Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  SEACLIFF

  By Charles L. Grant

  Writing as Felicia Andrews

  A Rendezvous Press Production

  Rendezvous Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright 2015 by Kathryn Ptacek

  Copy-edited by: Pat Kampmeier

  LICENSE NOTES

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  Meet the Author

  Photo by Jeff Schalles

  Charles L. Grant taught English and history at the high school level before becoming a full-time writer in the ’70s. He served for many years as an officer in the Horror Writers Association and in Science Fiction Writers of America.

  He was known for his “quiet horror” and for editing the award-winning Shadows anthologies. He received the British Fantasy Society’s Special Award in 1987 for life achievement; in 2000, he was the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from HWA. Other awards include two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards for writing and editing.

  Charlie died from a lengthy illness on September 15, 2006, just three days after his birthday. He lived in Newton, NJ, and was married to writer/editor Kathryn Ptacek for nearly twenty-five years.

  Book List

  Horror

  Novels

  Black Oak: Genesis

  Black Oak: The Hush of Dark Wings

  Black Oak: Winter Knight

  Black Oak: Hunting Ground

  Black Oak: When the Cold Wind Blows

  Fire Mask

  For Fear of the Night

  In A Dark Dream

  Jackals

  Millennium Quartet #1: Symphony

  Millennium Quartet #2: In the Mood

  Millennium Quartet #3: Chariot

  Millennium Quartet #4: Riders in the Sky

  Night Songs

  Raven

  Something Stirs

  Stunts

  The Bloodwind

  The Curse

  The Grave

  The Hour of the Oxrun Dead

  The Last Call of Mourning

  The Nestling

  The Pet

  The Sound Of Midnight

  The Tea Party

  The Universe of Horror Trilogy

  The Soft Whisper of the Dead

  The Dark Cry of the Moon

  The Long Night of the Grave

  Collections

  Dialing the Wind

  Nightmare Seasons

  The Black Carousel

  The Orchard

  Science Fiction

  A Quiet Night of Fear

  Ascension

  Legion

  Ravens of the Moon

  The Shadow of Alpha

  As “Geoffrey Marsh”

  The Fangs of the Hooded Demon

  The King of Satan’s Eyes

  The Patch of the Odin Soldier

  The Tail of the Arabian Knight

  As “Lionel Fenn”

  The Quest for the White Duck Trilogy

  Blood River Down

  Web of Defeat

  Agnes Day

  668, the Neighbor of the Beast

  By The Time I Get To Nashville

  Mark of the Moderately Vicious Vampire

  Once Upon a Time in the East

  The Once and Future Thing

  The Really Ugly Thing From Mar

  The Reasonably Invisible Man

  The Seven Spears of the W’dch’ck

  Time, the Semi-Final Frontier

  As “Simon Lake”

  Daughter of Darkness

  Death Cycle

  Death Scream

  He Told Me To

  Shapes Berkley

  Something’s Watching

  The Clown

  The Forever House

  As “Felicia Andrews”

  Moonwitch

  Mountainwitch

  Riverrun

  Riverwitch

  Seacliff

  Silver Huntress

  The Velvet Hart

  As “Deborah Lewis”

  Eve of the Hound

  Kirkwood Fires

  The Wind at Winter’s End

  Voices Out of Time

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  PROLOGUE

  Wales, 1771

  The glen was a special place, a secret place, a guardian of dreams. Hidden in the mountains not far from the western coast, the glen was an emerald set between steep rocky slopes that protected it from all but the fiercest winter storm. The trees were tall and richly crowned, the grass in the clearing low and thick, and a stream coursed through the middle to a wide pond. Wild flowers painted the banks with splashes of every color of the rainbow, and the birds singing above in the branches made this an idyllic playground for man or beast. Occasionally a stag and its family ambled in to drink, first nervously eyeing the clearing for signs of predators that frequently included man. Eagles flew in the currents above the mountain summits in the distance, their cries soft and their wings golden in the sunlight.

  It was peaceful there, the air a soft green from the ceiling of broad leaves that laced together overhead, and it was private. Those who were aware of the glen seldom told others. It was much too special to share with any but the like-minded,

  A large flat-topped boulder jutted over the pond on its western side. Ringed with reeds, its sides were spotted with dark green moss. Glints of mica shone on its surface; a streak of ebony gleamed in the center.

  And on it sat a young woman.

  Even with her legs drawn up among the folds of her long sable skirts, it was obvious she was tall and slender, and under the gentle silk ruffles of her white shirt she had a flat stomach, a narrow waist, and full breasts that turned men’s heads when they were not dazzled by her face. Her raven black hair was long and captured the afternoon sun as it fell in natural waves far below her shoulders. Her forehead was high, her eyebrows dark and thick, and her eyes obsidian. When her temper flared, they became hard; when she was at peace, they softened and glowed. Her nose gently sloped upward, her lips were full and red, and her chin was rounded and cleft.

  At that moment she could easily have been taken for a portrait had not her hand risen suddenly to wipe away a tear from her cheek.

&
nbsp; It’s not fair, she thought.

  “It’s not fair!” she cried aloud, for the hundredth time since reaching the glen. Her hand clenched and struck her thigh once, then a second and third time while she stared blindly at the diamond shadows of fish swimming below the pond’s surface.

  She knew she should not have been surprised by her father’s announcement at breakfast that morning; he had been hinting for weeks. Nevertheless, when it came time, she’d been too stunned to react.

  “No,” David Evans said flatly. “The answer is no.”

  “But, Father, I want to marry him!”

  “No,” he repeated, regret now coloring his gravelly voice. “You may have known Griffin Radnor since you were both in swaddling, and he may now own a fair estate, but he’s too wild, too full of himself to be entrusted with my daughter.”

  “Father,” she said, “I’ve heard stories of your own youth, and they were not exactly tales of a saint.”

  “Griff Radnor is different,” he declared as he walked from the room. “You may be sixteen, but I’m still master of Seacliff, and I say no!”

  She sat open-mouthed when he cast a sad smile in her direction before leaving, and shortly afterward she stormed from the house and rode headlong to the glen, bemoaning all the while her father’s hatefulness and Fate’s apparent alliance against her wishes.

  It simply was not fair!

  A sound, then, distracted her, and she looked angrily over her shoulder, an oath at her lips to renew the battle if her father had followed her.

  But it was not David Evans.

  In the clearing was a stocky white stallion, and standing beside it a man dressed in snug brown breeches and an open-throated white shirt. His long hair was the deep color of copper, his face rugged and tanned by the sun, and his shoulders and chest broad enough to prove he wasted little time sitting behind a desk piled high with ledgers.

  The moment Griffin Radnor smiled, Caitlin scrambled down from her perch and raced into his waiting arms, weeping as she blurted out her story. He nodded and murmured softly as he stroked her back, then gently eased her away without breaking their embrace.

  “A stubborn man David Evans is,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Well, I don’t care,” she said defiantly. “I’ll take a carriage from the stables and we’ll ride, now, to Carfax. Surely, we’ll be able to find a justice willing to marry us. And then Father won’t be able to do a thing about it. Not a thing! Oh, Griff—”

  He touched her lips with a silencing finger, then moved it slowly along the line of her jaw to her soft hair. She leaned closer and held her breath. She could feel the sun’s warmth on her back. It merged with the sudden fire in her lungs as he kissed her. It was a long lingering kiss that momentarily shattered her despair. She held him tightly as they sank to the grass. Her tears still flowed, but the bitterness soon changed to joy when her eyelids fluttered closed and she could feel his hands caress her like the cooling breeze that danced through her hair. She could feel the embers beneath her skin fully flame as they shed their clothes, could feel the weight and the heat and the magic of him as they joined in a centuries-long moment that temporarily banished the grief from her soul.

  And afterward, clothed again and listening to the stream’s crystal voice, she whispered, with a grin, “Father says you’re also working with the rebels against the English.”

  A kiss on her cheek for an answer. “Well? Are you?”

  There was mischief in his eyes. “Would you mind?”

  She didn’t know if he was serious or not, but her response was grave just the same. “No. But I do not believe it. Father is… he is ill, and sometimes I think he sees phantoms, even in daylight.” She sighed then and smiled. “No. I don’t believe it.”

  “And why not, Cat? Don’t you think I could fight those damnable English?”

  “I’m sure you could,” she answered hastily, “but I doubt you do. No matter what stories Father tells about you, I’ve known you all my life. You wouldn’t deliberately put yourself in that sort of danger. Lord, if the king’s men caught you, you’d be hanged!”

  He said nothing, only sat up abruptly and gripped his knees with his hands as he stared at the pond. There was no time here in the glen. There never had been enough, but suddenly she felt as if time had aged Griff so that he was much older than she; so much older that she grew a little frightened.

  “Caitlin, you know… you know how I feel about you.”

  She watched his back warily. “Yes.” A wren sang cheerfully in the boughs overhead. “Yes, I do.”

  “But your father is right,” he said, after too long a time. “I’m really not the best catch you could find.” He rose then and stood over her. “And he is your father. It would be wrong to go against his wishes.”

  Before she could move, he strode up to his mount and swung into the saddle. She called to him as she struggled to her feet, their loving seeming to have vanished like smoke.

  “Griff,” she said, rushing to his side, “what Father said, all those things aren’t true! They’re—”

  His expression was painful: love shone clearly in his eyes, but it was veiled by a shadow she did not understand.

  “Griff, if you went there,” she said desperately. “If you went to Seacliff and talked with him, you could convince him. I know you could.”

  Sadly he shook his head.

  Anger, then, and hurt blended to harden her voice. “You mean you will not fight for me?”

  “Mr. Evans has spoken, Caitlin.”

  “I see. Yes. Yes, I see. If he gave his assent, you would take me without question. But one word, one little word and you fold like a leaf.” She glared. “I thought I was worth fighting for, Griffin Radnor.”

  He opened his mouth to speak; instead he shook his head and wheeled his mount around. The stallion bolted into the woods and was, in seconds, little more than a specter among the trees. Within seconds, all she could hear was the sound of hooves, and the flutter of leaves above her.

  Why? she pleaded silently. Why, Griff, why?

  Then, with a glower, she stamped her foot, forgetting the beauty around her. “Damn you, Griff. Damn you, Griff Radnor! I hope the English take your head!”

  PART ONE

  Daughter

  Eton, England, 1775

  1

  The falcon appeared to be little more than a speck soaring against the sky’s brilliant blue. With its powerful red-tipped wings, it climbed until the gently rolling land below took on distinct patterns: squares of green pasture, silver threads of streams, gem-shaped lakes where fish leaped unnoticed and skiffs rode under canopies of gold. Great oaks blended into sculptured masses, herds of grazing cattle and an occasional solitary horse rounded out the scenery.

  The bird rose higher and coasted far above the tiny village of Egham and the narrow band of the Thames. Past Runnymede, then past Englefield Green sprawled atop a low hill. To the parkland on the outskirts of the royal town of Windsor it shuddered and blinked. A soft scree sounded to mark a sighting, and within a fraction of a second the beast had folded its wings and plunged into a dive almost too fast for the human eye to follow. Within moments it reached some unseen, but no doubt startled, quarry below.

  A woman on horseback heard the hunting cry and reined in her high-strung chestnut to a sudden halt. Her companion just behind was surprised and cried out. The other woman raised her brown-gloved hand to her full red lips—a signal for silence— and the other swallowed her protest. She followed the pointing finger to where the falcon was already rising again, its long-eared prey limp in its talons. The companion shrugged.

  There had been nothing novel about either the dive or the falcon; it was a sight she had seen nearly every day of her life, and being in this new country didn’t make it any more savory.

  Then she urged her mount alongside the chestnut. “If we don’t get along, we’re going to be late.”

  “But it’s so beautiful here,” the woman said, awe in her voice.

&
nbsp; Her eyes sparkled as she twisted slowly around in her saddle.

  The companion shrugged again. Perhaps it was, but in her present mood all she could see was that every tree and every bush seemed to be stamped “England” in bold lettering—not her notion of beauty.

  The woman noted the disapproval and sighed loudly—a rebuke not entirely intentional. “Gwen,” she said, “you’re really not being fair.”

  “Fair enough,” Gwen Thomas muttered.

  “But look!” she cried, gesturing so strongly that her green velvet cloak fell back over one shoulder. “Look at what they’ve done here. It’s magnificent. It’s stunning. It marks a true eye for beauty, Gwen Thomas, and you cannot deny it no matter how sour you are.”

  Gwen’s lips pursed, and she whistled silently. Finally, under the other woman’s steadily smiling gaze, she nodded her reluctant agreement and looked away, knowing her friend would suspect the lie if she added words.

  Beyond was the Long Walk. It began on the low hillside to her left, a clearing of underbrush and trees across a lawn nearly one hundred yards wide. The Walk flowed down the slope in a brilliant green flood, jumped the road and the river, and continued for nearly a mile. Marking its end was a sudden rise, above which rose the bannered turrets and Round Tower of Windsor Castle. Around the castle was an impressive sweep of land and an artfully planted double row of trees so that the king, if he had a mind, could look out from his chambers at night and see the green carpet that led to a statue of a mounted nobleman.

  “Beautiful,” the woman cried.

  Gwen barely contained a groan. “Cat, if we don’t move along we’re going to be—”

  Caitlin twisted sharply around, her eyes narrowed and lips taut. “Do not,” she said quietly, with steel undertone, “call me that while we’re here.”

  Gwen glanced up and down the road. There was nothing but a cluster of sheep grazing on the Long Walk. “But… but there’s nobody here,” she protested.

  “I don’t care,” she said, though less sternly. “If you keep on saying it, you might slip in front of Oliver.”

  There was a moment’s pause before Gwen decided not to argue. As much as she hated to admit it, her mistress was right. Caitlin’s husband displayed a severe enough temper whenever the two women slipped unawares into their native Welsh; and to use Caitlin’s familiar childhood name invariably sparked a lecture from Morgan, accusing Gwen of being unseemly and trying to rise above her station. She herself did not mind, because Oliver was English and she delighted in every jab she could safely make. Unfortunately, he saved a portion of his anger for Caitlin, whom he rebuked for encouraging that sort of talk. And God knew, her mistress’s life was hard enough as it was.