Back To The Beginning No. III

Here is a snippet from my third book from Cerridwen Press, Isabelle's Story (copyright Anita Birt 2007) My historical romance tells the story of Isablle'e Linden who wrote the diary.

Chapter One
Llandrindod Wells, Wales. 1896
Isabelle’s brother tapped on her bedroom door the night before her fifteenth
birthday and, hushing her to be quiet, presented her with his gift. “I thought it best to give it to you now. If mother knows you are keeping a diary she will insist on reading
it.”
And so will Father, Isabelle thought.
In the morning she smoothed her hand over the maroon leather cover of the
precious diary, rested her cheek on it, breathed in the scent and slid her fingers along
the glossy gold-edged pages. She had never owned anything so beautiful and hesitated
before picking up her pen to write. It seemed a shame to sully the pages with her boring
thoughts but she had the diary and boring or not she’d start writing in it today.

Taking up her pen, she dipped it in the ink bottle on her desk, opened the diary and
signed her name. Isabelle Rachel Linden. June 21, 1896. Llandrindod Wells. The diary was for her eyes alone. In it she’d write her secret thoughts, special happenings and the dreams she dreamed.
She turned to the first page. Father has hinted he has plans for me. A chill shivered down her spine. She dreaded his lectures. Although she tried to be a dutiful daughter nothing pleased him. Her brother usually escaped his critical tongue because their father expected Evan to study medicine and work with him after graduation.
That was the plan. Their father didn’t know, but Evan had shared his secret with
Isabelle. He intended to study geology. Medicine didn’t interest him. Rocks and stones
did.
“Come for dinner, Isabelle,” her mother called from downstairs.
Carefully blotting the ink she closed the diary, tucked it away on the top shelf of her
wardrobe and hurried to join her family at their midday meal in the gloomy dining
room. Its draperies were closed against the bright June sunshine lest it harm the
furniture. The silver tea service on the oak sideboard was wrapped in blue cloth to
prevent tarnish. The recently installed electric lighting was only switched on in the
evening after dark.
Given the choice Isabelle would never shut out the sunshine or the moonlight and
there would be smiles and laughter during meals.
She took her place at the table and bowed her head while her father mumbled a
prayer. They ate in silence. They always ate in silence unless her father chose to speak.
Isabelle tried to gauge his mood during the meal. No tight-lipped frowns. No lowering
of his brows. Like a wary sailor at sea she kept a weather eye out for signs of his usual
ill humor.
He carved a second thick slice of roast lamb for himself and laced it with generous
sprinklings of mint sauce. He had eaten the new potatoes and broad beans on his plate.
Handling his knife with surgical skill, he cut a small piece of meat, forked it into his
mouth and chewed slowly.
“I have an announcement to make,” he declared solemnly when he’d finished the
lamb. “Something to which I have given a great deal of thought.”
Isabelle, Evan and their mother waited. Interruptions were not allowed.
“I think she has had enough schooling, my dear.”
He addressed her mother, taking no notice of Isabelle although he was referring to
her.
“She is an excellent student, writes extremely well and has a good head on her
shoulders. The patients like her when she occasionally assists me in the surgery. I have
even trusted her to mix some of the simpler medicines.” He sat back in his chair and loosened his waistcoat. He did not expect anyone to disagree with him. Isabelle wished her mother would, just once. She had never contradicted him in Isabelle’s hearing.
“I shall engage Mr. Petersham to tutor her in Latin and French, an hour or two a
day should suffice. I will train her as a nurse. There is no need for her to go away to one
of those nursing schools started by that Nightingale woman. No telling what kind of
people she might associate with. She will do better here with me. I expect to begin
treating patients coming to the spa within the next fortnight and I will supervise
Isabelle while she learns proper massage techniques.”
“That sounds very promising, my dear.” Isabelle’s mother nodded and helped
herself to more potatoes.
Frustrated and angry at not being consulted about plans for her future, Isabelle
wished she had her brother’s opportunities. Two years her senior, he was attending an
excellent grammar school and their father would send him to university in September.
Her mother rang the silver bell beside her plate and their maid hurried in to clear
the plates. On her return from the kitchen, Megan carried a steaming treacle pudding in
a wide shallow bowl and set the dish in front of Mrs. Linden.
“I’ll just fetch in the custard and tea, ma’am.”
“Thank you, this is Dr. Linden’s favorite sweet and you make excellent custard.”
Although Isabelle loved treacle pudding, she was too upset to eat and swallowed
some tea to wet her dry throat.
Disagreeing with her father was out of the question. Her parents never consulted her about anything. Her mother chose her clothing but allowed Isabelle to decide on the color of ribbons for her hair. For her birthday, she had received several and secured her long black hair at the nape with one of pale blue silk.
Her father rapped his fingers on the table. “Isabelle, you will commence working in
the surgery on the first of September. Your mother or Megan will braid your hair and
twist it up around your head. Like this.” He circled his hands on his bald pate.
“Father that is too old a style for me.”
He banged his fist on the dining table rattling the cups in their saucers. “You will
do as I say. When you are working in the surgery or at the spa, the patients will not
want your hair hanging over them.”
Isabelle stood and stamped her foot. “I will not work at the spa or the springs and
be looked down on by those English people. I heard several of them in church last
Sunday. They were laughing at our Welsh accents. They think we are country fools and
I won’t have it!”
Her mother clutched her throat and cast a pleading glance at her daughter. “You
must obey your father, Isabelle.”
“But you know how I hate having my hair in braids. I never liked it when I was
little. Please speak to Father.”
Shoulders sagging, her mother's face paled and she rose to her feet. “Your father
knows what is best for you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll rest on my bed. One of my
headaches is coming on.”
He nodded and waved her off. “Sit down, Isabelle, while I finish my dinner.”
Hands clenched, anger twisting her stomach, Isabelle obeyed and watched her
father finish his pudding and drink two cups of tea. He pushed away from the table and
frowned.
“Come to my study. I wish to speak with you.”
Evan stood and waited for their father to leave the room. “He’s really angry. Don’t
cross him, it will only make things worse.”
“It’s all right for you, you’re escaping to university in September and I’m to remain
at home and do as Father says.”
“Isabelle! At once, do you hear?”
She plucked up her courage and walked slowly to the study. Her father paced up
and down, hands behind his back. Isabelle sank into a chair, bowed her head and
waited. He stopped in front of her and dragged her up. His hands brushed against her
small breasts and he recoiled like someone touching a flame.
“Listen to me. There will be no further discussion. Your hair will be braided on top
of your head. You will assist me in the clinic at the spa. I am having two white uniforms
made up for you. I will allow you one free day a week. Sunday, of course, we do not
work.” He gripped her shoulders hard. “Is that clear?”
Fuming inside, Isabelle dared to meet his eyes. Dared to risk his anger. Knowing it
would infuriate him, she asked. “Which day, Father? Which day shall I have free?”
His face livid, he struggled for control and Isabelle had the satisfaction of making
him lose his temper again.
“I will tame that wild spirit of yours, my girl.” He paused, breathing hard. “Until
you learn better manners, there will be no days off.”
He struck her across the face and Isabelle stumbled away from his raised hand. “Go
to your room and have your mother come here at once.”
Isabelle paused at the door. Fearing for her mother’s safety, she hastened to
apologize. “It is not Mother’s fault, I am sorry for being rude. I will have my hair
arranged as you suggested and accept whatever punishment you think necessary.” She
hated groveling to him but had no choice otherwise he’d turn his fury on her mother.
He drew his brows together. “I accept your apology but do not make me lose my
temper again. I regret striking you.”
His voice softened. “You must learn more genteel manners. More accommodating
manners. It is not becoming for young ladies to speak their minds and disobey their
fathers. Your future husband will not tolerate the kind of behavior I have just
witnessed.”
Isabelle could not imagine a husband much less one who resembled her bullying
father. Her hand on the doorknob, she faced him. “Shall I call Mother?”
“No, I will speak to her later.”
Isabelle prayed he would not put a stop to the last few weeks of freedom she’d
enjoy before starting work in September. Exploring the high moorland and hidden
valleys with Evan brightened her life. They’d pack bread and cheese and a bottle of
water in their school satchels and picnic along the way. One of their favorite walks took
them miles from town to a huge standing stone, a relic of some ancient time.
While Evan collected rock samples, she studied birds and noted everything down
in exercise books. Often they came across Owen, a weather-beaten old shepherd, black
and white border collies at his heels. An old-fashioned storyteller with the Welsh gift of
hwyl, he’d long been a favorite of theirs. He’d hunker down and entertain them with
long complex tales of life on the moors, storms he had witnessed and the times he
worked with the drovers taking sheep to market.
Isabelle always gave a wide berth around the peat bog where, according to the
shepherd, a man had lost his way on a dark night, stumbled into the muck and
disappeared deep down into its depths.
“When the moon is high,” Owen had told her and Evan, “the man’s ghostly spirit
wanders the moors crying out for help.”

If you'd like to read the whole chapter, go to my web site, www.anitabirt.com for my e-mail address. I'll be pleased to e-mail you the complete chapter. You will also find excerpts and reviews of all five books on the site. Thanks for dropping by.

Anita