Impending Danger

By Jeanette Cooper

Historical Romance at its best.
Gabrielle Hampshire, a young woman abandoned to a convent after witnessing a brutal murder and suffering traumatic-shock amnesia, yearns to discover her identity. Upon notification of her father's death, she returns to his English country estate. Gabrielle crosses paths with the killers who, fearing she will identify them, try to kill her.

Jonathan Briercliff, sea captain and future Duke of Falkhurst, rescues her from the near fatal attempt on her life. After their personal lives merge in a love relationship, Jonathan guards a terrible secret which will drive Gabrielle away from him if revealed. Willing to do anything to keep her from learning the truth, he deceives her with a growing web of lies, not the least among them, his relationship with Trina Bascomb, who has a clandestine agenda meant to clear the way for Trina to marry Jonathan for his fortune.

When the truth surfaces, Gabrielle finds herself in an emotional battle with Trina’s vengeful nature, Jonathan’s guarded lies and the wanton storms that come crashing down around her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanette Cooper
• Release date: Dec 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458048233

Jeanette Cooper

Jeanette Cooper, a native Georgian, a former elementary school teacher, graduate of University of Central Florida with a Bachelor’s Degree in Elementary Education and a Master’s in Reading instruction, is mother of a son, grandmother of a grandson, and lives in North Florida near the Suwannee River.Jeanette enjoys walking, reading, cooking, and gardening, but her greatest pleasure comes from writing and watching characters come alive as they interact with one another in adventurous life-like dramas that motivate reading pleasure.Her latest romantic suspense novels are Passionate Promise, Vulnerable to Deceptive Love, Stripped of Dignity and The Wrong Victim..

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Monsieur Huxford knocked on the door and glanced at the name on the letter in his hand.

"Mademoiselle Monica Burgeis?" he asked when a short heavy-set woman opened the door.

Yes, that’s me.

He handed her the letter. I am here for the young girl, Gabrielle Hampshire. You will find the details in this letter.

Oh my goodness, she exclaimed. Well, it’s about time. I’ve written Lord Hampshire dozens of letters and not once has he answered. She ripped open the letter and glanced swiftly at the short message

Frowning, she read it a second time, surprised the message contained so little information. Still, the letter was the reply she had sought for weeks, and it contained Lord Hampshire’s signature.

She stepped inside the door a couple of seconds, and came back drawing the young girl to the door by clutching her wrist. This is Gabrielle, she said.

Monsieur Huxford smiled and spoke a greeting, and then noticed a strange glazed look in the girl’s eyes. She was incognizant of her surroundings. What’s wrong with her? he asked kindly.

She witnessed her aunt’s murder, and the doctor said she’s in shock, Monica replied with a regretful shake of her head.

How long has she been like this? Monsieur Huxford asked.

For three months. I’ve had to feed, bathe, and tend her like an infant, and the pain in my joints is so bad I just couldn’t keep doing it.

Well, you won’t be bothered further, Madame. If you’ll get her things together, I’ll relieve you of your duty, Monsieur Huxford said.

Gabrielle, she said to the young girl standing next to her "this gentleman, Monsieur Huxford, has come to take you home."

Monsieur Huxford cleared his throat. The letter had made no such claim. It merely stated that the woman was to turn the child over into his care. He decided it best to let her believe what she would.

Leaving Gabrielle alone with Monsieur Huxford in the drawing room, Monica excused herself and went off to pack the girl’s trunk. It didn’t take long since everything had to go. She emptied drawers and the wardrobe, folding the items and packing them away quickly. Monsieur Huxford loaded and strapped the trunk onto the rear of the carriage.

Come along, Gabrielle, Monica said, moving with arthritic slowness. She led young Gabrielle Hampshire from the townhouse to the carriage, much like leading a blind person, and helped her up to the seat.

Monica kissed Gabrielle goodbye and backed away, tears running down her puffy cheeks. As the conveyance moved away, she waved her arm and hand continuously until the carriage disappeared around a corner.

As the carriage moved along the dusty road toward its destination, Monsieur Huxford felt a faint regard of sympathy for Gabrielle.

I wonder what it is you see behind those clouded eyes, child, he said, knowing the girl neither heard nor would answer him.

Pulling the carriage close to the entrance of a low sprawling stone convent, he drew back on the reins and the horse stopped. No one was in sight outside the building that nested among a forest of trees. A whisper rose from the leaves in the treetops as a gust of wind swept through them with an eerie whistling noise. Two huge oak doors looked unusually ominous in the drawing dusk, and somehow, Monsieur Huxford couldn't subscribe to bringing a young girl to such a lonely looking place.

He hopped down from the carriage and unloaded the trunk. Then, grabbing one of the end handles, he dragged it up to the convent door.

He looked at the girl sitting like a mindless statue. Sympathy rose inside him as he contemplated the directions given him. It’s best you leave the girl outside, knock on the door, and then leave before you can be interviewed about her mental state, the solicitor, acting on behalf of Lord Hampshire, informed him. Otherwise, they might refuse to take her.

Not wishing to jeopardize the payment waiting for him, he walked back to the carriage, took the girl’s hand and helped her down. He seated her on the trunk. Then he loudly clapped the large brass doorknocker four times before rushing to the carriage. He quickly moved down the road before someone opened the door and spotted him.

CHAPTER ONE

Dover, England---eleven years later

Lord Jonathan Briercliff, owner of three ships recently anchored in the harbor, and Captain of the Seagull, observed the activity all about him while the last wagon was loaded with the remaining goods from his ships.

Good job, men, Jonathan said, as his men emptied the three ships’ holds after filling the conveyances belonging to the drove of merchants who had stormed the docks since before sunrise to purchase goods brought over from the colonies.

The crew was tired and eager to take to the streets of Dover to find the nearest tavern where they could relax and wash away the salty brine from their mouths and throats.

Jonathan, too, was eager to exercise his sea legs and enjoy the taste of a cooling tankard of ale after months at sea. Drink hearty, me lads, but stay out of trouble, he called to his men, watching as they dispersed in search of entertainment.

Tandy, Jonathan’s long time servant and old friend, laughed. Cap’n, ye’ might as well be talking to deaf children when telling ‘m to stay out of trouble.

Jonathan smiled, silently agreeing with Tandy, knowing the sailors invited brawls for sport.

With a long sigh, Jonathan clapped his old friend on the shoulder. Tandy, are these voyages getting longer, or is it just that I'm getting older?

The voyages haven't changed much, Cap'n. Maybe ye’re aching for solid ground beneath ye’ feet.

Tis’ time I settled down, I suppose, to extend my father's dynasty with a family of my own.

No offence, Cap'n, but won't ye’ need a wife? Tandy grinned, glancing from one corner of his eye, watching his captain's expression.

Jonathan glanced critically at him, a wry grin curving the corners of his mouth. Old friend, you do have a good point. Tis’ a hellish shame when a man can't find one single good woman worthy of being the mother to his children. Have I waited too long to find such a woman, do you think? Mayhap, all the good ones are taken.

No chance, Cap'n. Ye’ jes’ haven't weighed anchor long enough to find such a lass. Why not let Mister Dunsby captain yer' ship on the next voyage while ye’ concentrate on the matter?

Jonathan turned to Robert Dunsby, his first mate who had been captain of his own ship before a violent and ruthless storm sent the ship and half the crew to hell.

Mister Dunsby, what do you think of that idea?

Dunsby thought about the question. A man has to set his priorities, Captain. Tis’ all a matter of what ye’ want for yourself and yer' future.

Jonathan made no reply, his thoughts introspective. For the past year, he pondered over the direction of his life. Although he loved the sea, it wasn't something he wanted to dedicate his whole life to indefinitely. Someday he would follow in his father's footsteps, would become the Duke of Falkhurst, and the sea would be but a pleasant memory in his old age.

First, though, he needed a wife.

He had known his share of women, but wasn't a man used to settling for second best, and the lady who would one day wear his name would have to be very special. Involving himself in one affair after the other when he was between voyages, he had nearly despaired of ever finding such a woman to suit him.

His last companion, Trina Bascomb, tempted him considerably at first, seeming the epitome of deportment and manners, and presenting herself as a fine lady above reproach. The relationship came to a standstill shortly after Trina talked him into buying her a ring for her birthday.

She placed the ring on her finger and held it up to the light. It’s beautiful, she said, smiling with some secret knowledge. She reached around Jonathan’s neck and whispered in his ear. I’m going to make you the best wife ever.

He took a step back and observed her a full thirty seconds before he spoke. Trina, it’s a man’s place to do the proposing, and I don’t recall doing that.

It’s okay, darling. I’ve known for a while that you were thinking about asking me to be your wife.

You’ve known for a while? How can that be when I didn’t know myself?

Oh, you men are always dragging your feet on such things. Without women to give men a little nudge, there would never be another marriage.

Well, with all due respect, if I decide to propose, I’ll do it myself. In the meantime, please accept the ring as a birthday present.

A petulant pout replaced the smile. We both know that one day we’ll be man and wife, she said sulkily.

Maybe, he said agreeably, but maybe not. Let’s not rush things.

She smiled a warm sensuous smile. Okay, I won’t rush things, but at least allow me the joy of calling this my engagement ring.

One black brow rose sardonically. It’s a birthday present, Trina. Just keep that in mind.

We’ll see, Trina remarked, a secretive smile etching her rouged lips.

Trina wasted no time spreading word of an engagement between them.

The titled populace, which Jonathan’s father and mother belonged to, sniffed the news off as a sick joke. If Jonathan truly became engaged to someone, there would be a formal announcement followed by balls and parties enough to entertain the nobility for months to come. The mothers among the ton with daughters of marriageable age sent messages of shock to Jonathan’s mother over such deplorable gossip that suggested Jonathan was off the available bachelors’ list.

As the gossip grew, so did the rumors. Trina’s reputation came under scrutiny and tales about her circulated wildly. At first, Jonathan believed the tales were merely vicious gossip, until he finally hired a man to investigate Trina’s background. What he learned about the woman was shocking.

He vowed to terminate contact with Trina and denounce her claim of an engagement to him. However, he had gone off to sea again and the opportunity had not presented itself.

* * * *

Accompanied by Dunsby and Tandy, Jonathan left the docks and crossed the wharves, heading for a nearby tavern. The smell of the sea was in the air raking off the channel, mixing with the pleasant aromas of a bakery down the street and the not so pleasant odor of raw sewage overflowing the gutters and alleyways. The graying light of evening descended upon them and only a bright band of orange on the western horizon, eclipsed by a purpling sky, offered a few last glimpses of daylight drawing unto dusk.

Jonathan looked at his surroundings with an appreciation common to men who hadn’t touched foot to soil for days and weeks on end. Dover, the lock and key of England, had become his main port of call.

It’s good to be on land again, Jonathan stated, when they saw the Gooseneck Inn with its ancient weatherworn and sun-bleached sign mounted with rope. It swayed in the breeze above a heavy wooden door.

So it tis’, Mister Dunsby replied, smiling at the serving wench whose eyes roamed up and down Jonathan’s buff breeches and high jackboots.

Welcome back, Cap'n. Ye've been gone awhile, ye’ 'ave, the serving maid commented.

Thanks, Gerta. Has anything interesting happened since I've been away?

Things are much the same, Cap’n, what with drunks, foul-mouthed men, bad manners, and there ye’ 'ave it. Tis’ good t'see a foine gentleman sech’ as ye’ in our midst. What ken I get ye’?

Bring us a round of ale, Gerta. Jonathan pressed some coins in her hand, the gesture bringing a smile to her face before she turned to the bar.

A gaming table where four men played Brag, a card game known as poker in the colonies, drew Jonathan’s attention. A few people stood about watching, and after Gerta brought his ale, Jonathan moved closer to observe.

Jonathan noticed one man had amassed a small fortune. He chewed on a cigar sticking in one corner of his mouth, puffing heavily on it and blowing out white clouds of smoke that rose toward the ceiling. An empty tankard stood on the table in front of him, but he passed on the refill offered by the serving wench. Although the other three players talked and laughed among themselves, he was withdrawn, the game a serious business for him.

A round-faced man with buckteeth tossed down his cards. That’s all for me, he said, lifting his tankard to his lips and finishing off his ale. Setting the vessel back down on the table, he bid all a good evening and left.

Mind if I sit in on a few hands? Jonathan asked.

Don’t mind if you do, one of the men said agreeably.

Jonathan reached out his hand to each man successively. Jonathan Briercliff, captain of the Seagull.

The first two men introduced themselves and shook Jonathan’s hand.

Lord Hampshire, the third one mumbled, and ignored Jonathan’s outstretched hand.

Jonathan took a seat in the empty chair across from Lord Hampshire.

With the cards shuffled and dealt, the game started in earnest, running an interval of many hands. An hour later, Jonathan calculated his losses and winnings as about equal.

Suddenly, however, the game took a new turn. Lord Hampshire started winning one hand after the other.

That’s all for me, said one of the men, tossing down his cards after emptying his purse.

Me, too, conceded another, and vacated his chair.

The atmosphere of the game changed. Tension filled the air when the betting grew steeper. Large piles of money graced the center of the table, and drew interested bystanders.

A silence descended. Only the whispered sounds of the interested spectators standing about watching, or pulling up chairs, broke through the tense atmosphere settling about the card table. Hampshire sat on the edge of his chair, his long legs changing positions frequently, his buttocks often shuffling from cheek to cheek.

Jonathan studied his opponent’s nervous personality that made it impossible for him to hide the subtle nuances that gave away his cards. A close observer could see the man’s eyes glitter with anticipation at a winning hand, changing to a frown with a losing hand. Jonathan started playing to the man’s facial expressions.

Hampshire started losing—at first a few paltry hands. His nervous state grew intense and he chewed the end of his cigar to pulp. His hands trembled. As the game continued, his losses rose. His hoard of winnings from earlier grew smaller with each hand until all was lost. Looking desperate, and waging a war with some inner struggle, he dug enough money from a vest pocket to match Jonathan’s last ante.

Hampshire dealt the cards.

Jonathan lifted the edge of his cards, saw what they were, and left them lying face down on the table in front of him.

Lord Hampshire, he said, While I’ve enjoyed the game with you, I’m ready to call it an evening. I’m prepared to bet everything I have.

Jonathan pushed all his winnings toward the center of the table, a sizable fortune the average person would never see in a lifetime. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, eying his opponent’s flushed face that was drenched in rivulets of sweat. The cigar had burned out leaving a chewed stub between the man’s rubbery lips. The drawn lines in his forehead grew deeper.

* * * *

Lord Hampshire studied the cards in his trembling hand. Tension played at the muscles in his jaw. This was the best hand dealt him during the last several games. He looked at his opponent, gathering no information from that quarter. Captain Briercliff was as cool and collected as though playing for mere tokens instead of an amount equal to making or destroying a man’s life.

Lord Hampshire felt Briercliff’s eyes examining him. He licked his lips. Sweat popped out in large beads on his brow and clung there. His entire life rested on this card game. If he won, he could put his life back together again, restore his estate to producing fine crops like it once did, pay off his taxes, and maybe—just maybe—he could bring his daughter home from that desolate convent.

He had one problem; he had no more money to bet.

All he had left was the deed in his pocket to his English country estate.

The air was thick with smoke, the noise at the bar loud and lively as more patrons drifted in intermittently. Around the card table, a suspenseful silence hung suspended while time ticked on with Lord Hampshire taking his own slow time to make a decision.

Butterflies fluttered nauseously in Lord Hampshire’s belly. Bile crawled up into his throat to leave him feeling sick and choked, forcing him to swallow the acid spittle. His throat was burning, the heat running all the way down into his gut like a long streak of fire, and the inner war he waged was considerably worsening the condition.

Should he throw in his cards and concede the game to Captain Jonathan Briercliff?

He ruminated on the outcome of that choice. He would lose the estate to back taxes unless he paid them off, and he couldn't pay them off without winning Briercliff's last bet. Without money, he could do nothing. His last chance for survival lay in this last hand of cards.

Lord Hampshire, what is your decision? Jonathan asked, feeling mildly impatient at the man’s long pause.

Just give me a moment, Lord Hampshire snorted, sending Jonathan a look of contempt. He suddenly hated Jonathan Briercliff for holding his pitiful life in the balance of the outcome of a hand of cards.

He chewed on his cigar stub, feeling despair on his back like a giant weight. His life was down to rock bottom with nowhere to turn for help. He had sold off everything he owned and used the money to stake yet another card game, always believing he would finally win and get back on his feet. With every game, he had thought of Gabrielle, his daughter, striving to win so he could bring her home.

Oh, God, how much he had missed her! He had wanted to retrieve her from that convent a thousand times after he learned of her aunt’s violent death, but couldn’t share his shame with her by subjecting her to the wretched state in which he and his estate had fallen. She was better off never knowing what he had become, or how sad and impoverished his existence following the death of his loving wife Francene.

This last game of cards might restore his life to some semblance of normalcy, if he won. Then he would do what he’d longed to do for all the years Gabrielle had lived in that convent. He would restore his estate, become the fine nobleman he’d once been before his wife died, and then bring Gabrielle home where she belonged.

He looked at the enormous pile of money in the center of the table; more money than he could earn in ten years with his dwindling estate and starving tenants.

I have no choice, he reasoned. If I play the hand, I could win back my life. If I don’t play, I have no life.

* * * *

Sweat flowed down his face. His hands held the cards in trembling fingers, and every other second or so he glanced nervously at them. The wagon wheel with candles setting in glass globes above his head felt like a glowing hearth of red coals. He wiped at the perspiration with the back of his hand, and then taking a handkerchief from his pocket dabbed some more.

He looked at his opponent whose expression was one of passivity and boredom. The easy composure of the man irritated him to no end. Anger flared blindingly, his head reeling with the complexity of emotions spinning out of control.

Moreover, even with the fear and anxiety over the detriment this hand of cards could mean to his life, he was aware of a spiraling thrill, a precipitating rush of adrenaline as he eyed that pile of money with anticipation.

Lord Hampshire, with all due respect, I'd like to finish the game, Jonathan stated impatiently.

Lord Hampshire's face twisted with venom for the man who held his life in the balance. Suddenly, he hated Captain Jonathan Briercliff for sitting so smugly and knowing that win or lose his life would go on.

More spectators gathered round.

Milord, concede the game, one old gent said, patting Lord Hampshire's shoulder.

Lord Hampshire took another deep breath, seeing his life hanging suspended by a thread so thin it was bound to snap at any minute. Reaching inside his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a document, his hands trembling badly as he unfolded it.

The deed to my estate against all your winnings, he asserted nervously, bringing a hushed gasp from among the spectators. He threw it on the pile of money Jonathan had bet.

A hush fell about the room with no one making a sound except the steady whisper of people breathing.

Jonathan picked up the deed and read it. Recognizing it as a certified legal document, his face abruptly took on a concerned frown. Although he enjoyed a game of cards for sport, it was beyond his honor to take a man’s lifetime holdings from him.

The middle-aged gent, seeming much older than his years, licked his lips nervously, his eyes round and bulging as he waited for Jonathan to show his cards. Perspiration drenched his face and shirt collar. His hands seemed primed in readiness to reach for the pot of winnings while he sat on the edge of his chair, his long legs bent at the knees so that they were snug with the underside of the table, nearly lifting it off the floor.

Jonathan’s face looked pinched, his brows drawn close together to form a vertical line down to the bridge of his nose. He gazed questioningly at the anxious man.

Lord Hampshire, are you sure this is what you want to do? he asked, tossing the document back down on top of the bet, thus breaking the silence.

Lord Hampshire winced. The pounding of his heart and the quick flow of blood through his veins nurtured feelings akin to rage. He looked as though slapped, his burning eyes in a flushed face darting angrily in a direct line to his opponent.

Do you question my decision or the authenticity of this document? he demanded, his hands on his chair arms looking as though he might push himself to his feet.

A hushed stillness followed his quick retort.

No harm intended, Lord Hampshire, Jonathan stated kindly, but tis’ a frightful risk you take in betting your estate. I am not partial to taking a man’s home from him in a hand of cards.

That statement brought a round of surprised muttering from the spectators.

Lord Hampshire somehow managed to relight his cigar stub, and took a deep puff. The red tip was so close to his lips he could not avoid feeling its fiery bite to his flesh. A second puff scorched the flesh on his lip and seared it enough to cause a light stench of burned flesh. He slung the stub away to the floor where someone’s foot pressed out the red ash. His flushed face seemed on fire as he penetrated Jonathan’s eyes with his gaze.

Do not patronize me, Captain Briercliff. I’ve met your bet. I demand that you show your cards or concede the game to me, he growled cantankerously.

Jonathan pursed his lips, thinking, and then reached his hand across the table. Okay, as you wish, Lord Hampshire. But I’d like to thank you for the game, and regardless of how it turns out, I bear no ill will.

Lord Hampshire waved his hand away and eyed him coldly. Show your cards! he demanded.

Together, they lay their cards down. Lord Hampshire had a flush of mixed suits, and Jonathan a running flush.

When Lord Hampshire saw Jonathan’s cards, they suddenly became poisonous vipers ready to strike their deadly bite. He stiffened in his chair.

His life fell from beneath him.

The rush of exhilaration from believing he had the winning hand temporarily froze on his face, changing by slow degrees to shock. His eyes wore the blank gaze of a dead man.

In horror to those who watched, Lord Hampshire’s boiling rage exploded like an erupting volcano.

* * * *

Jumping to his feet, sending his chair flying backward behind him against the legs of those who stood there, Lord Hampshire snatched one of two pistols from his belt, firing directly at his opponent.

Jonathan automatically jerked backwards and to one side when he saw the pistol. The explosion rang deafeningly in his ears and he felt the slam of the shot as his chair plummeted backward, crashing to the floor and collapsing beneath his weight. He winced from the sting of burning flesh where the shot plowed into his shoulder.

Having no weapon, all he could do was gaze in shock at Lord Hampshire who snatched his other weapon from his waistband. The angry little man with trembling hands tried to steady his aim before firing again, giving Jonathan’s dedicated servant, Tandy, just enough time to slap a pistol against Jonathan’s palm.

With excruciating pain, Jonathan raised his shoulders off the floor, aimed and fired without a moment’s hesitation, and not a second too soon. The shot caught Lord Hampshire in his chest just as he squeezed the trigger to finish Jonathan off. The shot went astray toward the ceiling as he crumpled to the floor. A pool of blood pooled about him just before one last rush of air expelled from his lungs.

Cap’n! Cap’n! Tandy called fearfully, seeing his captain drenched in blood.

Take care of the winnings, Tandy, Jonathan groaned, and watched his loyal servant rake them into his wide brimmed hat.

The last thing Jonathan remembered before falling unconscious was the bed beneath him.

The doctor came and removed the ball from his shoulder, cleaned up the wound and bandaged it, declaring there was little else he could do.

Fearing his captain was dying, Tandy hired a coach, and carried Jonathan home to his parents at Falkhurst.

* * * *

For more than two fortnights, Jonathan tossed and turned, delirious and moaning in pain. His infected arm put him on the verge of death. The family surgeon argued in favor of removing the arm, but Jonathan resolved he would die first. In a state of semi-consciousness, he forced a promise from his parents that they would not allow the surgeon to mutilate him.

The doctor tried every treatment he knew to rid the infection, but nothing helped. Then Jonathan’s mother came up with a strong herbal mixture she boiled and mixed with a paste of something so foul Jonathan could barely stand the stink when she coated his wound with it. About twelve hours later, he felt an easing balm in his shoulder and arm, the pain seeming to ooze from his pores.

For days, his mother kept cleaning the wound and applying more of the smelly stuff. Finally, the ugly green pus broke loose and poured out on the bandages. His fever cooled, and he opened his eyes to a new startling day of expected recovery.

With his health on the mend, Jonathan started thinking of Hampshire estate. He would forever wonder what possessed Lord Hampshire to forego all he owned over a card game.

Further, what could the man have been thinking by choosing to play out the hand, and then appointing himself as executioner of his opponent?

Jonathan needed answers.

CHAPTER TWO

A Convent near Paris

Sister Gabrielle and Sister Ann walked down the long polished corridor to the door opening onto the rear of the sprawling stone structure of the convent that formed a square around a large courtyard displaying an array of different plants, trees, and shrubbery.

Sister Gabrielle, if I keep emptying chamber pots, I think I will have a crooked back before I’m thirty, Sister Ann sighed.

Gabrielle’s shoulders also bent from the weight of the pots in each hand as she walked slowly so she wouldn’t splash out the contents. A crooked back and calloused hands, she mocked humorously, setting down the pots to shake circulation back into her hands and fingers.

Sister Ann paused with her.

When the tingling stopped, Gabrielle and Ann lifted their burdens and resumed their task.

Outside, they followed a beaten path leading through a wooded area rimming the edge of a deeper forest behind the convent. Grass and bushes grew on each side of the path, some poking bramble limbs across the clearing that snagged treacherously at the long black habits.

Farther away, where the trees and brush grew thicker, a four-foot deep trench contained waste products from the chamber pots and from kitchen refuse. The stench was nearly unbearable, especially when winds carried it in the direction of the path. Since the trench was nearly full, it would need covering with dirt soon, and another one dug.

Gabrielle and Ann poured the putrid smelling contents of her burdens into the damp and smelly trench where live maggots squiggled and worked at the putrefaction. Holding their breath as long as they could, they ran away from the smell, finally gasping for air.

It gets worse daily, Ann said, gagging at the vile smell and the awful taste clinging to her tongue.

Gabrielle rolled their eyes with dubious amusement. That’s the price we pay for being young.

Mother Superior had pointed out that their youth made them more energetic for the many trips to and from the convent to the waste dump.

Why can’t each nun empty their own waste? Ann argued with a wrinkled nose.

Because if we made such a suggestion, Mother Clarisse would see it as an affront to authority and demand penance.

At least the wind is blowing in the other direction today, Ann commented with a relieved breath of fresh air.

Remerciez le Dieu! Gabrielle grinned, but even as she said it, a puff of wind shot in their direction and caused them to gag and hold their breaths as long as they could.

Sister Ann giggled. Looking toward the skies, she said, He wants us to be more humble and accepting despite everything.

And be thankful for all things... Gabrielle chuckled.

Ann and Gabrielle went to their individual chores after the chamber pots were back in the Sisters’ tiny cells.

Gabrielle washed her hands and face, once, then again, dried them with a towel, and headed for the dining hall.

Breakfast was on time as usual, but Gabrielle accepted only tea. Before the others were finished eating, she rose, and went to the kitchen to spend most of the morning washing heavy iron skillets, pots and pans, tableware and cutlery, all soiled during the making of breakfast. The daily activities rarely varied much, filled, as they were, with work or prayer from morning to dusk.

Gabrielle didn’t mind work. Working was a reprieve from the poison of an idle mind. It was solace against what would otherwise have been long hours of tedious boredom. She blessed her duties that kept her mind from idly roving on the questions of her past. Her memory of the years prior to her stay at the convent lay buried in some deep crevice of her mind—amnesia, the doctor called it—and she longed to know who she was, where she came from, and what her life had been like.

She looked at the stacks of pots, pans, and dishes brought from the dining hall. There were enough to prepare a meal for an army. No one but Sister Gladys messed up so many utensils when cooking.

I’m sorry, Sister Gabrielle, Sister Gladys apologized demurely, looking at the stacks of soiled utensils, I guess I’ll just never learn how to avoid messing up everything.

Gabrielle smiled at her. At least no utensil is left unused long enough to gather dust. Your way keeps everything more sanitary.

You’re right, she said, smiling proudly. I never thought of it like that.

There wasn’t much chitchat when work needed doing, and there was always work. Even before breakfast dishes and leftovers got removed from the dining hall, Sister Gladys was busy messing up the same pots and pans Gabrielle was washing, getting preparations underway for the noon meal.

A sigh of resignation escaped Gabrielle’s lips. She was unusually tired today and didn't bother trying to cover the huge yawn.

Did you have another bad night, Sister Gabrielle? Sister Gladys asked, noticing how tired she looked. Sleeping in the cell next to Gabrielle's, she often woke from deep slumber when Gabrielle screamed out during bad dreams.

Yes, the dreams are getting worse. They wake me, I go back to sleep, and then they wake me again.

God bless you, child, you have been given a great tribulation to bear.

As Gabrielle stuck her hands into the soapy water, she recalled the days gone by and those yet to come. They came and went without exception to the chores, the daily routines broken only by Mass, prayer, and by Vespers on Sundays and holy days. Everyone had jobs and duties to perform, these time-consuming efforts supported by Mother Superior’s belief that busy hands contributed to reverent minds.

Occupation with chores, rather than preoccupation with boredom, keeps the mind too busy to allow a void where the devil’s wickedness might infiltrate, Mother Clarisse was fond of saying.

Gabrielle readily subscribed to Mother Clarisse's philosophy, but even the hard work couldn’t push aside the restless longings inside her. Her life before her exile to the convent was a blank, a dark void that left her constantly yearning for knowledge about her past.

She often wondered where she might be today if she hadn’t lost her memory. Would she possibly have met a wonderful man and married him, had his children? Such mental ramblings sent her to her knees nightly where she prayed for enlightenment, prayed for an answer to those never ending questions haunting her.

Please God, she prayed nightly, Give me back my memory.

* * * *

Although Sister Gabrielle could not recall anything about her life before coming to the convent, a hungry emptiness permeated her being.

From the day she first entered the convent, she indistinctly recalled being in a foggy daze, not knowing where she was, or whom she was with, and not caring. It was like being in a nether world where nothing fazed her. Compliant to all directions, she moved through a strange haze as nuns guided her to a tiny cell with a lumpy mattress and a thin feather pillow beneath her head. She slept deeply for hours, on and on. Her name resounded from someone’s lips from what seemed far away, wanting her to wake up, wanting her to eat.

Then the dreams started. They pounded her head, her brain, and her sanity. Dark demons haunted her, raping her mind with horror and fear so intense her subconscious rejected them. She came out of sleep in an explosion of wakefulness.

It was like waking from the dead, waking from a sense of nothingness, her brain empty of ever having experienced anything in her life, except that moment when she became aware of her surroundings at the convent. The hellish dreams and nightmares of violence that tore at her sanity were the only memories contained in her head. No faces appeared in the nightmares, but the color red dominated every vision; red blood, red demons, a flowing red wave washing over everything in its path like red paint. The color red became a trigger to fear.

Fear exceeded description, her heart palpitating like a runaway horse galloping full speed on her chest. Perspiration popped from her pores, dripping into the bedding, soaking the sheet beneath her. Night and day ran together, dreams and images tormenting her without end.

When she came out of the comatose state, she woke to a strange little room with only a cot, chair, and small table. The walls were bare and damp, and one small window allowed a mere sliver of light. It looked like a prison cell, barely longer than the length of the cot. Gabrielle hadn’t the least idea but what she had become someone’s prisoner.

She rose from the lumpy mattress, weakness forcing her to lie back down. She stared at the ceiling, walls, door, and the tiny window, making every effort to decide where she was.

She was like a newborn, starting over with a blank palette. The past had vanished. Her life, whatever it had been, was lumped into that single moment when she awakened from a dream too horrible to allow continued sleep.

* * * *

Recently turned twenty-one, more than eleven years had passed since Gabrielle awakened from the catatonic state she was in when she arrived at the convent. For eleven long years, she wondered who she was, who her parents were, where she had lived, and who had brought her to the convent? Why had no family contacted her?

Nothing but strange impressions from her dreams churned violently inside keeping her mind alive to a past she could not recall. Eleven years she had been at the convent while her memory continued to lie dormant in a silent grave haunted by vicious dreams.

She knew something terrible must have occurred in her life to cause her to forget everything. She desperately wanted to know the truth, and was certain she would never find it at the convent. Her past was not in these walls, but were out there somewhere in that uncertain world where she had once lived. Unless she left the convent in search of answers, she’d likely live and die never knowing who she was.

Thus, in the silence and stillness of her tiny cell each night before she lay on the lumpy mattress, her nightly prayers consisted of fervent pleas for the opportunity to learn about those first ten years of her life.

Please, God, give me at least one opportunity to know who I am.

That was the nature of her prayers daily and nightly. It was a cry for God’s help to provide the means of finding the missing part of her, and a need so intense she lived for that day to arrive.

It finally did.

* * * *

A tall, lanky youth knocked on the heavy oak door and the sister answering the door allowed him entrance. He requested the presence of Sister Gabrielle Hampshire, daughter of Lord Charles Hampshire.

Summoned, Gabrielle hurried to where he waited on the wide polished foyer.

Sister Gabrielle Hampshire? he asked, keeping a hold on one corner of the letter until she answered.

"Oui, m’sieu," she replied.

He let go of the letter, bid her good day, and left.

An expression of puzzled excitement crossed Gabrielle’s features. She examined the letter curiously, turning it about in her calloused hands. Her heart fluttered erratically, a strange excitement taking hold of her.

This was the first communication from anyone in all the years she had stayed at the convent.

* * * *

Sister Ann opened a door and entered the corridor. She peeked down the long expanse of polished floor to make sure no one observed her neglecting her duties, which was an offence that would gain prayerful penance. She spotted Gabrielle, purposely seeking her out after word spread that a messenger, a rare sight at the convent, had requested Gabrielle.

Gabrielle, I heard, she whispered to prevent her voice from echoing in