Synopsis
Book by Chaikin Linda Lee
Extrait
CHAPTER ONE
Grimston Way, England
31 October 1898
On the perimeter of the village green, a thick stand of ancient trees with
half-clad branches trembled in the rising wind. Dark clouds obscured
the cheerful face of the sun, and like a harbinger of events to come, a
thunderhead cloaked the afternoon sky.
The first smattering of rain dribbled down branches to a crisp carpet
of burnt-orange leaves. Though the countryside seemed draped with
a fall gloominess, laughter still danced on the wind from children who
joined hands and skipped in a large circle while singing “London Bridge
Is Falling Down” and giggling as they dropped to the damp grass.
A tall white cross graced the village green near the twelfth-century
rectory of St. Graves Parish. Below the cross some of the village girls
were adding last-minute touches to the outdoor fall decorations. Chains
of red pomegranates, yellow gourds, and dried cornhusks, plus bundles
of tied grasses and bunched leaves gave a warm touch of color to the festive
gathering. This was October 31, Allhallows Eve, the yearly celebration
recalling brave Christian heroes and heroines of the past who had
faithfully labored for Christ. The outdoor activities in Grimston Way
would end at eventide with the lighting of candles, a chapel service, and
a friendly supper inside the parish hall.
Evy Varley, who had grown up as the niece of the now deceased
Vicar Edmund Havering and his wife, Grace, emerged from the ancient
gnarled oak trees, where she had been gathering dried lacy moss hanging
from ghostly branches. She was quite accustomed to the church holidays,
spring fetes, and summer bake sales, for she’d been reared to
become a vicar’s wife, but Providence, so it seemed to her, had intervened,
and she’d been blessed to study music. She had recently graduated
from Parkridge Music Academy in London and, by means of a loan
from Rogan Chantry, had opened a small music school here in her
home village.
As she paused to take in the view of the village green, however, she
now felt strangely alienated, as though she were an outsider looking
through a window at a nostalgic scene. Had she been affected by the sudden
gloominess? Perhaps it was the odd restive spirit she had sensed for
the past few days that seemed hidden in the shadow of her subconscious.
The sensation intensified to the point that Evy turned away from
the singing children and looked toward the fast darkening Grimston
Woods. She suddenly remembered an incident in her girlhood—the
day when a stranger had stood watching her from these very trees. The
man had appeared kindly back then, even sad when he spoke to her, but
she now experienced less benign emotions as the dark memory clouded
her mind. There was nothing she could describe as out of the ordinary,
yet she remained conscious of an inexplicable unease.
She turned away and quickened her steps back toward the village
green, seeking the children’s laughter and their innocent faces as they
prepared for the evening’s festivities. Perhaps her wary mood was due to
the season. September had been unseasonably warm and cheery, but the
inevitable cold October weather had finally arrived.
Ahead, Evy heard grave voices coming from behind some old hemlock
bushes. She recognized the voices of the twin Hooper sisters, Mary
and Beth, who were students in her piano class. The two schoolgirls
emerged from the bushes carrying wicker baskets filled with dried
lavender and lemon grass, and their pretty blue calico skirts flared in the
chilling breeze that sent leaves scattering about their feet.
They both wore spectacles and had corn-colored hair that was
braided and looped. The only noticeable difference between them was
that Mary wore a red-and-white polka-dot ribbon.
With them was Wally, son of the village carpenter, a tall boy with
long arms and big hands, which he had shoved into his too-short, faded
breeches. He was listening to the girls with his head bent, his longish
brown hair ruffling beneath a floppy hat.
The three huddled together like guilty accomplices, with Mary’s
solemn voice taking the lead, as usual. She seemed to be trying to convince
Wally of something.
“...it’s got to do with murder.”
Evy’s fingers tightened around her basket as a chill breeze reached
the back of her neck.
“Murder runs in family blood, you know,” Mary stated matter-offactly.
“Science says so.”
“Poppycock,” Wally scoffed.
“Science is never wrong.” Beth nodded in grave agreement, adjusting
the spectacles on her snub nose. “And Mary is always right.”
“We both are,” Mary agreed with a polite nod to her twin.
Evy remained still so the brittle leaves beneath her shoes would not
announce her presence and embarrass them.
“Science ain’t always godlike, and murder don’t run in the blood,
’cept if you’re talking about sin. And sin be in the human nature of us
all. Even the dowager, old lady Elosia Chantry. A more stuffy aristocrat
you never seen than her.”
“That’s what I mean, Wally. Lady Elosia’s heard how Miss Varley
was born out of wedlock.”
“You be meaning the wrong side of the blanket?”
“That is quite what Mary means.” Beth nodded knowingly.
“Lady Elosia wants Master Rogan to marry a lord’s daughter, Lady
Patricia Bancroft. That’s why Lady Patricia’s sailing to Capetown in the
spring to marry Rogan. And there’s plenty the Chantrys wish to hush
up about their family history. Henry Chantry was Miss Varley’s father.
He brought her back from Capetown and gave her away to Vicar
Havering.”
“So then, Miss Varley is Miss Chantry.”
“No, Wally!”
“You just said Master Henry was her father.”
“He and her mum weren’t married.”
“So? He’d still be her father, you silly goose.” Wally’s voice became
wearied.
“Well, that may be, but the vicar and his wife took Evy in out of
kindness.”
“Everyone knows that. They had Christian hearts.”
“But...Henry Chantry died before his time!”
“Uds lud!” Wally said. “Everybody in Grimston Way has heard that
old tale. He done kilt himself in his study on the third floor at
Rookswood. Room’s haunted.”
“He was murdered,” Mary repeated. “And Miss Varley’s mum from
Capetown is the murderess. Vengeance was the motive, because he
betrayed her.”
“How could she have done it if she was dead already?” Wally mocked.
“Her ghost came and did the dark deed.”
The twins nodded sagely at each other and then at Wally.
“Even I know that’s impossible,” Wally scoffed. “Uds! Look, Twins,
it’s your mum. She’s beckoning.”
“If she learns we’ve been playing Scotland Yard again, she’ll take
away our science books. Hurry, Beth.”
They ran across the green toward the rectory. Wally turned and
headed for the road, as though he knew the twins’ mum did not
approve of them being close friends with the carpenter’s boy.
An icy gust of wind took Evy’s breath away and sent the hem of her
dark hooded cloak billowing around her ankles. She looked after them,
a little amused by the absurdity of their reasoning, yet disturbed as well
about Lady Patricia Bancroft.
Was it true? Was she voyaging in the spring to Capetown to become
Rogan’s bride?
The dry leaves rattled through the overhead branches, while a withering
blast of wind swept through her lonely heart, leaving desolation in
its wake. Rain, like cold, wet fingers, spread across her face and neck.
Drawing up her shoulders in a little shiver, she lifted the hood of her
cloak over her thick, tawny hair.
Any interest she’d had earlier in the candlelight supper at St. Graves
parish hall was now extinguished. She must get away. She must think
things through. Little else would solace her spirits except retreating to
her beloved piano to play her favorite pieces. She could lose herself in
Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C, and her heart would stir with a
desire to worship.
Evy hurried toward the road, keeping close to the hickory trees so as
not to be noticed. It was to her advantage that most of the folks had
deserted the green in order to congregate in the warm parish hall.
Questions beat like the wings of a trapped rook against her restless soul.
Yes, secrets and suspicions abounded around the Chantry family.
The theft of the famous Kimberly Black Diamond still remained
unsolved after all these years. And then there was Henry’s mysterious
death at Rookwood. The authorities had ruled it a suicide, but even
Rogan believed his uncle had been murdered.
The wind and cold rain drove against Evy as she slowly made her
way up the dirt road that ascended to Rookswood Estate. She was soon
soaked to the skin, her cloak billowing and whipping with each gust.
The wind filled her ears as it rushed through the great trees that loomed
overhead like sentinels guarding the only entrance that led to the ancestral
home of the Chantrys.
She neared her rented cottage, which stood well back from the road,
tucked among the trees, with Rookswood Estate as her nearest neighbor.
The bungalow’s isolation, however, did not trouble Evy. The cottage was
perfect for her music classes, with room in the large parlor f...
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