In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  In the Brief

  Eternal Silence

  Rebecca Melvin

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  Double Edge Press - Smashwords Edition ebook

  Ebook edition ISBN 978-1-4524-2716-4

  In the Brief Eternal Silence Copyright © 2006 Rebecca Melvin

  Cover Artwork: David Shuck © 2007 Double Edge Press

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Double Edge Press, 72 Ellview Road, Scenery Hill, PA 15360

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  For Jesus Christ

  Acknowledgments:

  I wish I had a long list of people that helped me in my endeavor, but I really don’t. I have the obvious, but incredibly important: my family.

  To my mother and Tom, thank you for the encouragement.

  To my brothers, Mike, Andy and Jerry, same goes.

  To my children, Garrett, Austin, Coleman and Shelby, thank you for your patience, your love, and for not minding having dinner late so many nights. Thank you for being mine.

  To my husband, Neal, thank you for being you. Without you, it couldn’t have happened.

  My greatest acknowledgment goes to Christ. He was there when that long list of people wasn’t. Without You, Lord, I am nothing. Without You, my words would only be so many splatters on the page. Thank You for the words to write, the patience to endure, and for two important lessons (among many others):

  I have judged myself in my own eyes

  and found myself unworthy,

  but in the eyes of the Lord, I am perfect,

  for I am cleansed with the Blood of the Lamb.

  And:

  I am a woman of great blessing,

  for I am a woman of great faith,

  and the greatest blessing of all is faith.

  Thank You for covering my imperfections. Thank You for blessing me with faith. Thank You for saving me, not just once, but every day I exist.

  It’s been a long, hard road.

  In Christ,

  ~ Rebecca Melvin

  In the Brief

  Eternal Silence

  Rebecca Melvin

  Between the striking of the Lightning

  and the rolling of the Thunder

  There is a brief, eternal Silence

  Between the firing of a Bullet

  and the crack of the Shot

  There is a brief, eternal Silence

  And between actions taken

  and consequences paid

  There is a brief, eternal Silence

  PROLOGUE

  December, 1839

  The ten year old boy sat in the finely upholstered seat of the coach. He was wrapped in an expensive coat of navy blue, tailored to fit his small shoulders, and a matching blue silk scarf was wrapped about his neck and tucked neatly into the collar of the coat. He idly twirled at one of the many gold buttons down the front of the coat as he waited, his oddly colored hazel eyes glinting nearly as gold as the buttons in the dim light of the coach.

  The door was opened from the outside, letting in more light from one of the torches that was lit, and the soft rustle of skirts told him that it was his mother just outside the door. “Is his Grace nearly ready, then?” he heard his mother asking the coachman. “Tell him that we await him in the coach and to try not to be long,” and then she was climbing into the coach to sit next to him, her cheeks colored from the cold night air. She settled in, straightening her skirts and turned to him.

  “Dante, darling. Does mummy look pretty tonight?” she asked.

  “Yes, mummy,” he agreed readily. “You look beautiful tonight.” His ten year old face shone with adoration, which inspired her to pinch his small cheek.

  “And you, son, shall be the terror of all the ladies in another year or two,” she said with pride. Then, “Why, what’s the matter? You look as though you are about to choke on something.” His eyes had lost their adoration and showed an inner, preoccupied look and his face turned a blotchy red.

  For answer, he began to cough; two small wheezes followed by a great wrenching bark. He was aware enough of his mother to see her expression change from good natured indulgence to quick annoyance, but all he could do was wrench out a stream of coughs that sounded as though he were a dog, and which tore at his throat in painful intensity.

  “Oh, heaven,” his mother said with irritation. “The croup. Dante, you can not possibly have the croup. You haven’t had that for ages.” She paused, as though expecting him to admit to some joke on his part. But he only looked at her helplessly, his little hands at his throat, and coughed again.

  With that, his mother rapped upon the window of the coach door, her knuckles pounding out a demanding tattoo. The door was immediately opened. “Take my son back into the house,” she told the coachman dismissingly. “And have Mrs. Herriot attend to him. He has the croup.”

  “What is this?” Dante heard his father from outside ask. He peered into the open door. “Are you not well, son?”

  Dante attempted to speak, “Just a cough—” and he wrenched out another bark, “Father. I’m sure it will pass in a moment.”

  But his father was shaking his head. “Alas, no, son. We can not take any risk that your mother should catch it in her condition,” and he said the last words with a tender pride. “Come now, up into the house as your mother has bid. You do not wish your new baby brother or sister to become sick before they are even born, do you?”

  Dante could not argue. He had been in a perfect transport of joy at the news that he would soon become a brother when it had been announced at the family dinner table just three nights ago. He climbed from the coach. His mother followed.

  “I shall just speak to the Dowager,” she explained to her husband, “so that she shall know that Dante is to return to London with her at the end of her holiday.”

  “You should stay also,” he urged.

  “La—no,” she answered. “I can not take another day here, William, I swear I can not. Between your mother and our new sister-in-law, Lydia,” she shook her head. “I will be much happier in Town.”

  “But in your condition and traveling at night? I do not like it. It is not necessary, you know. You should stay and come up with my mother when she returns.”

  “Now we have been all through this already,” she admonished. “We had planned on trying to be more of a family, and because Dante can no longer go does not mean that I cannot. Now, allow me to speak with your mother so that we may leave. You have pressing business, remember?”

  Dante heard no more, for he went through the manor door, miserable that he would not be traveling with his father and mother. He was miserable as Mrs. Herriott was called for and he was shooed up into bed by that indomitable housekeeper. By the time his father came into the room, there was a bedwarmer beneath the blankets at his feet and a poultice wrapped about his throat.

  “There you are, snug and warm,” his father said as he came to his side.

  “I’m much better, now, Father. Mayn’t I go?”

  “No. The cold night air would only set you off again, I should fear. You remain here where your grandmother may send fo
r a doctor should the coughing return and be worse.”

  “It is just that I have hardly spent any time with you at all. Or mother,” Dante sighed.

  “I know, son,” his father said and rumpled his hair. “I know that it is hard on you, but some day when you are older, you shall understand. There are things that must be done that are bigger than ourselves and even our loved ones. The Queen is counting on me and there are many lives at stake. I must advise her to the best of my ability so that she has good, accurate information to make her decisions on. And she must be very close to making a decision for her to have called me so abruptly over this holiday time. We would not get to spend much time together, other than the journey, at any rate I fear. You shall be much better off remaining out your holiday here with your grandmother.”

  Dante only nodded, his eyes clenching shut in order to squeeze back any unmanly tears. “I understand, Father,” he coughed.

  His father nodded, looking relieved. “Now, I must gather my attaché and go. You shall look after your grandmother, shall you?”

  “Yes, Father, if you shall look after Mother.”

  “I will do that,” his father told him seriously. “Better than I have before. Of that, I promise you.”

  And although Dante did not know what that meant, it was enough for him to close his eyes without trouble as his father quietly left the room.

  It was not until nearly noon the next morning that he was fetched from his room by Mrs. Herriott at the bidding of his grandmother. He had eaten breakfast from a tray and been permitted to move about quietly, but he had not been allowed far from his bed. Now the housekeeper knocked lightly and then opened the door. “Young master,” she choked, her face blotchy and her eyes red, which alarmed the boy. “The Dowager asks for your presence in the study.”

  The study! Dante was over-awed at the thought of going through those doors into a room that was reserved strictly for adults and the conducting of adult business. But he was distracted by the agitated movements of the housekeeper, and her face which looked as though it had been weeping, and at the same time, bravely trying to staunch it. “Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Herriott?” he asked in his small, boy’s voice as he went to the door which she held open.

  “Your grandmother must speak with you,” she whispered, and would say no more.

  He left the room. The halls that were so familiar to him now seemed echoing. The huge clock at the head of the steps seemed to tick all the louder in the hush of the house. The pattern of the rug of the stairs, deep red with gold triangles, was impressed forever on his memory, so that when he thought about that day, years hence, he would see that pattern over and over in his head, the endless walk down those stairs, when he knew not what was coming, but was certain in his little boy’s heart that something had happened that would change his life forever. Finally, along the main hall of the first floor, to the double doors of the study, which were opened for him by the butler of the house. “Your Grace,” the butler said as he passed through that portal. Your Grace. He was never referred to as ‘your Grace’. That was the title reserved for his father, the Duke of St. James.

  “Dante,” his grandmother bade from where she sat in a large wing-backed chair. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Come and sit down, here, next to me. And try to be very brave.”

  Twenty-three years later

  November, 1863

  Chapter One

  Sunday Afternoon

  Miss Sara Elizabeth Murdock stroked the wet neck of the horse she was astride. It was a dun color that even the grey of the day could not mute. It shifted in eagerness but Miss Murdock's father at its head held it with expertise and it settled into walking again. “Do you think she'll be bothered by the slop?” Lizzie asked. “We've never had her on the track in the rain before.”

  The training track was just ahead of them, a level area not far from the stables that Lizzie's grandfather had cleared many years ago.

  Her father seemed to consider his answer before saying, “I can't rightly say. Be cautious, but don't hold her in too much, Lizzie, love.” He turned to look at her. “We need a good showing in this.”

  Lizzie nodded. “I understand. I had so hoped to race her before she became brood stock, though.”

  “Aye. I know it. But you know as well as I that we could use the brass. And if these gentlemen that are coming today are impressed. . . well, could be a right good turn to our fortunes.”

  “Or lack of them,” Lizzie smiled. “Don't worry, father, it'll all come out right. I only hope she has at least a modicum of sense today. What is this man's name again? The one you met yesterday?”

  “Tempton. From over Lincolnshire way.” Her father looked over his shoulder at her again. The rain was running down the heavy, over-indulgent lines of his face and dampened the thick gray of his hair. He was portly, and the walk was making him huff. “But t'won't be him that'll be interested. A friend of his is supposed to be joining him and his brother. That's the one we want to impress. Tempton said this other fellow owns Behemoth.”

  “Behemoth,” Lizzie breathed. “That certainly shows he knows his way around horseflesh. Unless,” she frowned, “he's one of these in name only owners that leaves all the work to his grooms.”

  They arrived at the beginning of the oval, but there was no one else in sight. “Do you think they won't come because of the weather?” she asked.

  “I don't know. We'll give them a minute, any rate.” Her father stopped her mount and turned to come to her knee. “Get yourself settled in, Liz, and try not to be nervous. I know this isn't what you had in mind when you picked out this little filly, but at least we can maybe cut a deal where we can keep her.”

  “I know,” she returned and fingered her hair more fully up beneath her riding cap. She was in breeches tucked into her boots, and the short jacket she wore was large on her. “But what use will she be once she's foaled is what I ask myself. Unless she has a really outstanding colt, she'll not be in demand as a broodmare either and I still can't help wishing we could have given her a shot at the track.”

  Her father chuckled. “And you would like to see if your training has been any good, I'd lief bet. Never mind, Lizzie. At least we can mayhaps get enough to see that you have a real dowry instead of a four-legged one.”

  “As if I have need of one at all,” Lizzie countered but she grinned. “You'll not be rid of me as easily as that, father, even if you have a thousand pounds with which to entice the local gentry, instead of an untried filly.”

  But he didn't respond to her teasing, only said, “They're here.”

  “Oh,” Lizzie said and turned in her saddle. A trio of men was moving up the lane, evidently leaving their mode of transportation, whether mounts or carriages, back at the stables. Two were tall, with wavy red hair, although one, the older looking one, was much stouter than the other. The brothers, Miss Murdock surmised. The stout brother was in a bright, nearly overpowering yellow coat. There was nothing significant about the tall, rawboned younger brother's attire except for a fine, shining gold watch chain that dangled in an extravagant loop from his pocket.

  The third man was slender and not as tall. His hair was a dark shade of brown that, with the rain upon it and in contrast to the paleness of his face, appeared nearly black. His coat was a heavy navy blue, with many capes, and it came down to the tops of his high riding boots. It was November and the rain falling was cold and Lizzie had a sudden wish that she were half as warm as he appeared to be.

  Lizzie's father took two steps forward to meet them. “Lord Tempton,” he said, and pumped stout, yellow coat's hand. “Happy to see the weather didn't keep you.”

  “No, indeed, Squire Murdock.” Lord Tempton turned to pocket watch. “This is my brother, Ryan Tempton,” and then indicating the third man, “and my friend, St. James.”

  Squire Murdock shook Ryan Tempton's hand as Lord Tempton was making the introductions, but he halted for a second, his hand half out-stretched, as the other man was named. “
St. James?”

  “Yes. The owner of Behemoth,” Lord Tempton prompted.

  The man designated as St. James extended his hand to the half-held out one of Squire Murdock. “Squire,” he said. “Forgive us for being late but I fear I'm a bit hung-over and have a lethal headache. I didn't receive word from Bertie of your filly until this morning and so did not have this meeting in mind last night.”

  “Well,” the Squire answered. “I'm the last fellow to hold that against a man. Now, if you wish to take a look at our girl, here, go on and do so, and then when you're ready, we'll give her a run.”

  The two Tempton's remained back, but St. James went forward after thanking the Squire. The Squire went again to the head of the filly.

  “Her name?” asked St. James as he ran his hand down the filly's chest and front legs.

  “Leaf,” the Squire answered.

  St. James' hands moved back along the horse's barrel and he glanced up at the rider. Lizzie looked down and was met with a pair of startling eyes, an odd color that bordered between hazel and gold. They flashed for a second as she met his glance and his eyebrow lifted. “Rather unusual,” he said.

  And for some unaccountable reason, Lizzie felt herself blush.

  “Aye. T'is indeed. But my, uh, daughter, um, named her. She's visiting right now, my daughter is. Not at home.”

  Lizzie tried not to start, and when she looked to her father, all too aware of the man that had passed behind her now and was feeling down her mount's hocks, her father only risked a slight shake of his head.

  “I see,” St. James said. Then he stood back from the horse. “Have your groom trot her about in a circle there, and then let her loose on the track, shall you.”