The Fledgling Page 2

  I must have fallen asleep, because I was woken up by the noise of someone talking and the sound of scraping. I stumbled to the iron gates of the mausoleum. I was surprised to discover it was morning, and the sky had turned to blue. The rain no longer fell in sheets, and the grave diggers were busy digging holes to put the bodies in.

  I pulled the gate open, heading down to where they were working. One young man lifted his head, and let out a shocked cry. Then he smiled.

  “I didn’t hear you come up,” he mumbled. “At first, I thought you were a ghost. You are here early. Where did you come from?”

  “Someone stole my money and belongings,” I told him. “The man who brought the bodies here,” I continued.

  “Gordy?” Another man asked. “That old bastard, he would steal from his own mother!”

  “He gave me a ride, and then left me here. I have nothing,” I explained. “He took it all!”

  “Don’t be expecting to get your money back,” the first man told me. “He would shoot you between the eyes, if you tried.”

  “What am I going to do? I need to get to the coast,” I lamented.

  The man shrugged. His soiled clothes spoke of the work he occupied himself with. The other man started digging again. “Guess you will have to walk,” he told me. He pointed in the distance. “The coast is in that direction,” he said. “Where on the coast are you going?”

  “Heather Ridge House,” I told him.

  He scratched his chin, and I noticed the dirt under his square fingernails. His fingernails were chipped.

  “Just follow the main road. Maybe someone will give you a ride. It is a day’s ride from here, and probably a three day walk. I’ve been there before. The house is on a ridge overlooking the ocean. You can’t miss it. But I don’t know why you would ever want to go there. Aldridge Bogart is a drunk and a gambler. You would be better off going someplace else.”

  “I have no other place to go,” I informed him.

  He gave me a long look. “Someone as pretty as you, might get on his good side, though,” he smiled. “He has children of his own. Maybe he will take pity on you.”

  “He would have to. He’s my Godfather,” I said sternly.

  “Oh, than good luck to you,” he told me. “You are going to need it,” he added, and the way he said it, frightened me.

  Then he turned, and went back to his work. I had no other choice, but to start walking. At least it had stopped raining, and I hoped that was a good sign.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My high top boots rubbed against my toes, and a pebble had lodged itself inside. I had to stop in order to remove the pebble. The now drying mud of the road, had turned my boots to a musty gray color, instead of the shiny black they used to be. I had no button hook. How was I going to button the boot back up, once I removed it? Would it be better for me to leave it, and suffer with the pebble? I was contemplating this problem, as I sat myself down on a low rock wall that boarded the road, and separated it from the moor on either side.

  The bottom of my skirt, and cloak was covered in dried mud. The tear in my stocking had widened, exposing my knee, where a scab was forming. I had been walking for a day, and not one single conveyance had passed me from either direction. I felt like I was the last living person on earth.

  The birds were very alive, though. I had noticed several different kinds of birds, as I walked, either landing in the moor or flying overhead. Now I watched, as a small flock of crows fought over branches in a solitary tree, not far from the wall I was sitting on. The tree looked old and gnarled. It didn’t have a leaf on it. It was too soon for the leaves to come out yet, I guessed. Spring would come in another month, I calculated. I was looking forward to spring. But mostly, I was looking forward to reaching Heather Ridge House.

  I decided, as long as I was sitting, I would eat something. I pulled out some bread and cheese from my bag. I was glad I had kept the bag under my cloak and hadn’t taken it off while I helped carry the bodies, or it would have been lost as well. I suppose I should be counting small blessings, but if God actually loved me, why had he allowed my money and clothes to be stolen? What had I done to deserve this fate?

  All my life, I considered myself a good person. I had always obeyed my parents, studied hard with my tutor. I learned to play the piano, no matter how much I dreaded practicing. I sat up straight at the dining table. I said my prayers every night and attended church every Sunday. I read the bible and never said a harsh word to anyone. Why hadn’t God taken all of that into consideration before he allowed my parents to die, and me to lose everything I owned? I did not consider God my friend any longer. I vowed not to pray from that day forth. God had ignored all my other prayers, so why bother, I reasoned?

  I had nothing to wash the bread and cheese down with, and it stuck in my throat as I tried to swallow. I was thirsty, but as far as I could see, there was no sign of water. Even the mud puddles had dried up. The moors stretched out green as far as the eye could see, on either side of the road, and the road, itself, wound in front of me in a never ending promise that it actually led somewhere. I was beginning to doubt it.

  I decided not to remove the pebble. I came to the conclusion it might be harder to walk in a boot I could not button up, than to suffer the irritation of a pebble, rubbing against my foot. I thought about small things like button hooks, which up until now, I had taken for granted. There were so many things I had taken for granted, like thinking my parents would always be there, and that I would be able to remain in our house until I one day married.

  I would probably never marry now. Women without money had a harder time finding a suitable husband, and I would only be willing to marry a suitable man. I suppose I had taken that for granted as well, I thought idly. I had never once imagined I would be without clothes or a roof over my head, and if that grave digger had been right, and it took three days to walk to the coast, I would have to sleep out on the moor at night. I hoped it wouldn’t start raining again. Storms seemed to blow up so quickly, one never knew from one day to the next when the weather would drench you.

  Sitting on the wall was not getting me any closer to Heather Ridge House. It took all the will power I could muster, to remove myself from the wall, and start walking again. I was now limping a little, and I wondered if it would feel any better if I took my shoes off all together? The dilemma I faced, was not knowing. Would I be worse off if I risked taking off the boots, and not being able to button them back up, or leaving them on to suffer the rubbing on my toes, and the pebble cutting into the side of my foot? I began to discover the difficulty in making even small decisions like that. What would ever happen if I had a bigger decision to make?

  But this huge decision, of walking to the coast, had already been made for me. I blamed it on God. It certainly had not been my choice, I defended. God was punishing me, and I was wondering who had made the mistake of thinking I was the one to be punished?

  I looked back on my life, to try and discover one small thing I had possibly done unknowingly to have brought this upon my head. I could not think of a single thing. Therefore, I came to the conclusion that God had no mercy. God was not a loving God. God didn’t care what happened to me, or my parents, or anyone else, as far as I could see.

  Now I began to wonder if God would punish me more for thinking so harshly of him? I was doomed no matter how I looked at it. Because being good hadn’t helped, and defying God, may make it worse. Life continued to remain a mystery to me.

  I occupied myself with thinking of happier times, when I was little, but it ended up making me cry, because I thought of my mother and father, and the good times we had had together. Those good times would never return, and my future did not look hopeful.

  I thought of what the grave diggers had said about Aldridge Bogart. No wonder my father never had a good word to say about him. Mother had said he loved her once. If he was so distasteful, what had my mother ever seen in him? Why would she have made him my Godfather? Nothing made sense any mor
e. I had to accept the fact that I had no future.

  Night came, and still no one had passed me on the road. No one was going to the coast, and no one was coming from the coast. I began to wonder if Aldridge Bogart was the only person that actually lived on the coast? I had to find a place to sleep. I couldn’t walk in the dark.

  There was an outcrop of large rocks in the distance on the moor, so I climbed over the wall, catching my skirt on a sharp rock, and causing it to rip, but by this point I cared little about my ruined clothes. All I wanted to do was find a place to rest. Thinking of two more days of walking without any water was more than I wanted to dwell on. Now I was hoping it would rain, so I could at least wet my mouth.

  During the night I got my wish. Was it God, answering my prayer, or punishing me even more? It seemed that a gift from God could also be a punishment. I had curled up between the rocks for a little shelter, and sometime in the night, I realized it was raining again. I lay on my back and opened my mouth. My thirst was quenched, but my clothes were soaked, and I was shivering, by morning. I had not been able to sleep from that moment on.

  Morning brought sunshine again, though. I assumed my clothes would dry soon enough. My hair was in a tangle of golden threads that were frizzing up as the strands dried. I had never liked my hair. It made me look like a scarecrow, when the weather turned damp. I pulled the mud splattered frizz to one side and braided it, ripping the lace trim from my sleeve, to use as a tie. Twigs clung to the tangle, though I tried to remove them as best I could. My dress was as soiled as the grave digger’s clothes, and I hadn’t even dug a grave. I could imagine how horrible I must look. But there was no one on the road to see me, so why did it bother me, I asked myself?

  I continued to place one foot in front of the other. I had tried to block out the pain in my feet. I knew my blisters were probably bleeding, but I would not take off my boots to discover if they really were.

  Another day of no water, passed. I didn’t even want to eat because it just made me thirstier. There had been a few grapes in my bag, but they had gotten all squashed and sticky. I ate them because they were the closest thing to water I had.

  I wiped the sticky from my fingers on my dress. Any other time, I wouldn’t have dreamed of wiping sticky fingers on my clothes, but I was beyond that now. Nothing mattered any more. I was thinking that even staying alive did not matter that much anymore.

  The third day, I could smell the salt air of the coast. It had to be right over the rise of the road, I told myself. As I reached the top of the rise, I stood there staring. There, before me, in the distance, with mist hovering about it, was a huge house, framed against an angry sky. Another storm must be on the way, I thought.

  The house was dark and foreboding, looming up from the mist like an evil castle, ruling over the moors about it. I could hear the pounding of the surf below it. The house seemed to be warning me away, but it had been my destination. I had no other choice, but to approach it.

  The closer I got, the smaller I felt. Forlorn looking chickens were pecking in the dirt. The landscape was mostly rocks, and small bushes. I wondered if there was anything in the dirt for those chickens to eat. I could see sheep grazing in the distance, along the cliff’s edge. Did they belong to my Godfather, or were they wild? The house was far from welcoming, but at one point in time, it must have been a very grand house. Only now, it seemed in disrepair. I wondered if anyone actually still lived there.

  Timidly, I approached the door. The great oak door, with a huge iron knocker, dared me to tap against it. I raised my hand. The ring felt cold against my fingers. I could barely lift it. Then I let it fall against the door. It made a thud. No one came. I tried it again, but this time I lifted it higher, and let it fall once more. The sound echoed against my ears, as the ring bounced a couple of times on the door. Finally the door opened a crack.

  “Who are you?” a small voice asked. The girl looked younger than I was, but she wasn’t a servant. I could tell by her clothes. “Father,” she called before I could say a word. “There is a beggar at the door.”

  “Send them away,” a voice boomed in the distance.

  “I’m not a beggar,” I insisted. “Mr. Bogart is my Godfather. I am Floriana Cunningham.”

  “You had better come to the door,” the girl called over her shoulder.

  She had still not opened the door very wide. I heard scraping of boots against stone tiling, and then the door was jerked open and a tall dark haired man, with bushy brows, and a frown on his face, was looking down on me.

  “Who in the hell are you?” he almost shouted, as he stared at me.

  “I am Patricia Cunningham’s daughter, Floriana ,” I said bravely, while not feeling brave.

  He stood for a moment just looking at me. “And why have you come here?” he asked gruffly.

  “My parents have died, and you are my Godfather. You are Aldridge Bogart, aren’t you?”

  “Patricia is dead?” he asked, as though the words had just sunk in.

  “The Spanish flue,” I explained.

  “No!” he cried. He didn’t look sad, though, he looked angry.

  I waited expectantly, and as I did, another person came to the door, and looked over the girl’s shoulder. He was a few years older than me, and his dark troubled eyes, took me in with interest. “Is this the Goddaughter you have spoken of?” he asked.

  “Did your parents leave you any money?” Aldredge asked, ignoring the boy’s question.

  “It was taken from me,” I told him. “Even my belongings were taken. I have walked here from the city.”

  “You have?” the boy asked, sounding like he did not believe me.

  “You don’t expect me to take in a penniless waif, do you?” my Godfather bellowed.

  “But you are my Godfather. That is the job of a Godfather,” I said, feeling shocked that he would say such a thing to me.

  “Your mother married a wealthy man. I only agreed to be your Godfather because I knew if anything happened to your parents, there would be money to support you. I would only act as your guardian, not your financial support. You will have to go begging somewhere else. I have no extra funds to take on someone else’s burden.” His eyes looked indifferently at me. “You look a mess,” he added insult to injury.

  “You can’t just turn her out,” the boy insisted. “What if she worked for a roof over her head? You sent most of the servants away. We could use the extra help, can’t we?” He looked at me kindly, and even though he was suggesting I work in order to remain there, in my moment of destitute and pain, I would have promised to do anything, in order to stay even in a devil’s den, if that was all that was offered me.

  Aldridge paused and thought on the suggestion, as he stroked his chin and stared at me. “You could be right,” he said quietly, eying the boy. “But you will have to be responsible for her. If she gets into trouble, it will be on your head. That mother of hers left me to marry another, and I have never forgiven her. I only agreed to become a Godfather, because I knew they had money, and it would be worth my while, if I ever had to take the child under my roof. “What happened to your home, and your parent’s wealth?” he asked.

  “The house is contaminated with the sickness,” I told him. “I don’t know anything about my parent’s wealth. I only know the only bag of gold my father had was taken from me by a dishonest man, when I tried to come here.”

  “So you have been left destitute, have you?” He started to laugh. “Serves your mother right. She had loved me, but she married your father for his money.”

  “My mother loved my father,” I objected.

  “So she said, but I knew better,” he frowned. “Very well, Sheldon can show you to the tower.”

  “The tower?” the girl shrieked. “Are you sure, father?”

  “It is suitable for her,” he said with a sneer.

  The girl’s eyes were large and frightened.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Sheldon tried to comfort me. “There is nothing about
that tower room that will harm you.”

  “It’s haunted,” his sister cried.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I told her willing myself to be brave. I was happy to have any room they would offer me, even if it turned out to be the dungeon. What could be wrong with a tower room?

  “That’s a good sport,” Sheldon, patted me on the back. “Just ignore Chandra. She scares too easily, and has a runaway imagination. Don’t pay attention to any of the stories she tells you either!”

  “It’s true,” Chandra said, as she tagged along. “The tower room is haunted! She jumped, and now she wants to get revenge!”

  “Who jumped?” I asked, feeling confused.

  “No one,” Sheldon said. “Go away, Chandra. You are only scaring her!”

  “Father doesn’t like her. Who cares if she’s scared?”

  “He loved her mother once. He told me so.”

  “That doesn’t count,” she taunted.

  “My mother said the same thing, that your father loved her once,” I offered.

  “See?” Sheldon responded. “If he loved her mother, how could he dislike Floriana ? He’s only upset because he can’t afford to support her, but if she is our servant, it will be worth keeping her.”

  “I have never been a servant,” I admitted, “but I know what a servant’s duty is, so I am sure I can get used to it.”

  “Don’t worry, I will help you, as much as I can,” Sheldon offered. “We have been lowered to having to do most of the chores anyway, ever since father made everyone but the cook and the groom, leave, claiming he couldn’t afford to pay them.”

  I remembered the grave digger claiming Aldridge was a gambler. He must have gambled all his money away, I decided.

  Sheldon had directed me to a door. He reached up to a hook, where a key swung on a large ring. The key scraped against the lock, as he inserted it. Then he opened the door, which revealed a staircase. “These are the tower stairs,” he informed me, what I had guessed. “The door is usually kept locked, since everyone fears the room. The servants would never go there, even to clean, so I can’t promise it will be a pleasant abode. You will have to clean it yourself.” He looked at me to see how I was reacting to what he told me.