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Let Love be the Victor

By Jack R. McClellan

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Jack R. McClellan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-3672-9

Chapter One

A scraping noise spiked the silence. Patience gasped as fear tensed her body. At her feet lay the dress she had just unfastened and dropped to the floor. "There it is again," she warned herself, "the same noise I heard last night when I undressed for bed. It began three nights ago, always as I undress."

The noise stopped abruptly the moment she tilted her head to listen. She looked intently at the south wall trying once more to identify the source of aggravation, then she allowed her eyes to dart about the room looking for some promising clues. A flickering of candle flame interrupted her concentration and she stared at the commode next to her bed. "A draft," she recognized and glanced at the window. One shutter had blown open. She moved across the room to close it but hesitated as she reached the window to watch the turmoil of angry clouds flying landward over the English Channel.

Pushed by a freshening wind, a bubbling mass of grey and black clouds floated swiftly toward her, momentarily blurring the stars, then slashing them from view. Moonlight faded and the earth blackened. "Should I consider this darkening sky a bad omen for me?" she wondered. "Nonsense. You are too superstitious. It is only nature preparing to create sustenance for the earth of Castelamer."

The temperature dropped suddenly. What had been a warm summer day became within an hour a cool fall night. Patience shivered, closed the shutter, then returned to the foot of her bed where her nightgown lay. She was about to loosen her shift when she heard the scratching noise again.

"That noise!" she mumbled. "It sounds as if it is in this room, but I can't find what is causing it. I've looked everywhere. What is it?" The question was asked in desperation. Her right hand went to her neck in a gesture of frustration. She directed her eyes to the south wall once again. "There is nothing. I've searched every inch of those panels." Her conclusion evidenced despair and fear began to close in once more. Quickly letting her shift fall, she slipped into her nightgown and returned to the window. She adjusted the open shutter, leaving it slightly ajar. A brisk breeze that flowed through the opening carried with it a damp odor of rain. She breathed deeply, blew out the candle and crawled into bed.

Sleep was long in coming. Uneasiness nagged at her as she let speculative questions dart in and out of the recesses of her mind. She tossed and turned, buried her face in her pillow, stared at the ceiling, tried to think of her school lessons, but she could not prevent the jabs of concern from surfacing. "What is it that scrapes? Where is it? Is someone making the noise? Why always at bedtime when I am undressing?" It was the notion that someone might be disturbing her deliberately that created the most alarm. "But why? Who would want to do that?"

A roar of thunder disturbed the sleep that had finally replaced her anxieties. She became aware of a gentle rhythmic patter of rain, and it occurred to her that rain drops would be coming through her window. Reluctantly she arose, quickly closed the shutter and returned to bed. She was dozing when something startled her. Becoming alert she sat up, threw the covers from her and prepared to leap from bed. Shaking a trembling fear, she glanced at the window. The shutters remained closed. Rapidly she made a visual exploration of the room. All was in order. "You are not only silly but a bit daft to think anyone in this house would want to disturb your sleep," she told herself. "You know the sounds of storms. Go to sleep."

The admonition failed. She lay awake, conscious of every disturbing sound. A scraping noise, louder than the others alerted her. "It's the door!" She bounded out of bed, grabbed her robe, swirled it about her shoulders and hastened to the entry leading into the hall. Perspiration dampened her forehead. "Is someone there?" she called out. Her right hand went to her throat as she awaited a reply. No response. "It would be impossible for anyone to enter," she reassured herself. "The door is bolted." She checked to prove her statement but was startled to see that the bolt was not secure. "I'm positive I put that bolt in place!" Her fingers enclosed the door knob. It turned within her hand even though she had not gripped it! She shuddered, petrified. She fought an impulse to scream.

"It is your imagination," Patience cautioned herself. She let eternity pass as she tried to shed her terror. She directed her fingers to close about the knob. Slowly she turned it. Her hand, functioning automatically, pulled the door open slightly. She moved a step and peered out. The hallway was dark. She could detect no one.

Cautiously, silently, she stepped back into her bedroom, closed the door, slid the bolt into its holder and leaned against the wall. Her heart beat audibly in cadenced pumps. She felt faint. She got herself to the window and threw open the shutters. A light, moist breeze immediately bathed her face and she took a deep breath. Rain had stopped falling, clouds were clearing and the landscape lay in silence. It was the moment between night and day.

From the open window on the second floor of Castelamer, Patience watched dawn break, letting herself be calmed by the wonder of the scene as first light touched tops of hills, slowly filled vales, then illumined familiar objects in the garden below. In the clear atmosphere she could see the undulating landscape of Cornwall stretching inland from the English Channel toward Bodmin Moors. The serrated coast that wound a dizzy line toward Plymouth was fringed with white fuzz made by waves breaking rhythmically along the shore. In the foreground beyond the garden was Hythe Haven, a small natural harbor set within a spit of land extending from Bodacombe Bluff, the rising crest on which Castelamer had been built.

Feeling refreshed she returned to the foot of her bed, intent on discovering the source of her distress. As she turned to study each part of her room, her eyes embraced old keepsakes, a collection of knickknacks, a doll, books, the treasures a child collects. Each object contributed to a feeling of calm which was being restored gradually. The doll particularly gave comfort for it had been a gift from her mother the day before the boat accident, and it was still her dearest possession.

"How could anyone want to disturb this joyful room?" she questioned. Lovely linen fold paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Patience enjoyed letting her fingers roam about deep carvings just to feel the wood some hand many years ago had turned from flat surface to splendor with the wielding of a knife.

"This room I shared with my sister," she mused. "Here we grew up together. We played house, discussed secrets and told each other wondrous dreams. She moved to her own room. `At fifteen you should be by yourself,' she admonished. 'And you, Patience, need to be more on your own.'

Her reverie was broken by a renewal of the scraping noise. "No!" Patience's heart beat increased to a frightening thump, thump, thump as fear took hold once more. She wanted to yell but her throat constricted. It could not produce a whisper. She wanted to move but alarm chained her to the floor. With the force of overwhelming determination, she took a step and then another until she reached the wall. Mustering what strength she had, she raised her arms and drove tight fists against the panel in front of her. They struck furiously...