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Surrender the Wind

Abingdon Press

Chapter One

Juleah Fallowes stepped out of the carriage and gazed up at the full moon above a dark, spear-like chimney that belonged to Ten Width. Her deep brown eyes, flecked with russet, drifted over to a candle set against the blackness of the ivy-covered walls that glowed from inside Benjamin Braxton's bedchamber window. A chill swept through her—from the wind and from a sense of what she might find beyond the frosted glass.

The lantern outside the door sputtered against the winter night. She gathered the sides of her hood closer to her cheeks and entered the dark foyer where a servant met her. Benjamin's physician, Doctor Yates, donned his hat and nodded to her. She pushed back her hood, and her hair fell in auburn twists about her face and shoulders. The long ride from Henry Chase had left her chilled, and she hesitated to remove her cloak. When she caught the way Yates's eyes roved over her blushed face, it gave her more reason to keep her womanly figure concealed.

"There is nothing I can do, Miss Juleah." He grazed her arm with a sinewy hand and withdrew it slowly. "He shall not last the night." Grave, he looked into her eyes one more time and strode out the door to his horse.

When the door finally closed, Juleah shed her dove-gray cloak, mounted the stairs, and entered the room. Benjamin lay in his bed. Propped up against high pillows, he made slight efforts to breathe. Caroline, his granddaughter, Juleah's closest friend since childhood, sat by his bedside and looked up at Juleah's approach. Her jade eyes were teary, and her face pale as the lace cuffs on the faded dress she wore. At first, her expression was one of grateful relief, but then changed to fatigued sorrow.

Caroline hurried away from the bedside. "Oh, Juleah. I'm glad you came."

"I am here for as long as you and Squire Braxton need me." She squeezed Caroline's hand.

With despairing eyes, Juleah saw the bluish lips and heard the faint gurgle of liquid that filled Benjamin's lungs. He coughed, and Caroline rushed back to him and held a cloth to his mouth that caught the blood-streaked mucus. She washed his lips with a moist sponge and spoke quietly in an effort to soothe him. Waves of steel-gray hair fell back from his forehead along the pillow, his eyebrows winged upward above hazel eyes.

The clock on the mantelpiece sped past the half hour. Juleah stood at the window and pressed her back against the grooves in the jamb in a poor attempt to abate the churning in her belly. She gnawed her lower lip, while watching Caroline lean over to lay her cheek against Benjamin's hand. Juleah was troubled that he lay dying in a drafty bedchamber on a grim, wintry day at twilight, to face the sort of emancipation most men fear, with only his granddaughter to comfort him. His sons were all gone, and his grandson lived in the wilderness of America. Wind rattled the panes, shook off the hoarfrost that encrusted the trees, and rushed down the fireplace flue. Frigid gusts blew over the coals of the fire and scattered wispy breaths of silvery ash onto the flagstone hearth.

"How cold and lonesome a tomb will be," Benjamin muttered.

Juleah turned to see sorrow flood her friend's eyes.

"Do not speak so grim, Grandfather," Caroline said.

Benjamin turned his head to her. "I suppose, child, you'd rather me think of heaven, that it must be warm and bright and make one forget the cares of an earthly existence."

She nodded. "Indeed, I would."

"Then for your sake, I shall make every effort to do so." He reached his hand over and she took it. "I have asked you and Juleah to sit with me, with the intention you must hear what is about to take place. You both are to witness all that I say and promise you will stand upon it when I am gone."

"I will, Grandfather." Caroline pressed his hand against her cheek, and her eyes sparkled from the tears she forced back. Juleah felt sorry for her and dreaded the idea she, too, would lose her parents someday.

Benjamin's gaze shifted to Juleah. "And you, my girl? Do I have your word?"

"You do, sir," she answered, her heart in her throat.

Carriage wheels crunched over the gravel in the drive, and she leaned closer to the window. Below, Philip Banes, Benjamin's long-time lawyer, stepped out, careful to avoid the muddy snow. She drew away and went downstairs to meet him.

From the dimness of the entrance, Juleah watched Caroline's serving girl, Claire, open the front door and, with a quick curtsey, show Banes inside. At the foot of the staircase, Juleah waited, while Banes handed over his cloak and slapped his leather gloves inside the bowl of his hat.

"This had better be important—and worthy of my time. I shall double my fee for the trouble."

She stepped up to him and looked at Banes squarely. "He is dying, Mr. Banes. Please keep that in mind and show compassion for his suffering."

While Claire trailed behind them, she led Banes up the staircase to Benjamin's bedchamber. Banes hesitated before going further inside, glanced around the room, then rested his eyes on Juleah. Firelight flickered across the dull oaken floor and reached the tips of his buckled shoes.

"The squire usually offers tea, Miss Juleah. Today I hope he offers a glass of brandy to warm my arthritic bones."

"Claire, please bring Mr. Banes a pot of tea." She stirred the coals in the hearth with a poker and prayed his time at Ten Width would be short-lived.

Banes touched the serving-girl's elbow. "I'd prefer warm brandy."

Straight as a rod, Claire shook her head. "Aside from tea, sir, all we have is cider. I'll warm that for you."

She turned to go, but he stopped her with a wave of his hand. "If you do not have something stronger, I'll have nothing at all. I had hoped I would not have to drink the expensive elixir within my flask and could keep it for the frigid journey home."

"As you wish, sir," Claire said.

A rancid scent of approaching death mingled with the breath of the fire and the intrusion of wind. Benjamin's rattled breathing arrested Banes, and Juleah saw him wince.

"Dear me, Miss Juleah. How thin and pale Benjamin has become. And Miss Caroline looks poorly."

Juleah drew him aside. "Please, Mr. Banes, do not worsen Caroline's distress any more than it is by commenting on her appearance at such a moment."

Banes gave her a curt nod and set his portfolio on the table near the hearth, beside a high-backed chair once a deep indigo, now faded to gray.

"You are right, Miss Juleah. But I've never seen Benjamin look so bad," he whispered. "Indeed, it won't be long now."

She pressed her mouth together hard. If only Banes would keep such comments to himself. A naked branch rapped against the window. Her skin went cold, as if a hundred icy fingers tapped up and down her body.

Banes put his hand over his heart and approached Benjamin's bedside. "I am here at last, sir."

Benjamin fixed his eyes forward. "The roads were poor?"

"Frozen, hard as stone. Pitted with potholes the size of stew kettles." Banes moved to the hearth. "You must excuse me, Benjamin. It is needful for me to sit by your fire. The cold has gone straight to my bones."

"My life had been a small flame, giving little warmth." Benjamin's voice quivered. "Soon the wind will blow upon...