Hello there! Just a short author's note to tell you a little about the story, which may I add is my very first (grins stupidly). I thought I'd write a short summary in order for you to get the gist of things so without further ado:
Summary-
When a young aristocrat living in Victorian Wales finds himself coerced into a betrothal, he is not pleased; desperately trying to rid himself of his unwanted fiancé things soon take a turn for the worst, and he presently finds that he has blood on his hands. Legally speaking can he possibly avoid the hangman's noose? Well we shall soon find out...
CHAPTER ONE
My dear member of the jury,
What is murder? The wilful killing of another? The tragic result of two lives that are far from equal? Or the erasure of a stain on the very fabrication of society, I shall let you be the judge of that. For it is your judgement now that will determine my fate and the ending of this little verbal rendezvous that I have planned for us; for although I am telling this story, you are reading it and as a member of the jury that is destined to root out my guilty soul much in the same way as a tooth puller wrenches out a rotten tooth, unfortunately it is your judgement not mine that is now of consequence.
Therefore I send you my memoirs; scrawled sporadically over the years should this day ever be upon us, which regrettably it now is. Peruse them carefully and with the greatest of haste for time is no longer on our side, or rather it is no longer on mine. The hangman's noose is tightening around my neck and his shadowy figure hounds me, watching, waiting for my step to falter, my gaze to wander and my tongue to wag.
Yours with the greatest of sincerity,
Phineas. T. Ketteridge
1847
Gwent, Wales.
If you had happened upon the docks that morning, you would have seen a youth. Not an uncommon sight, as many men young and old frequent the harbours in search of work; porters, sailors, fisherman and pickpockets until they are a mere myriad of faces teeming and writhing at the quayside much like the fish struggling in their nets. The youth observed the cultural hub of the county with a contemplative air, relaxing his features slightly as the wind brushed aside his hair; he was tense. He was tall and gangly, with the air of one not fully matured, his long limbs gathered loosely around him; his hair, straight as a pin his mother would have said just a little too long, brushing his cheekbones and gathered into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. An odd style for a young man of his class. For he certainly had class, that was evident from the clothes he wore; an elegant frock coat, tailored and svelte worn over a satin shirt which tapered at the sleeves. His buckskin britches were tucked into leather riding boots lined and edged in maroon, sporting a mirror like surface; yes he was a far cry from the roughly hewn Dockers with their patched coats and rusty fob watches.
The youth rose from his perch on the edge of the sea wall and began his arduous trek home, skirting past the town and following the cliff path that led to the manor; he could easily have sent word for a carriage to collect him, the phaeton perhaps, but he relished in the walk, enjoying the brief respite from human company and taking pleasure in the solitude that he rarely attained at home. Reaching the fringes of his parent's wealthy estate he began to drag his feet slightly, scuffing his impeccable boot tips on the ground; he was not eager to arrive home. But home he did arrive to his parent's manor house one day to be his, or should I say mine. For you see I was that youth; Phineas. T. Ketteridge. The only child of Lord and lady Ketteridge of Gwent, Wales; known as a courteous if solitary young man of esteemed class and wealth. How little they knew of me.
There was nothing unusual about the manor that morning as I stepped over the threshold and into the opulent hall, for everything about the house was opulent, extravagant; if one was to observe it from the drive it would look quite unremarkable, built of locally sourced grey stone fronted with impressive picture windows on the first floor and large bays upon the second and third, each framed with delicately carved lacquered shutters and sweeping drapes. Its name Glynneath Manor was depicted above the double doors with the Welsh inscription 'Gwirionedd Urddasol Yw Ein Un Ni' below it; 'A Noble Truth Is Ours' I would soon begin to see those words as ironic, as the truth is never noble and it most certainly never resided in that house. Once inside the manor however it would soon become apparent that its inhabitants were not Welsh, for indeed neither my parents nor I were Welsh, my father hailing from Gloucestershire and my mother, Essex. The Welsh aristocracy if it could be said that there is such a thing, tend to favour a more comfortable, homely style meant to provide comfort and colour in such a desolate landscape; the English thrive in formality and classical elegance employed to impress rather than comfort and such was the style used to bedeck Glynneath Manor.
The hall was spacious and impressive with a high ceiling and generously proportioned windows emphasising the rooms natural light, as a guest's first impression would be formed here my parents had lavished the space with rich, opulent mahogany side tables and a crisp, lemon palette; classical details dotted the space in the form of Romanesque busts, colonnades and exquisitely formed balustrades. Four doorways led off from the hall to the kitchen, drawing room, library and laundry room respectively; where the lavish decor and air of expense continued. I undoubtedly favoured the library which was not frequented by my mother who preferred the music room or my father who was often closeted away in his study, but do not merely presume that I was lonely or idle with parents intent only upon their own affairs; far from it, my mother expressing her fear that without constant companionship I would become a social invalid took it upon herself to invite as many young lords and ladies as was physically possible to the manor. Leaving me with the awkward predicament of entertaining them, or as Catrin the parlour maid so eloquently put it, although not to my face, 'putting them t'sleep'.
In fact it was one of these young ladies that I have to thank for the opening of my eyes and the revealing of the truth; that young lady was Miss Ophelia Cornelia Durham. Miss Durham was a frequent visitor to our household, and in my mother's opinion a perfect candidate for the role of my wife; the daughter of a wealthy landowner 'Ophelia' as she insisted I call her was I must admit a lovely creature, known as the opiate of every young man in the county she was exquisite. Long opalescent blonde hair grazed defined cheekbones and porcelain skin, dove grey eyes gazed reproachfully from a bed of long, pale lashes; the slender column of her neck led to fragile collarbones, and long pianists fingers. She exuded an air of composure and refined elegance. Her breeding was impeccable. Most young men would have jumped through hoops and ridden through rings of fire for a mere look their way, but I was not your average youth and remain an enigmatic man; I was resolute, I would not marry her.
As expected father was not amused. 'You are a fool Phineas,' my father never was one to mince words. 'Perhaps so father' I replied my lip curling involuntarily 'but are we not all entitled to a little foolishness on occasion?' My father's jaw tightened, he was an entirely practical man who had no patience for what he called 'indecisiveness' and 'idealism', and therefore I thought to have a little fun with the old man. 'I have great plans father, I shall go to London and perhaps try my hand at art or composing...' I had no such plans but watching my father's face blossom from pallid pale to a crimson flush and finally a deep maroon made my heart sing, biting back a smirk I added 'I could travel...' leaving the statement open to retaliation, he did not disappoint. 'Oh really and what would your income total to, hmmm... The measly pittance that those false philanthropists in London would have you live by? Come now Phineas see sense I know that you are not unreasonable.' His voice held a touch of irritation, making me bristle; he was treating me as though I was a fly he wished to swat, how dare he?
I relaxed my shoulders and took a deliberate step back hoping to make it clear that I was not the threat here, observing as my father linked his fingers atop his desk crafted of the finest Spanish Mahogany; a good sign. I must admit I could not help but feel a little intimidated, Lord John Ketteridge struck an imposing figure; the muscles of his broad shoulders and strong jaw knotted ready to do battle, a shrewd and ruthless businessman this was a man who exuded an air of confidence and immovability, those large hands had clouted the side of my head often in my younger days eager to knock the impertinence out of my character. He was not a tall man but he was exceedingly heavy in stature, with dark hair slightly curled at the edges framing a square jaw; we could not have been more different my father and I, rumours had abounded at our arrival here shortly after my birth, speculations in regards to my parentage which had infuriated my father and caused my mother to become pale and withdrawn. His nose was straight, mine large and roman; his skin pallid and mine burnished to a golden hew yes you would have a difficult task in finding anyone as different as my father and I.
A sharp admonition of 'Stop daydreaming boy!' awakened me from my musings and, too late I realised that my father had been speaking to me. His irritation had now grown into his own personal breed of anger, an anger that had made a pair of young knees knock frequently in the past, and I felt the final tendrils of amusement slip slowly into the air which had grown electric with tension; this was no longer a game. As I left my father's study shortly afterwards I tugged angrily at my shirt cuffs a childhood habit that I did not care to break, and thought bitterly that the battle had been lost; it wouldn't have been the first time but I swore there and then that it would be the last.
After that fateful meeting my life began to slope distinctly downhill, Miss Durham and her parents spent so much of their time at the manor that it was beginning to be remarked upon and wherever I went in the county and beyond rumours and speculations followed at my heels. Although it had not formally been announced, news of the betrothal soon reached the ears of my extended family and they were forever dropping by unannounced and not so subtly hinting at 'what a lovely girl' she was, 'so composed and polite'; I was beginning to get heartily sick of it. But don't merely presume that throughout all this I was sitting around idly, twiddling my thumbs and awaiting my fate; no that was not my style and during that taxing month I could often be found in the library searching for a loophole, surely I had rights? Apparently not. Poring through book after book on subjects as various and diverse as matrimony and law it began to dawn on me that arrangements must have been made; surely it was not a coincidence that the girl's parents were now becoming involved, it also struck me as rather suspect when I realised that my parents had been insisting on many little trips to town of late. They were keeping me out of the house, out of their way; but if arrangements had been made then surely it must have been documented, evidence of our soon to be relationship. I began to hatch a plan.
I congratulate you if you made it through all of that without falling asleep! Stay tuned for the next intallment, and remember that reviews are always welcome. Oh yes and one more thing, many thanks to my very first reviewer 'Tsui' cheers for taking the time to give me your feedback.
Yours,
Lord Brandybuck