Tanglewood

By Knicky L Abbott

Aoife Ni Coillte is the eldest daughter of an Irish Indentured family, living in a poor village near the estate of Tanglewood Manor. In love with George Oliver Williams, the eldest son of the wealthy Williams family to whom the manor belongs, Aoife is rejected as an unsuitable match in favour of the heiress, Dido Dubois. Pride and bigotry drive

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luna Press Publishing
• Release date: Feb 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781915556257

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Tanglewood

Knicky L Abbott

LUNA NOVELLA #20

Text Copyright © 2024 Knicky L. Abbott

Cover © 2024 Jay Johnstone

First published by Luna Press Publishing, Edinburgh, 2024

The right of Knicky L. Abbott to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Tanglewood ©2024. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owners. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

www.lunapresspublishing.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-915556-25-7

To Caralee, my way through the woods.

Dear Reader,

Steel yourself.

Prologue

AOIFE

Their bodies shift in the black night. Accents thick with brogue and dialect, they speak together in lilting cadence. It reminds me of my father’s voice—deep and guttural, a kind of music. It is a moment I hate, and more than I can bear.

FOR SHE WHO BLINDS THE BLESSED CHILD,

THAT NIGHT-SKINNED BAEBE, BORN FREE AND WILD,

SHALL KNOW THE DARK IN WHICH SHE DWELLS,

TO MAKE NO HEAVEN OF HER HELL.

The air is briny with salt and sweet with sea grapes and ripening plums. Her blood stains my hands and the sides of my dress, from when I tried to wipe clean the wounds I had caused before but couldn’t. The words circle in my head, winged shadows darkening the skies of my mind.

AND ‘TIL THE DAY SHE CAN SURRENDER,

TO VARIANCE, IN ALL ITS SPLENDOR,

SHE CAN NEVER CHANGE THIS FATE,

OR LEARN TO LOVE THAT WHICH SHE HATES.

Never will I forget. Not the soft, golden sky—taupe misted with periwinkle—like oil and water on the canvas above. Not the inhuman wail that exploded from the mouth of the three-year-old girl crumpled on the ground before me, or the inhuman feeling in my heart. Not the day or the night which followed. The night they cursed me; the day I cursed myself.

LET SHE WHO HAS THE EARS TO HEAR,

NOW LISTEN TO OUR EVERY FEAR,

AND SHE WHO HAS THE EYES TO CRY,

SEE THE TRUTH BEYOND HER LIES.

With these words, I feel the weight of my ears forcing them downward on either side of my head as they lengthen. Tears begin to flow from my eyes that couldn’t possibly all be mine, even after what I’d done. But it is the pale, dingy red of the hair now covering my palms that I loathe the most; traces of stains not meant to be wiped away.

AND MAY THIS TALE OF MONSTROUS WOE,

MAKE SOFT THE BLACKEST DEVIL’S SOUL,

FOR WHEN TIME COMES TO STALK ITS PREY,

EVEN HE WILL HOPE THIS SPELL TO BREAK.

Part One

JOHN

Mornin’! John Jack greets Tim and Bellouise with an open smile, gentle and warm. He grabs his favoured pruning shears out of the shed in front of him, the older one with the parrot’s beak and ash wood handles. You jus' in time for trimmin’.

The morning air holds a chill, felt deeper with each gust of the breeze. Sunlight, muted by a fine, soft mist, begins to warm the earth, freshly scythed grass glistening with dew and nocturnal trails in its light. The sound of wind through the dense press of palm and mahogany trees strikes new a chord of peace in John Jack’s heart. The flora and foliage towering all around them cast cool, green shadows, while beyond the sky deepens into a dazzling azure blue.

Tim glances at Bellouise’s let down expression. We’ll catch the feeding tomorrow, Belle. It’ll mean an adventure, sneaking pass Miss Benga before breakfast, but you’ll get to feed them then.

Bellouise nods and looks away, her skin night enduring in the early morning. John Jack muses a beat and considers her profile before hefting the shears, his smile returning.

Don’t worry, Miss Belle. If you walk with a few, whole carrots tomorrow, I gine have a sweet surprise waiting by the pens for you, that gine make it worth you while.

Bellouise turns her gaze on John Jack, her one eye placated, and nods again.

Behind the thirteen-year-old and her younger brother, the back of Tanglewood Manor stands, stoic and splendid in the early morning light. A young maid sweeps dust and fallen leaves through wide, shutter doors, greenwood varnished the colour of light sage, the decorative pattern of a transom window above the doorway arborescing like branches.

Her handsome face glances in their direction, dark skin glowing even in the shade of the backyard. A shy but generous smile is an offering along with the faint scent of wisteria, latticed in climbing, woody bines on either side of the door frame. The hush of White Hill Gully with its back turned towards them sends an unbidden flutter to John’s heart. He cannot wait to return there, to the place where she now lives.

Alright, he says, heading across the lawn towards the croton and firethorn hedges that border the far reaches of the estate. The sun begins to beat down on the open spaces about them. Lewwe go.

*

By the time John Jack finishes the trimming of the hedges and trees across Tanglewood estate, the children have long since been away to lunch and their schooling. A soft sigh escapes as he surveys the last of his handiwork; the flowers that remain on the hedge before him are like sand on the wind, a multitude of colourful petals and fine, bright leaves against the pale wood. A nautical dusk whispers of night’s mystery as it approaches.

He starts towards the house, in search of an early supper. After placing the shears back in the shed, he crosses the courtyard, gait purposeful as he takes the cobblestone path around the side of the manor. Even before he turns the wall into the al fresco kitchen that awaits, he can hear the words to "Open Thy Lattice, Love" being sung by Miss Benga, the housekeeper. She gives the simmering pot of stew food one final stir before addressing his quiet presence to her left.

You take very long. Thought you didn’t live ’bout here nuh more.

He smiles at her words, despite their terse delivery.

Sorry, Aunty, he said, sitting on the edge of the heavy, mahogany chair closest to him. De days long and full uh wuk to do.

Benga sets a plate of food down before him. She has filled it with whole green bananas, dumplings, diced potatoes and pumpkin, all swimming