The Rail Specter

by Vennessa Robertson

  __________________________________________

  BY THE AUTHOR

  Arcane Adventuress Book 1: Canithrope

  Arcane Adventuress Book 2: The Clockwork Emperor

  Arcane Adventuress Book 3: The Rail Specter

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  © 2019 Vennessa Robertson.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Deranged Doctor Design http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com/

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  For permissions contact: vrobertsononline@gmail.com.

  A Green Griffin Press release.

  www.greengriffinpress.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9995724-3-6

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  For my wonderful, supportive husband and my two amazing children.

  I could not have done this without you.

  To My Readers

  Storytellers bear a responsibility to their readers—not only to entertain and move them, but also to do no harm. This is especially the case when writing tales that cross cultures and continents, as Arcane Adventuress does. In telling the tale of a young woman who discovers, while coming into her own power, that all lands and people are united and that we are all one, this series follows her from London to China to the American West. In this third novel, I wanted to touch on the inequality of sharecropping and to shine a harsh light on what was being done to indigenous cultures. I know this is a risky thing for an author to do; too many times, stories about those in history whose voices have been silenced or marginalized include damaging tropes that do injustice to their living descendants. Though in this story I have taken much creative license with the tale of a family of Cheyenne in search of refuge after atrocities, I hope any missteps I have made may be forgiven, and I would encourage any readers who enjoy the story they find in these pages to also seek out the stories told by our Cheyenne neighbors, in their own voices, today. Just as Vivian would. Thank you for reading.

  Vennessa Robertson

  Chapter One

  THE RAIN FELL from the darkened sky, splashing and adding to the gathered puddles on the already sodden ground. Though well into summer, we had not had a break from the spring rains and the land was suffering for it. My dear Nate would be home soon. I rose from my seat in the solar and rang for Mrs. Simms.

  Our cook appeared, like magic, a few moments later in her starched white apron. “Yes, Mrs. Valentine?”

  Mrs. Valentine. I still got a little flutter beneath my breastbone hearing my married name. As wonderful as marriage was, my life was woefully incomplete. I had married, I had established a home. Now I needed a family, a babe to rock in my arms and bring us joy, rather than the moody gloom of the dark estate beset by rain and wild moors. I swallowed hard. “Mr. Valentine will need something warm to drink when he returns with Mr. Crossdale. See to it that refreshments are laid for them both.”

  She nodded and left.

  Lady Vivian Valentine. Yes, that is who I am now. We are the landholders of a small estate in the countryside, outside of London, where the land is slowly being drowned by bad fortune and ceaseless, unseasonable rain.

  In all this space, with all this land and all this beauty, I was suffocating.

  When we lived in London and my papa ran a well-respected apothecary shop, we would treat those who needed our help. Mama read the tarot cards for entertainment and helped babies be born. There was always work to be done. And, just as I thought there was nothing for me but to marry well to provide for their care as they aged, a man unlike any other entered my life: a ruffian who swept me into a life of adventure and magic.

  At the very least, I had married well with Nate. Adventure had awarded us an estate in a roundabout way. As soon as we had moved in, we invited my mama and papa to join us, from London, to enjoy a comfortable retirement in the country.

  I paced our empty solar. Now wealthy and married a year, our grand adventures had degenerated to desperately trying to puzzle out how to feed the souls in our care.

  Ironically, the solar was supposed to be the sunniest room of the house. But there were no sunny days anymore. With Queen Victoria’s death, England herself was in mourning, and her tears were infinite. It was the end of an age.

  The rain made the ground too soft for travel by carriage, so Nate and Mr. Crossdale were out on horseback. Several months ago, Nate would never have attempted this, but he had gained comfort in the saddle over the last year as both an adventurer of the land and an esquire. Now, there was nothing to do but wait for his return while staring brokenly at either the fire or the rain dripping down the window. I did what a good daughter should: I married well. Now, I longed for adventure again, be it a family to raise or a journey back into the unknown.

  Our maid, Helen, spoke from the doorway: “Mrs. Valentine, Mr. Goslan and his wife are here to see you.”

  I turned to her. “Please bring out some hot tea and cake, and…have Hiram stoke the fire. They will be cold and wet. Also, please inform Papa that we have guests.” It was only proper that my father help me receive the guests. The proper running of the house was mind-numbing, but the routine of it all was a welcome distraction from my ennui.

  “At once.” She gave a small curtsy and ran off as quickly as she had come. I smoothed my burgundy skirts and plastered a smile to my face. A lady should never appear miserable.

  The Goslans were not the first family of tenants to come visiting in the last month, nor would they be the last. Each of the tenants had come, one at a time, begging our forgiveness, promising they would pay their overdue rents if only we would allow them time, or to offer something they hoped we might take in trade. Two of the tenant families disappeared in the night, leaving abandoned farms of flooded fields and rotting roots.

  According to the records the previous landowners had left behind, the Goslans had a reputation for being loyal, hardworking tenants. Now, Mr. Goslan stood twisting his cap in his hands, covered in a farm coat of wet wool over a dark suit with worn cuffs.

  “Mr. Goslan, please, make yourself comfortable.”

  He remained standing. He looked anything but comfortable, dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief.

  “Please,” I repeated, motioning. The collar of his suit was wet from the rain. His wife curtsied quickly, then sat on the corner of our sofa as though she did not want to dirty it. Her braided hair had been carefully tucked up under her cap. They wore their Sunday best.
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  Helen brought in a tea tray with milk from our cow and small ginger biscuits. It was far from a grand treat, but the least I could offer, given the circumstances. They were chilled to the bone.

  Papa came in and muffled a cough in his handkerchief. “Excuse me. I was in the conservatory. It took me a moment longer than I thought.”

  “Sir.” Mr. Goslan bobbed his head nervously and cleared his throat.

  “How can I help you today?” I poured four cups of tea and served everyone a ginger biscuit. I usually let Helen serve, but I needed something to do with my hands.

  “Well, you see, it’s like this—” Mr. Goslan trailed off then flushed, worrying his hat again. “We owe on our rent.” He looked up at me nervously. “And I know we owe,” he added quickly.

  “We plan to pay,” Mrs. Goslan interjected.

  “We just need a little more time to pay the full quarter‘s rent,” Mr. Goslan said quickly. “We have part of it.” He dug into his pocket for a few coins. “Coal has been so expensive, and we’ve had no money for meat. We eat what our garden provides.”

  The front door opened and Hiram hurried from his corner of the solar to attend to the master of the house’s needs. A moment later, Nate strode into the solar, clomping in wet boots, rubbing a linen towel through his hair. His collar was soaked, and he had already exchanged his waistcoat for a dry one as Hiram had been ready with fresh clothing.

  He greeted them warmly. “Good afternoon Mr. Goslan. Mrs. Goslan, you look lovely as always.”

  She rose and curtsied. Pleasantries observed, I poured him tea.

  “Mr. Crossdale is having hot soup in the kitchen.” Nate combed his hair back with his fingers. The fact that an esquire never needed to make excuses to his tenants was lost on Nate. Again.

  “Darling, Mr. Goslan was explaining that the price of coal was straining his finances this quarter.” I handed Nate his tea. No need to cause Mr. Goslan more embarrassment. “But he just needs more time, and he brought a partial payment.”

  Nate added milk to his tea and stirred it. It was a show. Men needed to be stern, or they lost respect for one another. Mr. Goslan needed to know his landlord respected him and expected him to honor his commitment. It was an odd game men played. Mrs. Goslan’s hand shook as she stirred her tea. They were the third tenant family this quarter. Our people were starving, or freezing, or both. Their crops were failing. They were flooded out. It was the same all throughout the countryside.

  “Mr. Goslan, how many children do you have?”

  “Four.” He wiped his nose again.

  “Do you have any staff?”

  “We hired a girl to help with the children. She also helps with laundry and cooking,” Mr. Goslan said. “She sleeps in the attic. She used to live in the city, but she is orphaned now. She is a smart girl.”

  “Annie is like a daughter,” Mrs. Goslan added tensely.

  “I believe we can come to some sort of arrangement. We shall roll the rent due into the next quarter, that portion which is not paid shall roll to the next bill and so forth until your entire debt is paid. That shall keep us from the strain of having to secure new tenants this late in the season. I hope these terms are acceptable?” Nate said. “Hiram, according to the books, the Goslan family have been good tenants and Mr. Goslan is a man of his word, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hiram confirmed. “I can verify with Mr. Crossdale, he is the land steward, but I familiarized myself with the workings and finances of the property when I was brought on.”

  Of course he had. Hiram was a wonderful head of staff.

  Nate nodded, “Mr. Goslan, Mrs. Goslan, in light of our understanding, I do hope you will be our guests for dinner tonight. It is only proper to seal our new arrangement over a meal. We are not eating lavishly, but it will be a warm dinner to fill your bellies before you set off back home.”

  Mr. Goslan broke into a smile. With a single action, Nate had placed himself upon equal footing with his tenant and, yet, remained the lord of our land. He had allowed Mr. Goslan to keep his dignity. He demonstrated that we don't eat like kings while our tenants starve. How I love that man.

  I drew Mrs. Goslan aside. Her shawl was threadbare and the hem was unraveling. I remember what it was to struggle through lean times. I wrapped her in mine. Made of fine wool and a tight, even knit, it would keep her warm. Most importantly, it was dry. I insisted she keep it.

  Mrs. Simms had made more than enough soup and hot bread to feed our entire household, so adding two more was an easy task. Papa and Mama ate on one side of the table in the little dining room. Papa coughed from time to time, wheezing into his handkerchief. Tonight, I would make sure he received treatment for his cough before I went to bed. Mr. and Mrs. Goslan sat across from them, enjoying the beef and barley soup with a hearty wheat bread, filled with the little nuts and bits of cheese Mrs. Simms always baked into the loaves. Our second course was two roast rabbits with bacon and mashed potatoes, and there was a plum pudding for dessert.

  I would have to tell Nate there would be no baby this month. Again. I hated to add to our worries: no children, no income, and now our tenants were starving. Every investment we had made was failing. It was as though everything I had touched in the past year had been cursed with utter ruin.

  And, yet, I carried a hidden fortune in my pocket, one I dared not share with anyone, especially my husband. As long as it was still a secret, we were safe.

  Chapter Two

  THE MID-MORNING SUN burned through the clouds, clearing the haze, and promising the day would warm and allow the sodden land to dry, somewhat. Everyone in the household wanted to take advantage of the break in the wet weather to work at either hanging laundry or airing out the home. Several birds took wing across the field. Peace and joy had come to us at last. I hoped the long mourning of the land was done, and England would come to life again and, with it, our tenants’ fortunes would change for the better.

  Mr. Crossdale, our land steward, met with me and Nate over breakfast in the solar. Ordinarily, Jane would be attending us, but the maids were taking advantage of the sunshine. Even our butler was attending to the house.

  “You see, sir,” Crossdale began, “you asked me to inform you of the traditions the tenants expect.”

  My husband nodded, but his attention was on the warming land and the beautiful great fog rising outside the large picture windows. The land fought to warm herself, giving the hills an ethereal quality.

  “Every year the Rothechild family held a harvest festival for the tenants and friends of the family, following the harvest moon,” Mr. Crossdale said, sipping coffee.

  “Of course,” Nate said absently. He stood at the window, the sunlight illuminating his ragged ear, torn by Prince Qixiang’s spear during our last adventure.

  When we first met, my husband had been a dashing airship pirate suffering from a magical curse that forced him to spend half his time as a human, and half his time as a dog. He helped me become an adventuress in my own right. Then, our journey led to an awakening of my Tarot powers, which allowed me to manipulate the world around us, using Tarot symbols buried deeply under my skin. It was on that adventure that he achieved mastery over the dual sides of his nature, finding a third form, a potent mixture of man and beast that was both powerful and protective, sharing the best features of man and dog. We called it his canithrope form.

  A year later, the explorers’ society sent us to China to recover an ancient artifact before the nation erupted in civil war over the Opium Wars. We battled a royal dynasty in chaos, crippled by insanity and rage. We journeyed into the mists to find the grave of a dragon and there, in his canithrope form, he was scarred by the mad Prince’s spear.

  It was also there that I experienced a horrific premonition. If we recovered the artifact from the grave of a long-dead dragon, the powerful Xihuan-Lung, she would reanimate to wreak deadly vengeance upon the world. The premonition showed her starting with us, for disrupting her grave. I recovered one of her stolen teeth a
nd shattered the key to her eternal resting place, taking the keystone away with me, a ruby the size of a robin’s egg, which rested safely now in my pocket.

  It was my secret and, as long as I had it, Nate and the world were safe.

  After everything we had overcome, it was odd that running an estate and getting pregnant, the most mundane tasks a husband and wife might undertake, were beyond our abilities.

  Nate returned to the table, where his eggs and coffee were cooling. “If that is what the tenants expect, then it would not do to disappoint.”

  Forever the adventurer, he was drawn to the land outside the window. With a heavy sigh, he took his seat, shifted around a stiff hip and resigned himself to discussing the estate.

  “Excuse me, please,” I said, and left the solar. I simply could not bear to be at the table any longer and watch my Nate struggle with pedestrian matters.

  I found Papa and Mama in the conservatory, enjoying the orchids while they had tea and crumpets with marmalade. Papa would occasionally offer a corner of his crumpet to the beloved finches that lived in a huge, brass cage. He had hand-tamed them to eat from his fingers. They would hop from his fingers to the plants and not give him any trouble when it was time to return to their cage. The room remained warm and humid, thanks to the tight-fitting glass windows. It was the only room in the home that the cold and damp couldn’t penetrate.

  This was the only bright spot of having an estate. It nearly made it worthwhile. Papa had spent his entire life as an apothecary in London. We had lived above a storefront on Exeter Street, where he devoted himself to the care of others. Now, in his gray years, he had a place to sit, and rest, and drink tea while enjoying crumpets and marmalade. He sat for hours, here in the conservatory, enjoying the wonders of a glass-walled room, as well as an indoor garden of herbs, flowers, and birds.