MOON RISING
Who was Bram Stoker – and why did he write Dracula? Through the words of Damaris Sterne, daughter of an old seafaring family, we meet a man escaping from the pressures of his life in London. As the two become involved in an intense, dangerous affair, he is introduced to the wild sea, the wrecks, and Whitby’s local legends – while she is shown glimpses of the wider world beyond. Evocative and mysterious, Moon Rising opens out to become not only the gripping story of a tragic love-affair, but a revealing commentary on the genesis of an immortal classic.
‘Shamelessly enjoyable... shades of the late Mrs Cookson and a dash of Anne Rice.’ Independent
‘An engaging tale... The star of the book is the locale of Whitby, its bustling harbour and brigantines, its damp cottages and smoky inns, its winding stone steps and alleyways, its abbey and windy clifftops are all wonderfully evoked.’ The Times
Ann Victoria Roberts
Moon Rising
ARNWOOD
~~ PRESS ~~
About the author
Ann Victoria Roberts hit the national headlines as ‘The Housewife Who Wrote a Bestseller,’ when her first historical novels, Louisa Elliott and Liam’s Story sold in the USA for just short of a million dollars. Published by Chatto & Windus in the UK, Louisa Elliott was shortlisted in 1989 for the prestigious RNA award, while Ann’s fifth novel, The Master’s Tale, based on the life of Capt EJ Smith of the Titanic, gained the Rubery Award for independently published fiction in 2012. Born in York, Ann wrote Moon Rising while living in Whitby. She is married to Captain Peter Roberts, Master of the National Heritage Steamship, Shieldhall, and now lives in Southampton.
Louisa Elliott
Liam’s Story
Dagger Lane
The Master’s Tale
First published by Chatto & Windus UK in 2000
Also by St Martin’s Press New York, and
Belfond France, as Les Amants de la Pleine Lune,
translated by Françoise du Sorbier, 2001
This eBook edition published by Arnwood press 2015
Copyright © Ann Victoria Roberts 2000, 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction.
The characters and incidents portrayed here are largely the product of the author’s imagination, and not intended to be regarded as factual in any way.
eBook ISBN: 978-17830-1818-5
Arnwood Press
98 Hamble Lane
Southampton
SO31 4HU
The map of Whitby town and harbour, c.1885, is by the author and based on an old map. ©Ann Victoria Roberts
Contents
About the author
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Author’s Note
The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner with all sail set . . .
Bram Stoker, Dracula
One
After years of promising to return, in the end I was called back to Whitby by the coincidence of two deaths. It seemed strange that my second cousin, Bella Firth, and my great-uncle, Thaddeus Sterne, with more than fifty years separating them in age, should quit the world within days of each other, the former unnoticed by the world at large, the latter, as befitting a well-known local personage, with considerable public grief.
Although I’d known at heart there was no choice, I’d debated briefly about sending my condolences from London, telling myself that the Firths would understand, and that no one was likely to notice one mourner less amongst the crowd at Old Uncle Thaddeus’s funeral. Or even to recognise me after so many years. Besides, the journey was not one I would normally have chosen to make in the first week of January.
With the short afternoon closing in, I closed my eyes and dozed, waking with a sudden jolt to find that the train had stopped. It took me a moment to identify the sounds, but somewhere in the darkness ahead the engine was releasing regular gouts of steam; enough to suggest to my sleeping mind the rush of waves across a sandy beach and a buffeting wind along the piers. Even so, I shivered. Rubbing at the window with my glove, I saw that in the last half-hour a few dancing flakes of snow had become a misty blur of white.
Alice, my maid, compressed her lips in what was more of a grimace than a smile. ‘We’ll be lucky to reach York at this rate, ma’am, never mind Whitby.’
Acknowledging the truth of that, I opened my gold pendant to see the tiny clock-face inside. It was one of the first presents ever given to me by my late husband, Henry, and could still arouse a smile whenever I paused to think of it. A man whose hobby was collecting timepieces was bound to be concerned by punctuality and, as I had been brought up amongst people who navigated their lives as well as their ships by the sun, misunderstandings were to be expected. There had been plenty, although I think most of them were eventually smoothed out. I worked hard to make up for my shortcomings, but if he did not always appreciate my eccentricities, at least Henry Lindsey was good to me. I was fond of him always, but it was not until I was widowed that I realised how much I’d loved him too.
After his death, the business had become my sole responsibility, and I was thankful that Henry and I had worked together, since without that experience everything would have ground to a halt. I’d have been lost, an innocent in the marketplace, at the mercy of grief and loneliness and the packs of wily, marauding males. Now, almost two years later, with a pair of reliable partners installed, I was able to think about taking time off before time took care of me. I was still a year under forty, but felt older by a decade.
Recently, as my grief for Henry found its proper place, I’d begun to feel that I should take stock of my life before I moved on, assess the value of things I had too long accepted as natural or immutable laws. I thought those two deaths in Whitby might show me where to start.
But the weather seemed intent on holding everything up. It was past six already and impossible in the darkness to say where we were. As I peered through the murky glass there came a sudden groan, the train lurched forward with a muffled clanking of chains and buffers and, startled, I felt my heart lurch with it. Once more un
der way, we could hear and feel the difficulties ahead, locomotive wheels biting and failing on snow-covered tracks, with corresponding gasps from the engine. If tedium had already given way to irritation, here was the point where it turned to anxiety. In normal circumstances it would not have mattered to me what time we arrived, since there were several connections to Whitby throughout the evening; but if heavy snow was already falling north and east of York, it was doubtful whether the line across the moors would be open.
I had to be in Whitby by noon the next day. The knowledge pressed me, while the snow threatened to make a nonsense of this journey and everything connected with it. Half an hour later, when the train finally crawled into the station at York, I made an effort to be one of the first on to the platform. Leaving Alice to deal with the luggage, I hailed a porter, then strode off to the enquiry office. All trains were at a standstill because of the blizzard, although the main lines north and south would be cleared as soon as possible; with luck, the clerk said, it should take no more than a few hours. But when I mentioned Whitby and the North York Moors, he grimaced and shook his head. Not even twentieth-century wonders could overcome the weather and Whitby’s geographic isolation.
As I hastened away, I was vaguely aware of a tall, heavily built man standing to one side of me in the crowd. I moved past him and hurried off to find Alice. A few minutes later, with the porter in tow, we made our way to the hotel, only to find the place unbearably crowded. People jostled and elbowed their way to the front desk, where it seemed the prize of a room might be had for those who pushed hardest. The atmosphere was that of a racetrack or auction-sale, but the reception staff were impassive, refusing to be intimidated, or indeed to catch anyone’s eye until each traveller was properly attended to. Having drawn myself up to my full height, I managed to secure some attention, and the use of a room at the back of the hotel. Alice was unimpressed, but with an easy chair as well as a wash-stand and military-style bed, it was better than nothing.
Since there was barely room for two people to move about, I glanced in the glass, secured a few recalcitrant curls and adjusted my raven’s-wing hat. Leaving Alice to arrange our overnight things, I headed back through the foyer to the station concourse.
Cold though it was, I felt in need of fresh air and exercise after all those hours cooped up on the train. Head down against the swirl of snowflakes coming in from the left, I almost cannoned into a large man, well muffled against the weather, who was approaching from the right. With an apology and a quick side-step I managed to avoid his steadying arms, and only as I continued on my way did I question a sudden sense of familiarity. From his height and build he was possibly one of my innumerable cousins, a distant member of the Sterne clan returning home for Old Uncle Thaddeus’s funeral and thus better avoided. But when I turned to look again, he was no longer to be seen.
The air was acrid with soot and sulphur, alive with the chuntering of engines and sudden, echoing bursts of steam; perhaps not the ideal place to go walking, but infinitely preferable to the fug of overcrowded public rooms. Evidently I was not alone in my opinion, since the platforms were by no means deserted, despite the icy wind funnelling through that great arcade. It was dark between the iron pillars, with dazzling pools of light here and there, shadows moving and flickering with the wind, and, at the far end of the platform, an extraordinary display which had drawn quite a crowd. Illuminated by electric lights just within the arch, snow was whirling and falling in an endless cascade, like goose-down at Christmas, to lie as invitingly as a freshly made bed across the tracks.
At least it seemed that way to me, but then I was thinking longingly of featherbeds and soft white linen. The fall of flakes was mesmeric. The crowd grew and we stood gazing up at the station’s proscenium arch like an audience at a first night. Strangers were talking to one another, and I was aware but not listening, when a man behind me said with gruff amusement: ‘If one could only reproduce that effect on stage, the show would be a sell-out for the season!’
I knew the voice, its quality and intonation, even though the pitch was deeper than I remembered. At first I thought he was speaking to someone else, and was terrified to turn, but when I did, I saw only the man I’d run into outside the hotel, the one I’d felt gazing at me earlier. My mouth twitched into a polite half-smile as my eyes skimmed over him and away, and then flashed back with shock.
The broad-brimmed hat shadowed his face; removing it, he bowed briefly and gave a wry smile, quite at variance with the intensity of his gaze. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It is Damaris Sterne – just as I thought.’
It was years since anyone had called me by my given name. I knew him then. Under the lights his eyes were unchanged, and in the moment of recognition my smile froze. For several seconds I stood in rigid disbelief; then, hard on the heels of shock came a surge of guilt so hot it seemed to scorch my face and throat. The pain made nonsense of the years between: our last meeting might have been a matter of days ago instead of half a lifetime.
Totally unprepared, I took a step backwards and almost fell; would have done so had it not been for the steadying hand at my elbow. Even so, a stranger’s help would have been more welcome. Angrily, I shook him off, not wanting to be reminded of the first time, all those years ago, when he’d pulled me back from the edge of a cliff.
Struggling to regain my composure, I looked round for Alice, then remembered where she was. I longed for safety and somewhere to hide.
‘So,’ he said quietly, ‘you do remember, after all.’ It was a statement, uttered with more regret than satisfaction.
Of course I remembered – how could I forget? – but he had changed so much, and for several seconds my mind refused to accept the truth. I peered up at him more closely, trying to reconcile the man before me with the younger image in my mind. I noticed puffiness around the eyes, a thickening of the neck, and the fact that his coat, with a suggestion of his old theatrical flamboyance about the astrakhan collar, was good but by no means new. Beneath the broad-brimmed hat his grey hair was neat, and his beard, less pepper than salt, was styled like the King’s. He was much heavier than I remembered, and it seemed to me his girth spoke of too many years of soft living, in which a powerful physique had been allowed to turn to fat. I found the change disconcerting, but it was the greyness which upset me most. In his prime he had been strikingly attractive, with strong, regular features and thick brown hair. By contrast, his beard in those days was a bright, coppery red, almost the same colour as my own wild curls. When we met, his beard had been the first thing I noticed.
But if the change in him was unsettling, his presence was a shock. And most unwelcome. I turned away to hide my emotions. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to sound dismissive and in control of the situation, ‘I don’t know you at all – and if you persist in bothering me, sir, I shall be forced to summon the police.’
He had the nerve to chuckle. ‘Come now, you don’t mean that.’
‘Oh, but I do.’ The words were ground out as I fought to control my trembling. I wanted to march away but was afraid my legs would not carry me far enough. ‘Please leave me alone.’
‘But I mean you no harm,’ he protested mildly, and with a typically expansive gesture indicated the walking stick and his apparent infirmity. ‘Unless you were to measure your step to mine, I couldn’t even keep up with you.’
He made my urge to run seem ridiculous. Nevertheless, I forced my reluctant limbs into motion – one or two people around us were beginning to find our conversation more interesting than that cascade of snow. ‘What do you want?’
‘Should I want anything?’ he asked reproachfully as we turned together and walked slowly down the platform. ‘Isn’t it enough that I should see you and recognise you, and be overjoyed that you’ve changed so little in the years between?’
‘You think I haven’t changed?’ I demanded, more affronted than otherwise, but unable to restrain a mocking burst of laughter.
‘Oh, Damaris,’ he said, annoying me furthe
r by his use of that old name, ‘we’ve both changed – how could we not? – and even more, no doubt, than appears to the eye. I was young and fit in those days, and you – you were just a girl, scrambling up and down cliffs and striking a pose for every photographer in sight. Even so,’ he added slyly, with a nod at my headgear, ‘I thought I recognised you on the train, in spite of your fine feathers. I wasn’t sure at first, until I saw you striding forth along the platform, your whole body bent against the wind . . .’
I was uncertain just how much of a compliment that was, the implication being that fine ladies strolled, never strode forth. I saw an edge, too, in the mention of photographers, which made my jaw tighten. Struggling for a suitably sarcastic response, I said: ‘You flatter me,’ while wondering what to do. It struck me that I was being teased out of further denials, and that he was determined to keep my company for the duration. I could have denied him that by walking away or making a fuss, or as a last resort by reporting him as a nuisance to the station-master; but that was never a serious consideration. The logical side of my mind – which was rapidly recovering from its shock – was aware that this journey of mine was in part an attempt to settle old scores. On that level, my present companion was certainly worthy of adding to the list. Unlooked for and unexpected, but if I had ever longed for a chance to make him suffer – and I had –then this was my opportunity to do so.
With that thought, I felt better. Stronger, more able to handle the situation. I set the shock aside and donned the mildly flirtatious, woman-of-the-world mask that had served me so well in business. As we reached the barrier I gave him a sidelong glance and, as I caught his eye, a conspiratorial smile to go with it. ‘Well, now, since you’ve penetrated my disguise, won’t you join me for dinner? Be my guest and allow me – for old times’ sake – to repay your hospitality?’
As he appeared to hesitate, I said: ‘But just let’s be clear about something. My name’s no longer Damaris, it’s Marie – Marie Lindsey. Mrs Lindsey, as a matter of fact.’
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