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311Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9kbmR2yWHZ
The midnight forest surrounded the couch as it raced toward our destination. Tha-whack, tha-whack. Cragged black branches, reaching out like tentacles, beat a staccato against our conveyance. The springs beneath us creaked in response. Above us, the driver cracked his whip, urging his bulking horses to quicken their pace.
Suddenly, the air split with the ululating of a hidden wolf. Shrieking, I grasped Mama's arm and buried my head in her throbbing bosom. Gently, her fingers raked through my soft brown hair. She crooned as she would to a babe. I snuggled deeper, burying my eyes and stopping my ears with index fingers. Then, we burst through the tangled forest. The jolting carriage began to climb the treacherous rocky edifice.
Chills raced down my spine when I set eyes on the gothic castle. Clinging precariously upon a rocky peak, it loomed in the swirling gray mist. The blood-red full moon hung ominously above its crumbling turrets. Our coach swayed perilously as it jounced along the ill-kept winding approach. Desperately, I burrowed my head deeper into Mama's shoulder.
Childlike, I squeezed my eyes closed and wished the sight away. I longed for the comforts of Grey Friars’ Vicarage and Victorian England. I envisioned the walled garden with its white gazabo in the center. Inside, Prentiss Wills awaited me. I ran to him, the skirt of my white dress billowing around my ankles.
Once, my future held marriage and a cozy parsonage of our own. I envisioned a life similar to Mama and Papa’s. Prentiss would eventually become a vicar, and I would take my place as his devoted wife. Church affairs and planning the annual fete would consume my time.
At the age of sixteen, I noticed my parents’ nods of approval concerning the curate and me. Prentiss arrived two years previously. Tall and lanky, he wore his brown hair trimmed neatly above his ears. His hazel eyes, hidden behind thick-lensed glasses, peered studiously at his surroundings. Papa called him steady and reliable—a perfect match for his daughter, Norah Chamberlain.
Then, two months ago, the situation changed drastically. My gentle, loving Father, who never hurt another soul, became involved in a dreadful fight. Papa killed a man.
Four times a year, Papa spent a week in London lecturing at the seminary. Occasionally, Mama and I accompanied him. While he conducted his business, we spent our time shopping. How I loved visiting the dress shops and millenaries. Frivolously, Mama purchased frilly hats and flounce skirted dresses for both of us. She was thrilled by my advancing age and determined I should appear in the height of fashion.
On this occasion, however, Papa traveled alone. He stayed in a local boarding house for the week. It was a short walk between his lodgings and the seminary. On this particular evening, an elongated lecture kept him late. He hurried along the fog enshrouded London streets. Up a dark alley, he heard upraised voices.
Peering into the mist, Papa noticed a man grasping a woman. His strong arms pinned her against a wall. Stepping toward them, my father ordered the brute to let go. The furious Londoner attacked instead. In the midst of the fight, Papa thrust the man against the wall, breaking open his head.
“You’ve killed him!” the woman shrieked, backing away.
“I…I didn’t mean to,” the good vicar responded. Kneeling beside the prostrate form, he checked the man’s pulse. Then, he solemnly closed the ogling eyes. “Lord, our Father, forgive this man his sins…”
“You will kill a man, then pray for him,” the wide-eyed woman whispered, backing away.
“I beseech you, madam,” Papa pleaded, his hands still clasped in prayer. “I did not mean to harm him. Please.”
For the first time, my father looked at the woman. Tears streaked her face heavy with cosmetics. The plunging neckline of her gown surprised him.
“A whore,” he choaked out.
“Yes, a whore,” she spat out. Advancing upon him, she beat him with her fists. “You lost me two bob.”
Completing his story, Papa collapsed against his chair’s back. He covered his face with his palms and sobbed. Wringing her hands, Mama gazed down upon him. Then, she sank to her knees and entwined his hands with hers. I stood awkwardly behind her, massaging her bent back.
"I don't know what overcame me, Belle," my Father moaned, staring at his smooth palms.
“You’re here now, Millard,” my mother swiftly stated. “You’re safe at home.”
“I can still hear my footsteps echoing on the cobbles as I hastened away,” my father continued as though she had not spoken. “The fog put everything out of perspective. I wandered around the city for hours before returning to my lodgings.”
“There, there,” Mama comforted, placing a kiss on his balding pate. “You’re home, Mill. That’s all that matters.”
“I must return,” Papa insisted, squeezing her hands. “I have repented of my sins. God has forgiven me, but I must face the consequences. I…I killed a man.”
“Oh no, Mill, no,” my mother moaned, tears clinging to her pale lashes. Her nervous fingers played over the cameo at her throat. “Surely, it was self-defense.”
“Nevertheless, Isabelle…” Papa started, but the words caught in his throat.
Soundlessly, I watched my parents. My heart broke for them and our little family. Aghast, I knelt beside Mama and threw my arms around my father’s neck. He held me close while I sobbed.
Dolefully, I leaned my cheek against the carriage window. Memories of that fate-filled night played in my mind's eye. Papa returned to London the following day. The good rector turned himself into the police. His confession and refusal of counsel sped up his trial. Found guilty of murder, the jury laid down the hanging sentence.
“Oh, Papa,” I mourned as the carriage jolted onward. Tears streaked down my face.
Never again could I lay flowers upon in his grave in Grey Friar's churchyard. I could not run my fingers along the words marking his gravestone. My lips formed them as we moved closer to our destination.
Reverend Millard Richard Chamberlain
Born 1856
Died 1893
Blessed are the meek,311Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcrjSbsbZsB
for they will inherit the earth.
His tragic execution struck us hard. Cast out of the vicarage, we became homeless. Suddenly, my frivolous Mama had to provide for us. She decided to become a governess and answered several newspaper adverts for the position.
The notoriety of my father’s execution spread rapidly. Rejection letters to my mother’s inquiries began to arrive. She could not find a position nearby, nor in France, Spain or Germany. Finally, she received a letter summoning her for an interview. And so, we left England.
Romania! A godforsaken place to begin anew.
The rickety coach halted before the castle’s drawbridge. Out of the mist, the bridge lowered, then thumped into place. Bravely, we crossed into the forbidding courtyard.
“This is as far as I go,” the one-eyed coachman quipped. Leaping from his seat, he hastily dropped our baggage onto the uneven cobblestones.
Mama's foot barely touched the ground before our conveyance jerked around. Swiftly, it disappeared. The quick-paced clop of horses' hooves reverberated around the still enclosure.
Longingly, I watched the departure. I wished I had never exited the vehicle. Tentatively, I grasped Mama's hand. She held her head high and approached the ominous castle door. Boldly, she swung the knocker against the barred edifice. The moon, momentarily peeking through the midst, showed its bat shape. Involuntarily, I shivered.
The creaking door swung inward of its own accord. Mama stepped forward, practically dragging me along with her.
“Hello.” The echo of Mama’s voice resounded about the cobweb-strewn hall.
Alone, we stood close together. My arms encircled the waist of Mama's black bombazine dress. It held the comforting scent of lavender. I buried my head in her shoulder.
“No one is here, Mama,” I stated, gulping my sobs. “We cannot stay.”
The walk down the perilous incline would take all night. However, I preferred returning to the village to the moldy, abandoned castle. Anxiously, I tugged her arm, urging her to leave. She motioned me to follow her and stepped further into the eerie foyer. I following, clinging anxiously to her sleeve.
“Hello,” my mother called, raising her voice. We paused, apprehensively.
Defeated, Mama strode toward the door. I hurriedly followed in her wake. Indeed, our departure became imminent. I felt an urgent need to put our fool’s errand behind us. Somehow, we would return to England.
Then, out of the gloom, the dark figure loomed in front of us. 311Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZUUwIWlfVt
