Dinosaur Island: A Collection of Historical, Mystery and Romantic Short Stories
Page 8
‘You mean......elope?’ I cried, dancing with joy. I had never been more than twenty miles from the village. ‘Where shall we go, Grady? London? Oh, please, let it be London.’
He half shrugged, before grabbing my wrists and insisting fiercely, ‘Very well, but you must tell no-one. No-one, you understand?’ Adding in a soft but menacing tone, ‘Or there will be no marriage...........’
The following night, as I left my room with the few belongings I could carry, a sudden gust of wind through the open window slammed the door behind me, catching the hem of my dress. As I struggled to free myself, my aunt came out of her room. ‘Charity, are you ill?’ She held her candle aloft, and what she saw made her eyes widen with swift comprehension. ‘So... this is how you repay me? Well, you will not bring disgrace on this house, my girl.’ And she took the key to my bedroom from her pocket.
‘You shan’t stop me,’ I shouted, and I pushed her with all my might down the stairs. She lay at the bottom and didn’t move again. When I reached her, I saw she was dead. And I was glad, for I was free at last.
Hurrying to meet Grady, I decided not to tell him about my aunt. It was of no importance to him, yet I feared he might not understand. The night was wild but warm and he stood, as he often did, close to the edge of the cliff watching the waves crashing ferociously onto the rocks far below. Throwing my arms round his neck in greeting, I looked eagerly up into his eyes, certain that after a day’s reflection he would be thankful I had saved him from a life of respectable boredom with that prim and pure dumpling, Jane. But there was no love hiding in those dark eyes, only a harsh brutality, betraying such evil intent that a sound akin to that made by a cornered animal rose in my throat.
Frantically I tried to escape, but Grady held me in a vice-like grip and dragged me to the very edge of the cliff. I scratched, bit, clawed, kicked and screamed, until I could struggle no more. ‘Jane and I are to be married in the summer,’ he said in a determined voice. ‘There must be no scandal...’
Sobbing breathlessly, I pleaded, ‘I won’t interfere. I’ll go away... Please, Grady.....’
He gave a low despairing groan. ‘No! I cannot risk it....’
As his strong arms began to force me over the cliff, I screeched, ‘You will never marry Jane. I will come back to haunt you.’ My last sight of Grady was of those dark pools in his eyes deepening with naked fear.
When I found myself in Totwell House in my ghostly form and saw the daffodils dancing in the breeze, I was exultant. I had plenty of time to perfect my ghostly craft before summer, when Grady was to marry Jane in the small chapel beside the house. My plan was simple. I would appear in front of Grady just as his bride walked down the aisle. No-one but Grady would see me, I would make sure of that. It was an easy trick to do.
And when he fled from the church in craven fright, as I knew he would, it would appear to the congregation that he could not face marriage to that rabbit-faced Jane. No woman could swallow such an insult. He would never have her. He would never become Master of Totwell House. Instead of the riches he dreamed of, he would be forced to return to the hard life of a sailor. Such revenge would be sweet.
Eagerly floating through the big house to get my bearings, I was stunned to find no signs of life. Not so much as a servant was in sight, though the sun was high in the sky. Finally, almost in despair, I tried the chapel, and found to my relief, that it was full to overflowing.
A funeral service was about to begin, and from the size of the gathering, clearly a person of great importance had died. Jane’s father, without doubt, for no-one had more consequence than the Master of Totwell House. Then I caught sight of the widow’s face. Although elderly, it was not Jane’s mother. Yet, there was something vaguely familiar about her.
Of course, I took no notice of the service --- until I heard Grady’s name spoken in those dread, reverent, awed tones, reserved for those who had just died. ‘No!’ I cried in passionate denial, and passing fearfully through the coffin lid, let out a blood-curdling scream, for Grady’s body was indeed within. His hair was white and the weathered face that I had once loved was lined with the passing of the years.
I returned weeping and wailing, not caring who saw me now, nor that my presence caused his widow, Jane, to collapse and the other mourners to scatter in terror. For, I knew then, that those in that other place where there is no sense of passing time had, quite deliberately, sent me back fifty years too late.
OTHER TITLES BY DAWN HARRIS
In the Drusilla Davanish mysteries
Letter From A Dead Man
The Fat Badger Society
(available from Amazon)
Reviews for Letter From A Dead Man
“A delightful murder mystery in an 18th century setting.” Historical Novel Society
“Letter From A Dead Man has a similar wit to Pride and Prejudice, and Harris holds up a mirror to society in the sort of way that Austen did.” Margot Kinberg’s “In the Spotlight.”
Dawn Harris was born in Gosport, Hampshire, but now lives in North Yorkshire. She is married with three grown up children and two grandchildren. For more information see:-
www.dawnharris.co.uk