The Curse of Land's End

by Rose Lorimer

  The Curse of

  Land’s End

  A mysterious ‘Pride and Prejudice’ variation

  Rose Lorimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright  2019 by Rose Lorimer.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-6869-7398-7

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  For more information or contact, visit www.roselorimer.com

  Cover design by Rose Lorimer

  To my dear son, Euan, for his support

  and companionship in this hard work

  of putting into words all the

  ideas popping up in my head.

  “You will never do anything in this world

  without courage. It is the greatest

  quality of the mind next to honour.”

  Aristotle

  “Don't be satisfied with stories,

  how things have gone with others.

  Unfold your own myth.”

  Coleman Barks

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  About the author

  Prologue

  There was a time when the coast of Land’s End became a place where the dead could not simply be forgotten. The souls of those punished by the sea, cut from the world of the living for their malice to men, could not stay silent. Moans of tormented pain permeated every path, brook and cliff, their echoes reaching for miles.

  The land surrounding Land’s End became poisoned, barren and empty. Every creature stepping there — animal or man — would suffer a slow and agonising death. Many of those brave enough, or foolish enough, to dare challenge the spirits never returned. And those who did, lived just enough to make their fates known, taking their last breath with terror in their eyes.

  Locals in Penzance said that the Cornish Captain Samuel Bellamy was the unnatural power behind those deaths. His life had been claimed by the sea much before his time, at the tender age of twenty-eight, off the coast of Massachusetts in the new colony. Because of his unusual behaviour, clement to his prisoners, fast and clean in killing them, his soul was barred from Hell, but also denied entrance into Heaven. Banished from the underworld and locked away at Land’s End, the point connecting his place of birth to his place of death, his spirit remains at the coast, between the two worlds, never allowed to go to the sea, never to step inland, never to find rest until the Day of Judgement.

  In his fury for receiving such a fate, Captain Bellamy summoned the ghosts of his cursed crew already burning in Hell. At his command, they were to poison and kill anyone who dared to enter his place of torment since his demise more than a hundred years ago.

  It did not take long for everyone to know this deadly story as “The Curse of Land’s End”.

  But as expected after so many years, when facts turn into stories and stories into myth, some incautious folk began to challenge the ghosts, invading Land’s End, unaware of the consequences of their imprudent acts.

  What a mistake.

  Chapter 1

  Darcy

  The church was dark and foggy and the dim light passing through the coloured stained glasses cast shadows of men and women from the past, as if flickering their souls back to life. Emptiness filled the place from the roofless bell tower down to the tombs below. Old and broken pews were the only witnesses to the sinister ritual taking place.

  A chill filled the air, as I stared at it all.

  I raised my eyes to the shadows beyond me and saw it. At the front of the church, a female figure stood, her back turned to me. Stealthily, she turned and began to walk towards me, noiselessly, her feet barely touching the floor, as if floating, her face hidden in the dim light. The sight of her long and wet hair, partially loose over her face, cascading over her neck and shoulder, made my blood run cold; her white dress and veil were dirty and marred; some parts were ripped, fluttering in the air in a strange, ethereal dance. One step after another, she approached, her eyes on her hands as they entwined around a withered posy of flowers.

  I lowered my eyes. I was in my best clothing. Strangely, I knew what I needed to do. I raised my gaze to her face and met her half way down the aisle, taking her hands in mine. They were deadly cold. She brought one of my hands to her face, begging for my touch as she raised her face and looked at me.

  I gasped and jumped backwards terrified, freeing myself from her grip, falling on the floor, struck by the horror of the sight before me. Parts of flesh were missing in her disfigured face. Where one of her green eyes should have been, there was just a dark hole from which a thick brown liquid was trickling down her cheek and neck.

  I looked down at my hand. The icy brown smudge began to go up my arm, trickling up my shoulder, higher and higher, freezing every part of my flesh at its touch, until it reached my throat, surrounding it in a vicious grip, squeezing it mercilessly, stealing away my breath.

  As I struggled for air, kicking and floundering, I fought against that unbodied force draining the life out of me until I could fight no more. Pinned against the floor, my limbs lost their strength, surrendering, my hope faded away. Feeling the cold floor beneath me I resigned myself to the end of it all.

  From the mist forming around me, I saw it again; her monstrous face materialising, part by part, until completed and back to life. I tried to cry, but I had no air.

  My eyes were now contemplating the macabre apparition sneering at me, leaning her putrid lips towards mine, her rotten breath so close I could feel the acrid smell of death.

  “NO!” I shouted, jumping out of my bed, looking around confused, still expecting to see that deformed figure in front of me. Still panting, my eyes rested on a weak light. “Wilfred?”

  Wilfred, my valet, was entering my room, carrying a small tray with a coffee pot, a cup, and a flickering candle in his hand.

  He startled at my question. “Oh, sir! I am so very sorry. I did not mean to frighten you. But, as requested, it is 8 o’clock.” He took some time, but eventually realisation dawned in his eyes. “Oh, sir.” He sighed, resting the tray on a sideboard. “Another nightmare?”

  I could not acknowledge it with words, so I just nodded. Sitting up in my bed, I closed my eyes, rubbing them with trembling hands, not sure if my present discomfort was because of the candle light or from that paralysing feeling I always had after nightmares like this one.

  I took a deep and long breath. Would they ever stop?

  I shook my head. I did not want to think. I did not wa
nt to remember anything related to it. The natural lack of light of that dark mid-January morning was more than enough to convince me another painful day was about to begin.

  Wilfred opened the curtains, and behind them I saw the dim burning horizon announcing a clear dawn. How I hoped my life could be like that morning; bad and cold days followed by better ones.

  “Coffee now, sir, or after shaving?” Wilfred inquired, the hot pot of black brew in his hands and concern in his eyes.

  “I-I think I will have a cup now, Wilfred, thank you.” Having slept just two hours after a cold night out helping some of my tenants to rebuild the houses affected by the late storm two weeks ago, I needed some extra help to wake me up. I sipped from my cup, trying to distract my thoughts from revisiting that terrible dream.

  To no avail. As I observed Wilfred performing his morning duties preparing my attire, more memories beside that of my latest dream started to assault me, and the usual pang of melancholy once more gripped my chest.

  In my present despair, my life had become a living nightmare.

  As the heir of a large estate, I grew up learning the common duties of my station, following my father’s steps and understanding what it means to be a gentleman, being acquainted with my roles as a landlord and master, and caring for my family, tenants and servants — a role I had fully assumed after my father’s death five years ago.

  “Parson Kilber came here yesterday, but as you were out — checking the other properties, as you have said, sir,” he said glancing at me with narrowed eyes, “I suggested him talking to you after the service. It seems they also need some extra funds to refurbish the roof of the parish after the last storm.”

  Sunday service. This was one of the few things not so common about my upbringing: my parents’ religious devotion. Concerned about the strength of my character, attending Sunday services regularly was one of their ways to guarantee I would grow up to be a good man. Fortunately, on the few occasions I had questioned the basis of our faith, instead of punishing me or saying I would be condemned to the fires of hell, my parents were patient in explaining that, contrary to many men and women in the past — who were forced to follow the steps of our Saviour — being a true Christian was much more a matter of choice than obligation. “God wanted us to love him as our free choice, Fitzwilliam. Nobody can force us into it. Never forget that,” my father used to say.

  But despite these teachings, I confess — at times — I have questioned God’s decision in many matters of my life, especially those which brought me considerable pain, what, I was sad to conclude, were not a few.

  The first one was when my mother passed away mere months after my younger sister, Georgiana, was born. I was just twelve at the time, and being so young, I did not grasp the full understanding of what that loss would come to mean. My father, on the other hand, never recovered from that sorrow. So it was that eleven long years later, when sick and lying on a bed after a terrible illness incapacitated his lungs, draining his life away, he talked to me before drawing his last breath. “It is fine, son,” he had said. “Do not worry about me. I will meet our Lord — and your mother. I do not fear death. I will be fine. Just do not forget everything I tried to teach you, how to be a good man, my dear son. And look after Georgiana… I am very proud of you. I always have been…”

  His death hit me hard, not just because of the unbearable pain, but also because of all that was expected from me from that moment on. Upon my shoulders were laid all the duties inherited with my new position.

  The great responsibility of replacing my father just two months after I had graduated from Cambridge while all my university friends were enjoying the pleasures of a bachelor's life — traveling, courting, marrying — weighed on me as a heavy burden. Perhaps too heavy. At twenty-three, I had not just assumed my new responsibilities as master and landlord of Pemberley, one of the largest and more prosperous estates in Derbyshire, but also, together with my cousin Richard, the guardianship of my younger sister. Despite my unconditional love for her, I did not know how to do that.

  That week, after burying my father’s body beside my mother’s final resting place, my second questioning of God’s plan occurred: why had God taken my father so soon, before his natural time, when I still needed him so much? I was not prepared for my responsibilities then. I was not prepared for them now. I would never be as good as my father was.

  “Thank you, Wilfred.” I finished my morning ablutions, and headed down to break my fast properly and leave for the morning service. “Richard will arrive today and as the snow has stopped, I believe we shall head to London tomorrow as planned.”

  “As you wish, sir. The colonel’s room will be ready waiting for him. Do you require anything else?” Wilfred asked, fidgeting with his hands.

  I stopped and met his eyes. “Is there anything else, Wilfred?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Hmm, not exactly, sir…”

  “Come on, Wilfred. Out with it.”

  He raised his gaze and chin. “It is just that… your father would be very proud of the man you have become, sir.”

  How was it possible that Wilfred and I could have such distinct opinions about the same subject? I looked down to my callused hands. “Because I grabbed a hammer and hit some nails these last weeks?”

  “No, sir. Because you care.” Taking a deep breath, he boldly continued. “The servant men who worked with you these last weeks are very proud of serving in this household, and so are your tenants. They say their master and landlord is a good man who deserves their loyalty, respect and admiration. That he is a man who is not afraid of hard work when necessary. Despite all the circumstances.”

  There was no goodness in what I had done. Just duty. “So now you are listening to gossip, Wilfred?” I asked, wondering if I could have ever done things differently.

  Mr Wilfred, Mr and Mrs Reynolds, the butler and the housekeeper, together with Mr Carlson, the steward, were the oldest and most loyal servants at Pemberley, and after such a long time serving my family, they were more than simple servants to me, they were almost family. Despite it, however, they were very serious with their obligation to the Darcy name, which included reprimanding servants’ gossip.

  Wilfred smiled. “Indeed. But in this case, the gossip — as you call it, sir — was very well received and, actually, encouraged.” His professional face was back in place. “Will you require anything else, Mr Darcy?”

  I smiled back. From all the adversities which had afflicted me, my household, their loyalty, and hard work were never cause for concern. I could trust my life to them. “No, Wilfred. Just make sure everything is ready for our trip tomorrow at first light. I will see you when I come back from church.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  ***

  The way to the parish was fast and solitary. The sun was shining, but there was a brisk chill in the air as the wind passed through the branches of the bare trees. The only colours were hues of dark brown and grey. Some minutes later the old Norman construction, partially destroyed by the storm, appeared.

  “Ah! Mr Darcy. Good morning,” said Mr Kilber, approaching me as soon as I descended the carriage in front of the small church. “If you please, sir, I would like to have a word with you after the service.”

  “Morning, Mr Kilber. If this is about the reconstruction of the parish roof, please make a list with what is necessary and send it to Mr Carlson. I will be glad to pay for the repairs.”

  “Oh, why! Thank you, Mr Darcy.” Mr Kilber shook my hand enthusiastically, a huge smile spread across his wrinkled face. “You have been a great patron. May the good Lord always bless you! Fortunately, we were blessed with a dry morning so we will proceed with the morning service inside the church as usual. A bit of cold never killed anyone. By afternoon, I will have a man send you our list. Shall we?” He raised his hand, inviting me to enter the small building, which despite being roofless, was clean and tidy, thanks to the effort of the parishioners.

  Mr Kilber was another
wonderful man in my life. Presiding as a parson in our parish for as long as I could remember, he was one of the main reasons I have kept my faith in these last years. He was a practical Christian, and many of his sermons were not strictly orthodox. He had the talent of transforming some complicated passages from the Bible into simple and practical lessons we could always apply in our daily lives. Forgiveness, love for our neighbours, respect and trust were among his favourite themes. Besides, he was always available to encourage his parishioners when needed — me among them. His own wife had passed many years ago. That was one reason I knew he could understand some of my struggles.

  That Sunday, however, his sermon was about suffering and faith, perhaps because of the recent events related to the storm or because of what had happened to me. I could not say.

  “One can never experience what victory truly is until one has the opportunity of knowing what loss firstly means. I can tell you this without doubt. It gives victory a much better taste! Trusting in God is believing everything will fit in its proper place. Our Saviour had to suffer and die before receiving a name above all names…” he preached with his customary enthusiasm.

  Odd choice of words, especially considering the events that had happened to me in my relatively short life. Could it be that one day I would really believe those words? That God could restore my ways so I could finally experience peace and happiness after all that had happened?

  After the service, I was back home and for the first time in the last two months, I could sit down and rest, with nothing else to do but wait for Richard’s arrival.

  In the end, that was not a good thing.

  It had been two months since I had returned from Scotland; two months since…

  I shook my head banishing those torturing memories once again, rubbing my tender temples and shoulder. Never have I had this strong desire to keep myself as busy as possible, distracting my thoughts from revisiting events I wished erased from my mind forever. But my body craved some rest, so I retired to the library and asked to be left alone, grabbing a book and sitting in my favourite chair, enjoying the cold day by the fireplace.