Hi, my dear readers,
Even if we already have the 4th January: Happy New Year to everybody. I hope, you had a funny and nice New Year's Eve and enjoyed it with friends and dear ones.
I decided to publish the next chapter a day earlier than announced, because a few of you have certainly still holidays and have time to enjoy an update.
Have fun,
Love
Yours Lywhn / Starflight
Chapter 3 – Hidden Truths
Dalton Ashford stared at the old woman bowing over the crystal ball, looking for all the world like a character from Grimm's famous stories. "Are you sure?" he breathed; hardly daring to believe what he was looking at. "This bit of a girl is the key to that island—"
"Yes, I'm sure," Brynna interrupted him, tapping the crystal ball. "Here, look closely. I am certain that this is also the solution for another, more ordinary problem you have at this time."
Frowning, Dalton bent over the ball, then drew a sharp breath. There it was. No question. A dragon. A dragon was flying over the island, its expansive wings carried it gracefully through the air, golden and red scales sparkling in the sundown sky. And then another dragon followed him, playful, like a child. Ashford swallowed. "Dragons?" he managed to say thunderstruck. "Is this an illusion or something you-"
"It's no illusion," Lunette cut in. "This image shows the truth. What you see does exist."
"Real dragons?" He glanced up. "How can this be?"
Brynna shrugged. "How could it be that really pixies, fairies, gnomes, redcaps, mermaids and others like them exist? How could it be that there is a land where time doesn't matter? The power of wishes, the might of our children's fantasies and the power of believing hearts are perhaps the answers to those questions." She shrugged. "Perhaps it's even simpler than that." She leaned against the table and continued. "Dragon blood is one of the most powerful magical substances in existence. It makes you invulnerable. It heals injuries, cures illnesses. A potion made of dragon's blood is the medicine that will break the curse of your family, curing both you and your father."
Dalton gaped at her, then gulped. "Dragon's blood!" His voice had risen to a squeak. "You suggest I go to this island and slay a dragon to get its blood?" He blinked. Had the old woman finally lost her mind?
"Something like that," she nodded.
"You are crazy!" he moaned.
"No, I'm completely serious. Dragons are the solution to your problems – both your problems." She took him by the arm and turned him to face her.
Of course he knew what she was referring to, and shifted from one foot to the other. "Both problems? How so?"
Lifting a brow, she answered, "Dragons are intelligent, proud creatures and should never be underestimated. They are clever, evil-minded, and one of the strongest creatures in the world. But they do have weaknesses. One of them could be your solution to your … business problems. Legends say that they collect treasure."
Dalton narrowed his eyes. She had his full attention now. She was aware of his gambling debts and that he had paid the minimum with cash from the London company to satisfy his creditors for now. The money was missing on the company's accounts, depleting the necessary funds for the new investments the board was considering. And there were still more debts to some other powerful men where owed money due to his gambling. So Dalton had been searching desperately for sources of money without his father's knowledge. The old Earl was no shining example of virtue himself, but he had his limits. Gambling debts were debts of honour, and had to be paid immediately. And embezzling money from the company would alert the older man to his foolishness, which could lead to … unpleasant consequences. Dalton shuddered.
Ready cash seemed more important for Dalton at the moment than finding a cure against the 'Ashford-Curse'.
"Treasure?" he asked. "Dragons collect treasure? Are you sure?"
Brynna made a scoffing sound. "My boy, you're speaking with a Welsh magician. My land is the land of the Red Dragon – have you never looked at our flag?" She nodded towards the crystal ball. "Old folks' memories say that the cave of a dragon is like a child's dream of hidden treasures come true. It would make you heart quicken like a running stream, would give thieves smiling eyes. A scant bit of the content of those caves, my dear, and you could pay back all your arrears and assure inheritance for generations to come." She lifted one thin brow and added, "And you could get the ingredient needed for the cure for your father and yourself: Dragon-blood."
Scowling, Dalton peered into the crystal ball and the island in its depths. A cure … never to suffer that miserable family illness. He had dreamed of a cure since his twelfth birthday, when he first became aware that his father showed the first signs of the "curse."
Soon after, he had confided to Brynna his dreams and plaintive wishes, and she had stared long and hard at him, then asked if he would be willing to take the risk such a request would bring with it. He confirmed that nothing would stop him, she had shown him her own world down here in the cellars; objects of ancient creation, documents written down by wizards and 'wise women.' She had shown him something of her power, telling him of her past as a young girl, how she was taught by the old nanny of her mother's employee, and the power and insight she gained over the decades.
At first Dalton had been shocked. Different forms of 'the craft' didn't fit into his view of the modern world around him, where new and wonderful devices were appearing almost every week. He simply couldn't believe that his nanny could be a real witch. So Brynna had taken him to Dartmouth, where his late uncle had run the shipyard on that southwestern leg of the island. There, he had seen members of the Faery-Folk the very first time: Will-o-the-Wisps, pixies, even gnomes. Then he knew that the old legends were true.
He had pestered the nanny about how this knowledge could help his father and himself – and his possibly future sons. 'I'm convinced there's a cure, one from the old ways, and not from a laboratory. The next time I travel to my sister in Wales, I'll find it,' she had promised.
She had kept her word. She'd stayed for three months in Wales, making the excuse that her sister had fallen ill, and that she was needed at home. Earl Ashford had, of course, granted her absence. It was, after all, her first holiday since she'd worked for them.
When she returned, she would only reveal to Dalton that she "had found something" the formula was too complicated for what she had on hand. And, it seemed, her search had finally come to an end. She knew the cure and how to get it, but it would be complicated, difficult – dangerous!
Dalton shook his head despairingly. "Even if we find a way to get to this island, how exactly do you expect me to slay a dragon? I'm good at Polo, and I'm a passable shot with a rifle, but-"
"Remember your two safari-trips over the last three years? You told us of a most adept and skilled hunter during your visits – someone who made it his life's goal to make a trophy of every animal in the world. He may shoot lions, tigers, cervines and anything that runs or flies, but one thing no other hunter could ever display: a dragon."
"You speak of Einar Anders," he replied.
"Yes, that is the name you mentioned." Brynna glanced again at the crystal ball. "Contact him. You're going to need him."
"And what shall I tell him? 'Come to England, Einar, we're going on a dragon-hunt'?" Dalton snorted. "He'll think I've gone barmy."
"Don't mention the beast he's going to hunt, only that you're arranging a safari for the biggest and most dangerous beast alive – and that he's the one who'll bring home the trophy."
Dalton shook his head, mind whirling. "Even if we manage to get to the island – if it really exists – and Anders does agree to join us, no one today knows anything about … hunting dragons! You say they're clever, meaning they are intelligent – maybe more, maybe less. What are their vulnerabilities? Where can they be fatally wounded? I've no clue and the same would go for Einar."
Brynna smiled. "You would not be alone. I know someone who is expert when it comes to dragons."
"You do, you would come?" Ashford said, his voice dropping sceptically.
"Yes, I know about them, but I won't be with you. After all, dragons nest in the mountains, and my bones are too old for climbing rocks. In addition, I'm needed here to open the portal again so that you and the others can return." Dalton crossed his arms. She took a deep breath. "No, I have someone else in mind, a man who devoted himself to dragon lore and the proof that they're more than legends. The last time I met him, he was searching for a cave under a decaying castle in the north of Wales, where the red and the white dragons fought – the root of our country. It was he who first told me that dragon blood can cure any sickness. I'll wire him and ask him to come and why. I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he can."
Dalton paced. "Assuming this works – we may defeat one, but what about the others?" The image in the crystal ball now showed five of the beasts soaring, so there could be more.
"You don't have to kill even one –"
"You said that-"
"Pray be still!" Brynna interrupted him. "You need the hunters in order to distract the dragons. Then you go into one of the caves, gather all the gold coins and gems you can – and take one dragon egg with you. Only one! We will hatch it here, and when the hatchling is born, we can get enough blood to brew the potion for you and your father."
He sighed deeply. "And you think that encourages me?"
Lunette laughed quietly, almost a cackle. "It increases your chance of survival." She bent over the bowl with the ball again. "Contact the hunters, I will watch the island for any information it reveals for your excursion." She looked up. "And one thing more. I need Miss Darling's blood to open the portal."
"WHAT!"
"Not much – about that of a syringe."
"And how shall I do this without her knowledge?" he scoffed.
The old woman rolled her eyes. "Have you no imagination at all?" she grumbled. Crossing to one of the shelves, she took a little bottle. "Here, you will dampen a cloth with this fluid and hold it carefully under her nose when she is asleep. It's a sleeping agent. Nothing will wake her up for one or two hours – not even the sting of a needle."
"Any other effects?" he asked, taking the bottle.
"She will be drowsy in the morning, but that will dissipate soon after. So don't worry."
"I am not convinced," he said forcefully. "You ask me to drug a guest in my home – a young lady, no less – to steal her blood to open a portal to a mystic world. All that because you somehow believe she has travelled there. What if you're wrong? What if I lose her trust for nought?"
The pleasant expression on the old face disappeared, revealing a hint of the person underneath. She bent forward and whispered sharply, "She is the one we need, Dalton, without any doubt. I can smell fairy-dust on her. She hasn't been touched by it for a long time, but still it clings to her like the scent in a rosary. And her eyes also hold her secrets! She was in contact with them – and not only with the folk here. She has been there, in the land of eternal youth. Its power has her still in their grasp. I can sense and smell it!" She took a deep breath and rose to her full height. "Don't be afraid, my dear boy. I would not risk the girl's health, believe me." She patted his cheek roughly. "After all, I've seen the way you look at her."
Dalton pulled away and made a face. "Is there anything around here you don't see?"
"Very little," Brynna replied. "Now go and get that hunter!"
For a moment Dalton wondered, Who is the lord of the house here? But he knew that Brynna wasn't being disrespectful, simply efficient. "And what will you do?" he asked.
"I'm going to bed. It's been a long day – and the coming ones likely the same. And I will have to spend more time looking into the ball." she replied wryly. With a wave of her hand, the crystal ball went dark.
Taking one of the torches and dousing the others, they silently returned to the main house. Dalton went to this study. Contacting the telegraph-office via phone, he ordered a telegram to Anders' home address in Denmark; knowing it would find him if he were not home. Promising payment to the telegraph office the next day, he hung up, treated himself to a double-whisky to help him stomach everything he'd just learned, and finally returned to his private suite.
In the meantime, Brynna Lunette met someone she hadn't expected…
*** PP ***
Wendy woke up sometime after midnight. She was still sleep-addled, of course, but something had called her out of a dream. Blinking about her in the dark, she became aware of a growing thirst. That dinner of fried sole was too salty. Victoria had offered her a pitcher of water for her room, but since Wendy usually slept through the night after a stressful day, she declined it. Now she was wishing she hadn't.
Knowing that she wouldn't go back to sleep feeling so thirsty, she got up, put on her slippers and her dressing gown, lit the three-armed candelabra that stood on the dresser and took it with her. She didn't know where the light switches were in the hallway, and didn't want to risk disturbing the others. Hoping that someone had left a carafe with water and some glasses on one of the sideboards in the corridor, she sighed when she found them empty.
She assumed that there was something left to drink in the dining room. The clouds had lifted and the moonlight threw dancing shadows on the floor from scuttling clouds and sheer curtains. Wendy descended the staircase; the carpet runners on the stairs muffled her movements.
It was cold in the entrance hall; the flames in the large fireplace had burned to coals hours ago. Looking around, Wendy tried to orient herself. Silently, she moved past the stern portraits of Victoria's and Dalton's ancestors, feeling their eyes following her. She turned to another passage, then another, certain she'd reached the dining room and opened the door. To her surprise, in the light of the candles she carried, Wendy had found her favourite room so far: the library.
In the flickering light, she saw yet another enormous fireplace, dark but ready for a match. Bookshelves covered the walls and a huge desk took up one corner. Scattered about the room were large leather armchairs, inviting someone to linger for a few hours. The floor was a beautifully tesseracted parquet. Silence seemed to cling to the shelves and the furniture, as if the room had been unused for a very long time. The heavy curtains were closed and only her candles lit the gloom. Wendy lifted an eyebrow. This salon was … homey. She even thought she could smell the hint of tobacco, and she could imagine herself lingering here the next day. She loved books.
As she looked about, she saw only two paintings. One showed a large garden with a fountain, a small cottage in the background and a hunting-party in the foreground. The other one showed the figure of a young man, clad in the baroque style, and something about him drew her closer. Wendy's slippers made no noise on the smooth floor; and she felt she was going back in time.
Her eyes grew wider as she closed the distance, her lights making his features clearer. She could see the male figure now, wearing clothes from two hundred years ago. Lifting the candelabra, she took a closer look at the painting…
…And froze. The figure must have been on the brink of manhood, possibly her age or a little bit older. He wore a dark green frock coat with golden fastenings. His black curls fell to his shoulders and his beardless smooth face with high cheekbones showed the firmness around a slightly arrogant mouth. Wendy suddenly felt dizzy. His eyes. They were the most piercing and intense forget-me-not blue she had ever seen. She would recognize those eyes anywhere.
Her breath caught in her throat as she realized that she was looking at the painting of a very young James Hook!
*** PP *** PP ***
With a gasp Hook sat up and looked around, confused. He was in his quarters on the chaise, it was broad daylight and the noise of seagulls came through the two open windows. Obviously he had fallen asleep, unusual for him during the day, for even an anchored ship needed its captain. But he'd had a restless night, and been rudely awakened by Pan's stupid attack and dealt with a dragon-spooked crew. So, after lunch, he had returned to his quarters and had relaxed on the chaise, not intending to fall asleep. But … he had dreamed.
He had dreamed of her, again, and in a different setting. He had been here, in his cabin at night, and he had heard someone entering his private chamber. Turning, he'd seen her, dressed in her eternal nightdress, but this time a dressing gown, as well, made of silk and lace. These were the night-clothes of a young woman, not of a little girl. And that wasn't the only thing that had changed.
He saw her face, he knew that she stood at the cusp of womanhood. Her hair still long, and her face still soft and heart-shaped, but straighter and it was leaner, no longer childlike. She was taller, at least by a couple of inches since the last time, and her movements as she walked and raised a candelabra had been swift and graceful. And there had been something in her soft eyes as she looked at him in shock: there was a hint of sadness, confusion and a spark of yearning, while her lips moved without sound. Behind her, he thought he saw shelves with books – a library perhaps – and then there had been a movement in the shadows as everything vanished in the screech of the gulls, and he woke up.
Rising, he rubbed his hand over his face. The realization hit him forcefully: she was almost a grownup, losing her way to Neverland for all time. An odd mixture of fear, disappointment and bitterness swept through him. 'You promised, beauty!' he reminded her in a low voice. 'You promised!'
Then he stood tall, threw his shoulders back, and took a deep breath, calling himself to order.
It had been a dream, nothing more! Only a few months had passed since the war with the warlock, so Pan's former gang and the girl were still children. Just because Pan had missed them a few times couldn't mean they were about to grow up.
Straightening his moustache, he walked to his desk and sat down. Taking out his logbook he began to write about the latest events aboard ship, and his own thoughts. Not that anybody would ever read them or that he had to account for his actions to his superiors – he had none –at least he could forget the dream.
Get a grip, James! This was laughable at best! Ashamed, he reminded himself firmly, after all the girl was still a child –
- or not? Was his dream indeed a kind of second sight? Perhaps – perhaps not. With Neverland's magic you were never certain what was real and what was not.
Sighing he concentrated on his logbook, and asked himself when things had become so complicated…
*** PP *** PP ***
"This… this cannot be!" she mouthed, thunderstruck. Wendy stood before the painting that showed the younger version of her favourite villain. Yes, the face on the painting was softer, with no trace of the frown lines, and the expressive mouth lacked the bitter smile, but showed hope in a better future. But she knew with all her heart that the young man in the portrait was the very same who now commanded a stolen four-masted galleon that sailed under the Black Flag near an island that appeared on no map.
Wendy shook her head. During her last stay in Neverland, she found he had attended Eton – the school and university for children of nobility. So much about him, such as his polished way of speaking, style of dress, his esoteric knowledge made her believe he had been torn from the upper classes, but he had told her nothing about it, even when asked. He was now James Hook, captain of the Jolly Roger, and that was all that mattered to him, but deep down the girl knew that she had touched that memory. There was a history to him, a history he refused to speak of, but she knew that the Guiding Hands of the universe had brought her somehow, to this place, to this portrait.
With a shiver of anticipation, she whispered, "Who are you really?" looking straight into the ever so blue eyes above her. For a moment she was sure he would sneer at her, and would not have been surprised if he'd lifted a black eyebrow mockingly, but of course this was only a painting and -
Wendy yelped, as a cold hand touched her shoulder, an old voice rasped, "What're y' doin' here, lass?"
The girl whirled around with a gasp, her heart in her throat, and faced Brynna Lunette, who was still fully clothed. "Madam," she gasped and pressed her free hand over her galloping heart. "You startled me."
The Welsh woman lifted both thin brows. "I'm sorry." – she clearly was not. – "I saw the light of the candles as I passed by. What are you doing here?"
Wendy collected herself and answered slowly, carefully, "I … I got lost searching for something to drink."
The old woman watched her closely. "Is there no drink outside the guestrooms?"
"No, nothing. I looked there first," she replied, trying to keep her voice even.
"Scandalous! I ordered Olivia to leave a carafe of water and one of apple cider available for you and Victoria. She will hear from me on the morrow."
"Oh, please no," Wendy said, "I'm sure it wasn't on purpose."
Brynna looked at her sharply, then smiled. "Don't worry your pretty head about a silly servant girl." She turned to walk back to the door. "Come, I'll show you the way to the dining room m'self, and afterward you should return to bed. It's late."
Wendy thought wryly, 'Then why, I ask myself, are you still up?' She looked purposely back toward the painting. "Madam, who is this?" she asked bluntly.
Lunette stopped and around, throwing a glance at the painting. "That? He was a member of the family that first occupied the manor – many years ago."
Hmmmm. Victoria had once told her that her family had taken over the manor after the former owners had fallen from grace somewhen at the beginning of the 18th century. Here was a trace of Hook's past – his heritage! 'This must be what treasure hunters feel like when they find a new clue!' she thought. Keeping her face as calm as possible, she began, "It seems it was painted during the baroque…".
"Yes. The Ashfords were granted this manor in 1714, because the previous owners were found guilty of treason. All I know is it had something to do with the troubles around Queen Anne's death." She continued toward the door. "Come now, you're thirsty and I finally do want to go to bed."
Wendy threw one last look at the painting. 'Treason, hm? But I have a feeling that the treason wasn't done by your family.' Biting her lower lip in thought, she took a deep breath and followed the old nanny. Yet she was sure those familiar eyes followed her as she left the library and closed the door. The shiver that ran down her spine was not from the cold air.
And somewhere in the shadow, large black, almond-shapes eyes watched the girl go before tiny steps moved closer to the painting. "Knowing you, she does," whispered a small, rough voice. "You be still alive then? How? Where are y', Master Jamie?"
*** PP ***
Wendy hadn't fallen sleep easily after that. She lay staring at the dark ceiling, thoughts folding in and out of themselves.
Hook was of the family who originally built the manor. That much she could infer. So, he was of noble heritage, as she had suspected since seeing the Eton tattoo on his left upper arm. It was growing clearer why he had become a pirate. The family had fallen from grace with the king – for whatever reason – and he had to flee or he would have been executed. Death was the penalty for so many things in the 17th and the beginning of the 18th century; the never-ending struggle between Catholics and Puritans; supporters of Parliament versus those behind royal absolutism had shaken this country for more than 120 years. Wendy knew that false accusations had been daily fare among members of Parliament, the intimates of the Royals and among the nobles – mostly to increase their own power. Perhaps Hook's family had been involved in something like that.
She had no firm reason to doubt that his family had been the one who committed treason. Yes, Hook had become a pirate – a criminal by law – and he pillaged and killed. He was quick-tempered and dangerous, but one thing could be said about the commander of the Jolly Roger: he was no traitor. Even as he fought alongside Peter against S'Hadh who offered to restore his right hand if he switched sides, he had declined and stood loyal to the inhabitants of Neverland. In his own way he was honourable. Surely, his family had been honourable, too. Yes, her conclusions might be naïve, but she couldn't picture Hook's family as traitors.
If not, what was left? The Ashfords had to be the ones who hadn't played fair, after all they had been rewarded with the manor and the lands and properties associated with it.
But this was unthinkable, too. She couldn't imagine Victoria playing fast and loose with someone. The same for Dalton – although Wendy didn't know the young viscount well. He seemed to be wearing a mask, but couldn't that be the restraints of the etiquette he was forced to submit to? She was very familiar with her own social requirements, and his must be even more encompassing. She didn't know Dalton's parents, and Vicky's parents were dead. She'd only met her maternal aunt once, Lady Catherine Bellingham, Vicky's mother's sister, who lived in London with her husband. She was kind and warm-hearted, and Victoria certainly resembled her. But this family was related to the Ashfords by marriage only, and was therefore of 'other blood,' just like previous men and women who had married into the family.
So, Victoria's ancestors could have been the enemies of Hook's family, but the present members should have nothing to do with the animosity between them, shouldn't they? This seemed a good explanation, yet Wendy couldn't know if she was right. The truth might be completely different.
Deciding to ask Victoria about her theories the next day, she finally fell asleep again about three o'clock in the morning, but it was a fitful sleep. Her dreams were filled with eyes that were blue as forget-me-nots, of a younger Hook on the run, of fire in the manor. For a long moment she seemed engulfed in the smoke and the dark. Dizziness overwhelmed her and she was falling, falling, then the dreams vanished and there was only the black …
*** PP ***
Dalton Ashford had opened the door to Wendy's guestroom several times, but each time realizing that the girl was still awake. He had carefully oiled the hinges on the door of her room after the assignment from Brynna, and he was glad they made no noise now. Returning to his room each time, he had tried to wait in patience, until he finally found her deeply asleep. The curtains were only half closed, and in the light of the almost full moon the young Viscount could see everything very clearly. Even so, he carried a three-arm-candelabra that he placed soundlessly on the nightstand. In the warm glow of the candles, he watched his guest who lay there in all her innocence and slept, eyes dancing under her eyelids while she dreamed.
For a moment shame overcame him. Here he stood, lord of the house, and he was about to abuse his guest's trust and take something from her without her permission. It made him feel soiled.
His gaze wandered over her beautiful face. Long dark lashes, luscious lips – red like strawberries – and the veil of dark hair around her bade him to protect her, not to harm her. He couldn't know it, but Peter Pan had watched the sleeping Wendy just like this five years before. He and Dalton now shared one thing: they were curious about the girl, but where the viscount was about to take what he wanted without asking, the eternal boy had given her a choice.
Ashford took a slow, silent breath. Normally, he wouldn't even consider doing what he had come for, but he had no other choice – did he? This was about his and his father's lives, and Wendy would only pay a tiny price to help them, never knowing of her contribution. But if Brynna was right, then the girl's blood would open the last barrier to the essential ingredient for the cure to the 'Ashford-Curse.' Once cured, he certainly would stand a better chance to win a wife – perhaps even Wendy herself. She was pretty, well-educated and intelligent enough to meet the Ashford's family requirements. And her dowry would go a long way to solving his "financial difficulties" should the dragons have none of the treasures Brynna spoke of.
Finally resolving to finish what he'd started, he reached into the pocket of his lounging coat and removed the bottle and the handkerchief. After dampening the fine cotton with the fluid, he held it under Wendy's nose, and as her breath grew even deeper, he pressed it gently over her face. Counting to ten, he removed the handkerchief and carefully poked the girl's shoulder. Nothing. Waiting a moment more he finally got the syringe out of another pocket, sat down on the edge of the bed, took another deep breath, and pressed the needle against her vein, just above the dolphin bracelet. Withdrawing the necessary blood, he pressed the handkerchief against the tiny puncture wound until the bleeding stopped, then he cleaned her arm. Enjoying the softness of her skin, he slipped the sleeve down, glanced at the bracelet again, then rose and left the room as silent as he came.
Deep in his heart he knew that he had done something very wrong – something despicable – but he told himself yet again that the ends justified the means.
He couldn't know that a fearsome, dangerous, even loathsome pirate captain had shown more scruples than he had.
*** PP *** PP ***
And that particular pirate-captain woke again, starting up, disturbed and on high alert. Catching his breath, Hook sat up, realizing that he had fallen asleep again – this time, to his misery, at the desk. But this wasn't the reason why his heart was galloping. He had seen a mostly grown-up Wendy in his dreams again, but this time she had been sleeping while a dark, threatening shadow loomed over her…
Dammit! He would have to do something about this or he would lose his mind – all he had left of it, anyway. He knew Wendy was in danger, and he was sitting here at the shores of this cursed island like a beached whale!
The other side of Hook started to lecture him again. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't worry. The girl was not his responsibility – not since she left Neverland and returned home. Even during her last stay it had only been through his generosity that he had kept a watchful eye on her.
Like the devil and angel on each of our shoulders, the angel spoke again. He had done more – a lot more, like running into a tidal wave to save her life. He'd fought a swarm of hag-faced oversized crows to protect her; the scars were still on his right shoulder. And he had forgiven her more offences he'd ever done before, she wasn't his concern anymore.
And yet he knew that he was lying to himself. Her well-being was vital to him because he still cared – because she had made a home in his heart. And all his instincts told him that she was in need of help. His help.
He would go ashore tomorrow and seek out Niam, the Fairy-Queen. She was, besides Great Big Little Panther and the unicorn, the wisest living being in Neverland. Maybe she could provide some good advice.
*** PP *** PP ***
Wendy nearly overslept. When the maid woke her up with the coal bucket, feeding the fire in her room, she felt groggy and achy. Pulling herself to her feet, she dressed in a morning frock and left her room to attend the breakfast that was served by Olivia, who had been crying. Wendy knew the reason for it and felt guilty. She decided to speak to her later, to apologize that her exploration the night before had gotten the girl into trouble.
Brynna wasn't there. Dalton said she was fighting a cold, which made Wendy wonder. Yesterday during dinner and then in the wee hours, the old woman looked healthy. There hadn't been the tiniest trace of the oncoming cold she had referred to yesterday afternoon, yet here was the same excuse given again.
After breakfast, Dalton returned to his study while the girls prepared to leave. Wendy used that time to seek out Olivia.
"I hope the viscount or Ms. Lunette weren't so hard on you, I know you had some trouble due to my wandering last night," she said quietly.
The maid, just about Wendy's age, stared with wide brown eyes. "Miss Darling, 'twas me who should apologize, I forced you to look about -"
Wendy interrupt. "No harm done. Really. It was … a brief adventure that I truly enjoyed." She touched the maid's shoulder, adding, "I hope the worst is over for you. I'll speak to the viscount on your behalf-"
"No, Miss, please," Olivia blunted. "It… it would only make things worse," she whispered; tugging a blond curl.
Biting her lip, Wendy looked at the girl. Olivia was two inches taller than she, yet she looked so fragile. 'She's too thin,' Wendy thought. 'And she doesn't look healthy.' "If there is anything I can do for you, let me know," she murmured, "in private, of course." She caught the maid's astonished expression and winked at her. "We girls have to stand together, and if we do, the grownups don't have a chance!" She gently squeezed Olivia's arm. "'Til later," she turned to go to her room; leaving an astonished scullery maid in the corridor.
The train would leave Godalming for London around eleven o'clock, in about an hour and a half. While servants packed their luggage, Vicky offered Wendy a tour through the manor. Despite the ache behind her eyebrows, she agreed instantly. She saw that here was one last chance to find out more about Hook's family and Hook himself.
During the tour Wendy came to realize how enormous the manor was. A ballroom, two salons, two dining rooms (one beside the ballroom, one for private dinners in the back area of the manor), guest rooms, studies, the kitchen, the pantries, bathrooms, dry closets and the cellars Vicky avoided, because 'they are dirty, dark and unused'. And everywhere on the high walls of the corridors, the salons and in the vestibule hung large and small oil paintings, mostly the ancestors of the Ashfords, but also depictions of hunting parties and battle scenes.
Finally, they came to one painting that showed a middle aged man with dark, shoulder length hair, wearing a white shirt with small collar, a dark waistcoat and wide petticoat-breeches. He wore a breastplate over it all. His eyes were dark, yet his mouth was familiar, sporting a certain mocking expression – one Wendy knew very well.
"Who is that?" she asked, already supposing a member of Hook's family.
"Marquess Elton Shalford, one of the former owners of Ashford Manor," Vicky told her, glad she could answer her friend's historical questions. "He lived here in the middle of the 17th century."
"You mentioned at school that this house once belonged to another family before yours took it. And Ms. Lunette told me last night that the former family fell from grace. What happened?" Wendy had already told her friend about her search for water the night before and the painting in the library.
"His son, Lord Andrew Shalford, became the new marquess after Elton died. Andrew Shalford was involved in a conspiracy concerning the line of succession in 1714. You know, there was an old conflict for generations between the Whigs and the Tories, and that the throne should be ascended by a Hanoverian, because Anne's children had all died when they were young. One side wanted George to be the new king, the other side wanted Anne's half-brother James to wear the crown. This, and the effects of the Spanish War of Succession had brought disputes to parliament, politicians and noblemen – sometimes even violent ones. Our ancestor discovered that Shalford supported a planned coup against George as soon as the new king had landed in Great Britain. The family was arrested and our ancestor got the manor as a reward after George I was crowned."
Wendy was listening intently. "A coup?"
Victoria nodded, digging out the details from the story told her years before. "Yes, um, Andrew Shalford had married a Scottish lady, who was said to be bastard-born – I mean, her mother had an affair with a nobleman and produced a daughter who wasn't recognized by him. She was very beautiful and Andrew Shalford fell for her. I don't know exactly what happened, but somehow her husband got involved with the Scottish resistance and wanted Anne's half-brother James to become king. Our ancestors discovered the plot to assassinate King George upon his arrival, and that was the end of the family."
'Assassinate King George I?' No, she couldn't picture Hook – or his family – attempting such a dreadful thing as regicide. That wasn't his style. Bad form, he would have called it. "What happened to the family?" she asked aloud.
"As far as I know, he and his second son were executed. The judge couldn't prove treachery in the wife, so she went into exile on the continent, where her two daughters were married. His oldest son had died during the arrest here in the manor, and his youngest son was at sea and escaped later as he returned to England and should be arrested, too. The last trace of him led to Bristol. Maybe he signed up under false name on one of the merchant ships there and escaped in one. Be that as it may, he was never seen again." She pursed her lips. "I think one of the paintings in the library is of him – the youngest son, I mean."
'Yes, and he is still very much alive. I even know the name he uses today.' Wendy's mouth was dry, while she murmured, "Ms. Lunette said so when she found me in the library last night after I got lost."
Chuckling, Victoria patted her friend's hand. "Then thank the Lord she found you, otherwise you would have still been there reading this morning!"
They continued the tour, and Vicky told the history of her family, but Wendy was only listening with half an ear. Her thoughts drifted away to a certain buccaneer, whose past was now a greater mystery to her than before – now, since she learned his true name and history, and the circumstances under which he had become a pirate.
'How did you escape, Hook? Where did you go after leaving Bristol? How did you become a pirate? What about your mother and sisters? Did you ever see them again?' Lost in thought, she tried to listen to Vicky's cheerful chatter.
The tour finally ended, and Vicky proudly showed Wendy to her own room that she always occupied when she was at the manor. It was a suite, with a separate bedroom, a living and dining rooms and a separate bathroom that had been installed some years before – including running water.
Their baggage was ready, as well as a second garment bag that held Victoria's evening gown for the upcoming dance. Wendy was feeling better since the headache had faded, and giggling, they went through the different gowns which hung in the wardrobe.
Checking herself that she hadn't forgotten her official invitation (which would later be replaced by tickets), Victoria opened her handbag and rummaged through it. Hair clips, a small brush, a powder box – everything landed on the bed. "Ha, I knew I packed it," the redhead grinned and raised the envelope in triumph. "Here, take a look. I got it along with a letter from Aunt Cathy. You know I stay with her over Easter, and she has invited you to visit us."
Wendy, who had scratched a stinging little spot on her right under arm, took it and pulled out the letter. Unfolding the piece of paper she began to read aloud, "'My dearest Victoria, it fills my heart with joy to receive your letter and to hold something of you in my hands. It is like you're really here and-'"
Victoria's snatched the letter from Wendy's hands. "Oh… sorry, wrong letter!" But too late, Wendy had seen the signature.
"'Forever yours, Daniel Kempton'?" She raised her eyebrows in exaggerated curiosity. The other girl blushed fiercely, replacing the letter in the envelope. "Daniel Kempton?" Wendy repeated and grinned.
"For-for-forget it," Victoria stuttered; still flushed.
Wendy touched her arm. "Oh, no, no, no. You have a suitor and didn't tell me?"
Victoria's green eyes avoided her friend's blue ones. "He isn't … my suitor. He's … a friend. Yes, just a friend!" she stated hastily.
"Who wants to be 'yours forever.' And makes your cheeks match your hair!" Wendy giggled. "Come on, you can tell me."
Vicky groaned. "Wendy, he's … he's working class – and you know how our parents feel."
"Forget our parents, your heart is what's important," Wendy replied calmly and meant every word. She had never understood why marriage was only 'done' in the same class or – at least for females – one class above. Individuals should choose their life-partners for their own reasons, not some titles and silly traditions. "So, who is he?"
Victoria bit her lips and hesitated. Until now they'd never had any secrets from each other. Vicky trusted Wendy, so she finally decided and blurted, "You remember the reports published in the Times about my uncle's businesses – about the shipyard Ashford & Son and the shipping company Ashford & Co.?"
"Yes, of course. There were two pages about each company," Wendy nodded. "You showed them to me after last Christmas holidays."
Victoria sighed. "They were written by Daniel Kempton during the holidays, first at the manor, then in the Ashford's townhouse in London. He interviewed Uncle Marlow and Dalton, took photographs of the houses and the gardens, visited the shipyard in Dartmouth and was invited to dinner one evening while I was at the manor." She moistened her lips. "That's how we met."
"And you fell in love," Wendy finished for her.
Victoria put the letter back into the drawer. "I… I don't know if it is love, but… I feel all warm inside when I think of him, and… and when I got his letters…"
"Letters'? More than one?" Wendy squeaked. "And you didn't tell?"
Her friend looked at her sheepishly. "Don't you understand? Daniel is not in our class. Yes, he worked hard to become a reporter, and he bought his equipment by himself, earning the money by working jobs in pubs and bars in London Harbor. He studied English, history and modern technology and even trained in a photography shop in Oxford, but… like I said, he's from the lower middle class. My uncle is an Earl. Do you really think they'd let me get involved with him?"
Wendy pursed her lips, then she crossed her arms. "Well, you've got to show your uncle and aunt he's worthy of you."
"You know how they think. I told you enough about them," Vicky sighed.
Nodding, Wendy made a face. As casual, independent and sweet Victoria was, her uncle and aunt – Dalton's parents – seemed to be the exact opposite: stern, somewhat arrogant and hopelessly old-fashioned. It was fortunate that they wintered in Dartmouth because of some sickness the elder Earl was suffering. "I see your problem," she murmured. "What about your other aunt, Lady Catherine Bellingham?"
"Aunt Cathy is far more modern, as you know, after all you already met her. And Uncle Hendrik isn't so stern, either. But Uncle Marlow is my legal guardian because my father was his brother, and so he has the last say."
"That all sounds … complicated," Wendy admitted.
"I know – that's the reason why I've never told anyone about, about my feelings for Daniel." Victoria looked pleadingly at her friend. "Please, don't tell anyone!"
"Hey, do you know me to tell tales out of school?" Wendy firmly shook her head. "Your secret is safe with me. Cross my heart and hope to die," she added. Then she folded her arms again, pondering her friend's situation. "Well, given the circumstances, I think you've two possibilities: you convince your uncle that Daniel is the only man for you, or you have to wait until you're 21, and then you can marry him without your uncle's permission."
Vicky snorted and put the letter back into her handbag. "Uncle Marlow wants to marry me off as soon as possible so that I'm no longer his responsibility." She placed the rest of her belongings into the handbag. "I think you have a similar problem."
Wendy sighed regretfully. "Yes, only in my case my parents want me to marry a nice, decent boring gentlemen of the upper class so that I 'finally become a real grownup'." She groaned at the mere thought.
"Is there no one you could imagine marrying?" Vicky asked, looking for her gloves.
"Imagine? Oh, yes." She smiled. "But no one I know at the moment," Wendy answered – resisting the image of the youthful face with a mop of blond curls which projected itself over an intensely male face, framed by dark lank curls and intense blue eyes…
*** PP ***
While the servants brought the luggage out to Dalton's motorcar, the two girls bade Brynna good-bye in the living room of her suite. She was clad in a wrapper, and sounded hoarse, her eyes red. Wishing her better health, the two girls left, just before Dalton arrived.
The girls gone, Brynna was suddenly 'healthy' again, and closed the door behind the young viscount. "Any news?" she asked.
"I sent the telegram to Denmark early this morning. I hope Einar is there. Either way, his servant will pass the message on to him. It should only be a few days until I hear something from him."
Lunette nodded. "All right. I will remain here and check all incoming letters and telegrams for you. I'll contact you the moment I have news." She took a deep breath. "I ordered a telegram via telephone to Wales that will hopefully reach my … brother in spirit quickly. As soon I get his answer I will inform you, too." She grew thoughtful. "And speaking of informing you: I found Miss Darling last night wandering about in the library. She was looking for something to drink."
"There was no water by the guest room?" he asked irritated. What would Wendy Darling think of her host now? And what was that compared to stealing blood from her arm? His actions of the night before still nagged his conscience,but he ignored it.
"No, none. I already chastened Olivia for her lapse. But that's not the point. When I found Miss Darling, she was staring at the portrait of the former lord's youngest son."
Ashford cocked his head. "So?"
Shrugging Lunette murmured, "It may be nothing, but she was looking at him as if she knew him, and asked who he was."
Dalton chuckled. "Well, the boy was handsome, especially the eyes. But I don't fear any interference from a man who went missing two hundred years ago." He took her wrinkled hand in his own. "I'm off to London now with the girls and I will be back Monday evening – without Victoria. She is staying with Catherine. If something important occurs concerning our … 'adventure', you know how to reach me." With that he was gone. Brynna pursed her thin lips.
"Something is not right!" she whispered to herself, picturing the island of eternal youth in her mind. "There is something there I missed, but I don't know what it is."
TBC…
Well, there is a lot Brynna misses in the whole picture, but – of course – she can't know certain details which are (and will be) important.
In the next chapter you'll meet the Darlings and the boys again, Wendy attends the ball (and shows one time more how clever she can scheme) and in the end she is the one, who has a big problem…
I hope, you liked the new chapter and the idea of Hook's past and his mysterious connection with Wendy that came up after she arrived at the manor. Victoria's secret suitor Daniel will have a special role within the story – but which one I won't reveal so early (*smile*).
I would be happy to get new reviews, and you can expect the next update at Sunday.
Have a nice rest of the week,
Love
Yours Lywhn / Starflight