The Spirit Rose

by Renee Duke

  Spirit Rose

  Time Rose Book 3

  By Renee Duke

  ISBN

  EPUB 978-1-77145-697-5

  Kindle 978-1-77145-698-2

  WEB PDF 978-1-77145-699-9

  Print ISBN 9781771456968

  Copyright 2015 by Renee Duke

  Cover art by Michelle Lee, Copyright 2015

  Cover model photography by Summer Bates, Copyright 2015

  Cover rose image by Marion Sipe Copyright 2013

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  * * *

  Dedication

  To my great niece and nephew,

  Layla and Cohyn Duke.

  May they appreciate their heritage.

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank the following for providing translations, historical information and insight - Pamela Barnes and Wilfred ‘Grouse’ Barnes, elders of the syilx nation, and Professor David Dendy, M.A., Department of History, Okanagan College.

  Family support throughout the creative process was very much appreciated, too, as was input from my editor, Nancy Bell, and the help and support of Jane Hanna during our cover photo shoot.

  Thanks, also, to my cover artist, Michelle Lee, my photographer and touch-up artist, Summer Bates, and my cover models, Antonella Feeney, Teryl Bates, Gabriel L’Heureux, and Lakeisha Barnes.

  ’Tis for youth to call its own,

  By speaking words in proper tone.

  And up to five times be guided,

  To those whose fate be not decided.

  For divers lives must come to blend,

  Ere the roses’ peregrinations end.

  Rhyme on the box containing

  the Time Rose medallion

  Prologue

  The waters of the lake looked dark and ominous as the girl climbed the foothills of the mountains surrounding it, a portent of the storm to come. Coming to a halt atop a certain ridge, she closed her eyes, and stood in a T-shaped position, the palms of her hands turned upward.

  The creatures who had made the climb with her settled nearby, while, above, a raven flew, and above it, an eagle, both braving the rising tempest.

  “It has begun,” she called into the wind. “All is at risk. The golden circle must be claimed. However hard the journey, the journey must be made. Secure the way.”

  In a distant land, the five hundredth daughter of the daughter she had not yet borne walked along a quiet path. Though separated by millennia, the two had conversed before. When the message reached her, she stopped, and blissfully recalled the moment their minds had first touched. She saw herself on the same ridge, in the same stance, listening to that voice from a time not her own.

  As then, she responded to it.

  “I will,” she whispered.

  Chapter One

  “Child labour’s been outlawed.”

  Thirteen-year-old Paige Marchand directed this statement at her father as he sat across from her reading a newspaper. Mr. Marchand shrugged and said he’d pay the fine.

  Sighing, Paige picked up a silver spoon and attacked the tarnished object with a polish-soaked rag. With the help of her eleven-year-old brother Dane and nine-year-old cousin, Jack, the pile of polished cutlery on the kitchen table had finally started to get bigger than the unpolished one, but the task was taking far longer than she had expected.

  “Haven’t you guys ever heard of plastic?” she went on. “The fumes from this stuff can’t possibly be good for us—and Socrates nearly knocked the tin over when he jumped up on the table a minute ago.”

  “He just wanted to see what we were doing.” Dane’s fondness for animals made him quick to defend his cousin’s large black and white cat.

  “What he wanted was to bat at everything he could get his paws on.”

  “He was playing,” said Jack. “He was bored.”

  “So am I. Though I suppose this is slightly less tedious than sorting through RSVP cards to figure out who’s coming and who’s not. I bet almost everyone who got one of those fancy RSVP invitations has a computer. Why couldn’t you just have had them RSVP by e-mail?”

  “Because that wouldn’t have been proper,” replied Mrs. Marchand, who was, ironically, working on a laptop at the other end of the table. “This is a momentous occasion. When you’re celebrating a momentous occasion you issue fancy RSVP invitations. You also use the best silverware—even if you do have to borrow several sets.”

  The momentous occasion was the one hundred and fifth birthday of the children’s great-great-great aunt, Miss Rosetta Wolverton. Grantie Etta lived in a small village near Windsor and her party was to be a large affair with relatives from all over the British Isles and beyond. Having flown in from Canada, the Marchands fell into the beyond category. They had been in England almost a month, staying with Mrs. Marchand’s sister, Augusta Hollingsworth Taisley.

  Aunt Augusta and her husband Gareth lived in Windsor itself, a historic town within easy reach of equally historic London, making it a suitable location for two renowned historians. The children’s grandparents lived there too, and a great aunt and uncle resided in Eton, the college town adjoining it. They, too, were historians. Britannia Hollingsworth-Marchand’s family contained a great many historians. Alan Marchand often said that was why he married her, as no filmmaker with a liking for historical documentaries could afford to pass up a host of knowledgeable in-laws he could consult for free.

  As they were talking, Aunt Augusta, Uncle Gareth, and Grantie Etta came in through the back door. They had gone into town earlier that morning to find an outfit for Grantie Etta to wear to what she called her “big do”.

  “That’s quite a lot of silver you have there,” Grantie Etta observed. “And did I just hear something about issuing fancy invitations? If so, please tell me you did not issue any to my nephew Percy and his progeny.”

  Mrs. Marchand winced. “We had to, Grantie. They’re your sister, Lavinia’s, family.”

  “But I didn’t like my sister, Lavinia. I don’t like her descendants, either. The only good thing about that branch of the family is that each generation has only managed to spawn one offspring. Are they coming?”

  “We haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Good. With luck, they’re on holiday and their post lies unopened on the mat.”

  “Have you ever met these people?” Paige whispered to Jack as he got up to give Grantie Etta his seat.

  “Yes. Don’t like them.”

  Grantie Etta’s hearing was quite acute for someone her age. “No one likes them,” she said, taking the chair offered. “They’re a pack of snobs, just like Lavinia. Lavinia was always very conscious of her position in society. She even managed to get herself presented at Court, and thus wangle a London Season, which wasn’t something our family had hitherto gone in for. We had perfectly acceptable matrimonial prospects within our own social circle. Honoria had had an ‘understanding’ with your great-great-grandfather from the time they were children, and I found a beau on my own too, a handsome young archaeologist by the name of Daniel Tremaine. He was killed in a cave-in on one of his digs.” She looked momentarily sad. “Nothing as common as him for our Lavinia, though. A duke, an earl, or, at the very least, a baronet, was what she had in mind. Didn’t come about, however. Much to her disappointment, none of the peers of the realm asked for her hand. She had to settle for Jasper Herne, who was over twenty years her senior, but sufficiently wealthy and well-connected for he
r to consider him a good catch. The rest of us weren’t quite as enamoured. ‘Jasper the Grasper’ we called him. Money was all he thought about. Even though he had it by the sackful, he was always on the look-out for more, and our family was worth a tidy sum after my uncles died and control of the Wolverton lolly passed to my father.”

  “Who didn’t actually want it, did he?” put in Uncle Gareth.

  “No. He preferred the scholarly life. He was happy with the modest, but adequate, stipend he’d been getting under the terms of my grandfather’s will. My grandmother didn’t have much patience with ‘Guy’s dreamy ways’, but Grandpapa had always indulged his youngest son’s academic interests, and the older sons were content to do the same. After they passed on it was a different matter. Two of them had no issue, and though the other had four boys, they were all casualties of the Great War. My oldest brother, Ned, also died for king and country, and while the other, Bertie, technically survived, I always say he was killed in the Great War too. Having been gassed, he didn’t live long past it, and came back so shell-shocked, he wasn’t the Bertie we knew, even for that little while. With all of them gone, Papa was the only male Wolverton around to take charge of things. The prospect so dismayed him, he wrote to his only remaining brother, Edward, begging him to return from Australia, but Uncle Ned had made a good life for himself out there and wasn’t interested. Papa had no choice but to rise to the challenge. Not that he did much rising. Mama saw to practically everything. She had quite a head for business, and added significantly to our already significant holdings.”

  “Holdings Jasper coveted?” inquired Mr. Marchand.

  “Yes. He’d traced both family trees and thought the discovery of some sort of mutual ancestor made him eligible for a slice of the family pie—preferably a large one. To encourage other people to think the same, he voiced concerns about the Wolverton name dying out and had it legally added to his own. When he and Lavinia’s solitary whelp came along the revolting infant was christened Percival Guy Edward Bertram Rosewold Wolverton-Herne.

  “Jasper called this lengthy appellation a tribute, a tribute he was sure would result in Papa making little Percy his principal heir. He was quite put out when almost everything came to me. Since both my sisters had husbands to keep them in bread and jam, Papa chose to just make them a yearly allowance; an allowance Honoria and Pelham considered quite generous, and Lavinia and Jasper considered grossly inadequate. To no one’s surprise, they contested the will, which cost them a lot, and gained them nothing.”

  She paused, grimacing. “Being defeated in court didn’t put an end to Wolverton-Herne aspirations, though. The fact that I have no direct descendants encourages Percy to think he and his brood are still in with a chance for all my worldly goods, or at least a sizeable share of them. They’re not, of course. I’d rather leave every penny to my parrot. Strawberry’s only thirty, and likely to be around long after I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  “Which we’re not looking to have happen for a long time yet,” said Mr. Marchand. “I intend to dance at your one hundred and tenth shindig too. Best part of any celebration, dancing. As soon as Paige was born, I started making a list of potential waltzes for the father-daughter dance we’ll be doing at her wedding. If any guy will have her.”

  “And if I don’t elope,” said Paige, who had enjoyed ‘practicing’ that when she was younger, but now found it embarrassing to do so, and rarely would. “Save you a lot of money if I did.”

  “No eloping allowed. My princess gets the biggest bash I can throw. I have to show the groom how thankful I am he’s taking her off my hands.”

  “And pay tribute to his getting past the first date, on which every prospect will doubtless be informed you’re a third degree black belt,” said Mrs. Marchand.

  “Would I do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she won’t be dating until she’s sixteen. By then, she’ll be at least a brown belt and can flatten any unworthies herself.”

  “You’ll still find some way to intimidate them. Such as making sure they know your father’s a retired policeman.”

  “Sounds like any young man who gets past Daddy will rate both Paige, and a big bash,” Grantie Etta said with a smile. “As regards the latter, do you think this morning’s purchase will have me looking sufficiently chic for mine? I’ll be wearing it with a white silk blouse and my sapphire necklace.”

  She had Aunt Augusta take a nicely cut dark blue skirt and jacket out of a box and hold them up for inspection.

  “Very nice, Grantie,” said Mrs. Marchand. “Very grand.”

  “Yes, well, so’s my party. Such a lavish one was quite unnecessary. I could just as easily have had a quiet little affair with my nearest and dearest.”

  Uncle Gareth guffawed. “A quiet little affair? You? You revel in excitement. If we didn’t push the boat out, we’d never hear the end of it. You enjoyed every minute of the far from quiet affair we put on for your hundredth.”

  “We weren’t at that,” said Paige, indicating Dane and herself. “I’d just had my appendix out and Mum didn’t want to take me travelling. She left us home with Dad.”

  “And then called every hour on the hour to make sure you were all right,” said Mr. Marchand. “I don’t know what she thought I was doing to you.”

  “It’s what you weren’t doing—like feeding us.”

  “Supper was only late once.”

  “A very memorable once. Little kids like to eat before midnight.”

  “It was before midnight. It was eleven fifteen.”

  Mrs. Marchand shook her head. “And you have the gall to say I lose track of time when I’m engrossed in a project.”

  “Guess we both have to plead guilty to that, but being obsessive about my work is what allows my career to flourish, my dear. And at the moment we have a mutual project—Grantie’s party. Soon as I finish this paper, I have to get on the phone and confirm that my camera crew’s going to show up to record the event for posterity. I also have to confirm equipment rentals, and sort out local news coverage and a few other things. What’s everyone else up to?”

  “I’m running Grantie back home,” said Uncle Gareth. “She found what she wanted in the very first place we tried, but having been out and about, she’s probably ready for a mid-morning kip. Shall we go, Grantie?”

  “Yes.” She stood up, leaning heavily on her stick. “As regards a kip, however, you’re the one who should be having that, Gareth. You look worn-out.”

  He took her arm. “Of course I do. I’ve been shopping. With women. For clothes. Despite the short duration, that sort of thing takes it out of a chap.”

  “Would you rather I took her?’ Aunt Augusta inquired. “I’m going out again anyway, and you do seem a little—”

  “I’m fine,” he cut in. “Besides, I have to go in to my office. I have an appointment with someone. Come on, Grantie.”

  After they’d gone Mr. Marchand said, “Just out of interest, who is Grantie Etta’s heir?”

  Mrs. Marchand looked up from her laptop, on which she was trying to sort out the arrival times and accommodation locations of out-of-town guests. “I don’t know. My grandmother, I suppose, or perhaps Uncle Edmond, since he sees to a lot of her affairs.”

  “Hah!” said Paige, “I wouldn’t put it past her to do just what she said, and leave everything to Strawberry.”

  Dane grinned. “Neither would I.”

  “Nor I,” Aunt Augusta admitted. “I imagine the house and certain business interests will stay in the family through someone or other, as will most of the tribal heirlooms, but the rest will probably go to historical societies and what she calls her ROC charities—Refuge, Oxfam, and Combat Stress. The last one helps veterans suffering from shell shock, like her brother, Bertie. They call it Post-traumatic Stress Disorder now, but it’s the same thing. I wonder if the day will ever come when there are no wars to trigger it.”

  “Not anytime soon, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Marchand. “People al
ways seem to be at odds with each other somewhere. Including within families. With luck, any little disputes going on in ours will be put on hold for the party. Are you going after more decorations this morning?”

  “Yes. The ones I like are a bit pricey, but, volo optimus.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Dane.

  “I want the best,” translated Jack, who had an amazing flair for languages and knew several, including Latin.

  “Which you could have said in English,” Mr. Marchand told his sister-in-law.” My kids aren’t as up on Latin phrases as your kid. Nor am I.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Dane. “I’d like to learn Latin.”

  “Really?” Mr. Marchand made a face. “Why? Tu est déjà bilingue, and if you want to speak something more exotic than French, why not Russian, or Japanese, or something halfway useful?”

  “Latin’s useful to historians who have to go through old Latin documents and stuff. I plan to work with animals when I grow up, but I wouldn’t mind doing history on the side.”

  Mr. Marchand groaned. “I suppose this is the Wolverton and Hollingsworth blood coming out.”

  “Are there classes I could take back home?”

  “Doubt it. Not for your age group. But I have a friend at the university who might be willing to do private tutoring.”

  “I could help too,” said his mother. “I’m not as well-versed in Latin as Auntie Augusta or your grandparents, but if it’s beyond me, you can always e-mail them with any difficulties you might be having.”

  A sudden gleam came into Mr. Marchand’s eye. “Actually, it might make a good documentary—modern kid seeks ancient knowledge. Yeah, I could definitely do something with that.”