Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

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  Highland Press

  www.highlandpress.org

  Copyright ©2008 by Highland Press Publishing

  First published in 2008, 2008

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Rape of the Soul

  Tribute

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  London, September, 1863

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Praise for

  Now Available from

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  The house seemed to beckon her...

  Welcome her...

  As if it knew her...

  The light had faded, and dark, bilious clouds had taken its place. In the three short weeks I'd spent in Cornwall, I'd learned two things: that the weather was not to be trusted, and that the wind never ceased to blow. Fair weather or foul, it whistled and murmured and moaned, like a living, breathing, tortured being. It had risen since it played innocently among the foxglove blooms earlier stirring the mists along the graveyard gate. Now it was angry, driving the black clouds inland from the sea. Waterfowl raced before it dotting the sky like a blizzard over the mighty house, and I'd scarcely pulled the car to a stop when the rain came.

  It was just as I remembered it from my drive-by earlier, like a creature of myth silhouetted against the storm—a huge, rambling, turreted structure of stone and timbers defying its existence in such a setting. Yet, aside from a wounded turret, a few missing boards, and a good deal of broken glass, Cragmoor approached the dawn of another century remarkably intact.

  I tried to imagine the house as it once must have been, ablaze with light and life, surrounded by manicured lawns and courtyards and lush, fragrant gardens. Now it rose from a tangled snarl of briar, thorn, and desolation. Row upon row of darkened windows, catching stray glints of the fading light, shuddered in the wind as the gale bore down upon it. The house was asleep, and I was about to wake it.

  Rape of the Soul

  * * * *

  Dawn Thompson

  * * * *

  ~~~

  * * * *

  Highland Press Publishing

  Florida

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Rape of the Soul

  * * * *

  Copyright (C)2008 Dawn Thompson

  Cover Copyright (C)2008 Deborah MacGillivray

  Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher.

  * * * *

  For information, please contact

  Highland Press Publishing,

  PO Box 2292, High Springs, FL 32655

  www.highlandpress.org

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names, save actual historical figures. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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  ISBN: 978-0-9815573-2-8

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  HIGHLAND PRESS PUBLISHING

  * * * *

  Legacy Imprint

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Tribute

  * * * *

  Dawn Thompson struggled for years to get in print. People see her over a dozen novels in two years and assume she was an overnight success. Like so many others, Dawn worked for a long time to see her novels published. Rape of the Soul was written twenty years ago, years before the accident that saw Dawn confined to a wheelchair this past decade. This book was written without considering how to make it more commercial. It was written from her heart and it's a masterpiece. At one point, she tried to make it suitable for mass-market release, trimming its saga length down. The story suffered, so she put the novel away rather than see it ruined. She loved this book and refused to see the story destroyed by paring it down to fit a smaller mass-market release.

  When Dawn fell ill in the autumn of 2007, she said this saga was the book of her heart, that she feared it would never be published because it was too long. One of the biggest regrets of her life. I assured her I would do what I could to see it put in print and see it done exactly as she wanted. She described this book as Anya Seton meets Stephan King—a perfect description. Before she died, she knew this book was going to be published and it made her so happy.

  Dawn Thompson was an inspiration to me. She lived her life with extreme hardship and pain, and yet she was never bitter or railed about the injustices life continually dumped on her door step. She was always laughing; always there for me when I needed assurance I could make it as an author.

  She was a beautiful writer and this is her story as she wanted. We lost this amazing talent on February 8, 2008. She was stolen from us, but here is her heart . . . exactly as she wanted—word for word

  I thank Leanne Burroughs, the publisher-owner of Highland Press Publishing, for seeing that Dawn's heart, her legacy, has been brought into reality.

  * * * *

  This is a promise kept.

  Deborah Macgillivray

  2008

  * * * *

  ~~~

  * * * *

  People wishing to honor Dawn's memory may make a donation in her name to Stephen King's The Haven Foundation, which aided Dawn in the final months of her life

  The Haven Foundation

  P.O. Box 128

  Brewer, ME 04412

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sp; [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

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  "Christ have mercy,” he murmured, the words leaking from his paste-white lips as he ran me through with the most intense pair of amber-colored eyes I'd ever seen. They seemed to see right into my soul.

  The whole valley around us was quick with mists the color of sorrow personified. He was nearly invisible kneeling in the midst of them weeding the foxglove and primrose border that hemmed the wrought iron fence around the graveyard behind St. Michael's Church. At first I thought the alarm in his expression was because I'd surprised him there, but I was soon to discover that something far more terrifying had drained his face to ash and caused his jaw to sag as he stared up at me. That look sent gooseflesh crawling along my spine, and froze me in my tracks.

  All at once he began to sway like the tall, shuddering foxglove blooms beside him trembling in the plucking Cornish wind, and I stepped forward quickly, afraid that he might faint by the look of him then. He wasn't a young man, and his complexion had turned as white as his hair.

  "I'm terribly sorry, vicar,” I said. “I didn't mean to frighten you. Your housekeeper told me I might find you out here. My name is Jean Maitland . . . we spoke on the telephone. I called about leasing Cragmoor. You made your position quite plain, but . . . if I could just have a few moments of your time?"

  It was almost as though he hadn't expected me to speak. The sound of my voice seemed to release him, and he smiled through a sigh of what can only be described as relief. “Ahhh, yes,” he said, “forgive me, my dear...you did give me a bit of a start just now."

  He gripped the fence and began to pull himself up, and I reached out and lent my hand. He was trembling, but some of his color was returning as he offered his thanks for my help.

  "Foxglove,” he said, caressing a stalk of the tall, bell-shaped flowers he'd been grooming. “The untrained eye is content with purple in this hue, but I see garnet in it . . . so rich, and much more regal, don't you think?” He didn't wait for me to answer. “You might know it by its clinical name . . . Digitalis. It's used for treating ailments of the heart. This humble herb once saved my great-grandfather's life, you know. Can you imagine that?"

  He rubbed one of the silky leaves between his thumb and forefinger absently. “Everything is all scientifically processed today, of course,” he went on, “but back in the old days, a body's very life often depended upon a tincture brewed by steeping the dried leaves of this beauty, and it had to be done just so. Too much could paralyze the heart muscle, you see, and not enough was useless. It never ceases to amaze me how thoroughly God has provided for the needs of mankind through nature."

  I couldn't help thinking that he might benefit from a dose himself, but I didn't suggest it. I made a half hearted attempt at agreeing with him, which he recognized at once as a patronizing gesture. My impatience was showing.

  "But you haven't come to discuss my botanical dabblings, have you, my dear?” he said. “Come . . . the day's about to turn soft on us; rain's on the way. I'll have my housekeeper put on the kettle for tea."

  He showed me to a neat little study at the vicarage beside the church. It was a masculine, book-lined room smelling of leather, pipe tobacco, and lemon polish. A heart-wrenching sorrow lived there and had, my intuition told me, for some time.

  We'd scarcely settled ourselves in the antique leather wing chairs, when the tea arrived, along with a plate of delicate, sugar-dusted biscuits. By the time we settled back with our refreshments, all evidence of his earlier strangeness had vanished, but those piercing amber eyes of his still probed me so relentlessly that I couldn't bring myself to look directly into them.

  "Ahhh . . .” he said, having taken a sip from his steaming cup. “Great-grandfather used to hold that tea makes all things civilized. I quite agree, don't you?"

  I nodded, but my mind wasn't on tea just then. It was on Cragmoor, not too far distant, crouching like a sleeping giant on its bluff above the sea . . . waiting. Somehow, I had to convince him to lease it to me.

  "Well then,” he said, settling back in his chair, “this is quite nice, my dear. Lovely young ladies don't often take the time to call upon me these days, but if you've come to try and persuade me to change my mind about the house, I'm afraid you've wasted the trip. As I told you on the telephone, leasing Cragmoor to anyone is quite out of the question."

  "But why?” I pleaded, trying not to sound as desperate as I was. I hadn't told him my real reason for wanting to lease the house, and I wondered if now wasn't the time to do just that, but something made me hesitate.

  "It simply isn't livable,” he said. “And, quite frankly, I haven't the funds to set it right for leasing. For one thing, the plumbing is deplorable. Why, there's only one loo. My father added that during an attempt to begin restoration shortly before he died. He had a tub and toilet installed in a convenient closet on the main floor, and I'm afraid that's as far as it went."

  "I only need one loo,” I told him.

  He smiled. “There's no heating system or electricity, either,” he said. “Cragmoor is virtually as it was when it was built over a hundred and fifty years ago. It hasn't been lived in since my great-grandfather was alive."

  "I don't mind roughing it,” I argued. “There must be fireplaces and oil lamps that would suffice for now, and I wouldn't be using the whole house right away—only several of the rooms."

  He shook his head. “I couldn't think of leasing Cragmoor without making major repairs. It simply isn't safe as it is, and as I told you, I can't afford to make such repairs at this time. Why, the general maintenance alone on the place is more than I can keep up with, which is why it's in its present state. No, my dear, and I'm afraid that has to be my final word on the matter; I'm sorry."

  I set my teacup down on the little table beside my chair and leaned forward. “Vicar Marshall,” I said, “I'm prepared to pay you a very generous sum for a one year lease on Cragmoor—as is—in advance."

  His amber eyes narrowed. He was clearly studying me now, making no attempt to hide it, but I didn't care. I had to lease that house.

  "Why?” he wondered blatantly.

  "I'm an artist,” I told him. “I drove out here to have a look at the house before I called you. The conservatory is perfect for my needs—so is the seclusion. I supply two New York galleries with paintings on a regular basis. I need a place to produce them while I'm here in England. Cragmoor is that place."

  "Surely there are other, much more suitable properties readily available hereabout to meet your needs. A good friend of mine, Jacob Parsonby, is an estate agent in the village. I'll give you his number and address. I'm sure he'll be able to find just the thing for you."

  "I've found ‘just the thing',” I said wearily. “Please, won't you just think about it?"

  "Miss Maitland—it is ‘Miss', isn't it, or is it ‘Mrs.'?"

  "It's Mrs.,” I told him, “but Ms. will do; I'm recently divorced."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Not all marriages are made in heaven, Vicar Marshall."

  "No, I suppose not, though we who perform them like to believe it. Can it not be reconciled?"

  I shook my head without answering and studied the tea in my cup. All that was in the past—too recent to be relevant to the distant past I needed to probe. Besides, I was in no mood for a fatherly clerical lecture on the evils of divorce.

  "Are there children?” he persisted.

  "No,” I responded succinctly, hoping he wouldn't pursue it.

  "Well, that's a blessing,” he said. “Divorce is always so difficult for the young ones. But you're young yourself. There's plenty of time to begin again, my dear."

  "I'm twenty-five,” I shot back, answering the question he'd tried to disguise, “and right now, I'm quite content as I am."

  "I'm sorry I can't accommodate you in regard to the house,” he regretted. “It just isn't possible—and even if it were, Cragmoor is much too large for just one person."

  "That's
your final word?"

  He nodded. “I'm sorry."

  One thing puzzled me. “Vicar Marshall, since, as you say, the house is a financial burden, why haven't you sold it?"

  He gave a start. “I could never do that,” he said emphatically. “Cragmoor is an integral part of my family history. The estate has belonged to the Marshalls since its owner willed it to my great-grandfather, Elliot Marshall. He was the first vicar of St. Michael's, by the way. The church was, in fact, built for him. For four generations a Marshall has preached from that pulpit next door. You can't possibly imagine the politics of that. The tradition will end with me, however, since neither of my sons chose to take up the calling. But the Cragmoor tradition as a Marshall holding will never be broken as long as there are Marshalls."

  He got up from his chair then, and I knew that the interview was over. Reluctantly, I stood while he scribbled the realtor's name and number on a piece of note paper at his desk. He hesitated a moment before handing it to me. He was studying me again, and those eyes boring into me made me more than a little uneasy.

  "Ms. Maitland, there's just one thing . . .” he mused, “you said you drove by the place. How did you know about Cragmoor? It's not exactly on the beaten path—certainly not something you could have happened upon. The road that leads up to it can hardly even be called a road anymore, all grown over with weeds and pitted with ruts as it is. Why, it's difficult for me to negotiate, and I know where the potholes are. And...how did you know to come to me?"

  My heart leaped. I'd hoped he wouldn't ask me about all that. For a long moment I toyed with the idea of telling him the truth, and I probably would have if I thought it would have done any good. But he was adamant in his decision, and laying my personal family mystery bare under those circum-stances wasn't something I wanted to do. I wanted to handle it on my own. Besides, I'd gotten the distinct impression he wasn't being all that truthful with me, either.

  "I heard about it in the village,” I lied.

  He gave a deep nod. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Where are you staying?"

  "At Hampton Inn, on the Commons . . . for the moment,” I told him unhappily.