Die Walküre (The Valkyrie) is an opera written by Richard Wagner and premiered in 1870, but didn’t make it to the United States until 1877, where it was enthusiastically received. Opera was extremely popular in the Old West, evident by the number of opera houses built in boom towns. Virginia City, Nevada, was no exception.
Tom Maguire and John Burns built the first opera house there in 1863, and John Piper bought it in 1867. Piper’s Opera House burned in 1875, was rebuilt in 1878, and burned again in March, 1883—so there actually wasn’t an opera house when Lexie and Burke were in Virginia City in June. The opera house that still exists was opened in 1885.
Look for more magic men in the High-Stakes Heroes series of novellas, the first scheduled for winter, 2014.
About the Author
Jacquie Rogers is the author of the award-winning Hearts of Owyhee series, Much Ado About Marshals, Much Ado About Madams, and Much Ado About Mavericks, as well as fantasy romances (faeries and dragons), and traditional westerns. She lives in Seattle with her husband and they serve a once-feral cat, Annie.
Jacquie hails from a dairy farm in Owyhee County, Idaho, and many of her stories are set in that area. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America and Western Fictioneers, frequently teaches online courses on writing, and owns the popular Romancing The West blog. She welcomes readers’ comments and can be contacted through her website, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, or you can email her at [email protected].
Somewhere My Love
Somewhere in Time Series
Book I
Paranormal Romance Novel
By Beth Trissel
Somewhere My Love
Copyright 2013 by Beth Trissel
Published in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To Dennis, my dearest love and husband, without whose support this writing journey would not have been possible.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” ~Hamlet
Chapter 1
June 2006
“He was Captain Wentworth, but we call him Cole.”
His name sent a shiver pulsing through Julia Morrow like a ripple from the past. Perhaps it was only her awe of Foxleigh, one of the most exquisite old homes along the James River in Virginia. Julia felt out of place among the Persian carpets and sumptuous mahogany pieces in her white sandals and pink-floral sundress. Foxleigh had been intended for satin slippers and ball gowns with sweeping skirts that swirled around her ankles.
Covered in goosebumps, she eyed the tour guide.
Mrs. Hensley’s round face was flushed beneath a white cap, her plump figure swaddled in a shapeless blue gown and checked petticoat that looked straight out of Colonial Williamsburg. Pale blue eyes alight, she laid her dimpled hand over an ample chest. “Such a gallant gentleman he was and handsome. Cole’s portrait makes my old heart flutter.”
Cole. The odd tremble inside Julia only grew.
Despite the air conditioning, Mrs. Hensley plucked a handkerchief out from under her white apron and mopped her beaded forehead. “His room’s just ahead.”
A mounting sense of expectation quickened Julia’s steps down the wide hall and she forced herself to slow in order to accommodate Mrs. Hensley’s waddle. Already intrigued by the prospect of a summer working at Foxleigh, home to the Wentworth family for eight generations, her wonder was enhanced by a sudden, almost aching need to throw open the bedroom door.
“Go on and open it, dear,” Mrs. Hensley said, catching up to her with a wheeze. “You’ll see we keep it like a shrine. But it’s such a lovely room. Mind you don’t lean on the walls. The paint was recently touched up.”
Julia closed her fingers around the white marble knob. A strange tingle coursed through her hand. Giving a small gasp, she drew back. “Is the wiring sound in here?”
“We had the electricity checked out for insurance last month. Why?”
“I felt a sort of current in the knob.”
Mrs. Hensley’s puckered creases relaxed in a smile. “You’re just more connected than most.”
“To what?”
She looked pointedly at Julia. “To the people who’ve gone before you, of course. The departed.”
Another prickling shiver, and Julia conceded, “I’ve always been a bit clairvoyant.”
Mrs. Hensley studied her closely. “Is this second sight what led you to Foxleigh?”
“Perhaps. But I see only in part.”
“The glass is cloudy, eh?”
Julia nodded and dropped her eyes from the mature woman’s scrutiny. She stared hard at the amber door. The wood was darkened with age and a slashing scar marred the oak. She slid her fingers over the deep scratch, more of a groove, really. A black one, at that. Some malevolence had scored the wood like an ancient burn.
“There’s a story in that mark,” Mrs. Hensley said. “In everything, it seems. These old homes accumulate tales. Come in and I’ll tell you Cole’s.” She grasped the doorknob, opening it without a qualm, and stepped inside.
Suspecting her life would never be the same, Julia walked in behind her. The deep-set window had been cracked open to chase away the lingering odor of paint. Bees hummed outside in white-flowering hydrangeas. Sunshine slanted through the old wavy glass and washed mellow light over the colonial furnishings.
Along one nutmeg-colored wall, Julia saw a magnificent four-poster bed overhung with an ivory canopy. The counterpane covering the box mattress was a tapestry of blue and crimson flowers patiently embroidered by fingers long since idle. An inexplicable urge stirred in her to lie on that bed as if to keep a long held appointment.
Stranger still, was the faint scent of spice, like the whiff of a man’s cologne. She’d breathed in this tantalizing fragrance before, but couldn’t remember from when or where it came. Seeking the source, she drifted past a heavily carved armoire.
“There he is.” Mrs. Hensley spoke with whispery reverence. She gestured at the full-length portrait on the wall across from the bed. “Painted shortly before his death. His father, Charles Wentworth, was married to Lady Pembrook, the daughter of a British Earl. And Mr. Cole looks a true nobleman, doesn’t he?”
Julia halted. His presence was a soft breath on her neck that warmed and chilled her at the same time. The current running through her doubled tenfold as she looked up at the young man and his gaze projected eerily back as if he knew she were there.
The artist had captured the intensity in Cole’s dark brown eyes allowing the force of his personality to shine through. His smooth forehead, slightly long nose, and clean-shaven chin balanced the three elements perfectly. He even had a small cleft in his chin as she’d imagined a nobleman would and his mouth was captivating, full, yet not too full.
Wavy chestnut hair met the white cravat circling his neck and made her want to reach out and touch it. She felt like a schoolgirl sighing at the poster of a film star, only this was so much more than that. Her awe at the house paled in comparison to the wonder rising in her as she ran her eyes down the length of the masterful portrait.
She couldn’t be certain of Cole’s height, but he appeared tall standing beside a splendid thoroughbred, his stunning figure clothed in an elegant scarlet coat fitted across his broad shoulders and cu
t away in front to reveal creamy white breeches molded to his thighs and long legs. He held a plaited leather whip with a crooked handle of carved ivory or bone like a stag’s horn and the thong looped in his left hand. The reins were casually circled around the tapered fingers of his right.
Maybe it was the sheltered life Julia had led, but it seemed to her that Cole embodied everything a man should.
“I see his appeal’s not lost on you,” her companion said.
She’d nearly forgotten the woman was there. “No. Cole Wentworth is, was, remarkable. What do you know of him?”
“He was passionate about horses and unbeatable in a race.” Mrs. Hensley nodded her capped head at several smaller gilt frames displaying portraits of hunting dogs and horses so beautifully done they appeared lifelike. “He was a gifted artist, as well. We have other paintings by him in the house, but most are here, where he was killed. Tragic.”
A cold finger laid its icy touch on Julia and ran down the length of her spine. “How did it happen?”
“He’s said to have been run through by the very man who made that mark on the door. A Mr. Cameron. Scottish fellow he was, back in...” Mrs. Hensley pursed her thin lips, blue eyes distant. “Ah, yes, 1806. Some fuss over a woman.”
“How dreadful. What about Mr. Cameron?”
“The friend of a neighbor, I believe. He escaped and was never found. No justice was ever done in the matter.”
Julia hesitated, then asked, “And the woman?”
“Heartbroken, poor thing. She returned to England. She was a guest of the Wentworth family and greatly enamored of Cole. All the young ladies were. But he had a particular fascination with this girl.”
“Why was she so special?”
“Apart from her legendary beauty? She had an angelic quality about her. Or so the story goes.”
An irrational jealousy twanged a jarring note in Julia. In the space of a few short minutes she’d fallen in love with the man in the portrait, typical of her impractical nature and unlikely to advance her nonexistent love life. And yet, she couldn’t help plunging into this sweet madness.
She tore her eyes from the portrait. “Do you recall the lady’s name?”
Mrs. Hensley gave a little laugh. She tapped a finger to her furrowed forehead. “Isn’t that odd? It was Julia something...hmmmm.”
Was Mrs. Hensley teasing her? She had to know.
“I’ve got it. Julia Maury.” The guide arched graying brows. “You’re from England, aren’t you, Miss Morrow? Tread with care here, my girl. We don’t want you stirring up any ghosts. Foxleigh has enough already.”
“No.” Julia reached out to the dresser to steady herself. Without meaning to, she suspected she’d already stirred up some force beyond her understanding.
A man spoke from the hall. “Charlotte, I need to talk to you about the new staff. Ah. I see she’s arrived.”
Julia startled at the low, uncannily familiar voice and whirled around to find none other than Cole Wentworth poised in the doorway.
Her jaw dropped and she stared up at him. He was tall, all right, easily over six feet. The rational part of her knew this couldn’t possibly be Cole, but dear Lord, they were much alike, down to the small cleft in his chin...though the expression in his dark eyes was far less impassioned. He even appeared to be the same age as Cole in the portrait, in his late twenties.
She’d had little experience with sensuality. Strict education at home under tutors and her eccentric professor father had seen to that. She hadn’t chafed under the restrictions as another girl would’ve done, though. Something more, a sense of waiting, as if she inherently knew the right man was out there somewhere, had enabled her to bide her time. Now, all of that was at an end. Here he stood. Every latent sense within her awakened in a swelling rush.
But he couldn’t be real.
Mrs. Hensley chuckled. “He’s not the ghost. Julia Morrow, meet William Wentworth, former attorney in Richmond, now manager of Foxleigh.”
His name struck a familiar chord as Julia stood gaping at her new employer, not at all the impression she’d hoped to make. His thick wavy hair was shorter than that of the figure in the portrait and the hunting costume replaced by a burgundy shirt and Levis stretched across his muscular thighs. Instead of mahogany topped riding boots, he wore brown leather shoes.
He looked at her with a sardonic glint in his eyes. “I trust you don’t intend a repeat of this performance each time we meet, Miss Morrow? It’s flattering, but somewhat unnerving. You’ll frighten the life from our visitors.”
Julia shook her head to break the spell she’d fallen under. This most certainly wasn’t the man in the painting. But, oh, how dearly she wished he were, unreasonable, as that might be. And she wondered, was he anything like his achingly handsome ancestor? If so, her heart was in a great deal of trouble.
Chapter 2
Will took pains to conceal the sudden hammering in his chest. Julia Morrow was a rare beauty, but she stared enough for them both, her head tilted back, eyes riveted on him. Innate reserve kept his sharpened awareness of her in check.
He doubted she was a day over twenty-two and showed her youth in more ways than one. It wasn’t only the girlishly sweet face that betrayed her age, an inner purity shone in her vibrant green eyes. If the beguiling scent of roses clinging to her didn’t do him in, that mass of coppery hair would. It fell over her bare shoulders and down across a scant sundress revealing a slender but nicely curved figure and long shapely legs.
Now, why was it her desirable femininity irritated the hell out of him? He supposed because he was weary of comparisons to his illustrious ancestor, and their similarities surely accounted for her fixation on him now.
Will sensed another reason deep down; the sight of her wrenched him back to a forgotten place he had no desire to recall. The past was a weighty burden, riddled with pain, the early death of his parents and some troubling darkness he couldn’t put his finger on and didn’t care to. Nothing, and no one, would entice him back to that shadowed realm.
“Please follow me, Miss Morrow. There’s nothing for you in here.” He turned away and strode out the door.
Her heels clicked over the floor behind him. “Yes, Captain Wentworth.”
He caught himself short of stumbling, not sure what to react to first, her musical accent, or the fact that she’d called him Captain. A legion of Captain Wentworths had gone before him, including Cole. But how had she known that?
He paused and her soft warmth brushed his back, sending a rousing charge down his spine. He steadied his voice and struggled to maintain a sarcastic edge, his best defense. “It’s Mr., or Sir, if you prefer. I suppose I’ve some claim on being lord of the manor, but I’m not a Captain. At least, not anymore.”
“That’s so, my lord,” Charlotte Hensley quipped, waddling ahead of them as they reentered the great hall.
Charlotte seemed unaccountably refreshed for one nearly prostrate earlier from the heat. Julia’s coming must have revived her.
Julia stepped to Will’s side. He strove to keep his eyes from her. What was it with this girl? He’d never felt himself succumbing so quickly, or strongly, to any woman.
Charlotte glanced over a well-padded shoulder. Her perceptive gaze passed between them. “I’m off home now, William, unless you need me?”
Desperately. As a buffer. He shook his head. “No thank you. I’ll finish showing Miss Morrow around and see her settled in her quarters. You and Jon go on to the Historical Society banquet without me.”
“You ought to accept the award,” Charlotte argued.
“Accept it for me, please. You know I despise these drawn out affairs. Besides, you two have had quite a hand in Foxleigh’s restoration. The Queen Mother and I are grateful,” he said, using the term he’d adopted for his high-handed grandmother.
Charlotte cocked an eye at him. “Think Mrs. Wentworth will pay Foxleigh one of her royal visits anytime soon?”
“She rarely leaves the retirement home
these days, but I don’t doubt she’ll turn up here, demanding perfection.” A state Will wasn’t feeling equal to just now.
“Be warned, Miss Morrow. That means more work for everyone. See you in the morning. Sweet dreams,” Charlotte added with an unmistakable wink at Julia.
Her appealing lips curved uncertainly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hensley.”
Charlotte brushed the title aside. “Call me Charlotte. Everyone does.”
The melting sweetness in Julia’s eyes knifed through Will with unwelcome force. How could such loveliness be so unnerving?
“I’m just plain Julia,” she said in her ear-catching British accent.
“There’s nothing plain about you, honey. Is there, William?” Charlotte added, with a twinkle.
Will nearly choked. “Not remotely,” he muttered, as Charlotte very well knew.
This was going to be tough, like navigating the worst sort of obstacle course. Five minutes with Julia and he was sinking fast, tentacles from the miry past reaching for his throat. Have some backbone, he chided himself, resolved only to be civil to Julia. Nothing more.
Giving a wave, Charlotte angled off to the left toward the back of the house. And that blithe spirit was gone.
“This way.” Will swung to the right. Julia trotted beside him as he hastened through the great hall.
A parade of Wentworths enshrined in gilded portraits lined the white plastered walls, an ancestry reaching back over 300 years. A gold fainting couch and a dozen or more Queen Anne chairs with matching brocade seats and ball and claw feet stood along one wall. Here and there, small tables had been pushed back to make room. Historic touches, a pair of eighteenth century spectacles, a leather-bound volume of Shakespeare and other antique books, porcelain figurines, china vases…all added to the charm. Everything was as it had been time out of mind, and yet, he battled for control over his unreasoning emotions.
9 Ways to Fall in Love Page 186
