Blood Moon Mountain

By Helen Mitchell

A mysterious mountain, a blood-red moon and a ring with strange engravings on it; these are the images that have haunted Boston socialite Abigail Rose Claremont's dreams since she became a Christian. Though she prays for divine revelation and guidance, she receives no answer until she makes a fateful decision to escape an arranged marriage. Together with her friend, Lucinda, she sets out on a journey that takes her to a hidden world of unspeakable horror and injustice and where she learns quickly to rely upon her faith, wits, and humor to survive. Set in the backdrop of the beautiful Ozark Mountains, she will be led down many strange and dangerous paths. But as she travels these pathways, the meaning of her dream, her family's secrets, and God's plan for her begins to reveal itself. Blood Moon Mountain is a testament of faith and courage in the face of human bondage, prejudice, bigotry, forgiveness, and most of all, love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640031432

Book preview

Acknowledgment

First and foremost, I would like to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Twenty years ago I had a dream, one that I continued to think about and whose seed was finally brought to fruition by the overwhelming urge to write it all down. Thanks to my children, David and Amanda, for your continual support; to my cat, Cookie, for his unconditional love and comfort; and to my mother, God rest her soul, for growing up in the beautiful Ozark Mountains and imparting upon me the customs and stories of the remarkable people who live there.

Prologue

Dreams of a Mountain

Standing on the edge of a cliff, she gazed outward. Directly below her was an abyss of darkness; directly above her were stars twinkling in a black velvet sky. The little dipper, the big dipper, and other constellations were all spectacularly displayed before her. To her back was a bountiful forest with a wide array of shadows. The woods were full of the sounds of night creatures hunting prey and those trying to escape becoming the quarry. A slight breeze teased the branches of the trees, causing the shadows to appear as though they were dancing.

Her long silky auburn locks blew across her face as she continued to survey the wilderness. She could see the other mountains in the distance, all covered in forests, a picturesque mixture of evergreens, oaks, hickories, and maples that changed colors as if she were watching the seasons change all at once. She could see the little wisps of clouds that hovered above the valleys. But what held her mesmerized was one singular mountain directly in front of her. It was by far the tallest of the mountains in this range, reaching high into the sky as if trying to reach heaven itself. As majestic as this scene was, it was the phenomena above the mountain that perplexed her, for in the sky, shining large and full, was the moon. But not just any moon. The sphere was draped in red—bloodred, actually. It seemed to look angrily back at her; yet she felt strangely at peace.

Her gaze was interrupted by the feel of something in her right hand. As she looked down, she realized she was holding a box. The small square container had a peculiar-looking symbol on the top, one that was unfamiliar to her. It was a cross, but this cross had a circle running through it, unlike anything she had seen in her past. She carefully opened the box. Inside was a ring, which she picked up and inspected closely. The design on the ring was of two hands holding a crowned heart. Searching her memory, she could not recall ever seeing such decorative work as this piece of jewelry had. As she stood there, wondering, the breeze seemed to take on a voice of its own, a sweet, soft, almost angelic voice. It was a poem…

When hence the moon becomes as blood,

A mountain’s summit you must climb,

When with the flower’s final bud,

A past you seek, a love you’ll find.

She listened to the verse as always, as she had many times before, but the meaning of those words would not come to her. Before she could even murmur a one word response, the voice melted into nothingness, leaving her alone and confused. Once again, this puzzling image and the solution to this enigma eluded her and yet it continued to entice her—but to what end? Her eyes drifted up to the big red moon in the sky as the vision also began to fade…

1

A Rose in Bloom

Abigail was… a woman of good understanding and of a beautiful countenance.

—1 Samuel 25:3

The handsome young prince rode up on his white stallion. Reaching down, he presented a red rose to the maiden. Wilt thou be my princess and wife, oh beauteous lady? he asked. Yes, my prince, she replied, smiling happily. He reached down once more, this time taking her by the hand and pulling her up on the horse with him. My love for you knows no bounds, he whispered as they gazed into each other’s eyes. He gently tugged at the reigns and the horse began a slow cantor toward the castle.

Abigail Rose Claremont looked up from her book and stared wistfully at the tranquil scene: half a dozen sailing boats were being lightly tossed about by a gentle breeze that traversed the bay. The water, blue as the sky and twinkling with an iridescent shimmer, rippled one small wave after another, as the wind buffeted the vessels along. Across the bay, the shore was lined with vegetation of all sorts; trees, grass, and flowers swayed gently with the breeze, dancing to an unknown melody. Birds lifted their wings and appeared to float on the zephyr, soaring delicately through the crystal blue sky and singing their praises for the beautiful day. It was as if nature was playing its own symphony, creating a harmonious song of beauty and grace that only a few could share or truly understand.

But Abigail’s gaze was not fully concentrated on those ships bobbing like corks in the water, nor on the book she held in her lap. Her thoughts were thousands of miles away, or perhaps eons of time ago, dreaming of a romance with a handsome, valiant knight. Abigail loved this time of day, hidden away in the window seat of her attic bedroom, beneath the colorful framed stained glass window, where she could read imaginary tales of valor, romance, and adventure and yet view what many would describe as an incredibly beautiful and romantic vision of the landscape.

Lost in the moment, Abigail was a striking sight to behold, an innocent yet hypnotizing portrait of a Victorian beauty. On this particular day, she was dressed in one of her best dresses, made of white satin with a pink sash around her waist, puffed sleeves, and lace at the cuffs. Layered with three rows of ruffled lace and anchored with pink ribbon rosettes, this dress made her feel both elegant and feminine. Her grandmother’s cameo graced the ruffle at her neck, and her strikingly rich auburn hair was swept up onto the top of her head, though here and there a curl managed to escape the pink ribbon that held her hair taut. The maids always complained when trying to style her hair. Abigail’s tresses, as well as her nature, tended to be free spirited at times.

She jumped with a start, when Anna, one of the maids, knocked gently at the door of Abigail’s bedroom.

Beg your pardon, Miss Abigail, but your mother is requesting your presence downstairs immediately. She asked me to remind you that it would not be proper for you to be late to the afternoon social at the Lace Tea Room.

Thank you, Anna, please tell my mother I will be right down, said Abigail reluctantly. She gave a long sigh. Snapped back into reality, she bookmarked her novel, and left it lying on the window seat. Carefully stepping away from her cat, Cookie, who still slumbered peacefully next to her on the floor, she walked solemnly to her vanity mirror to check on final presentation. Satisfied, she then hurried downstairs to meet up with her mother and sister, bounding down the stairs, at a run.

Her mother looked at her and sighed. Really, Abigail, I do wish you would spend a little more time taking care of yourself, her mother said, patting Abigail’s unruly curls back into place. You should have let Anna help you with your hair. After all, you do need to look your best, especially today. And do stop running down the stairs. Proper young ladies step gracefully.

Mama, I seriously doubt that that the Palmerston women will care if I have one curl out of place, rebutted Abigail. Exiting the house and walking toward the carriage that awaited them, she suddenly stopped on the pathway and faced her mother. Couldn’t I just walk to the Tea Room? It is such a beautiful day.

Grace frowned at her daughter. Absolutely not! Young ladies do not walk anywhere! You will ride in the carriage with your sister and me. Whatever are you thinking?

It is only four blocks away. It is not as though I am asking to walk into downtown Boston. I very much enjoy the exercise and fresh air. Abigail tried to give her mother her most pleading look.

Grace merely nodded her head in opposition and planted her hand firmly on Abigail’s back in order to push her toward the carriage. As they walked, her mother expressed her frustration at Abigail’s nonchalance. Sometimes I wonder if your father was right. Did they teach you anything at that school on how to act like a lady?

Clarice, Abigail’s sister, intervened. Oh, they did, Mama, but I do believe Abigail was not listening. She most likely had her nose crammed into one of her books.

Grace shot a warning look at Clarice. Turning back to Abigail, she proceeded with her speech. If you wish to marry well, then you must have more concern for your appearance. How you present yourself matters very much, especially with Roger’s family. You have the opportunity here to wed into a family that is most prominent and I might add, very wealthy. There are standards that have to be met. You really do need to work on your attitude and appearance. We want you to be the most wonderful catch for any man, especially Roger.

We, Mama, or you? asked Abigail, tiring of all the lectures on etiquette from her mother.

Grace stopped in her tracks and glared directly at her daughter. Impertinence will not help you, young lady. Do try to work harder on that silly rebellious streak you possess. Now lift your head up and let us go make a good match for you.

Abigail Claremont never intentionally meant to cause exasperation in her parents. As a child, she frequently exhibited a spark of inquisitiveness, always asking questions and forever reading one book after another. Occasionally, a hint of rebellion or sarcasm would make its way into her conversations or responses, especially when it concerned a subject for which she had developed a passion.

There was no doubt, at least in Abigail’s mind, that her attendance at Miss Porter’s Finishing School for Girls had opened up her mind to new ideas and gave her the freedom and independence to question societal moralities and traditions. The school was located in Farmington, Connecticut and had the reputation of being a traditional yet progressive school, established in 1793. Considered advanced for its times, the school sought to educate young women in chemistry, physiology, botany, geography, and astronomy, as well as Latin, French, and German. Alumni were known as Ancients, a term Abigail found to her liking, as she enjoyed studying the ancient classics. The usual etiquette and manners curriculum was taught as well, but with lesser emphasis than some finishing schools.

Her teachers had encouraged her and the other girls to learn as much about the world as they could. Miss Porter, the founder, had made it a point to encourage her young ladies to think on their own and to become independent women. Her legacy was not lost on Abigail; the older Claremont daughter was like a sponge, absorbing information throughout her time there.

Take for instance, the growing suffrage movement for women. This was something that had intrigued Abigail at an early age. She had read about the Seneca Falls Convention in 1848 and even possessed a copy of the Declaration of Sentiments that had been created from this historical meeting, though she made sure to keep it hidden from her mother or father, who would most certainly disapprove of such radical thinking. They would have been horrified to know that once a week, Abigail visited the local library and picked up any information she could on current social issues such as this. And she occasionally would sneak a peek at her father’s newspapers, including even the business pages. Aside from the occasional romance or dime novel heroine, her champions were real life women such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, and Nelly Bly. To her annoyance, the suffrage movement was denounced on a regular basis by the churches as sacrilegious. Her mother and grandmother, along with countless women of New England, embraced traditional views most heartily and would likely have swooned from shock had they known Abigail had been exposed to alternate ways of thinking.

Despite all the reading and knowledge forthwith, Abigail’s favorite book of comfort remained her Bible. She had read the Good Book through cover to cover by the age of twelve, and her faith, remarkably, for her age, was stalwart and constant. She envisioned herself as a Ruth or Esther, who might one day, with God’s guidance and blessing, fulfill a destiny chosen for her. She did not believe that God intended women to always remain silent and obedient. Traditional area churches, on the other hand, including the one Abigail attended with her family, were adamant in their teachings that women must be submissive to the male gender, be devout, marry, produce heirs to dynasties, and remain the silent partner throughout life. It was the fault of the first woman, Eve, who brought about the destruction of paradise. But didn’t Adam also partake of the forbidden fruit? Abigail would simply shake her head and remain silent as the minister continued to preach that women should bear the blame for Eve’s mistakes, and thus serve penitence forever. In Abigail’s mind, a truly forgiving God would certainly not hold her accountable for something that happened eons ago.

While most young ladies looked forward to the ritual of courtship, Abigail did not share that enthusiasm, having realized early on that she did not wish to be a social butterfly like other young women of wealth in New England elite of the time. The skills of flirtation and small talk with the opposite sex were of little interest or utility to her. Instead of participating in all the social engagements as was normal for her age, Abigail preferred to isolate herself with a good book for hours at a time. Thus her parents frequently would blame the lack of suitors on all the books she had read. Her mother pointed out numerous times that most young men did not want a wife who was more educated than they, especially in history and politics.

The whole idea of men in their Sunday best suits, parading themselves to young ladies at social events, reminded her of the courtship behavior of male peacocks presenting their feathers and calling to the females to notice them. Love or compatibility was certainly not a requirement for a good match; indeed, most marriages of affluent Boston families were arranged. Should the couple happen to fall in love with each other, everyone then congratulated themselves on a good match.

After the marriage, Abigail had observed, the males more often than not drifted off, in pursuit of other, possibly more enjoyable, activities. When the children arrived, the males usually made themselves even scarcer, going down to the club to be with the other males who were escaping the same situation. She had been witness to numerous complaints of this nature by her own friends who were married and even by her mother’s acquaintances.

She had been presented to society in her debutante ball one year earlier, when she turned sixteen years of age. Having completed her final term at finishing school, it was now time to seek her place in New England society. Strangely, no suitors had presented themselves to her or her parents; therefore, Preston and Grace Claremont had begun the arduous process of finding the perfect marriage for Abigail. She assumed it was her aloof attitude that had led to an absence of marriage prospects. Little did she know that another deeper reason for no suitors would soon make itself manifest.

In the carriage ride to the tea house, Abigail let her mind slip back to the weeks before, when her father had first broached the idea of a marriage for her. She had been summoned by him to his den, a place neither she nor Clarice, her younger sister, was usually allowed. Entering, her father sat at his desk, in front of the fireplace. Her mother stood next to him.

Abigail, my child, please sit down, Preston Claremont said, motioning to the chair in front of the desk. It seemed as though he were about to conduct an interview with her rather than a father-daughter chat. I have some news for you, which I hope you will be happy to hear.

Yes, Papa, mumbled Abigail, lowering her head. It was hard to look directly into her father’s eyes. He had never been a kind, gentle man—she had few memories of him growing up, as he was always at his business or at The Club. At no time in her childhood could she recall Preston ever playing with her or even talking to her as a father might. When he looked at her, Abigail saw a man who was very disappointed, having had no male child. She had often heard him express that disappointment to her mother in no uncertain terms. She realized she would never be of any value to him, other than maintaining the social status of which he and her mother appeared to care about deeply.

I have been in contact with Clarence Palmerston, a most respected lawyer in this town. He has expressed to me his desires to see a union between you and his son, Roger.

Roger Palmerston? asked Abigail, not sure she heard correctly. He wants to marry me? I barely know him! She looked toward her mother, who looked away.

Now, Abigail, her father said, holding up his hand to stop her from continuing. Hear me out. No, Roger has not said he wishes to be married to you as yet. His father has been encouraging him to settle down and Clarence thinks you might be a good pairing for him. He asked me if perhaps we could come to some kind of arrangement. You are now seventeen years of age, and it is time you should be considering marriage. This would be a good match for you financially. Roger is employed at his father’s firm and stands to inherit the business someday. You could continue to live the life to which you are accustomed, even more so.

Abigail could feel the resentment toward her father rising within her. She had heard other girls at school talk about arranged marriages, but she had hoped that her father would not wish to be involved in such idiocy. Unfortunately, she realized, that was not to be the case. But did it have to be to Roger Palmerston? She barely knew him. She had danced with him once or twice before at balls but had scarcely spoken to him. When she had tried to engage him in conversation, she found him rude and arrogant. And now she was to marry this man?

But what if we do not like each other? I fear we may have nothing in common. The talk around town is that he is a misogamist and only associates with women of ill repute!

Her parents both had a look of surprise and horror on their faces from what Abigail had just said.

Abigail, why would you say such things? asked her mother. Turning to her husband, Grace continued. Preston, I do not know where Abigail has learned this kind of language. Certainly not from me or anyone else in this house! exclaimed Grace, the look of shock on her face that such words would come forth from her daughter’s mouth.

Preston grew red in the face, obviously agitated at Abigail’s proclamation. Young lady, you listen to me. You are to pay no heed to gossip on the streets. Chances such as this rarely appear. You would be a fool to turn down this opportunity. As your father, I expect you to do as I wish and what is best for this family. You spend far too much time in that infernal attic, which you never should have been allowed to make your bedroom in the first place. You have obviously been reading rubbish and associating with questionable individuals!

Turning to Grace, he proceeded to lash out at his wife as well. This is your fault, you know. You insisted she attend that finishing school, where I fear they put malicious ideas into her head. But we will talk about this later.

Yes, Preston, said Grace very quietly with her head lowered in shame.

Turning back to Abigail, he continued. You will keep your opinions to yourself. You will allow Roger to call upon you. Is that clear? His voice was stern and unyielding.

By this time, Abigail had become infuriated. She despised the way her father had talked to her and to her mother, as if they were his property or his inferiors. But she knew more confrontation would not resolve this conflict, at least not at present. She still could not resist giving a somewhat defiant reply.

Yes, Papa. Is there anything else my lord and master requires? she asked sarcastically. The minute she said the last part, she knew a reprimand was forthcoming.

Your impertinence is quite annoying. I have given you a fine house in which to live, food on your table, nice clothes to wear, and an education, and yet, I receive ingratitude. I will remind you that you have had no callers since your social debut a year ago, which, I might add, cost a small fortune. Not one acceptable suitor. And why is that? Because you sit at home and fill your head full of foolish notions. No more books, no more reading nonsense. Read your Bible, girl. It specifically says that you must honor your father and mother. I suggest you do so or face the flames of hell for your disobedience! Preston was shouting at this point.

Preston, surely the child does not need a sermon on the Ten Commandments! said Grace, finally finding her voice and coming to Abigail’s defense. Allow me to talk with her. Shouting at her will not bring the results you seek.

Perhaps not. But I expect her to show me more respect than I just received.

He turned back to Abigail. You should be out with your mother, doing charity work and learning how to run a household. Your mother, however, is to blame for that. The problem is going to be rectified. You will see Roger, you will be cordial and inviting to him, and you will accept a proposal should it come. If you do not, then I should think you had best look for a position as a governess or nanny. If being an old spinster is more appealing to you than being the lady of a household, then so be it. But understand this—you will not receive an inheritance from me, nor will you be allowed to live in this house. Abigail Rose, am I clear on this subject?

Yes, Papa, I will do as you say. May I take leave now please? Abigail could muster no more words. It would be useless to continue an argument that would not end to her satisfaction.

You may go! was all he said, looking down and waving his hand at her in dismissal. Abigail stepped out of the room and listened for a moment to hear what else might be said.

Honestly, Grace, why on earth have you not raised her better? She has no common sense at all. If only you had given me boys!

She really is a sensible young lady, more than you realize. Preston, dear, she does make some sound arguments. First of all, she does not know Roger Palmerston very well. He is somewhat older than she is, which is why he is never at the social events we attend. Her hesitancy is from hearing about his reputation. There are stories about him circulating the ladies’ socials. His character is not pristine, which is why Amoretta and Clarence are trying to get him married and settled.

A man has to sow his oats was all Preston said. Now, don’t you have some function to attend? A sewing party of some sort?

Abigail ran up to her room. She did not know whether to cry, throw something, or scream. Instead, she sat on her bed. Cookie, sensing something was wrong with his mistress or perhaps just feeling the need to be loved himself, rubbed up against her. She picked him up and held him in her arms where he gave her the always familiar head bump. Some cats like to purr or lick their owner’s faces in affection. Cookie liked to gently bump his head against Abigail’s.

Marriage, she said out loud to Cookie, to a man I do not think I want to know, much less marry. Cookie, why does life have to be so complicated? I have only been on this earth for seventeen years. I have not yet discovered who I am, or what lies beyond Rose Manor. What shall I do? She hugged her cat, listening to his gentle purring. One thing was true: in the whole scheme of things, Abigail Rose Claremont had not lived long enough to experience the richness of this world in which God had placed her. But such was the fate of many young women her age at this time in history.

Abigail’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted at this point by the halt of the carriage. She had arrived at the Lace Tea Room, where she was about to be meet the women in Roger Palmerston’s family. She took a deep breath, smiled at her mother, and disembarked from the carriage.

2

A Good Match

He made the moon for the seasons.

—Psalms 104:19 (KJV)

The Lace Tea Room was quite the popular place; ladies of the highest social order frequented the establishment. So much easier and nicer than trying to host teas in one’s own home, and much less stressful, since one did not have to plan every detail. Here, ladies could make polite conversation, catch up on the latest fashions from New York or Europe, and occasionally engage in some juicy gossip. The tea room was a three-story Victorian home in a beautiful cream color. The porch was huge, expanding all the way across the front and around the right side of the house. Gingerbread trim adorned almost every part of the house, while flower boxes brought forth gorgeous blooms of all kinds. Several tables were set outside for those brave enough or in want of a little sunshine, though most women went inside, leaving the outdoors to the men. Stepping out of the carriage, Abigail looked up at the tower to the right, wishing she could one day go up there. The third floor, however, was reserved for the Layton family, who owned the establishment. Entering the tea room, the women were ushered into a room to the left, where a very tastefully prepared table awaited them. Fine china, lace tablecloths, and refined dining; for many, this was like a dream come true to be able to dine in such a fashionable place.

Abigail sat ever so straight in her chair, smiling and trying to take tiny bites of the finger sandwiches. The cucumber, tomato, and watercress were her favorite, ever so delightful and refreshing. From across the table, Grace was watching her daughter, occasionally bestowing a frown or dirty look upon her. It was not proper to devour the food in one or two bites. And of course, one was full after just a sandwich or two. No wonder New England society women looked like walking match sticks, thought Abigail to herself. Between the tight, miserable corsets, the proper starving techniques and avoiding a healthy tan from the sun, most society ladies looked extremely anemic and waxy; in other words, fashionable by the standards of the time. From the way her mother was looking at her, Abigail decided to focus her attention on something else other than her stomach, which continued to complain that it was not satisfied.

She allowed her mind to drift to other times, places, and events. Once in a while, her daydream state was broken by conversation, when someone actually addressed her. On most occasions, she was simply ignored or chose to be ignored. She could always count on her younger sister Clarice to steal the show and any young man’s attention. This meeting was a little different, however. Amoretta Palmerston and her daughters, Eunice and Constance, were in attendance. Her mother and future mother-in-law were discussing the good match, a term Abigail was beginning to loathe.

The young man in question, the other half of the so-called good match, was Roger Benton Palmerston, the son of renowned Boston lawyer, Clarence Palmerston, who owned a number of enterprises, including stock in the Central Pacific Railroad and the Vanderbilt lines. These railroads extended throughout the northeastern part of the United States and all the way across the American frontier to California. Clarence had been present in 1869, when a gold spike united the Central and Union-Pacific Railroads at Promontory Point, Utah, in the first transcontinental railroad for the country.

While Clarence was a dedicated, hardworking sort, his son Roger was the carefree, the world-owes-me-a-living type. At only twenty five years of age, he had already gained a reputation for being quite the lady’s man and an avid gambler, wasting his father’s money on women and ridiculous bets, enterprises, and schemes. Abigail did not know that much about him as yet, and much of what she did know she did not approve. She had danced with him only a small number of times at social events, and their conversations were almost always limited to the weather or other trivial matters. In several instances, he was downright rude to her, abandoning her midway through a dance. Abigail once tried to broach a conversation on current political situations in the country with Roger; he snorted at her and told her women should not concern themselves with politics—that was a man’s world. Having never expressed any actual interest in her, it perplexed her greatly when she was first told of his interest in marriage. Other than her mother’s constant praises about his being such an excellent husband for her, she was at a loss to understand why this marriage was happening.

Roger had been educated at Harvard, deciding to go into the law field, with his father. He considered that a wise decision, as it would give him the knowledge he needed to finagle his way out of his mounting debts. Though not successful, he had developed a penchant for gambling and as a result, he soon owed money to what seemed to be half the population of Massachusetts. He was not a religious sort; church for him was a ritual performed every Sunday so as to look proper to the people of Boston. But once services were over, Roger quickly made his way to the Gentleman’s Club for an afternoon of gambling and socializing. On the surface, he was considered a very handsome young man with a most charming personality and one of the most eligible bachelors in the region. But the dark rumors surrounding him kept most New England families from offering their eligible young ladies for marriage to him. Could these rumors be just that—rumors—or is this man some sort of Jekyll and Hyde? Abigail pondered the idea many times since being told she should marry him.

Suddenly, Abigail was catapulted back into reality from her daydreaming when Amoretta Palmerston switched the conversation subject to her. Abigail, Amoretta began, as you are probably aware, your parents have been talking with my husband and me concerning you and my son, Roger. We would all be agreeable and I daresay happy, if you would allow Roger to call upon you sometime soon. I suppose this is presumptuous of me, but Roger has expressed a desire to settle down. He already has a position in my husband’s firm, which is quite promising. And, of course, he stands to inherit the family business one day, which I might add, is quite lucrative.

Amoretta’s demeanor was one of pure joy as she scanned the faces of both Abigail and Grace. I know I am biased, but Roger is an ideal son, very good with law and business, and will make any girl an excellent catch. Speaking for my husband and myself, we are hoping that catch will be you. She looked at Abigail encouragingly, obviously waiting for a response from her.

Some young girl other than me, thought Abigail to herself. Instead, she replied, I am very flattered that you would consider me as a prospective match for your son, and I thank you for the compliment. It means a lot to me. Roger does possess some handsome attributes, she said, smiling. To herself, she thought, Yes, he does have some attributes—snobbery, cruelty, and downright demonic possession come to mind.

Amoretta’s face was beaming. Well then, she said. If it pleases you, I will inform Roger of our conversation today. He has been a little hesitant about approaching you directly, I sense, because he is a little shy when it comes to women.

Does she really believe that? wondered Abigail. Gossip was everywhere about Roger, and it was not due to his shyness. His nightly visits to the Gentlemen’s Club, the whispered rumors of his gambling debts, and his occasional indiscretions at houses of ill repute did not seem to convey a shyness or backwardness about him.

Abigail glanced at her mother. Grace was grinning from ear to ear. Oh, Amoretta, I am so pleased to hear this news. I know Abigail will be positively thrilled if Roger calls on her. I must say, it would be a pleasure to have a fine young man such as Roger as our son-in-law. That is, of course, should it be a successful courtship.

Throughout this exchange of flattery, Abigail’s only thought was, I wish I had worn my rain boots instead of the shoes I did wear. The muck is getting quite deep.

Meanwhile, Abigail glanced over at her sister, who was watching Abigail’s responses to the conversation and smiling the whole time. Clarice knew her turn for such discussions would be coming soon, as she had experienced her debutante ball a few months earlier, marking her entrance into society. Grace’s expression was one of being most pleased and relieved. Relieved, thought Abigail, to get a daughter married and linked by marriage to a prominent family.

Abigail continued to smile and did her best not to spoil the luncheon. As they rose to leave, she looked around to see if anyone was watching. A quick glance told her no one was, so she quickly scooped up the three little sandwiches left and stuffed them into her bag. Might as well not waste perfectly delicious sandwiches, she thought.

On their way out, Clarice walked up to her, taking her by the arm. Leaning close, she whispered in her ear.

I saw what you did back there. That was absolutely shameful. Mama should know that you stole those sandwiches.

I did no such thing. Those sandwiches were paid for, and I am still hungry. I see no harm in taking what has already been purchased. But if you tell on me, I will tell her that you have been batting your eyes at the new footman next door.

Clarice gasped in feigned shock. That is a lie! I do not even know his name, let alone have flirted with him!

I saw you looking at him. What a scandal that would create. Abigail made a sneering smile at her younger sister. If you keep quiet, then I will do the same.

Humph! was all her sister said, releasing her grip on Abigail, and stormed out of the tea room. Triumphant over her sister once more, Abigail nearly skipped out of the tea house to the carriage. But a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach told her this was not going to be a good season ahead for her, even with the tasty little morsels in her bag. Later that night before going to sleep, she held Cookie close to her and prayed for God to send her a sign as to what she should do.

The next morning she awoke, secretly wishing that the luncheon the day before had been nothing but a dream. Unfortunately, her mother was quite animated at breakfast, informing her father of every little detail of the conversation with Amoretta Palmerston. She did, however, take the opportunity to praise Abigail for her splendid behavior and acceptance of the match. There was that word again—match. How in the world her parents could ever believe that she and Roger constituted a good match was beyond her comprehension. But not wishing to start the day with an argument, Abigail just smiled, said thank you, and ate her breakfast as though she were ravenous. Her father nodded his approval, though doubtless he had heard only a fraction of what Grace had said, since the entire time he had his face buried in the morning newspaper. Abigail ate quickly and then excused herself to return to her room. Her father would be leaving for work, and Grace had an agenda already set for meetings with the local hospital board. As president of the women’s auxiliary, Grace took her role as leader very seriously, even though she really never had a true understanding of the medical field. Still, it was a position of importance that required much of her attention. For that, Abigail was grateful, as this meant she had plenty of time to be alone and contemplate her situation.

The day was clear and sunny, with a gentle breeze touching the branches of the trees and blades of grass ever so lightly. Abigail decided to take a walk to the park; this would give her a chance to obtain some fresh air and think about the possible union to Roger. Though it was customary for young ladies to be chaperoned when out of the house, the Claremonts had allowed Abigail to take walks to the park alone since her debutante ball, as long as it was in the middle of the day. The park was only three blocks away, a short distance from Rose Manor. Abigail especially loved this park; one could smell the sea breeze from there, yet the park contained all types of trees and flowers to delight the senses. It was spring, and the trees were in bud, and flowers such as jonquils and tulips were opening their petals to drink in the warmth of the sun. Pretty pastel colors in hues of pink, yellow, and violet bombarded her sense of sight. Butterflies and bees were flittering from one bud to another, enjoying the birth of the earth once more.

Several other residents of the area were also taking advantage of the beautiful day. Mrs. Kepperton and her young daughter were walking along the pathway; Mrs. Downton and her precious poodle were also taking in the sights. Her dog, Mimi, seemed to be enjoying the outing by chasing butterflies. Miss Browning, governess to the Wheelers’s two young sons, was busy trying to chase both of them, in an attempt to corral them. She did not appear to be having much success with that attempt. Abigail just walked around the park’s pathway several times, enjoying the fresh air. Truly, this was God’s paintbrush at work. Who but a gentle, loving God could create such perfect beauty and harmony? Abigail was one of few individuals who always took the time to appreciate what had been given.

Having refreshed herself and feeling good after a brisk walk, she strolled back to Rose Manor. As she approached the house, she stopped and let her gaze take in the entire estate. She loved this house. Situated on a cliff overlooking Quincy Bay in Massachusetts, the Claremont abode was a stately manor. The big pink Victorian house that Abigail called home was known as Rose Manor and had been built by her mother’s grandfather. White gingerbread trim laced the arched windows, and a gazebo was attached to the front left side of the house, while a huge bay window balanced out the right side. Each of the many windows had window boxes underneath, in which were filled the most fragrant flowers of the season, bursting with colors of bright red, pink, yellow, and lavender. Beds of rose bushes surrounded the entire house, including climbing roses which gently traveled along the arched doorway and were just starting to bud out. The parlor windows and the bedroom window above, which belonged to her parents, were framed in etched glass. Brown mansard roofs topped the house. Set in a background of tall green conifers with one or two oak trees and a commanding view of the bay from the back, it was a majestic scene to view.

Roses (a favorite of Abigail and her grandmother), blue delphiniums, and white gardenias decorated the yard. Their gardener, Carlton, had been employed to make sure the gardens surrounding the house were always at their loveliest. As a child, Abigail found great delight in helping Carlton on various occasions, getting down on her knees. She loved the feel of the soil in her hands and the earthy, musty smell. Her parents had scolded her a time or two for patronizing with the help and performing such menial tasks; a young lady of her stature did not engage in such activities, getting her hands and clothes filthy in the process. Carlton did his best to prevent Abigail from getting too dirty by putting an apron around her and protecting her hands with gloves. But Abigail almost always removed the gloves when he was not looking, just so she could touch the soil. She found the earthworms quite fascinating and did not even mind picking out the grub worms. Carlton praised her for having the courage to pick up all different kinds of insects, something most girls would never had considered doing. The gardener even placed a small bench out back so that she could at her leisure, sit outside and enjoy the scenery, though she was told over and over again not to be in the sun too long. Young ladies were not supposed to have a tanned complexion; that was considered a normal consequence for the hired help, who had to be outside performing duties.

Staring at the intricate landscape work, Abigail had to admire Carlton. He had certainly done an excellent job over the years, including laying a cobblestone pathway that opened up wide to the street. Rose Manor had been the first house in the area to have a gaslight in the front yard, which welcomed visitors. It was encircled by large pots of bright red geraniums in the spring and summer. A carriage house was in the back to the right, where the servant’s quarters, and of course, the carriages and horses were also housed. Charles Endicott, Abigail’s great-grandfather, had spared no expense to build the perfect house for his family. With no male heirs, this beautiful home eventually passed into the possession of his granddaughter, Cordelia Rose Endicott, Abigail’s grandmother. Cordelia’s marriage to John Claremont had produced a son, Preston Alexander Claremont, who took over control of Rose Manor upon his marriage to one Grace Marie Putnam. Abigail and a younger sister, Clarice, were the products of this union. Her grandmamma now resided in a smaller house known as Evergreen Hall a few blocks away.

Abigail walked around the side of the house to the back and stood, taking in the sight and smell of the ocean. She turned and glanced back at her home, her eyes shifting to the third story. Abigail’s bedroom was on the third floor—actually part of the attic. Her family at first had balked at the idea of their daughter inhabiting an attic room. After all, no daughter of a wealthy businessman and social leader should be living in an attic. But Abigail had persevered, insisting that the room be hers, ever since she was old enough to have her own room, away from the nursery.

The attic room was her refuge—the place where she could go and leave the problems of this world behind. She frequently would lose herself in her reading, and like a sponge, absorbed as many books as possible—poetry, history, science, political literature—she loved all subjects. As she pictured the room in her mind, she could see Cookie, her trusted friend and pet, curled up into a ball next to the window seat, fast asleep, without a care in the world. Just as she fantasized about knights in shining armor, Abigail surmised that the black and white, long-haired cat dreamed of duels with mice, chasing fat rabbits, catching a bird in mid-flight, or romancing the neighbor’s feline beauty. Pots of geraniums, roses, and ivy from the gardens below sat on the window seat and sill, soaking up the sun’s rays. Pink wallpaper with red roses lined the walls of her bedroom, while lace curtains covered the small side windows next to the stained glass one above the window seat. A light blue rug with pink roses graced the floor next to a four-poster bed, covered in white lace and fluffy pink pillows. It was a magical room, full of peace and tranquility.

As she stood there, she realized that as much as she loved Rose Manor, it would not be her home for much longer. Doubtless, Roger would secure a residence for him and her, much closer to Boston, where the family law firm was located. She would have to get used to enjoying only occasional visits to the house, on holidays or other important days. Perhaps Roger would allow her to plant roses at their home. Maybe she could even get Carlton to bring some offshoots of their roses to plant in a new garden. She sighed, knowing she would somehow have to get used to change. God, grant me patience, and if it be your will, help me find a way out of this marriage, she prayed aloud as she walked into the house.

That very night, the dream came to her again—the dream of a mysterious mountain and bloodred moon. Always the dream. Since she had been twelve years old, she had been having the same vision while she slept, over and over again. It was not a bad dream. In fact, it was a far cry from what one would consider a nightmare. The feeling she had was one of overflowing peace and love. It was puzzling; yes, that was the word for it, a mystery that needed to be solved. In her vision, it was night and she was standing alone gazing upward at a mountain. It was a forested mountain, surrounded by other mountains not quite as high in elevation. Judging from the size of it, some effort would still be required to climb it. There were times when the mountain forest changed from the traditional rich dark green, with splashes of red or purples, to a plethora of colors—yellows, oranges, and reds. Of course, she assumed she was seeing the mountain go through its seasonal changes. And once, but only once, she remembered it to be a majestic white, covered with snow.

Though the dream occurred during a nighttime setting, sometimes she caught a glimpse of a river running along the mountain to its left. Once in a while, she could discern the sound of water flowing gently yet steadily. But what always caught her breath and made her spellbound was the big bright red moon that appeared in the sky next to the mysterious mountain. The red was a deep dark hue, the color of blood. It was a blood moon, she knew, having learned astronomy at Miss Porter’s School. She knew this phenomenon was caused by a lunar eclipse. She also knew that these particular types of eclipses occurred at historic time periods. Am I witnessing something that has already occurred or is this something monumental yet to come, she wondered. She vividly remembered reaching upward, as if trying to touch the moon itself.

Always on que, a voice soothingly whispered to her the same little poem over and over:

When hence the moon becomes as blood,

A mountain’s summit you must climb,

When with the flower’s final bud,

A past you seek, a love you’ll find.

As if this image was not enough, the dream continued with her holding a small box in her hand. The box had what appeared to be a cross on it. But this cross was significantly different, for there was a strange circle that ran through the intersection of the two pieces of the cross. Abigail racked her mind over and over again, but she could not conjure up any recollection of having seen such a cross. As she opened the small box, she pulled out a ring, which consisted of two hands holding a crowned heart. What on earth was this image? It was always at this point that the dream ended.

Abigail had always prided herself in learning as much as she could about things. But numerous trips to the nearby library as well as scouring the resources at her school had yielded no satisfaction. She could find nothing about the special cross or the ring. And as for the other parts of the dream, she had not been able to locate the exact whereabouts of this strange mountain. No mention of its name had ever been given in her vision. Could it be a piece of memory from her past, perhaps when she was a young child? She had been to the White Mountains of Vermont and the Green Mountains of New Hampshire. She had also seen parts of the Catskills from a distance. But nothing she could think of even remotely resembled the mountain of her dreams. So puzzling, and yet, so intriguing.

Another conundrum was the poem. She understood at least a part of it—the moon as red as blood. The rest of the verse, however, left her confused. What did she not know about her past? She wondered if this was a sign from God, and that eventually its purpose would be made known to her. She had tried to find someone to help her understand her dream, just as Nebuchadnezzar inquired of Daniel, or the Egyptian pharaoh sought out Joseph. To the best of her knowledge, no dream interpreters could be found in the Boston area. Truth was, there were probably no such gifted people anywhere in Massachusetts, especially since the Salem Witchcraft Trials two hundred years ago. If there were people with this special ability, they probably kept it to themselves, for good reason. While it was doubtful that anyone would be hanged, drowned or burned for witchcraft and sorcery in the late 1800s, the churches of New England would likely persecute, banish, and/or shun them. She could not shake the belief that her dreams were somehow sent by a higher power.

When she was fourteen, she decided to