Tears for the Wicked

Tears for the Wicked

By

Bev Clarke

Copyright ©2015 by Bev Clarke

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2015

ISBN 978-1-326-27981-3

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73 Aston Street

Shifnal Shropshire TF118DR

Prologue

1808

He sat on an old rickety stool, his long, dark grey hair flowing down his back. One thick strand of white hair hung down the side of his cheek to his collarbone highlighting his face. His arm moved freely, almost dancing, as his hand flicked the thin wooden paint brush across the large easel that stood in front of him.

The room was big. It was dimly lit by fat, white candles that sat in niches on the thick walls and the large, silver chandelier overhead swayed ever so slightly, the flames flickering. The rich, burgundy, damask wall paper contrasting the deep purple, floor to ceiling satin curtains that covered each of the six tall windows. Four of these were open, the curtains billowing up into the room. Intricate burgundy and gold rugs lay on the polished wooden floor, covering most of it.

Antique oak book shelves covered one wall, nearly tall enough to reach the ceiling; a wooden ladder leaned against them.  Finished paintings covered over with white muslin sheets sat against the other walls.

He continued to paint, concentration in his eyes. The deep red, velvet robe hung off one shoulder, revealing the clean, white frilled shirt underneath. The frilly cuffs flowing elegantly as his hand moved over the canvas.

He looked over at his subject, his ice grey eyes cold and calculating as he studied the child who sat on a chair opposite him. The little girl squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze as she sat on the cold, hard wood. Her pale face strained as tears ran from big brown eyes and down sore, reddened cheeks. Her curls, long and blonde, were tied out of her face by yellow ribbons that matched the satin and lace dress that she wore. She resembled a porcelain doll, except for the tears.

He suddenly ceased his painting to reach over to a nearby trestle table and ring a little gold bell. A butler entered the room, an old man, skinny, with a white face and even whiter hair, wearing a stylish, black, morning suit. The painter waved his arm and the servant nodded. He walked over to the crying child, picked her up and left the room.

The Earl picked up his painting and carefully carried it over to the wall, where he left it.

He untied the thick cord around his waist and took off his robe. His large white cravat flowed down in frills that matched his shirt which was worn under a burgundy twin-breasted waistcoat.

He put on a long black coat and tied his long hair back with a brown leather thong, the shorter curls immediately coming loose to spring back, framing his handsome face.

He smiled to himself as he walked toward the door. He opened it and left the room, walking down a hallway and leaving through a set of double doors. He stopped, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it before walking into the night, in search of his next subject.

Chapter One

Present Day

The tall, end-terrace house was quiet and welcoming. It was nothing special; just an ordinary two-story building, an identical brother to those surrounding it. It stood stark and still next to its siblings; red brick soldiers on the frontline standing to attention.

I sighed quietly to myself and pulled a face as I looked up at my new home. It was nothing at all like the house I had grown up in. There was no front garden for a start and I would miss that. At our old home we would sit outside on the grass on a warm summer’s day in the big front garden and watch the world go by. The neighbours would come over to visit and have a chat, bringing homemade lemonade and tasty treats for us all to share and we would all just sit there, well into the early hours of the morning, enjoying each other’s company. It was a beautiful house situated in a quaint little cul-de-sac. It was quiet, traffic-free and it was lovely.

This house however, was very different. The green front door opened straight onto a thin pavement next to the busy road.

How am I going to sleep with all this noise? I thought to myself. I had enough trouble sleeping as it was.

The building wasn’t especially pretty and I longed to be back in my beautiful old home with the pebble dashed walls that had gleamed a pinkish colour in the afternoon sunlight. I stood there for a moment, the edges of my pale blue dress swinging lazily in the whispering breeze. I held a large cardboard box in my hands, the words ‘Ella’s Room’ scrawled on all four sides in blue permanent marker. From behind me, I could hear my mother scrabbling about in the car. I turned around as she took a box, similar in size to the one I was holding, from the back seat of the small, red Fiat that was parked next to the crumbling curb. She walked up to me with the box, nudging my arm playfully and smiled sweetly at me.

Come on Ella, it will be fine, don’t worry. She soothed.

I didn’t agree with her at all but I smiled back anyway.

Mum was a very pretty woman; she had aged well so far, crow’s feet were only just starting to appear at the corners of her eyes. The only other wrinkles she had were faint lines around her mouth. Laughter lines I think they’re called. She still looked youthful; her blue eyes still looked as if they belong to an eighteen year old and not a woman in her late fifties. They had kept the same bright blue colour through the years and had never faded to grey like some do. Her bright red hair was the same. It was still full of natural colour and had never been dyed. She had not even gotten her first grey hair yet. Well, that’s what she told me anyway. I smiled to myself, I bet she pulled them out really and just never told anyone.

I followed my mother into the house; she turned and smiled at me for some reason. Maybe it was because she was still excited about the new house or something. Whatever the reason, it was good to see her smile for a change.

After losing my dear, beloved father two years ago, we were both still grieving. It was a little easier to breathe now but I still had the anxiety attacks and the painful heartache from time to time and wow was it painful, I never realised that losing someone you loved could hurt just as much physically as it did mentally. I had managed to stop myself from going crazy with the thought that my father was at peace now and that he was free from pain.

It had happened so quickly, the angels decided that he was needed more urgently somewhere else and carried him away at the tender age of forty two. I had found it weird because he had always said that he would die in his forties. Maybe he was psychic. His Romany grandmother had apparently been gifted so maybe he had inherited that gift from her. I don’t like to think about the fact that he may have known when he would die. It wasn’t a nice thought.

Anyway, neither mum nor I had expected to get that awful phone call from dad’s workplace on that cold October evening.

A fluke accident his boss had called it and our family was paid off quickly and quietly with a large lump sum.

With the money, my mother Jan and I tried to get on with our lives but the extra cash didn’t make a difference and it was still just as hard to cope with the loss as it was when we had less money.

Eventually, I met Jack. He was, by all accounts, my dream man, my soul mate and my very own rock god; I had told my friends that he was a blessing sent down from my father.

I could finally start to feel positive again, my only regret being that my father would never meet this wonderful man. We were married last winter amidst a beautiful snow storm in a small but meaningful ceremony. Life started to get better again. I still struggled with anxiety and depression though so my over caring and rather nosey mother and husband decided that it would be best to sell our home, the one that I had lived in from birth, and move. Not just to a new house but to a new town as well. The hope was that a fresh start would help us with our grief. To be honest I would have preferred to stay put.

I had been very annoyed with the both of them but I knew that I was out voted on that one so there was no point in causing a fuss. I had kept my thoughts to myself and quietly packed up my memories into cardboard boxes. I chuckled to myself as I thought about it now, both my mother and my husband were such busy-bodies but they did mean well.

After discussing where about in the kitchen to put the dining table; my mother could never decide on such things, and then where the cockatiel and his cage should go, I took the box that I was still holding up the steep, carpet-less, narrow staircase and into my new room. I placed it onto my bed, there was no linen on it yet, and just a thick mattress lying on top of the wooden skeleton, the