft after all, merely shrewd.

Copyright Lily Silver 2013