Rebecca's Ghost

by Marianne Petit

  “Armonica, not harmonica. ‘Tis the Italian word for harmony.”

  An enticing smile of delight lit Elizabeth’s green eyes as she pushed down on the floor pedal and the graduated-size glass bowls began to spin.

  Delicate, sweet, ethereal music emanated forth. A sound beyond that of any other he had ever heard.

  Philip stared at Elizabeth’s slender hands, captivated by the enchantingly light, high tones, and the eerie, spine tingling low tones that dissipated into the air, lingering there long after she had stopped playing.

  “Are those high notes not celestial, like the voices of angels?”

  Philip nodded. “A magical voice indeed.”

  She was as magical as her music.

  Standing over her, he inhaled the clean scent of her hair and the faint aroma of rose water.

  He had the sudden urge to rest his cheek upon her head; to feel the softness of her silver locks against his skin.

  His gaze lowered.

  Her low-cut dress revealed up-tilted breasts, which rose and fell rapidly with each breath.

  “Wouldst thou allow me?” He moved around the instrument to stand beside her.

  She pushed away the embroidered bench and stood, allowing him to sit. “The greatest difficulty for beginners lies in the touching.”

  ‘Twould be his pleasure to show her how and where to touch him.

  “Nay!”

  Her shout yanked his thoughts from the bedchambers and to the present.

  Leaning across him she grabbed his hand before he had a chance to touch the instrument.

  He stared transfixed as she placed his finger into a basin of water.

  “First, you must wash your hands to remove any oils that may be on your skin.”

  Did she realize what an effect her words had on him; how his aroused mind turned those words into erotic foreplay; how the sound of her silky voice, so close to his ear, blew hot against his cheek and quickened his pulse?

  Warm water blended with the touch of her fingers as she gently rubbed his hands, and he yearned to bring her fingers lower to caress the root of his sex.

  The simple act of cleansing took on a whole new meaning as he pictured her naked body slick with water.

  It took every ounce of control to keep his manhood from responding, a feat that became increasingly difficult with every graceful move that sent a wave of her sweet perfume to the air.

  Mesmerized, he stared as she lifted her hands to the glasses. Water dripped between her fingers, dripped down her wrists.

  She ran her hands over the bowls, wetting each one till they were slick and moist.

  Moist—like the center of his palms and the flooding tightness of his loins. He wanted to douse his entire body with water.

  “You must play with long outstretched fingers.” Her voice floated above him like a warm summer’s breeze.

  Bending over him, he could feel her breasts resting against his upper back.

  She brought his fingers to the glasses.

  Perspiration dotted his brow.

  Her touch gentle, distracting, he was tempted to kiss her delicate fingers, feel their softness against his lips, against his tongue.

  If she had any notion of the effect she had on him, she’d bolt from the room.

  “Now pump.”

  His mind stuck on the word pump and what it conjured up, a second passed before he realized what she meant. He pushed down on the foot pedal.

  The sound of his pounding heart echoed over the grinding of the wheel and the dreadful shrillness emanating forth.

  “This is more difficult than it seems,” he said as his loins tightened.

  Any longer in her presence and there would be no denying his body’s urge for release.

  “You’re pressing too hard,” she said softly.

  ‘Twas an understatement; if only she knew how hard…

  Rebecca’s Ghost

  Marianne Petit

  To parents and children with special needs, I dedicate this book to you.

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright 2012 Marianne Tremaroli/Petit

  This is a revised, re-edited version previously entitled ~The Glass Armonica

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without expressed written permission from the author.

  The advantages of this instrument are that its tones are incomparable sweet beyond those of any other; that they may be swelled and softened at pleasure by stronger or weaker pressures of the finger, and continued to any length; and the instrument, being once well tuned, never again wants tuning.

  In honour of your musical language, I borrowed from it the name of this instrument, calling it the ARMONIA.

  With great esteem and respect, I am, Etc.

  B. FRANKLIN

  From a letter to Giambatista Beccaria

  London, July 13, 1762

  Reprinted from Benjamin Franklin,

  Experiments and Observations on Electricity, 1769 edition, pp.427-33

  Prologue Virginia 1782

  Pain cut away at his gut till it twisted and contorted in sharp spasms. Yet to the gathering of sympathetic friends standing around him, his face registered none of these emotions. The numbness in his brain blinded him. His temples pounded. The stiffness of his body, like a wooden soldier commanded to stand at attention, rooted him to his spot though he urgently wanted to flee. And his forced smile felt like it had been painted on by an artist; a desperate attempt to hide his true feelings behind a wax facade.

  Politely excusing himself from the droning endless multitude of people, he made his way toward the hall. He stopped now and again to nod to an acquaintance’s mournful acknowledgment over his wife’s passing.

  A new born baby cried. His son, he thought as he continued to stroll away; so innocent —yet so guilty. But for the child, Rebecca would still be alive.

  Leaving the crowd and noisy chatter behind him, he trudged up the stairs toward his wife’s chambers. He closed the door. The heavy latch fell into place with a loud echoing thud. And in the darkness and solitude of her chambers, a room that once had held the promise of new life and happiness — a room once shared with his only true love, Philip James Ablington broke down and gave into his tears.

  Chapter One

  Virginia 1788

  Elizabeth ran; ran as though her life depended on it.

  It did.

  On unsteady legs she rushed past darkening homes.

  Candlelight flickered across a window.

  Wide-eyed, she glanced behind her.

  Blood pounded in her ears.

  Clutching Mozart, her cat, to her taut chest, she ran through shadowed gardens. Towering hollyhocks cast ghostly shadows on the ground. Ominous clouds of slate gray hung heavy in the murky sky. The thick air, like a noose around her neck, made it difficult to breathe.

  She ducked into an alleyway between the tavern and the milliner’s shop to catch her breath. The bone stays of her bodice cut into her abdomen as she leaned forward gasping for air.

  Crouching beside a water barrel to gather her strength, her temples pounded. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the splitting pain away.

  Rocking back and forth on her haunches she tried to make sense of all that had happened.

  Why had the villagers turned against her? And her guardian, had they found him? Her nostrils flared. Just thinking about him made her shake more intensely. What had he done to cause their anger? She had seen a few of his patients among the crowd.

&nbs
p; A numbing tingle crept its way up her body; ‘Twas a familiar feeling that preceded a vision.

  The shimmering vision of her grandmother, long dead, appeared before her eyes. “Thou hath the gift of sight. Guard it well for those around thee will not understand.”

  “Oh Grand-mamma,” Elizabeth whispered. “‘Twas the best I could have done to keep my secret. Why then do the villagers seek me out? They say my music is that of the devil.”

  “Be wary of ignorant fools. They canst understand us.” Her grandmother’s arms seemed to reach around, embracing her in comfort. “Share thy gift with no one.”

  Beneath Elizabeth’s bodice, nestled under her chemise, her mother’s diary lay close to her breast.

  “Mama is…”A tear fell from her eye, slid slowly down her cheek.

  Only a week before, her world as she knew it had crumbled. The hand of death had reached into her life, robbed her of her only true friend.

  “Her soul is at peace. But thee must be wary of one who dwells in the house with the withering tree. Peril lurks --”

  Mozart meowed, rubbed himself against her arm. The vision disappeared.

  “Shss, quiet.” Elizabeth snatched him off the ground and hugged him tighter against her chest.

  Her future looked grim and Mozart’s warmth, a welcome reassurance that she wasn’t alone, quelled a small part of her fear.

  “What kind of doctor is he?” A woman’s high-pitched voice filtered out from the inn’s window above her head.

  “None that I know of. The man’s a thief. A scandalmonger.”

  “Thinks he can cure what ails you with a flick of his wrist and a few magic words. Does he take us for fools? Why the--”

  A door slammed.

  Elizabeth straightened up onto her knees and peeked into the window. Two women sat at a table.

  A heavy, full-jawed woman, with sallow bumpy skin, waved her fan furiously. “Can you imagine rolling around in the hay like animals!”

  “Do tell, what else did you hear?”

  Fan poised at the side of her face, the woman leaned closer. “I’ve heard it said he left many a broken heart behind before finally settling down. ‘Tis rumored one poor lass lost the flower of her chastity; and his wife being so sick… Why, I heard, she weren’t even cold in her grave and he was down at the pub with a woman on his arm; and he just as happy as can be.”

  Elizabeth’s fingernails dug into her palm. Her guardian was a pig.

  “Now he’s gone, or so it seems. They are searching for him as we speak.”

  “And that strange looking daughter of his did you ever see hair so light on one so young? Why ‘tis nearly silver!” The woman’s high-pitched voice rose to a fluted shrill.

  Elizabeth cringed.

  Her face partially shadowed by her hat brim, the other woman nodded in agreement. “Yes, ‘tis most unusual.”

  “Have you seen her eyes? Why she has cat eyes, a peculiar yellowish green. I believe, I may be allowed to say, eyes of such pale color are not normal. Now I’m not saying I believe in witchery, but she’s an evil one. Strange music’s been heard coming from that house. Providence have mercy!”

  “Hang ‘em both. That’s what I say.”

  Elizabeth’s grip tightened on the ledge.

  Dear lord, hang? What deed had she done to cause such wrath? Imbecilic fools.

  Her grand-mama spoke the truth. She knew only too well the suspicious nature of people. Ignorance bred fear. That ignorance would get her killed if she wasn’t careful, if she didn’t conceal--

  A serving wench came to the table.

  Elizabeth dropped to the ground, her thoughts reeling, batting her head like a moth to a light.

  Rounding the corner, a coach rolled in and rumbled to a stop at the entrance of the inn. Three months ago, her family had arrived on that same coach from Boston. Her guardian had said Virginia’s warmer weather would be good for her mother’s health. They had never stayed in one town for very long. ‘Twas only the day before her guardian had spoken of leaving. She had suspected something was amiss, but hadn’t given it much reflection.

  A bolt of lightning streaked across the darkening sky. The coach’s horses, nervous over the impending storm, stamped their hooves in the dirt, sending swirls of dust into the air. Soon night would blanket the town in a shroud of darkness, then she would make her escape.

  The sprightly twang of a harpsichord floated toward her on a gust of wind. She wrapped her arms across her chest.

  “Mozart, listen. Greensleeves.” She had played that song with her mother so many times.

  “Home… We are without a place to call home.”

  Elizabeth swiped her eye dry. “What?” She glanced at her cat.

  Mozart swished his black tail back and forth, leaving feathery lines in the dirt.

  “‘Tis dust, nothing more.”

  Her back molded against the cold stonewall, she hugged her bent knees, pulling them closer to her chest.

  “What is to become of us?”

  There was no one. No one left to care for, to be cared by. She shivered.

  No warm fire to sit before.

  Elizabeth sighed and closed her eyes as the twang melody from the harpsichord swept over her conjuring up memories of mother; home and hearth.

  A thought struck. Her eyes flashed open. “Should I go back for mother’s armonica?”

  Mozart stared, silent.

  ‘Twould be impossible to drag a box of thirty-seven glass bowls around with her when she didn’t know where she was going.

  An hour passed…

  And she didn’t - know where she was going.

  …then another.

  The rancid odor of decaying food, left by the side door of the tavern, mingled with the spicy aroma of fresh baked gingerbread, which periodically wafted through the air from the bakery.

  Her stomach grumbled.

  She scooped handfuls of water from the barrel to quench her thirst—to wipe her guardian’s sour, revolting kiss from her lips.

  She didn’t dare stand.

  If the villagers found her…

  Her legs tingled with numbness.

  If he found her…

  Elizabeth brushed her cheek with her fingers. Her guardian’s slap would leave a mark.

  A dog barked.

  Mozart’s hair rose.

  Footsteps tapped across the creaky wooden front porch.

  A spider crawled across her arm. She hurled it to the ground. If only she could have done the same to her guardian when he--

  She shook the thought from her head. Hatchet faced blackguard. Her guardian was a pig, and she a fool.

  What did she know of men? She’d been avoiding them most of her life.

  At seventeen, when most women her age were married, having babies, no calling cards had been left at her door. One glance in the looking glass and she saw what all men saw; her oddity. Her unusually light completion, combined with the silvery whiteness of her hair, turned many a head. Curiosity, not desire, followed her. Her guardian had told her that many a time.

  The thought, like a sour lemon upon her tongue, contorted her face. Her lips curled in disgust.

  Thunder boomed overhead.

  Her shoulders jerked.

  The window above her slammed shut.

  When the moon slipped behind a threatening rain cloud, when no one was in sight, she slipped from her hiding place —ran into the woods.

  A voice called from the distance demanding she stop.

  Without glancing back, her heart pounding, she pressed deeper into the heavy thicket, pushing branches away from her face only to have them swing back against her arms.

  Horrid memories unrolled like the angry winds swirling around her. Thorns from wild rose bushes tore her skirt, like her guardian’s fingers had torn at her clothing. Like huge opened hands, gnarled roots threatened to grab her feet. She stumbled over a small rotting log and caught herself.

  Mozart jumped from her arms. She straightened. A sharp excruc
iating pain stabbed her side where her guardian’s knee had pinned her to the ground.

  An owl hooted.

  Her teeth chattered.

  The moon slipped away. The forest surrounding her grew darker. Distorted shadows slithered upon the ground leaving a trail of blackness.

  A drop of cold rain splashed upon her. Sparse leaves, on twisted skeletal branches, rustled in the angry wind.

  She pulled her torn sleeve around her exposed flesh; cast her gaze wildly about her in search of Mozart and fought the terrorizing sickness welling inside her.

  Another drop fell. Then another and another, building like the paralyzing panic looming before her.

  She was lost.

  Blinding terror pushed her forward.

  Every twig that snapped beneath her feet gave away her whereabouts; caused her heart to pound in her ears. The damp, pine-needled ground soaked through the soles of her thin shoes. Rocks cut into her feet.

  Her vision un-focused, by the driving rain, she plunged further into the darkness.

  The deep, throaty croaks of bullfrogs reverberate all around her. She swore tiny yellow eyes stared at her through the darkness.

  She prayed for shelter—for the warm glow of a fire caressing her face.

  Her wet dress clung to her ankles. She stumbled several times, struggled to her feet, and pushed herself one-step further.

  When her legs refused to continue, when it hurt to breathe, she collapsed in a heap to the mossy ground.

  Wet, weary, sinking into delirium, she felt Mozart’s coarse tongue on her cheek. A meek twinge of relief fluttered across her heart.

  And as the darkness, like a sodden velvet blanket, settled over her body the prayer that she would see the light of a new day—died upon her lips.

  Chapter Two