Wesley of the Moors

By Joanne Kathleen Farrell

A young woman is obsessed and intrigued by an ancient family story of a kidnapping, murder, and deceit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728322667

Joanne Kathleen Farrell

Joanne Kathleen Farrell is a married mother of three grown children. She has been writing since she was in high school. Joanne graduated from Albany High School in 1982 in beautiful upstate, New York. She is an activist, artist and painter and enjoys writing poetry.

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Copyright © 2019 Joanne Kathleen Farrell. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   08/15/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-2267-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-2266-7 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1    The Secret Journal of James Carter

Chapter 2    The Diary of Christina Evans

Chapter 3    I, Charles Wesley Evans

Chapter 4    My Adventure in the Moors

Chapter 5    Murder and Deceit

Chapter 6    The Voyage to Virginia

Chapter 7    The Shenandoah

Chapter 8    Robbers

Chapter 9    I, Katherine

Chapter 10    The Golden Locket

Chapter 11    Off to the Marshall

Chapter 12    Clara Beth Carter

CHAPTER 1

THE SECRET JOURNAL OF JAMES CARTER

T here she was, my dear beloved and beautiful Aunt Christina. She stood there with the bottom of her pretty powder blue day gown getting all soiled in the mud. The heels of her white laced up dress boots sank into the soft ground as she walked, leaving a trail of holes behind her. I watched her through the glass from the upstairs bedroom window as she opened the gate to the garden terrace, and with a pair of garden clips, she cut handfuls of golden yellow daffodils, collecting them into bouquets of sunshine. Her blond hair was casually dressed, combed straight down as usual with a simple long thin braid draped down from the crown of her head to the middle of her back. She looked content and happy, blue eyes sparkling, taking life gentle it seemed in a completely unprepared for anything manner. Oh, what a kind and compassionate woman she is but, so unusual. She only sees the beauty in things and responds in no way to the on going gossip that surrounds her. Unfortunately, my wife Clara, who is not so oblivious to the points of view of other people, is standing right behind me complaining, once again about the life style Christina has chosen for herself. Clara sat down on our bed with a long frustrated sigh, rubbing her fingers against the folded bed quilt that was spread over the foot of our bed. It was the quilt Christina made for us last Christmas.

James, I know what people are going to say. I know you think highly of her. This is not the kind of behavior a lady exhibits. She is the talk of the entire church. Well, think of the girls. What are they going to say when I try to explain it to them? That Aunt Christina will not be with us in church today? The ladies in our congregation snicker at the pure mention of her. Our people, they just find it quite hard to understand all of this. And now today, being a religious holiday and all. So, I wish you would talk to her. This is not what a lady does. A lady does not go fishing on Easter morning. She has been seen you know, with that fisherman, Eli. And she carries around that dirty old book with her, wherever she goes. It’s not like she hasn’t read it.

Clara, please just stop. You are forgetting that this is Christina’s house and this is her farm. I am privileged to be her caretaker for the land. I am here to plow the wheat field, harvest the corn when due. I am not living here to get involved in her private life. You should be more appreciative of the fact that she allows us to live in this house as if it were our own.

Well James, you work for it and this old house isn’t exactly filled with conveniences of this age. There is no indoor plumbing other than the well pump in the kitchen. I have to empty the pots each and every morning. There is only one coal stove. Oh and that pantry! It’s so cluttered. Not to mention, sitting by the fireplace every winter in that drafty old parlor with no coal stove. This is not a life style of luxury.

Clara!

Okay. I’m sorry. I just think that it is most proper and fitting for her to go to church on Sunday, especially on Easter. It is embarrassing that she is not going. The ladies commission could use her help this morning.

Clara Beth, it is not our place to tell her what is proper and fitting. And I do not care what these hypocritical, well-dressed churchgoers think of our family. Some of these self-righteous folks need to inspect their own house. I, myself, have debated my own need to attend religious services. I go for you.

I could hear the back door open and shut, and the sound of Christina’s angel light footsteps tapping across the parlor floor.

I will hear no more about this. This conversation is over.

Christina’s boots marched around the hardwood floors. I continued to dress for breakfast.

Our two daughters, Rose and Lily sat at the dining room with hands folded for prayer. Christina loves the dining room. She papered the room in a print with red roses. Her grandmother’s painting hangs over the buffet. Christina placed a bouquet of flowers in a vase of fresh water, in each room of the house, first the parlor on the mantle under the painting of Christina’s grandfather, then in the foyer, and last the center of the dining room table. Rosie was pleased.

Oh how lovely, Aunt Christina. They look beautiful.

Thank you. she replied and then she slipped out of the room returning with a plate of waffles hot off the iron. Clara carried out a small glass pitcher of warm maple syrup and a glass jar of strawberry preserves. Christina placed the plate of waffles on the table between the girls. Clara began using her apron to open one of the jars. Christina returned to the pantry.

This is the last of our canned strawberry jam. Clara said as she placed the glass jar on the table. Will you be having breakfast with us this morning? Christina?"

Right then Aunt Chris came into the room holding two fishing poles. My girls burst out in laughter at the sight of her.

I might have a bite before I go out. The waffles smell so good.

Aunt Christina, is that a fishing pole? Lily asked.

It is two fishing poles. she answered and made her way through the dining room to the parlor. We heard the sound of the front door and then Christina returned with a quart of milk. She left the poles on the front porch. Christina poured the milk in a glass pitcher and sat down at the head of the table.

Ah, what a beautiful sunny morning. she said as she clasped her hands together. Girls, let’s say grace."

Rose and Clara bowed their heads looking at each other across the table with smiles on their faces. Lily looked up. She too found Christina amusing.

Aunt Chris. Are you not going to church with us this morning? It’s Easter.

Oh, no my dear. I prefer to talk to God outdoors. That is where I feel closer to God.

After breakfast I brushed down the horses and hitched them up to our wagon. The girls waited patiently in their bonnets and then I helped my little ones climb up into the back of the wagon. Each sat on a wood box for a seat. Rose and Lily sat smiling while holding onto the box with one hand and their bonnet with the other. Then I helped Clara up to the seat next to mine and drove the horses forward. The wagon moved with a swift jerk.

We arrived at church and I helped the girls out of the back of the wagon. There were many wagons and carriages, and ladies with colorful Easter bonnets. Joyfully the crowd gathered in front of the little white church. Some carried silver trays of food that were brought around to the back door to the room called Shepard’s Hall, where lunch and desserts were to be presented after service. The ladies were all showing off their Easter bonnets and colorful spring dresses. Every bonnet matched their dresses and with long ribbons of satin, was tied neatly to the side of their face with a large bow. I waved my family to follow me and, we headed right up the steps and into the church. Our seat is always in the eighth row down from the front. We sit on the left side of the church. Clara came in behind me, and Rose and Lily followed.

Good morning, Mrs. Lansing.

Good morning James. Good morning, Clara.

Good morning Mrs. Day.

Good morning, Clara

Good morning Mr. Carter.

Mrs. Colby, from Albany Street was only 26 years old and was forever trying to catch my eye. Florence Colby was the kind of character who was full of smiles for anyone in a pair of trousers. That Easter, she wore a green ruffled gown, cut low in the front and, a bright green hat adorned with heron plumes died blue and green. Clara hated her and often showed signs of severe jealousy so intense, I thought she may accuse me of some kind of inappropriate behavior. I would never even think about getting involved with a woman like Flo Colby. Two weeks prior to Easter, I was coming home late after making a delivery of wood to the Hillcroft family, who, by the way, also live on Albany Street. Oh, and did I not spy our doctor, Doctor Davenport driving away from Flo’s corner. I mean the corner where the home of Mr. And Mrs. Colby is. I had spent a whole day making deliveries of firewood and, my back was aching. That evening, Doctor Gene Davenport was crossing the main turnpike and drove his wagon to the market right before closing. As he passed me on the road, he and I both knew where he had been and, where he was going. Before heading for home, he stopped for a moment to speak to me at the market. The look of guilt was written all over his face. Davenport pushed up his hat, cleared his throat, and explained that he was requested at the Colby residence to bring some cough syrup for the little one. He and I both know Mr. Colby, a conductor for the railroad, was out of town on a train to Chicago. I just smiled and let him know that it was no concern of mine. As I sat in the pew, I felt eyes staring at me. When I looked back, sure enough Flo was smiling at me, her chin tucked sweetly behind her fan. She fanned her cheeks some more and I turned away. Then I noticed Clara looking right at me.

James?

Yes?

Do you love me? she asked in a whisper.

Yes Clara. I whispered back. Of course I do.

A part of me thought that Christina was right. I spent each and every Sunday morning in this tiny pew, trying to stay awake. I only go for Clara. Christina spent the day fishing for brook trout with Eli from the banks of Lishakill Creek. Along with the catching of seven large rainbow colored trout, the pair found a chestnut tree and gathered a large basket full of nuts for roasting. How they found chestnuts in April I will never know. Christina likes to hike to the top of the hill and sit by the large white pine tree that towers near the top. I was, by my obligation, stuck in a small