Dark Lightning

by Mary L. Farmer

  R. W. HALL – 1791

  “So…you’re a Hall,” Haven said to the painting. “You must be part of the family that built this place.” She stepped away to get a better view of the handsome man gazing back at her from under a layer of crackled, yellow varnish. “And you’re not bad looking, either,” she mused, raising an eyebrow in approval.

  The artist who’d painted the portrait had obviously taken great care in transcribing his subject. It was beautifully lit, the details painstakingly realistic—almost photographic. The man’s full bottom lip and strong chin gave him a somewhat noble appearance, and the white necktie both complimented his dark, wavy hair and nicely enhanced his fair complexion.

  To Haven’s surprise, gazing at the man’s portrait caused her insides to flutter a bit, and she smiled. Hey there, Mr. Hall, you were pretty attractive, weren’t you? Even though your eyes are a little melancholy...

  Turning her attention to the secretary desk, she peered inside the glass doors of the tall hutch at several shelves crowded with bric-a-brac and books. Various envelopes and papers protruded haphazardly from the row of cubbyholes above the fold-down writing surface. On top of it, Haven noticed a worn scrapbook. She looked around furtively and opened it.

  I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s just a scrapbook. It’s not as if I’m rifling through the woman’s bank statements. But the scrapbook wasn’t what she expected—no photographs of friends or grinning relatives, no souvenirs from old state fairs or parades.

  Instead, the book was filled with page after page of yellowed newspaper ad clippings and brochures for antique shops. Dozens of handwritten notes listed store owner names, phone numbers and location information. Each entry was followed by a long list of dates stretching back to the 1960s. Miss Crosby must have been quite an antique junkie to keep such detailed records. In the back of the scrapbook were several maps, highlighted with colored dots. The book itself was over three inches thick, and Haven guessed at least a hundred tri-state area antique shops had been documented in it.

  “Finding anything interesting, young lady?”

  Haven flinched. She hurriedly thumped the scrapbook closed and whirled to see Miss Crosby’s attorney, Claude Venimer, standing beside the settee.

  “Oh, Mr. Venimer, you scared me,” Haven said, blushing. “I was, um, just looking for the bathroom…to wash my hands.” She held her gritty palms out in front of her as proof.

  Venimer barely glanced down, then nodded at the scrapbook. “Ab—er, Miss Crosby was rather interested in local history, particularly that of Bucks County. She was very fond of this house.”

  Haven smiled politely. “It’s a wonderful property. I’m sure it’ll sell quickly.”

  “Miss Crosby felt very at home here,” Venimer continued. “She purchased this place from a retired couple in the 1960s and lived here alone after that. When she became ill, Gail was quite upset at the idea of leaving this house.”

  Haven’s brow puckered. Gail? What happened to ‘Miss Crosby?’ And why did Venimer keep referring to his client in the past tense? She was curious to hear more about the reclusive old woman who owned the farm.

  “A lot of my friends think I’m crazy, but I love old houses,” Haven said. “I’ve been living in an old Victorian for the past two years with my brother and his wife. It’s a dream of mine to own a place like this someday, and renovate it myself.”

  “In that case, would you care for a little tour?” Venimer asked, moving closer.

  “Um…” For some reason, Haven felt vaguely uncomfortable about going upstairs alone with the old attorney, but she did want to see the rest of the farmhouse. Besides, the dude was like, eighty. And he had a limp.

  He kissed your hand, big deal. Stop being so paranoid.

  Haven shrugged. “Sure, that’d be nice. I’d love a tour.”

  “Splendid.” Venimer stepped around the settee and shuffled over to a high-backed wing chair. “The fireplace you see here still has its original Deft tile surround, and the brass andirons are period as well. Above the mantel is a portrait of Robert William Hall, son of Thomas Hall, the English settler who built this house in 1752.”

  Haven nodded mutely, uncertain whether she wanted to hear about Hall Farm in such minute detail. Right now, she was supposed to be helping Victor clear stuff out of the sheds.

  Venimer gestured at the painting. “Robert Hall, the son, was active in the Bucks County militia during the Revolution. It’s said he and a group of local patriots held secret meetings to coordinate the efforts of area scouts and spies. They would then forward information about British troop movements to the Continental Army. Their meeting place was just down the road in Newtown, I believe, at a tavern called the Red Lion Inn.”

  “He organized meetings for the militia? That’s cool,” said Haven, impressed. She looked up at the portrait of R. W. Hall. At once, Haven’s insides began to flutter again, and she suddenly found herself wanting to know as much as possible about the handsome man in black with the sad eyes.

  “Hall was instrumental in organizing supply routes for gun powder and other munitions in the western colonies, and often found clever ways to conceal these channels from the British.

  “He became such a problem for the Tories, in fact, that in late October of 1776, Hall was arrested by Hessian mercenaries and sent to England to be tried for treason.” Venimer’s eyes gleamed oddly as he spoke. “There, he spent six long years in prison. He only narrowly escaped a death sentence, and that was due to the intervention of his cousin, George Heckman, a Philadelphia Loyalist and prominent businessman.”

  Haven’s heart sank upon hearing this. “Hall was locked up for six years? So what happened to him after that?” she asked.

  “Nothing of consequence, I’m afraid. Hall’s first wife had already died suddenly in 1775, when their son, William, was just three years old. Unfortunately, the following year the little boy contracted a fever and also died. Hall was finally released from prison after the British surrender at Yorktown in 1783, when he returned to America. However, by that time, he was noticeably dispirited. Some said he came back a broken man.”

  “Oh…that’s really sad.” Haven swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced up at the portrait. That would explain Hall’s sorrowful eyes…

  Venimer smiled crookedly and clasped his hands behind his back, clearly enjoying the opportunity to show off his knowledge. “After the war, Robert Hall returned to his farm and resumed his distribution business, moving goods and other freight from the Port of Philadelphia to points along the western frontier. A year later, he married a young widow named Martha Cornell. They had one child together, a daughter, Clara. After a time, Hall sold his business to a longtime friend, Mr. Adam Burrows, and lived a quiet life as a gentleman farmer. He died at the age of forty-seven, just a few years after that portrait was painted.”

  “Wow, he was so young,” Haven remarked, “It’s amazing that he was a patriot and local hero and all that.”

  “Er…yes,” Venimer muttered. “I suppose it is.”

  Haven felt perplexed. “What I mean is…it sounds as if he had an important role in the American militia, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him before. Seems kind of weird, doesn’t it?”

  “Hmm. Yes.” The old man abruptly turned and scuffled across the faded carpet toward the entryway. “Why don’t we go upstairs? I can show you the second floor. While we’re there, you can freshen up in the bathroom,” Venimer said, apparently tired of discussing Robert Hall’s plight.

  “Sure.” Haven gazed up once more at the colonial patriot’s portrait. Hall’s stoic but troubled expression now made perfect sense to her, given all that he’d been through.

  She reluctantly tore her eyes from Robert Hall’s picture and followed Venimer to the front hall, where the attorney politely stood aside to allow her to go up first. She was starting to have second thoughts about the older man. Maybe the man’s not so creepy after all. Maybe he’s just eccentric.

  As
she climbed the stairs, Haven couldn’t stop thinking about Robert Hall. She knew having feelings for someone who’d died over two hundred years ago was totally irrational, but she felt utterly captivated by the striking man in the portrait in a way she hadn’t experienced before, and couldn’t explain.

  ***

  Upstairs, Venimer continued the tour by showing her the bedrooms. They were charmingly wallpapered but unremarkable, as everything had already been removed from them in preparation for the estate sale.

  “Here, I want to show you something.”

  Venimer stopped in front of a narrow door in the hall and took a set of old skeleton keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a winding stairway that led, Haven guessed, to the attic. She followed him up into a large space with a wide-planked floor and whitewashed walls. Light filtered in feebly through two dust-covered dormer windows facing the road.

  “This is nice. It’ll make a great office space or art studio for the new owners, provided they didn’t mind doing a little work,” Haven said, observing the deep cracks in the sloping, thick plaster on the ceiling. “What was it used for?”

  “Nowadays, mostly storage. In colonial times, the third floor typically would have been sleeping quarters for servants, or possibly a nursery,” said Venimer. He pulled a metal box from his pocket and held it out to her.

  “Altoid?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  “There’re my latest addiction.” Venimer winked and popped a couple of tiny white mints into his mouth. “I absolutely love these things. I eat them like they’re going out of style.” He seemed to be watching Haven closely—even in the gloom, she could feel his penetrating gaze on her.

  She cleared her throat nervously. “A nursery…yeah, I can imagine kids in silver-buckled shoes and tri-cornered hats running around the floor and playing in here.”

  Venimer pointed to one of the windows. “There’s an outstanding view of the surrounding countryside from that window over there.” The old man stepped closer to Haven, his face partially hidden by shadows. “Why don’t you take a look?”

  The back of Haven’s neck prickled. Was it my imagination, or did he just lick his bottom lip? She pulled the edges of her thick cardigan sweater across her shirt and folded her arms on top. “Um, you know what?” she said, forcing a smile. “Could we just go back down now? I’m actually supposed to be outside helping clear out the sheds, and I really do need to use the restroom.”

  Venimer pursed his lips. “Of course. Another time, perhaps.” He glanced around the room with displeasure, as if he had been expecting something that hadn’t come to fruition.

  Back on the second floor, Venimer nodded toward a doorway. “The bathroom’s that way, at the end of the hall.” Haven could feel the old man’s eyes glued to her backside as she walked toward it. Ugh, she thought, changing her mind once again. No, he’s definitely creepy all right.

  After Haven washed her hands, she followed Venimer back down to the first floor. They used the back stairs this time, which were little more than a dark, winding, claustrophobic passageway. When they finally came out of the small door at the end, Haven was relieved to find herself again in the brightness of the kitchen.

  “This room was added to the house in the 1870s, back when Clara, the last surviving member of the Hall family, still owned the property,” Venimer remarked as they made their way toward the back door. “Prior to that time, the home’s kitchen was located in the cellar. The large hearth and brick ovens from the colonial period are still there, though they’ve not been used in nearly a century.”

  “Yes, I saw those while I was cleaning out the cupboards. But why would someone build a kitchen in the cellar?”

  “In the days before refrigeration, the cellar was the preferred place for storing food and drink because it was much cooler than the rest of the house,” Venimer explained. “The Hall family was wealthy enough to hire servants to do all the food preparation for them. I suppose they didn’t want to waste the upstairs floor space on a room that only the help would use. You’ll find a similar situation in many of the great houses of Europe.”

  Haven glanced around. “Well, this whole kitchen could use an overhaul. The sink doesn’t even work.”

  Venimer smiled tautly. “Miss Crosby was a staunch believer in preservation, Miss Meadows, not renovation. As I told you before, this house was very special to her.”

  The back door to the kitchen jerked opened and Victor came bounding in. “Haven—there you are—thought you fell into the well, girl.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re going through the sheds…you coming?”

  “Yes, I’ll be right there,” Haven said.

  There was an awkward pause in which Victor stared stonily at Venimer. “Okay, then…see you in a few,” Victor told Haven, and went back outside.

  “Thank you very much for showing me around the house and sharing its history, Mr. Venimer,” Haven said, keeping her tone light.

  “Certainly. It was my pleasure, young lady.”

  “It’s such an interesting place. Makes me sort of wish I could visit colonial Pennsylvania to see what the farm looked like back then. I bet it was beautiful.” Haven opened the back door and saw Victor tramping moodily across the grass at the far end of the courtyard.

  Venimer moved behind her to close the door. “Oh, would you folks mind locking up the house for me when you’re finished? I need to run over to Newtown and take care of some banking for Miss Crosby before the end of the day.” He fished a set of old house keys from his pocket and handed them to Haven.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “And please tell Mr. Horn and your brother that I’ll catch up with them later over at the nursing home, all right?”

  Haven nodded. “I’ll let them know. Goodbye.” She pocketed the keys and moved past Venimer through the doorway, turning her shoulders sideways to avoid touching his sleeve.

  The second her back was to him, the old man leaned very close to her and inhaled deeply. She felt his hand trail across her shoulders as she passed, his fingers raking through the ends of her long hair. Venimer’s strongly minted breath was hot in her ear as he murmured something in French.

  “Ahhh…vous avez les beaux cheveux, Mademoiselle.”

  Jerking away in surprise, Haven turned to give him a scandalized look. But when she saw the look on Venimer’s face, a pang of fear shot straight through her: Instead of appearing guilty or embarrassed, the old man’s dark eyes glittered with a bold hunger, and his lips were curled into a lewd smile.

  Haven rushed down the stairs to the courtyard, her heart pounding in alarm.

  TEN

  VENIMER CLOSED the kitchen door and peered through the window to watch the girl hurry down the steps to the courtyard, her glorious golden hair shimmering in the late-day sun. She paused, briefly glancing back at the farmhouse over her shoulder. Her soft lips were pressed into an angry line, her warm hazel eyes clouded with distress.

  Venimer jerked away from the window and clutched at his chest. His heart was pounding, his breath ragged. The scent of the girl’s hair was tantalizing, and being this close to her again made his loins ache. He smiled at the memory of their encounter in the Walker’s stable so very long ago. It was an evening he wouldn’t forget, though of course she had no recollection of the event.

  For her, it hadn’t happened yet.

  If it hadn’t been for that arrogant, meddling buffoon, Archie Walker, he could’ve easily made her his right then and there.

  The imbecile got what he deserved.

  Easy, now. You must remain calm, he told himself. This much excitement isn’t good for your health. He could ill afford to suffer a stroke or heart attack now. Very soon she would find what he sought, and he had to be prepared to put his plan into action when that happened.

  His pulse somewhat abated, Venimer pushed aside the gingham curtains again to watch the girl continue down the path to the sheds. He scowled. That irritating L
atino boy, Victor Ortiz, was here again today. A trained paramedic, he was one of those do-gooder people—always trying to help, and sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

  Venimer despised the way Ortiz kept flexing his big muscles around the girl. Today he’d even had the nerve to embrace Haven right in front of him. Venimer clenched his teeth in rage at the thought of Ortiz’s strong hands groping his chaton. The boy was clearly smitten with her. The goofy grin that materialized on Ortiz’s youthful face every time Haven walked into the room made Venimer want to retch.

  He rubbed his chin. I must find a way to shield the girl from that idiot’s clumsy advances. His duty was, after all, to protect her. That dolt of a brother wasn’t doing a damn thing to watch over Haven—he’d even let her go off to college all alone, to do God knows what with who knows whom.

  Lucky for Brian Meadows, Venimer had taken it upon himself to watch over his impressionable little sister.

  Venimer’s resentment and jealously were eased somewhat by the fact that Haven didn’t seem particularly interested in the boy. Though the girl often laughed at Ortiz’s stupid jokes and sometimes behaved coyly around him, Venimer also noticed that she didn’t let him get too close. This he took as a good sign.

  Haven didn’t belong with Victor Ortiz.

  After all, what could she possibly have to gain by getting involved with the poor descendant of a Spanish slave? He, on the other hand, was the son of an aristocrat, albeit a minor one.

  Venimer knew he could give Haven everything, and was prepared to do whatever was necessary to achieve this goal. It was simple: If the Ortiz boy continued to get in the way, he would have to be dealt with. Harshly.

  Perhaps, Venimer mused, the occasion might even present itself later this afternoon.

  He patted the front of his navy blazer, relishing the weight of the dagger nestled inside a concealed pocket.