Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles)

by Louise Franklin

  “I don’t know,” she said, trying to loosen the rope around her wrists but only managing to chafe her skin in the effort.

  “Don’t know. How is that possible? I assume by your presence at Madame Annette’s tonight that it is not the first time you have followed me. It also stands to reason that with my loaded pistol in your pocket you had your less-than-innocent little heart set on doing away with me. Murder, my dear, is what they call it and no one would even have suspected you, the poor crippled soul who cannot even walk. Then the fact that I would be shot in some house of ill repute, often frequented by murderers, should be enough for any constable to come to a logical conclusion. I must say it was a capital idea, really. Bravo, Georgiana.”

  He waited for her to respond but she kept her silence, trying desperately to think of a way out.

  “You are a beautiful girl but it is your spirit that I have always favored. The fight in you always excited me greatly. Why, I do believe I am quite hard now.”

  She veered away from his hand as he tried to touch her.

  He laughed. “Ah, quite right. Not the time or place for it, a shame really. One would have to clean you up first. There is too much blood even for my taste.”

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked angrily.

  “You must understand there are consequences to this sort of business. I cannot simply return you to your current station in life with the hope that having learned a valuable lesson, you shall not again try to do away with me. No, this is quite serious, I am afraid. You leave me no option but to make sure you leave these shores, never to return. I have some connections, who will most kindly help me.”

  “How?”

  “I mean to sell you into slavery.”

  “You can’t do that. I am still a lady of birth. I would tell them the truth and expose you.”

  He laughed as if she had made a joke, and it worried her greatly.

  “You are too amusing,” he said. “I will simply tell them you are a mistress I have grown weary of, and who has threatened my good standing. Whom do you think they will believe? A gentleman like myself, or a whore who I have been kind enough to educate, and who has taken advantage of my good person? No, no, dear, it simply won’t do to try and escape this fate you have created for yourself. I have told you on several occasions, I believe, that as a female born into this world, you have no rights and that men may do with you as they please. It really is true, my dear, and the sooner you reconcile yourself to that fact the better. The men in the East are quite fond of young white women, and now that you are miraculously restored to full health, you will fetch quite a good sum.”

  “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with.”

  “What, and put my soul in jeopardy of damnation for all eternity? No, dear, that certainly wouldn’t do.”

  “You could just let me go. I will disappear and never bother you again.”

  “Let you go? I think not. If there is one truth I have come to recognize about you, dear, is that you do not give up. No, you love those girls, and fear that I will harm them some day. I cannot say for sure if I will or not, for my appetites, as you know, are quite strong. No, you will protect them, no matter what. You may have failed tonight, but you will try again, and I should loathe looking over my shoulder for the rest of my time on earth, in fear that you may put an end to me. No, I am afraid this is the only solution to our little dilemma.”

  “You cannot think there will be no investigation into my disappearance.”

  “Quite right, but tell me did you leave your room through your window?”

  She refused to answer, already anticipating the direction of his thinking.

  “Ah yes, by your silence, I surmise you have. One is to conclude therefore one of two possibilities. You were taken by some villain in the night, never to be found again, or you have deceived us in your state of health, and have made good on your promise to run away after I informed you of your coming engagement. I shall, of course, be forced to part with such information to the constable upon his request, and add the fact that as a young girl you were quite prone to running away. I do believe it will be the same constable who retrieved you the second time you attempted to flee. No, dear, your situation is quite impossible, I fear.”

  The carriage pulled up outside an inn near the docks.

  “Ah, here we are,” her father said.

  He took a blanket from the seat and threw it over her, covering her completely. The carriage door opened and she was dragged out by her feet, then hoisted over someone’s shoulders and carried up stairs. She heard voices and she screamed, struggling to attract attention, but her efforts only seemed to create laughter. No one paid any attention to her cries for help.

  She was thrown on a hard wooden floor, the wind knocked out of her. She gasped for breath. At the door, she heard her father ask for a bucket of water. Then the door shut, and his footsteps crossed to where she lay. He removed the blanket. They were in a room with a bed, chair, and desk in an inn that had seen much better days.

  “We must make you presentable again,” he said, placing his beaver hat and gloves on the table.

  She felt the penknife in her pocket jabbing her side, a comforting reminder of its presence. She sat up as best she could, her arms wracked with pain. The door opened and a girl carried a bucket of water into the room. She kept her eyes on the floor, not once looking at Georgiana. Her father gave her a coin and she curtsied and left.

  “Now, I will cut you loose, so you can clean yourself, but remember Thomas is outside the door. It would be foolish to attempt an escape.”

  The blood rushed back into her hands, and she rubbed them as he cut free the rope around her feet. He indicated the bucket of water and she stepped toward it. A knock at the door distracted her father. She slipped the knife from her pocket and dropped it in the bucket of water as she submerged her hands. Her father took a parcel from Thomas, but kept his eyes on her and closed the door again. In the parcel were a long white dress and some satin slippers. He placed them on the bed.

  “Would you like some help with your toilette?” he asked, mocking her.

  “I am perfectly capable.”

  “I meant only a kindness.”

  He placed the chair closer to her, and sat down as if to watch a performance. She picked up the grimy rag provided. Rinsing it in the dirty water, she washed the blood gently from her face and chest. She removed her jacket and the blood soaked shirt, ignoring her father’s watchful eyes, thankful for the strips of linen she had wrapped around herself. They, too, were red with her blood but she would not remove them. She cleaned herself as best she could, leaving her damaged nose for last. She touched it gently and pain tore into her head again.

  “It’s broken I fear,” he said. “Nothing to be done now. Just clean it off and wash that dirt from your hair. Quite a shame really what you have done to it,” he said, undoing his cravat. His action alarmed her. He was making himself comfortable, which meant they would not be leaving soon. Her heartbeat raced as she felt his eyes on her.

  She rinsed her hair, the black mixing with her blood in the bucket. Taking her shirt, she rinsed it in the bucket and reached to the bottom, unfolding the knife in one quick movement.

  “Never mind the shirt. You won’t need it again.”

  “It’s still a good shirt that someone can make use of,” she said and rung the water from it. She hung it by the fireplace to dry.

  Her father stood up and walked across the room, placing the chair by the fire, his attention shifting from her for a second. She took the knife and slipped it into the pocket in her breeches, the blade almost cutting her in her haste.

  “Sit here and I will comb your hair,” he said.

  She hesitated, recognizing his manner for what it was, but she obeyed. She crossed the room and sat down, letting the warmth of the fire dry her skin. She forced herself to be still and patient, to not rush the moment. She would only get one chance. Her father was too clever and too strong to give
her another, should she fail.

  He stood behind the chair and his hand touched the skin on her neck. She jumped, unable to suppress the reflex.

  “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, knowing it was exactly the wrong thing to say to this man, but unable to stop herself or the disgust she felt.

  He put the comb on the table next to her, and using both his hands, he massaged her shoulders, his hands working their way to her front to fondle her through the fabric.

  “You know how such words of defiance arouse me, yet you speak them so freely. Perhaps it’s not disgust for me you feel, after all.”

  “I despise you,” she said, ignoring his hands on her.

  “’Despise’ is a strong word. It has been so long since we were together. Come let us not part in anger, but enjoy each other’s company one last time. A parting gift you could say from your loving Papa.”

  “Thomas will hear. He will think you perverted for wanting a boy.”

  “Thomas is much used to perversion and has strict instructions not to enter no matter what he hears. So you see, my love, we can enjoy ourselves. No one shall disturb us until morning.”

  He jerked her from the chair and moved her toward the bed, throwing her down. He undid the buttons on his breeches. She slipped her hand into her pocket and around the knife then waited for that one chance. He jerked his coat off, and then lifted his arms to pull his shirt over his head, and for one moment, his eyes left her. She removed the knife and, gripping it with both hands, she jumped up. With all her weight engaged, she plunged the blade up and into his chest just below the ribs, hoping to pierce his heart.

  He screamed in pain, and stumbled back under the force of her thrust, tripping and falling to the floor, his arms still tangled in his shirt. She hoped his scream would attract as little attention as hers had. She kept her eyes on the door.

  It didn’t open.

  On the floor, her father managed to rip the shirt off, his eyes on her, filled with fear as he attempted to stand. He collapsed again, and she knew then the knife had found his heart. He crawled toward the door, the knife sticking out of his chest.

  She moved closer and he kicked out at her, but she dodged his foot easily and jumped on top of him, holding him down with her weight, so he could not move. He tried to push her off, but his strength was draining quickly. He opened his mouth to call Thomas, but she grabbed his coat from the floor, and smothered his cry. He struggled briefly, and then lay still as the life began to drain out of him. Her tears were falling on his face. She hated herself for crying.

  He deserved it, she told herself. She had no choice and still she cried, sobs of fear and pain, unable to stop them. She removed the coat from his face, and watched the color drain from his skin.

  “You know you will go to hell for this,” he said softly.

  “Perhaps, but you, dear Papa, will have that pleasure first.”

  The corners of his mouth pulled up in a smile and then the life in his eyes dimmed, and he was gone. She stared at him for a while, then slowly rose and put her hand over her mouth to stifle the hysteria within her. She had killed him.

  3

  Shivering in the cold, wet shirt, Georgiana pulled her jacket closed and kept walking. She had no idea where she was, or when it had started to rain. The street was dark, and she hoped a hackney would come along. Those on the street at that hour paid her no attention. She kept her eyes down, walking west from the river, she hoped, but she was not sure.

  In her pocket, she held the pistol. She had remembered to retrieve it from her father’s jacket before she climbed out the window. She was becoming good at exiting through windows. She looked at the sky, conscious of any sign that dawn was breaking. She had to make it back before sunrise.

  She walked faster, pausing at an intersection, not sure which way to go. Traffic bustled to her right, so she went that way. Waving down a hackney that appeared, she gave an address and they moved off. Sitting in the dark of the cab, she wrapped her arms around herself tightly trying to stop shivering. Was the sense of relief she now felt wrong? she wondered. She should not be relieved at any one’s death, most especially not her own father’s. Yet he deserved it, she told herself again. She had done the world a favor.

  She forced herself to remember the first night he had come to her at fourteen years old. She had woken from sleep to feel someone touching her arm. She had startled awake, but it was only her father come to see her. At least that was what she had thought at first. But then, she had been concerned even before his hand wandered to cup her breast.

  With that touch, she had rolled away from him across the bed, and he had smiled at her. She ran to the door but he had locked it. She had pounded her fists against the door, crying for help. No one came, and eventually she gave up and slipped to the floor, half exhausted. He had picked her up and put her back in bed, gently at first, then undressed and joined her. It had been a painful night that was repeated many times over the next few years.

  She had been no match for his strength, and the more she fought him the more pleasure he seemed to derive. She had told her mother and received harsh punishment for telling malicious lies. At first, she had wanted to believe her mother didn’t know the truth, then she didn’t care anymore. She tried running away, but with no money, she didn’t get far before they caught her and brought her back. She secretly wrote a letter to her mother’s sister, Aunt Beatrice, asking for her protection. Her mother had punished her daughter severely for that as well.

  Soon Georgiana gained a reputation for being willful, and having too much imagination brought on by reading novels that gave her fanciful ideas and dramatic fits. With no one to confide in, and no one who would believe her, she sank into a deep depression. She found the deep vein along her inner wrist and traced it with her fingers. She had tried to end her own life, but her maid had found her.

  Her father had the servants watch her day and night after that, and she was hardly ever left alone in a room again. Her father took his turn watching as well—only he did more than watch. Now she watched the dark streets passing and the only thought that remained was that she should have killed him long ago.

  The hackney stopped and she took a deep breath and opened the door. She paid the man, keeping her head down, thankful that the pouring rain made the exchange short. She walked the last few streets home. Making sure no one saw her, she slipped into the neighbors’ garden, for their gate was always open. An old garden shed provided the right height to scale the wall and she dropped into the darkness of her own garden and waited. There was no movement in the house yet. It was still dark.

  She made her way back up the latticework to the roof and into her room and latched the window. She put more coals on the fire then discarded all her clothes and put them to dry by the fireplace. Taking a spill from a jar on the mantel, she touched it to the fire then lit a candle and placed it next to her bed. After she put the pistol back in the case under her bed, she stood at the basin and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was bruised and swollen, the bone in her nose cracked and crooked. It was bleeding again and her breath labored. She touched her nose gently and cried out. She would have to fix it herself. She could not have anyone asking her how she had been so injured.

  She brought a chair over to the basin to sit on in case she should lose consciousness. Then with two fingers on each side of her nose, she cracked the bone back into place and turned quickly to the basin as she vomited. Pain and nausea overcame her. She was shaking again, but she had no time to lose. She could hear servants about the house already.

  She washed herself as best she could, and then walked unsteadily to the window and flung the dirty water out into the rainy night. Her nightdress lay where she had left it. Once dressed, she unlocked the door, pulled closed the curtains around her bed, and climbed between the covers. Moments later, the door opened and Nurse arrived with her morning tea.

  “Miss, you have been ill,” she asked, concerned about the vomit in the basin. “W
hy did you not call for me?”

  “I am not well, Nurse. Best leave me to rest today.”

  “I shall bring the physician.”

  “No, it is not necessary; it is only a bad headache which afflicts me.”

  Nurse walked toward the curtains at the windows, meaning to open them. “I only require darkness, and to be left alone,” Georgiana said quickly. Nurse stopped and turned toward the bed.

  Through the white curtains around her bed, Georgiana could barely make out her movements. “Please, Nurse,” she said. “I must rest.”

  “As you wish. I shall have a maid come up to clean and bring your breakfast.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The key, miss?”

  She took the key from around her neck and handed it to Nurse through the curtains. They would no longer need to lock the door to the girls’ room. They were safe now.

  “And, Nurse, please make sure that I am not disturbed.”

  Georgiana sighed with relief when the nurse had gone, and sank under her covers. If she had returned home even a minute later, she would have been discovered.

  She was tired and every bone in her body ached, but she could not sleep. She lay awake, replaying the night’s events, trying to still her panic. The relief was wearing off, replaced by fear. She had killed a man. No matter how many times she told herself she had no choice, or that he deserved it, the fact remained. She had killed someone. Not just someone, but her own father.

  Her sin would follow her for the rest of her days. She had broken the first commandment. While a part of her still believed in hell, she had given up on God after her prayers went unanswered. She would not be faithful to a God who had allowed a man like her father to exist and go unpunished.

  God wasn’t real, but made up by the church to keep people under control. If he was real, he wasn’t the kind of being she would want a close association with because the cruelty he allowed in the world spoke ill of him. Still, she had killed a man. Her mind always returned to that fact. She would go to hell.