The Dead Claim Their Own

By Hargrove Perth

Isabel Ravenwood has been the responsibility of her loving brother her entire life. When a correspondence arrives from a family in Portsmouth, Henry is more than skeptical whereas Isabel is elated. With serious doubts despite the Bennington's willingness to provide all requested documents to prove their relationship to their mother, Henry allows his beloved sister to travel to Portsmouth to meet them promising to follow along shortly. Upon his arrival, Henry is filled with inexplicable dread, an overwhelming sense of fear, and immediately wishes to leave. But as they would soon learn, the manor has more secrets than truths. Determined to learn the mystery behind Bennington Manor and the estate, Henry teeters on the brink of madness until he is finally able to understand the dead claim their own...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hargrove Perth
• Release date: Jun 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386620051

Hargrove Perth

A perpetual night-owl and lover of all things paranormal related, Hargrove spends a great deal of time researching the larger than life characters of history to formulate characters unforgettable and strangely adored. She writes horror, dark romance, fantasy, and paranormal in the Adult, New Adult, and YA categories. When asked why paranormal, she said, "I'm the girl who cries at the end when Frankenstein is misunderstood, who wants Dracula to keep Mina in his arms forever... I see the humanity in them that others cannot." 2014 Author of the Year by Double Decker Books in Historical/Horror Dark Days Remy Broulette. DDBA 2015 Author of the Year YA Fantasy Miss Crabtree's School for Unnaturals, DDBA 2015 Nominee YA Fantasy Chronicle:Dark Sea Triad, and DDBA 2015 Author of the Year Horror (comedic) Coven Wives.

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Dedication

No written work is ever solely the creation of the one who puts pen to paper. The creative force behind any endeavor often comes from one’s roots. It is with sincere gratitude this book is dedicated to my mother, Ruth Ann Bracken and the countless hours of imaginative play, the many hours of support and praise given, and the love she still so freely gives.

For Beth Sullivan whose friendship, support, and honest feedback gives me the courage to persevere.

With special thanks to Melanie Miller.

Chapter One

A Letter Arrives

From the moment her first breath was taken, Isabel Louisa Ravenwood has been my responsibility through no fault of her own; although she spent the majority of her adolescent years believing that to be the case. She was a child born in a moment of agony and bliss for both my father and I. He had said, ‘you must watch over her Henry, as I know only you can do,’ and I have, my entire life.

It was not an easy decision, to begin this work, to write what has transpired in our lives but it is a task that must be done for she is the world to me, and without my beloved sister I sometimes fear there would be no reason for me to exist at all.

Our mother, Sarah Mae Bennington Ravenwood, gave her last dying breath as Isabel took her first. Her death the result of an arduous labor and a lack of a physician, the burden of that fateful instant fell upon my sister to bear without her even knowing. It was difficult for me, a mere child aged to six years, to understand the full implications of what had happened; how one life could end and another could begin with such disregard and ease. But now as I sit here gazing at Isabel and the way the light illuminates her long, dark hair and honey brown eyes, I cannot fathom my life without her. Times such as these stir the fond memories of my youth when she was but a child who fussed each night at bedtime, eagerly doing so until I conceded and gave her what she wanted; a bed-time story. Won’t you read me a story, Henry, please? I cannot sleep, she said countless times, and being the dutiful and loving older brother, I willingly obliged. Our father on such occasions was long retired and committed to a deserved night’s sleep. Who was I to refuse her?

It can be said that perhaps I cater to her too much, that a blind eye has been cast many a time. Yet in so many ways whatever her desire is, it cannot be refused for I was given the opportunity to know and love our mother when Isabel was not.

The memories of our mother are vivid, beautiful, and have not softened with the passing of time. She was a woman whose demeanor was soft spoken and gentle; who never uttered a cross word or a harsh look.  That is not to say a disapproving glance was not warranted when my behavior was perhaps too rambunctious, but they were far and few between. My beloved sister is every bit the embodiment of her to the most minute of details without her even realizing.

My mother was not a tall woman but was of average height. Her build was slender, perfectly feminine, and the quintessential definition of beauty. Her complexion was as pure as milk; her eyes sparkled like a multi-faceted gem, and her smile could warm the darkest of days. Many times I watched my father as he silently sat at his desk, wiling away the evening hours as he finished his work for the firm, and in between the countless papers concerning wills, estates, and proxies, there would be a slight glance accompanied by a smile. Never was there a love so beautiful or clandestine. The sweet tone of her voice often accompanied whatever task she tended to, be it pressing my father’s suits or washing dishes, my mother would sing softly. On days when my rambunctious behavior interrupted her routine, my mother would pause, taking my hand in hers, and found a way to incorporate my antics into her work. Not once in my life was there ever a time where I felt a nuisance or bothersome.

In many ways our family was blessed, not only by the scant period of time that my mother graced our lives but by the events which followed after her death. Death can never be without complication, strife, or deep sadness. My father was fortunate in his affiliations. His work for Wadsworth, Billings, and Gentry was mostly comprised of settling estates in duress in Portsmouth with associations tied to Royalty. At mother’s death, Mr. Gentry offered to relocate our family to London with a full partnership at the firm, but Irving Ravenwood was not one to accept what he considered charity so the offer was respectfully declined. Mrs. Gentry, a kindly round woman with a heart just as wide, immediately sent her daughter to care for us while father was at work being she had just birthed a child of her own; a son whom she named Harrington. It is with a heavy heart that I never was presented the possibility later in life to express my gratitude for the care Evelyn Hartcourt provided to both my sister and I; for were it not for her willingness to nurse Isabel, she surely would have perished.

Isabel became my sole responsibility when I was a scant eighteen years of age with the passing of our father unexpectedly. Nearly eight years have passed in the blink of an eye since father’s death. Yet at times it appears to have been only yesterday. There is a deep sadness in my heart that father was not able to see and enjoy the woman Isabel has become. Time moves quickly, perhaps with its own motivation to which we are not privy. I am now aged to twenty-six, still unwed, and quite happily so. My lovely Isabel is now twenty, working as a School Marm, and also unwed. It is a strange yet comfortable existence where I have grown so accustomed to caring for her, I am not sure if my life could go on without Isabel.

She is a woman of more than average intelligence and is quite reasonable. Her intellectual prose and composition certainly would put any scholar to the tests of wits and skills. It is evident to me she despises the term ‘school marm’ when her intellect far surpasses the professors and teachers at Knottingham Academy even though I have yet to hear her complain or utter a word otherwise. Isabel does her best to present our condition in a positive light. She does not focus on the details of our existence together or that we are the last descendants of the Ravenwood and Bennington lineage.

Our life was one of few complications as we grew under the loving and watchful eye of our father. His instruction was stern at times, but it was given with love. Mrs. Harcourt resided with us during the spanse of the day and was fetched by her husband each evening at the end of his day of work at the firm with my father. As time passed Mrs. Harcourt was no longer a requirement in our home, and the structure of our home changed. Evenings were spent with my attention focused on my sister, her studies, and any small task that could be procured to earn extra money for my schooling. It was my position within the household to care for my sister, keeping her entertained on evenings where the air was too damp or cold to find enjoyment out-of-doors. The responsibility fell upon me as well to ensure her schoolwork was attended to diligently.

Those years passed so quickly. I am now gainfully employed at the same firm where my father once earned his living. He secured a position for me as a courier and office boy in the hopes that one day when my schooling was complete I too could secure a position at the firm. Each small amount earned was put away for me to attend Bostworth, a prominent finishing school for young gentlemen who aspired to work in law. The sacrifices our father made were not evident to me as a young man. It was until many years later comprehension of how much he forwent for my sister and I became clear.

Father was never whole after the passing of mother, a certainty that can now be seen with clarity. His love for her was great as was my mother’s love for our father. In many ways the joy Isabel provided him was also a source of immense sorrow. Never before have I seen another whose resemblance could be so hauntingly striking and similar. When my eyes gaze upon her it is unmistakable that Isabel is a greater likeness of my mother more so now than ever. Our father held on, I believe, until he was certain that I would be able to provide for Isabel and myself in a manner that would allow us to live comfortably even though it would not be luxurious. It has always been a belief of mine that father could no longer live without my mother at his side and left this world not because of some undiagnosed lingering illness but of a heart broken and un-repairable.

Father left this world on a cold, dark and dreary day late in the fall. He simply did not wake. There was no suffering or lingering for which I am grateful. The funeral was small and was not an expense to my sister or me. Wadsworth, Billings, and Gentry spared no expense in caring for our father’s demise. He was a man respected among his peers, who had worked diligently and with integrity. The elder Billings, who was quite on in his years, paid for our father’s headstone set in black marble without blinking an eye. Irving Ravenwood was laid to rest in the Portsmouth cemetery under a large White Oak tree alongside our beloved mother.

Having no reason to remain in Portsmouth, we took what small amount of money we had amassed, set ourselves to auctioning many of his finer belongings that we could bear to part with, and sold the small, withered cottage outside of Portsmouth. We desired to live in the city, much closer to my place of employment for the ease of daily travel. We purchased a small flat on the outskirts of London near White Chapel. It is not the most luxurious of conditions, but it suits our somewhat romantic ideologies of what our lives still could be.

Upon our arrival in White Chapel, Isabel was able to procure a position teaching at Knottingham Academy. Her references from the Portsmouth Academy for Advanced Learning were impeccable. She had in her possession not only letters of recommendation from six of her Professors but also a heartfelt composition from Dean Windsor Burle. He put it so bluntly that any institution who failed to offer my sister gainful employment would be allowing an opportunity never to be seen again to pass without merit. Within only two months of our arrival in White Chapel, Isabel was gainfully employed teaching English and Composition to young women who aspired to find their own professions in life.

My sister is much more inclined to accept the strange nuances of the modern times in which we live and continue to unfold around us. Isabel is more forward and accepting in her thinking than I ever could find the courage to do myself. She attends medium consultations and séances held by the professors at Knottingham Academy whose interests lay in the scientific expenditures needed to prove if it is more a social or entertaining practice that has little to no basis in truth or reality. I fear she attends these preposterous gatherings in the hope of contacting our departed mother; a silly notion and certainly not one befitting a woman whose brilliant nature far surpasses the company she keeps.

Still, her idiosyncrasies are mildly irritating at times, so I do whatever is within my power to overlook such trivial irritations. She is my flesh, my blood, and the only living relative I have, and I am fortunate to call her as such. Isabel is such a pleasure to me when arriving home from a daunting day filled with wills, estate settlements, and proxies. It is difficult for me to imagine my life now without her. She has become such a central part of my life.

Our quaint little flat, the central part of our lives together, and how lovely it has become is certainly due to none of my influences. Isabel embodied her feminine spirit with zest and vigor from the moment we arrived in London. As I look at my surroundings, it is her touch, her love that has made this once dreadful abode a home.

It was not important to me, being a gentleman whose focus is his work, the conditions in which I lived or that it is not fashionable by any means, but my sweet, sweet Isabel wished our lives to have a new beginning, something reflective of our purpose and grand design. The first month we called White Chapel home Isabel spent cleaning, scrubbing walls, and floors for her secret and grandiose plans. It was not as though she had much at her disposal on our meager earnings, and the flat was nothing more than a single large room with no separate sleeping or bathing quarters. Yet in her own determined manner, Isabel wanted it to be perfect, so her every action was endorsed. Soon I found her sewing curtains for the two small windows that overlooked the crowded and dingy city below us and purchasing dressing screens to create our own sleeping quarters and a modest kitchen. The flat was equipped with only a pot-bellied stove at our arrival. Whatever else became of our new home was left up to Isabel.

My sister enlisted the aid of several of the wives from the professors at Knottingham. They were eager to help such a fine young woman whose determination to create a home filled them with a sense of pride. Soon, Isabel found she had more remnants of cloth and wallpaper than she knew what to do with or could possibly use. Yet somehow she found a way to incorporate every item that had been given to her stating it would be disrespectful to allow them to go to waste.

Professor Jacobson’s wife, Bedelia, surprised Isabel with four rolls of wallpaper stating it was a home warming gift. He had spoken quite fondly of the new school marm and the tragedy which had befallen us. Bedelia was so taken with Isabel at their first meeting; she immediately set out to do whatever was within her means to make our lives more comfortable, even if it was only dressings for the home. The wallpaper was of a fine design, dark blue with trailing vines of green and orange trumpet flowers which are delicately divided by pin-striping in gold. Bedelia even went as far as to offer the services of her decorator to assist Isabel in her venture to which my sister respectfully declined. Isabel wished to do it alone, were her actions to prove that she could or because she viewed it as too charitable an act is a matter I am still not privy to this day.

Before the end of our third month, the flat was more than respectable. The wall paper had been placed, family pictures had been hung, and all the furniture from father’s home in Portsmouth adorned our new home. The items we kept had been few; the dining room table, my mother’s fine china, all the trappings of the kitchen, a divan and our beds. To show my pride in her accomplishment, I purchased a pie cupboard for Isabel to store her dining linens and dishes. After much adoration on her part, the cupboard was immediately cleaned and filled with our mother’s china, her linens, and silverware. However, the one article in our flat which holds the most endearing memories for me is the desk at which I now sit writing for it belonged to my father. Isabel arranged it with the accompaniments of any fine, established writer; setting powders, ink, finely pressed paper, and a fine, comfortable chair. She encourages me to pursue my love of writing but I find that my journal has become enough to sate my dreams of one day becoming an author. It is now the aspiration of my lovely sister which I support and encourage. She has become quite good at her writing and her works to me are nothing less than remarkable. I am to remain a lawyer. Sometimes destiny cannot be changed.

Henry, your head is so deeply entrenched in your journal and your work that I have now called you twice for dinner with no response. I will not keep it warm forever, she said so matter of fact I had to laugh.

Forgive my rudeness, Isabel. I was merely reminiscing about days long gone and the events of the day. I must profess the aroma is very enticing.

Her eyes betray her as they so often do when she finds displeasure in my behavior. I watched her place the table settings with same care and dedication she performed every task. Something was amiss; she seemed troubled and concerned about some unknown subject she had yet to reveal.

A letter came today, Henry, addressed to Lord Ravenwood. I placed it on your desk. I would have believed you should have noticed it.

Addressed to Lord Ravenwood, you say? I assume it is the prank of some long lost college fellow who finds his penmanship amusing.

I stared at the table and the dedication she prided herself over. Each day, regardless of the meal, the table was set with the fine china belonging to our mother, polished silverware, a lace table cloth, and chargers beneath the dishes as if the Queen herself was invited to dine. The embodiment of the female gender my sister invokes is somewhat a mystery to me given she was raised by two men whose greatest attention to detail was dressing in a suit she had pressed the day prior.

Are you not even the slightest bit curious what it says, Henry? She asked while folding her white linen napkin before placing it in her lap and waiting for me to begin dining.

I am quite certain it is nothing more than an ill-seeded prank by an old colleague.

Still, Henry, what be the harm in opening the telegram? Perhaps it might be of some interest to you.

Her convoluted response contained hidden intentions. It was not so much her wanting me to open the correspondence to see what it contained for my benefit as it was Isabel needed her curiosity sated.

Isabel, certainty lies in what I know. This is nothing but a rouse, some fanciful deceit intent on luring me into their folly.

She twisted the handle of her knife unknowingly at her lack of enthusiasm toward my jilted response in her growing frustration. Forgoing the inevitable would only prolong my own suffering as I watched her disappointment.

I concede, Isabel.

My sister leapt from the table to fetch the letter opener from my desk and placed it my hand. It had belonged to our father. The cold feel of the silver in my hand was unrelenting as I slid the edge between the sealed paper. Her anticipation nearly seethed from her as she leaned forward, resting her bosom on the edge of the table, leaning in closer and closer, her long, thick eyelashes flittering in anticipation as she knelt on the floor next to me.

Come now Henry, what does it say?

My initial reaction was disbelief followed by mistrust and stupor at the words on the thick, yellow stock paper.

This simply is not possible, Isabel. It must be some horrid person’s idea of a profusely morbid joke.

Henry, just read it for God’s sake.

Before I had a chance to reply, Isabel stood behind me; her hand resting gently on my shoulder as she peered over at the piece of parchment quivering in my hand.

"Lady Cordelia Bennington requests the