Clementina's Daughter

By Hilary Giner-Sorolla

England's Queen Victoria is dead, and the colorful Edwardian era is in

full swing.

Orphaned Laura Stephens falls in love with William, a restless, young

explorer, but her uncle and aunt have their own ideas about who is a

suitable match for their niece. They favor an army captain on leave

from service in India.

Anti-German feeling is rampant as a result of the heavy loss of life in

the recently ended South African War when the British fought the

German-backed Boers.

Unluckily for Laura, William belongs to a German family, who, with many

other speculators, have settled in the nearby Leem Valley to take

advantage of the economic boom in iron and steel.

The Germans find the top social circle difficult to penetrate, so they

build a mansion in the hunting country near Laura's home. William takes

up residence there as Squire of the Manor of Scorby.

A climax is reached when a mean-spirited housekeeper learns the

captain's deepest secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 6, 2001
• ISBN: 9781465327963

Hilary Giner-Sorolla

Hilary Giner-Sorolla spent her childhood in Cleveland, U.K., a county sandwiched between Durham and North Yorkshire. The author has always been fascinated by the area's mystique. As an added interest, three sides of her family were foundry owners involved in iron and steel manufacturing, a dominant thread in its history. Other writing credits include two screenplays, short stories and articles. She presently makes her home in Western North Carolina.

Book preview

1 Chapter One

Plumes of smoke from huge chimneys proclaimed Alverport to be one of England’s busiest industrial towns. Joined to the German Ocean by the Leem River, it was host to tall-masted cargo vessels from many lands who came for the products of the Iron and Steel Trade.

On a raw morning in early October, the ferry steamer Huntcliff cast off her moorings at Old Packet Wharf. With a ringing of bells and a hiss of vapor, she backed out and turned in an arc before heading between the channel buoys marking her course.

A darkhaired young lady wearing a wine-red broadcloth costume, the long skirt bell-shaped, the jacket clinging to a rather plump waist, watched the ferry’s departure upriver from a point near the rolled back gangplank. She could still make out her mother, a dash of yellow amongst the monochrome of passengers on the afterdeck. She waved, one more time, with the length of mauve tulle veiling she held in her hand, then put it over her flat pancake hat, wrapping it round her slender neck like a scarf.

Best be on our way, Miss Laura, counseled Hodgson, the avuncular family coachman, leading her back through the ferryhouse to the waiting carriage. He gave her his rough hand for support as she mounted the step, and settled into her seat with a contented sigh.

After placing a bear skin rug across her knees, Hodgson heaved himself up onto the box, gathered up the reins, flipped a coin to the street urchin holding the horses, but was frozen in the act of grabbing for his whip when the dockside area was rocked by a tremendous explosion which caused the pair of Cleveland Bays to rear up between the shafts.

Mama! Laura’s cry was drowned out as a nearby window shattered, scattering shards of glass.

Her heart-shaped face drained of blood and she felt a hollowness in her bowels as shrieks of agony came across the water from people scalded by escaping steam. Hurling away the rug she tugged open the door, hitched up her skirt, and jumped to the cobbles.

She felt weak as she rushed through the deserted ferryhouse. As she stumbled onto the wharf, her breath came in tearing rasps.

The Huntcliff had disaster written all over her: the entire aft section had ruptured in half. Passengers struggled in the river a distance from the vessel, apparently having been propelled upward and outward by the blast. One hapless man had landed, grotesquely, upside down, in the rigging of a sand wherry. Two brawny sailors came running out of a nearby tavern and jumped into a row boat. Pulling at the oars frantically, they went to the rescue of some people clinging to pieces of wreckage.

Fountains of sparks shot up from the stricken ferry as a series of minor explosions popped off. Before long, most of what was left of the Huntcliff was engulfed in thick black smoke.

By Gaw, yon’s a terrible mess. I’ll bring, thee ‘ome. Hodgson’s leathery face was etched with concern.

Laura felt deeply troubled, utterly drained, as they returned to the carriage. Her brown eyes glistened with tears.

I’ll ride out to yer uncle’s place, the coachman went on. Yer’ll need ‘im I reckon, in case summat’s ‘appened.

The carriage made slow progress up Commercial Street against a torrent of curiosity-seekers running in the opposite direction. But Laura was unaware of them. She was jolted from her stupor by a second explosion, louder than the first, which caused the horses to bolt with neighs of terror, scattering the masses. Hodgson was unable to check or stop the frightened animals in spite of his vigorous tugs on the reins. They continued on with a staccato clatter of hooves, causing the conveyance to sway violently, grazing lamp-posts, knocking over milk cans, crates and barrels, assailed by cat-calls and curses. Only one pedestrian made an effort to save them, diving to his left, he locked on to one of the bays and was dragged along, slowing the pair down long enough to be brought under control.

Pulling to a standstill, at last, a grateful Hodgson helped a badly shaken Laura climb down.

The handsome young hero was trying to calm the horses as they stood trembling, with flailing tails. He was about five-feet-ten, compactly built, his fine flaxen hair contrasting with his strong face. Thank God you are safe. That was a close shave, he declared, regarding her with intense blue eyes.

You were very brave. How can I ever thank you enough? Laura’s voice shook.

Aye, ye took a big risk, Mister Von Amsberg, sir. The coachman lifted his hat respectfully. Has ta met Miss Laura Stephens?

No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Von Amsberg replied as he brushed dirt off his green Loden suit. I say, are you by any chance the daughter of the fabled Clementina?

Yes, I am. Shaking his outstretched hand, Laura was unable to control the powerful new sensation that was taking hold of her despite the shock and the dread.

"Mrs. Stephens was on the Huntcliff, sir. She blew oop ‘bout fifteen minutes since."

So that’s what it was! I thought it was a blast furnace or a gas holder tank. My God, how ghastly. He was at a loss for words, but only for a moment. They’ll need help over there. I must be off. I do hope your mother gets off the boat unharmed.

He was gone in an instant, shouldering his way through the throng.

That were William Von Amsberg, t’explorer, Hodgson informed his charge. A fine lad, he commented as he patted the restless horses. Lucky for oos he weren’t traveling in them furrin parts.

On the way home, Laura remembered a letter written in Switzerland by her mother, describing salt water baths and the thrill at staying afloat in them, although she could not swim. Was there enough salt in the River Leem? What if she had drowned? How she wished she was with her now, alive and radiant, clasped in her loving arms, her soft voice soothing away the fear.

* * *

The North Yorkshire Herald ran a special black-bordered edition on the Huntcliff disaster. Included in the long list of those who had perished was the name, Clementina Stephens, widow of

Daniel George. Mother of Geoffry and Laura.

* * *

Seated in a stuffed leather chair, William Von Amsberg tossed aside the newspaper after reading the long obituary column. In spite of all the gruesome scenes he had witnessed on that fateful day, he could not let go his impression of Laura Stephens. What intrigued him was that despite her terrifying ordeal, there was a gentleness, an innocence, that was undeniably appealing.

Willy, I have not been so proud of you since you won the Coronation Swim Cup, Emmi Von Amsberg, a striking gray-haired woman declared as she swept into her husband’s study wearing a chartreuse day dress. Did you see vot they reported about you yesterday? It seems that you stopped some runaway horses on Commercial Street before rescuing several ferry victims from drowning.

Mama, those fancy adjectives they use to describe me are all bosh! he shot back, springing to his feet. I am no hero, believe me.

What’s wrong, Willy? Ever since you came back from Manila . . .

Emmi’s words were cut short as her elder son strode out of the room and left the palatial Victorian-style family home, slamming the front door.

2 Chapter Two

Usually, the park soothed William with its quiet charm, but today was an exception. A gale force wind howled about the boathouse, ruffled the surface of the lake jostling the punts at their moorings, and bent trees. Capriciously it puffed out his tweed suit and rumpled his hair as he wandered aimlessly over the grass amid whirling leaves.

Manila! he agonized. Why did she have to bring up that painful subject? Any mention of the word wounded him deeply like a dagger to the heart.

Fifteen months ago, his mother and Alverport had been far from his thoughts as he plunged, fully clothed into a sparkling inlet of the South China Sea. Following in the wake of a bronze-skinned Dyak girl, he struck out with purposeful vigor.

When the two swimmers reached the opposite shore, the girl pointed to a bamboo trellis. Wading out of the water, his clothes clinging to his body, William sleeked back his dripping hair, then went to inspect the structure which was decorated with jasmine and strung with votive offerings to the Virgin Mary and the Water Spirit, ranging from quaint birds made from palm leaves to gaunt rhinoceros skulls, and elaborately carved crucifixes.

Looking about, it was easy for the young explorer to understand why the place had been woven into legend. The white torrent, bursting out half-way up the black cliff above his head, dropped spectacularly to feed the inlet between a circlet of boulders.

Splashed by flying droplets, he staggered on the wet spongy ground. At last he came to the roots of orchids, yards and yards long, that twisted around big rocks and the trunks of stunted trees.

The white stucco schloss, the unplowed edges of the fields where he would stroll with his grandfather admiring the wildflowers and hedge roses . . . they were part of Mecklenburg and of his early childhood. He remembered them as he looked up and marveled at the long sprays of pink-red blooms with a scent so sweet, that it was overpowering. How he wished he had someone with the enthusiasm of his grandfather to share the moment. Yet there was another part of him, he had to admit, a part that his grandfather could never understand, the need to press on and discover something new and different. And that need these orchids did not fulfill, for he recognized them as being common to the region.

On his return to the inlet, William glanced swiftly at his guide who stood waiting. Statuesque, with slanting eyes and high cheekbones, a seed pod talisman lay at her throat, and bare breasts as large as melons were displayed above her short indigo sarong. She smiled coyly, tieing her long black hair behind her head in one graceful movement with a vine. He tried to remonstrate with her for leading him on a wild goose chase, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the cascade.

Venting his frustration, he twirled around, scooped up a handful of pebbles and hurled them at the trellis until the votive offerings danced crazily. He repeated this action twice, then noting the smoke from the expedition’s cooking fire spiraling above the trees, he charged down the bank into the water, kicking up a diamond-spray, the commotion scaring off a monkey that had ventured out of the forest to feast on small crabs.

* * *

Manila fried in the noon heat. Within the confines of the Cathedral Plaza, rigid lines of American soldiers and sailors wearing tropical white uniforms stood beneath gay bunting, holding in check the seething multiracial crowd.

The occasion was the inauguration of Judge Taft as Governor General of the Philippines, and William Von Amsberg had taken up a position near the pavilion. Superior in height, even allowing for his black top hat, the young German, his lip adorned by a delicate moustache grown to hide the deep rattan thorn scratches received on his recent expedition to the coastal region of Sarawak, stood expectantly with other invited guests. His Prince Albert coat felt tight across his broad shoulders; his discomfort was further compounded by the taut green cravat below his scratchy high-winged collar.

It was when the bass drum started its slow rhythmic pounding that William became aware of the true existence of evil and its powerful forces. From the beginning he had made childish pacts with Baal whenever the God of Martin Luther had not answered his prayers, and this he had regarded as a natural reaction, an outpouring of spite, not to be taken too seriously. But last night at the Hotel