WoA2.23Smashwords

Amber Newberry

WALLS OF ASH

Amber Newberry

Copyright © 2012 Amber Newberry

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the prior express written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0615741541

ISBN-13: 978-0-615-74154-3

Visit the author at

www.AmberNewberry.Wordpress.com

Or look for me on Facebook and Twitter!

In loving memory of Lorene, who was my very own Li.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to everyone who made this book possible: My amazing editor in chief, Laurie Moran. Beta readers, Bret Stearns and my Grandma, Brenda Landers-Conine. Thanks to the incredible cover artist, Erica Wilson. Special thanks to Erik Weissinger for putting up with my ‘
crazy
’ and helping to fund this project and to Nicholas Izzo for love and support while I wrote like hell during my unemployment.

Prologue

A light melody danced through the open windows of Rhineholt House, the maid hummed a bright tune as she went from room to room dusting and polishing. It was a clear spring day, and the sun cast bright light onto the tall, gray walls that stretched upward. The delicate marble details glistened in the sunlight. It was a rare dry afternoon in early April, and there was only a hint of the winter’s chill still on the wind. My hands worked at tying the stems of flowers together to create perhaps a crown or a garland necklace, I would find out when I finished. Whatever it was, my hands needed to be busy, as with all children. Looking up for a moment, I caught sight of a white bird soaring above. It slowed to land on the branches above me, where a tiny, pale pink blossom had opened, presenting itself to the warmth of the spring sunshine.

The tree I sat beneath was somewhat special to me, as it was the farthest spot from the house my Aunt would allow me to go alone because I was still in her line of sight, but it was far enough that it would be too ill-mannered for me to chat with her for I would have to shout. Besides, what was there to talk about. The weather? That we’d gone over at breakfast. My lessons with Hilda, my governess? The same stale conversation that bored me each day. Being the only child at Rhineholt House was a lonely post for a ten year old girl.

I dreamed of this tree often, picturing my mother braiding my hair beneath the branches. My eyes closed, and she was there with me. The maid’s soft humming became my mother’s voice. It could’ve been real if my day dreaming had not been disturbed by my Aunt’s voice calling over to me.

“Tamsin! I do hope you will not dirty that gown sitting in the grass!”

Aunt Emmaline was a small woman with light brown hair that was always twisted into a large braided knot at the nape of her neck. She had huge, blue doe eyes and a quiet disposition. That is, unless she had a reason to be angry, which was fairly frequently with me at that particular age.

Ignoring her, I placed the now finished floral crown on top of my head. My eyes drifted over the light gray walls of my home. From where I sat near a corner of the Eastern wing, the stone seemed to stretch up forever. Really, I knew the walls ended because my chambers were at the very top of the house, along with Hilda’s and with the school room, where I spent most of my time, but I liked to imagine that there was more to Rhineholt than what my eyes could see. Some would say that there was. You would think that another realm existed within those walls the way the servants talked about some of the rooms, particularly the ones that got the darkest at night.

I heard footsteps on the cobblestones in the garden and looked up at my Aunt, who also started at the sound. I followed her gaze and saw a little girl walking along with a basket that seemed too large for her small frame. I did not know her name, but I recognized her as one of the children who lived in the servants’ quarters, a place I had never seen with my own eyes. Once, I saw the girl sitting on the floor of the kitchen when I snuck in to pillage a tea cake. She had noticed me, and we surveyed one another for a long while before Bernadine, the housekeeper, discovered my presence.

“Miss! Wha’ yeh be doin’ in this part of the house? Yer Auntie would have me head if she thought I brung yeh here!” the abrasive woman had said in that thick Cornish garble. She was short and broad with greying hair that was tucked under a white bonnet, and I don’t recall ever seeing her out of that uniform. She grabbed my hand and dragged me from the kitchens and up the stairs, back to the world from whence I came. The kitchen was clearly her dominion and a place that I would be exiled from. She scolded me, and I explained my presence was only to retrieve one of her exceptional tea cakes. This calmed her and the anger went from her face and was replaced with an indulgent look, though her arms were still crossed over her large bosom.

“If yeh promise to keep it ‘tween the two of us, I’ll slip one into the drawin’ room whilst yer Aunt an’ Uncle are out. Yeh go an’ wait, now an’ promise me yeh won’t go tellin’ the missus’!”

She came through with the tea cake, and before she left me alone in the drawing room, I asked her about the little girl, but she waved a hand and left without an explanation. I was a lonely child, and I did not soon forget the little girl, and here she was, only a few months after my venture into the kitchens, walking along through the gardens, oblivious to my Aunt and me. I stood up and began to walk toward her but stopped short when I saw my Aunt stand and begin to chastise her. The little girl was younger than I was, and cowered beneath the wrath of my Aunt. I ran toward the scene and interrupted the scolding.

“Aunt Emmaline, she didn’t know servants are not to cross the garden. I waved to her to come to me, or she might have gone back,” I said.

My aunt’s hands were placed primly on either hip and though her skirts covered her feet, I could hear that one was tapping the cobblestone, quietly.

“Really, it is my fault for waving to her,” I lied.

“Fleur, where are you taking that basket?” Aunt Emmaline asked the little girl, unknowingly solving a mystery for me. Her name was Fleur. The shy child looked down and did not answer her.

“Child, you must answer when you are spoken to! Now, where are you taking that basket?” Two large blue eyes looked up at me, not to my Aunt. I nodded to her.

“To the stable boys, madam,” she said quietly to me, avoiding the searing glare from Aunt Emmaline.

“I will take her and see that she does not go in the front door,” I said quickly, and before my Aunt could protest, I grabbed a dirty little hand and pulled Fleur along with me toward the stable, half running. It was just past the tree where I sat before and a little beyond the corner. I would be out of my Aunt’s sight briefly, but she did not call after me, so I didn’t look back at her. She would most certainly be angry with me for darting off with the girl from downstairs, but she wouldn’t chase after me in a white afternoon gown with the ground still damp from the showers of the day before.

When we were out of my Aunt’s gaze, we slowed, and I let go of the hand I had been pulling along.

“You’ve got to be careful, you know. Aunt Emmaline is very proper. Didn’t anyone tell you not to cross the gardens?” I asked. She shook her head vigorously, shaking the curls that escaped a dirty bonnet. I stopped and looked over the little girl. Her clothes were tattered and stained with soot, probably ashes from the fireplace. Her stockings had holes and she wore a pair of little boys’ shoes that were obviously too big for her. I immediately felt sorry for Fleur.

“You must remember to only use the servants’ doors from now on, alright?” I said softly. She nodded, and we began to walk again.

“Fleur is a rather uncommon name,” I said, trying to get the girl to talk. She said nothing.

“Who are your parents?” I asked.

“I have none,” she replied softly. This was painful for her to say. I stopped and turned to face the girl whose eyes again would not meet mine.

“My parents died when I was very small,” I said, and she looked up at me.

“Yes, miss,” was all she said.

“Fleur, I would like to be your friend, if that’s alright?” I looked down at her but she did not meet my eyes.

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Neither do I,” I replied, and she finally looked up at me again with what almost looked like a smile.

By this time we were nearly at the stable. I reminded her to use the servants’ door so she would not get into trouble. When I turned to walk back to the garden, I looked back over my shoulder and saw her staring after me. I smiled at her, and her smile back was unmistakable.

I took my time getting back to the garden and lingered for a moment to examine a bird’s nest that had fallen from one of the high ledges of Rhineholt. It was empty. My eyes surveyed the wall looking for where it might have fallen from. Tall, thin glass lined each wall and the ledges that jutted out from the windows were deep enough for bird’s nests, but to keep my Aunt happy, the maids would sweep them off just when they appeared.

The house was high on a hill, so when you stood right alongside it, it felt as though you peered down at the rest of the world. Everything within eyesight was small and insignificant with the impressive dark walls looming over. The northern entrance was guarded by three stone griffons. The two on either side of the door stood as if ready to charge on an encroaching threat, the other was twice the size and stood rearing up with its wings spread wide.

I walked backward for a moment, shielding my eyes from the sun as I examined the griffons, before turning and going the rest of the way back. When I rounded the corner to the garden, my Aunt stood beneath my tree waiting for me, her hands on either hip as though she had not moved in my absence. I prepared myself for a scolding, but she took my hand and led me to sit on a bench nearby.

“Tamsin, you are young yet, but there are things a girl of your position must learn. That girl is from downstairs. That is her station. Someday she will make a living, most likely within this household. You are of a different station, and it would be considered very unconventional for you to be seen with that girl. It is best not to mix with the servants. It is all very well to be kind to them and perhaps even philanthropic to those that work the land, but your friendship is better addressed... upward.” My Aunt spoke with little emotion.

“What is my station?” I asked.

“To be the daughter of this household. Hilda will teach you to be a proper young woman, you will go away to finishing school, and then you will marry.” This was law to my Aunt, the way that all well-bred young women would and should be brought up. I wrinkled my nose.

“You will warm up to the idea,” she said, and then looked out into the distance, deep in thought.

“Why is Fleur’s station different from mine? She has no parents and neither do I.” I looked up at my Aunt, but she still faced forward.

“It is not to ask why, these are simply the rules we follow. It is best not to get caught up in the lives of those less fortunate than ourselves.” It wasn’t as much of an answer as it was my cue to stop asking questions. We sat quietly until my Aunt finally turned to face me on the seat we shared, and her eyes softened.

“When I was about twelve years old, there was a boy who worked with his father in the stables at my home in Lancashire. He was two years my senior, but he was the only child in the household who was near my own age, as my brother had already grown and married. His name was Gil.” She looked away from me again. It was not often that my Aunt chose to confide in me, and even less often that she spoke of her own childhood. I stayed silent, trying not to disrupt her thoughts.

“My mother allowed me to play with the boy in the afternoons, while my governess read in the field behind the house and watched us play. My father was away often, and one day when he arrived home from London, he saw me playing with Gil. He stormed toward us and grabbed Gil by the wrist. He told him to mind his station and dragged him away from the field by his arm. Gil cried out in pain, my father had separated his shoulder. When father returned to the field, he ordered me into the house, and I watched from a window as he scolded my governess and told her to pack her trunk and leave immediately. He would not have his daughter taught by a ‘
brazen woman with no regard to station
.’ My mother told him that it was her fault, she had given her permission, but my father would not relent. He insisted that exposing me to ‘
the wrong sort
’ would cheapen his family’s name.”

She turned to look at me.

“What happened to Gil?” I asked.

“His shoulder mended, but his father was told to keep the boy away from me or he would be sent away as my governess had been. Gil stayed away for a while, but around the time I turned fifteen, I began riding with my governess, and he slipped a note into my hand as he passed me the reins.”

“What did it say?” I asked.

“I did not get a chance to read it. My governess saw the exchange and immediately took me back into the house where she gave my father the note. Gil was told to leave immediately. There was nowhere for him to go, and he was given no food or proper supplies when he left.” She paused and, again, I stayed as quiet as possible, hoping she would finish.