Corey McFadden

DARK MOON

Corey McFadden

Chapter One

Shropshire, England February 1770

Squire had died at last. Papa had crawled from his own sick bed to tend his dying friend, even though his daughter, Joanna, had begged him not to go. This was a foul winter; it had rained nasty, icy sleet until the roads were slick with it and horses and people slid in the miserable muck. But he had looked at his pretty daughter gently and said in his kindly but firm way that Squire needed him now and he would go. Joanna knew better than to argue, but she’d made him bundle up, and carefully tucked his scarf into his coat, hoping it would keep the worst of the sleet from his throat. She’d heard his racking cough as he set out in Squire’s cart. Squire must be ill indeed, she’d thought, to have sent the open cart for Papa in this weather instead of his carriage.

Papa had not come back for two days, and when he walked in she was shocked at the sight of him, pale and drawn, as if someone had taken a paintbrush and washed him over in grays and whites. She had risen in alarm, but he gave her a tired smile as he removed his wet coat and scarf.

“He’s dead, then, Papa? In town, they said it was just a matter of hours.” Her voice held no grief. Squire had always been kind to her, but he had been dying and in pain for months and his release was merciful.

“Aye, my dear, and a peaceful end it was.” Her father shook out his coat and hung it on the back of a chair near the fire. He carefully draped the scarf over it. He was a tidy man, never any bother to anyone. But there was a shadow about his eyes that did not come from illness, and that worried Joanna because he was not one to fret about things.

He drew up another chair near the fire and sat down, coughing his throaty cough and leaning in close, stretching his chilled hands to the warm glow. Joanna could see how they shook in the firelight and she knelt before him, taking his hands in hers and chafing them. Father and daughter were silent for a moment. Squire and he had been boys together; they had tumbled like puppies all through childhood, and while schools and tutors had parted them, as had the later demands of their respective stations, nothing had dimmed their fast friendship. It was natural, thought Joanna, that Papa would be troubled, that he would grieve. There were so few of his contemporaries left; Mama had died long ago, and one by one the others had dropped away.

“Papa,” she began tentatively, knowing she intruded on sorrow, however well he hid it. “Perhaps we should go away for a while, just a change of scenery. It’s been so cold and wet—I suppose it’s cold and wet everywhere, but wouldn’t it be nice? Maybe we could go to the shore; I’ve never seen the shore...” she trailed off, aware that a stricken look had come into her father’s eyes.

“What is it, Papa?” she said in alarm. “Why do you look at me that way?”

He reached a cold, trembling hand to her dark hair, where errant curls escaped their pins. He hesitated a moment, then spoke so low she could barely hear him. “I’m afraid I’ve been remiss, my dear. I’m afraid I haven’t given enough thought to your future.”

“My future?” she said, surprised. “Whyever shall we worry about that? I’ll just stay here and take care of you as I’ve always done, Papa.” There was a hint of bravado in her smiling words. She knew in her mind that he would die someday, but in her heart it was not to be thought of.

“But that’s just it, my dear,” he said sadly. “It won’t be like it’s always been, not anymore.”

“What do you mean, Papa?” she said, putting a lightheartedness she did not feel into her words. “Nothing’s changed. Squire has been ill for a long time. You must have known this would happen. You’re just tired and cold, and missing your friend.” She smiled at him and, standing up, tugged on his hands. “Come, I’ll fix you a nice warm cup of broth and put you to bed. Things will seem better in the morning.” Odd, she was talking to him the way he had always talked to her.

But it didn’t work. William Carpenter just sighed and patted her shoulder. “No, my dear, it must be faced,” he said sadly. “I’ve spent all my life scorning material goods, and now see what I’ve done to you. Better I had taken the trouble to store up a few treasures on earth.”

Joanna was horrified. It was as close to blasphemy as she had ever heard him speak, and to hear her unworldly father lament his lack of material possessions was something she never thought to hear. She knelt back down and gazed earnestly at his dear face. “Papa, one of the best things about being your daughter is that I’ve learned how unimportant worldly wealth is.” She smiled again, hoping to dislodge whatever black demons gripped his soul.

“Yes, my dear, but only to a point,” he said sadly. “We must have bread on the table, and shelter. And now I’m afraid we will lose even that.”

“I don’t understand, Papa.”

“Well, I might as well tell you the truth, Joanna, and maybe you can help me see a way out of this dilemma. I’ve just come from meeting young Ambrose. He’s Squire now, of course....” He could feel Joanna stiffen beside him. “Well, for these last three hours, anyway. It seems he has a friend he’s planning to give the living to. He wants us gone in a few weeks, by early spring, no later...” William trailed off, his voice breaking, unable to continue.

There was a moment’s silence while Joanna gathered her stunned wits. She’d been born in this cozy little thatched cottage, the vicarage that was part of the small living afforded by Little Haver. Squire had promised, hadn’t he? She’d expected to die here, and happily, at that. She managed a great smile.

“Why, that’s splendid, Papa! Think how nice it will be! Why, we can go to London, or to the shore, or... or, just anywhere at all. We can retire on your pension and see the world. Let’s go to Spain and have the sun bake out that nasty cough you’ve had all winter.” She finished triumphantly and patted him on the knee. It had been an effort, thinking up all that nonsense to say. She was a homebody, through and through, and all the traveling she cared to do was done by reading books. Still, if they were to be heaved from the vicarage by that odious Ambrose, she had better start now to develop an enthusiasm for change. Her smile faded as she gazed at her father’s stricken face. His eyes, rimmed with tears, spilled over. “What is it, Papa?” she asked gently, as if she were talking to a child. “Surely we can manage. Anywhere we go will seem like home if we’re together.”

“There’s no pension, Joanna. Ambrose says there’s not enough money to give me one.” His words fell flat, almost bitter, a tone she had never heard from him before.

“No pension? But what about Squire’s promise? He always said you’d be well looked after. It’s in his will, Papa, he told me so. You must demand to see his will!” Papa was too accepting, he could believe ill of no one, but if Joanna knew anything, she knew Squire would not have left her father penniless, not after all his years of selfless devotion.

“There is no will, Joanna. Ambrose made that clear. He is the only heir at law. He inherits everything, and there are no provisions for us at all.”

“But that’s impossible, Papa!” she cried. “I know there is a will. Squire told me so just a few weeks ago when I went to see him.”

“Did you ever see it?” There was almost a little hope in his eyes.

“N-no,” she said slowly. Comprehension was beginning to dawn on her. “I never saw it.” She paused a moment, thinking. “But can’t you see? There must have been one. Ambrose is lying, Papa! Squire told me there was a will!”

He sighed heavily, his eyes going dim again. “Joanna, we can prove nothing. Squire was old and ill and he rambled in his mind. If there was a will, Ambrose has destroyed it. He’s not going to help us. He’s made that quite clear. Why, I was reduced to begging him, and he turned me down. There’s nothing to be done.”

If there had been nothing else to hate him for, she would hate Ambrose for this, the loss of Papa’s faith in mankind. He recognized Ambrose as a liar and a cheat. William Carpenter had gone through his life seeing the good in all men, and until now, no one had had the heart to disillusion him. Joanna had always fancied that Papa made bad men into good just by believing in them when no one else could. But now he had recognized the bad in Ambrose and bowed his head in defeat.

“There is a small pension from the church, isn’t there, Papa?” she asked hopefully.

“Very small, my dear, and it stops upon my death.” He began to cough heavily. His cough was worse than it had been when he left, Joanna noted.

“Well, we don’t need much to live on. And I’ve a few jewels from Mama, don’t forget,” she went on. “They’ll fetch something, I’m sure. Why, everyone’s always admired the garnets.”

“You’ll not sell your mother’s jewels, Joanna. They were her mother’s before her, and she loved them. Not for their value but because they were so pretty. She used to say God made pretty things too, that we couldn’t always wallow in deprivation. Your mother was always wiser than I,” he said, his tone fond but rueful.

“Mama would have sold them in an instant to put food on the table, Papa. She was no more attached to worldly goods than we are.” She stressed the
we
for his benefit but felt a pang nonetheless at the thought of parting with her pretty mother’s pretty jewels. She could remember playing with them in a patch of sunlight on the floor when she was a toddler, and Mama laughing at her cooing delight over the shifting sparkles.

“There is a little money, Papa,” she went on brightly. “Squire gave me ten guineas on my twentieth birthday. Why, we could dine on that for a long time.” She smiled up at him, hoping to coax a smile in return.

“Bless your optimism, my dear,” he said, giving back her smile. “When you talk, I can almost believe it will be a great adventure being homeless and destitute.” The smile wavered. The little joke had a dark echo.

“But it will, Papa,” Joanna said, laughing. “Why, we’ll present ourselves to the bishop himself and tell him how badly you’ve been treated. Heavens, Papa, the church will look after you. They must!”

He smiled at her faith, but they both knew he could expect little from that direction. The living at Little Haver had been created for him at Squire’s insistence, against the wishes of the bishop at the time who had wanted several villages clumped together. Squire had shouldered all the burden of the living with little encouragement or aid from the church.

“We’ll go to London, Papa,” she went on, caught up in her own enthusiasm. “We’ll take lodgings, something modest, of course, and we’ll... we’ll do what?” she paused for a moment, searching. Her face lit up. “We’ll teach, that’s what we’ll do! You can teach theology—no one knows the Bible better than you, and I can get a position as—oh, something or other, surely I can do something!” She finished with a flourish as if it were all settled, and right nicely too.

He gave a warm chuckle which turned into a racking cough.

“Come to bed. Papa.” She pulled at him insistently. “I’ll just bet you’ve had no sleep at all since you left here, have you?” He shook his head. “Well, that’s it, then. No wonder you feel so discouraged. You’ve lost your best friend and you’re bone weary to boot.” He rose and she shepherded him toward the stairs. “You get into bed and I’ll bring you some broth. And remember to wrap up your neck with flannel. I don’t like the sound of your cough.”

He started up the stairs, then paused and turned back to her. She caught the firelight dancing in his eyes, now clear and bright. Her heart gave a little leap. “I believe you are right, after all, my dear,” he said with some of the old strength back in his voice. “Everything will be fine. I misplaced my faith for a little while, didn’t I? What an awful feeling. No wonder those who are estranged from the church are so lost. I shall ask forgiveness for doubting, and give thanks for the blessing I have in my wonderful daughter. Everything
will be fine in the morning, my dear. I don’t want you worrying at all.”

He gave her a radiant smile and turned with a light tread to climb the stairs. There was a light from a lamp at the top of the stairs, and as her vision blurred through her tears it looked as though William Carpenter had a halo.

* * * *

But everything was not fine in the morning. Papa had a fever and the cough was worse, deeper and more racking. Joanna ran up and down stairs with tea, with broth, and with warm cloths for his feet, which were like ice in spite of the fever. He shook with chill and was vague, almost unconscious, all day. At midday she sent for the doctor, who came and was kind. But she could see in his eyes that he was troubled by William’s condition and there was nothing more he could prescribe than bedrest, tea, and warm cloths.

The hours stretched into days. Joanna heard nothing from the Manor House, but had no time to give it a thought. Old Mistress Gertie came by in a cart driven by her half-witted son, Tom. She brought a large pot of rich soup which smelled delicious and tasted even better. Joanna had had no time to cook for herself and had made nothing but tea and broth since Papa had taken ill. But Mistress Gertie, too, looked troubled when she took her leave, and she patted Joanna’s hand as if there were more she would say if she had the words.