A Gothic Lesson in Love

  A Gothic Lesson In Love

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by CS Bennett

  Copyright © 2011

  PREFACE

  A former child musical prodigy, professor of philosophy, accomplished pianist, and tutor for the daughter and niece of a very rich and powerful English nobleman, Professor Seabrook is abruptly forced to withdraw from the public eye by a circumstance so scandalous that it could cost him his very life if it ever came to light. In an effort to preserve himself he quietly retreats to a lofty English estate left to him by a wealthy uncle and takes on a new name and personage. There he remains a very private and mysterious figure living a lonely and dark secluded existence; his only contact with other human beings, the local food deliveryman and his devoted and trusted housekeeper. That is, until an unworldly and seemingly naïve 26 year old Southern American, visiting her aunt in England for the summer, shows up at his doorsteps and turns his world upside down. But is this innocent looking woman as naïve and unworldly as everyone thinks is the one question he begins to ponder.

  Unaware of the auricular arrangement that her mother has made, in collusion with her aunt in London, my young leading lady has no clue she is being sent to London to learn about men, love, life and her own sexuality from her more worldly and more sophisticated aunt who has retired there. It turns out that what she learns from her aunt pales in comparison to what the professor in-exile has to teach her on the subject. Virtue, commitment, passion, sexuality, and love are the subjects he exposes her to and from a man’s perspective, a man most of the townspeople has cultivated a dark and haunting legend around. In return she gives him a thought-provoking lesson on trust and love, a lesson he has forgotten over the years. It is a mutual and philosophical bond that eventually grows into something bigger and to the point it begins to shed light on his dark and lonely existence behind wrought-iron gates, and on the dark secret that put him there. Their time together also paves the way for a young woman to blossom into a mature woman. A Gothic Lesson In Love…a love story the great philosopher Socrates would appreciate.

  CS Bennett

  Chapter 1

  Irene Porter’s carefree adventure began in sunny Virginia Beach, Virginia. It was the place she called home. Now, almost a week later, she found herself riding along a winding country road on her scooter, several miles west of the English village she was visiting for the summer at the invitation of her aunt. The quaint town was Ashbury Point, just sixty miles north of Portsmouth, England.

  With her hair blowing wildly in the wind, she had decided to visit towns and shops far away from the typical tourist destinations. Thrilled to be on foreign soil, she was looking forward to an afternoon of shopping and dining at several outdoor cafés. What she had not counted on was her scooter running out of gas. Nor did she have a contingency plan for such an occasion.

  Engaging the kickstand she walked around the side of the scooter and looked up and down the road. There was not a car or human being in sight. So she waited. And patiently. Someone would have to travel this route sooner or later, she told herself as she kicked a stone a short distance away.

  Up above soared a flock of migrating blackbirds. Below and across the road sat a vast majestic landscape of hills and valleys carpeted with acres of grass that appeared recently mowed. A group of cattle had gathered under several shaded trees. Two dared to brave the direct rays of the hot sun. Not far from where she stood was a paved driveway with an open wrought-iron gate. Directly behind her stood a five-foot wall of dark green hedging that stretched several feet on either side of a narrow graveled pathway that ran parallel to the driveway and curved then disappeared inside the property.

  On either side of the walkway stood a wild outgrowth of tall weeds and other green foliage which hid from view what lay beyond it. It was as if someone had gone out to Florida’s vast Everglades and cut out an acre of it and placed it here. Unlike the manicured lawns and gardens back in the states there was something haunting about this property. The only thing missing were large limestone gargoyle statues positioned at the front entrance of the driveway.

  For a brief moment she entertained the thought that perhaps malevolent leprechauns frequented the place; if not dwelled there. Because of the wild outgrowth she could only make out the top of a slate black roof in the far distance. Whoever lived here, if anyone at all, certainly wasn’t born with a green thumb, that’s for sure.

  Turning her attention to the wooden mailbox to her left, which had a four digit number reflecting the address, and much larger letters that read ‘Seabreeze’, she stood with her hands on her hips pondering her next move. The place would give anyone the creeps.

  Though anxious and apprehensive, she decided to venture onto the property to seek assistance. She wanted to get on her way before it got too late in the evening. Besides, she did not want to worry her aunt.

  She had only taken a few steps inside when she heard an approaching vehicle in the distance. Turning, she walked hastily back to her scooter and flagged down the small car and frantically explained her dilemma to the driver. The older woman said she was running late to pick up her husband from work and was pressed for time but would assist her. Fortunately for Irene, the woman’s husband worked in Ashbury Point.

  With no time to look for or ask for permission from the owner of the property to leave her scooter there, the two women decided to position it behind the tall hedging until Irene could come back later or the following day with a container of gas. It did not go unnoticed by Irene how nervous and anxious the woman appeared once they had entered onto the property. Within minutes the two were on their way down the road.

  She could not believe her ears or where Irene said she had been. “Irene, don’t you remember me saying that you might want to gas up the scooter just before I left for London this morning?” her aunt said pacing the room nonstop. “Look, I understand you just turned twenty-six, honey, but you can’t be too careful these days, you know. And you certainly cannot be traveling about the countryside without an adequate amount of gas in the tank.”

  “I honestly do not remember you saying that auntie. But I promise, it will not happen again,” Irene assured her from where she sat slumped at the dining room table.

  “Listen dear,” her aunt said in a softer tone. “You’re young and beautiful and I am just concerned about you. That’s all. I know that Jack the Ripper has been laid to rest well over one hundred years ago and probably by somebody who didn’t have a clue who he was but believe you me, there are plenty more murderous psychos where he came from. Look, I’ll get old man Dempsey to drive you over to the gas station in the morning to get some gas, and then he can drive you over to retrieve your scooter, okay? Besides, he owes me a favor.”

  Walking over to her niece, she paused with opened arms.

  “Are we still Kosher?” Irene’s aunt was known to evoke a Jewish expression or two ever since she picked up a few of them from her first college love who was Jewish and spoke fluent Yiddish. The two dated their junior and senior years.

  Irene stood up and the two hugged and all was forgiven.

  Audrey Rose Madison, a recently retired secretary for a United States State Department diplomatic attaché, and recent divorcée, had elected to live the remainder of her life in the English countryside instead of returning to her home of origin in Norfolk, Virginia. As a youthful, buxom, and curvaceous forty-seven year old woman, she had little problem attracting the attention of men, men of wealth and power
, men she found arduous and generous in their ways, and men who were easy to manipulate. She had learned to play the game better than any man and without giving up the whole store. But her true preference was for younger men, sometimes fifteen years her junior, when she really wanted to let go and have fun. Aside from men, her other passion was painting. She was an amateur but an artist at heart.

  An intelligent woman, and an accomplished one in her own right, she used all of her assets, including her natural born attributes, to break the glass ceiling that existed back in 1934 when she began her State Department career at nineteen years of age. It did not hurt that WWII broke out and hastened her advancement at the agency. She had gone from front desk clerk to office manager in less than three years. She was certain her management skills, people skills, and her good looks played a role in her rapid ascent.

  Having arrived at the top of her game some fourteen years later, she spent her final years working out of the American Embassy in London before calling it quits. With two marriages behind her, a generous bank account and pension, along with eighty thousand dollars in American stocks and bonds, she was content to live the single life in one of England’s small country towns. She took to dating a variety of men like some women took to shopping for hats.

  Considered the most sophisticated and worldliest of three farm bred sisters, there was no hesitation on her part when her younger sister Judy asked her to take in Irene for the summer in England. Judy, a churchgoing, God fearing woman, raised her daughter Irene and youngest daughter Margo to be as pure and as righteous as herself, especially after her husband died in a car accident when Irene was ten years old.

  A bright and intelligent young woman with a friendly personality, Irene was a daughter any mother would be proud of. She had been an A-B student throughout her school years, even at the community college where she studied to be a registered nurse. She was even crowned prom queen in high school. But that was a different time and different daughter; one who was vibrant and outgoing. Her daughter’s casual and nonchalant deposition with would be suitors was cause to be concern about now. She missed the Irene who was a plain-speaking, Southern style gal, with a folksy disposition and was the belle of the town. At some point in her senior year she turned from being Miss Prissy & Popular to becoming Miss Plain Polly Molly, wearing a ponytail and no makeup, except for special events. Instead of the latest fashions, she preferred dressing casually; much like when she worked on her best friends’ father’s farm picking tomatoes. Church was the rare exception when she paid attention to her hair and put on a dress. And even then she never wore anything considered stylist. If ever there was a poster girl for conservative dress, it was Irene.

  Though she was friendly with the local boys, many whom had arrived on their porch wearing that love-struck, puppy-eyed look in their eyes, Irene appeared to have little interested in engaging any of them on a romantic basis. Not the least, except for one time and one boy.

  His name was Calvin Matthews. He was a tall, tanned, and handsome lad and captain of the high school wrestling team and the quarterback for the football team when Irene met and fell head over hill for him. After he transferred to their school Calvin was all she could talk about for three months straight. They were juniors in high school then. For reasons she never shared with her mother, the relationship appeared dead on arrival after their first and only date, just weeks before their senior prom. Since that outing, Irene never seriously dated again. She spent her time working, studying, attending church, and visiting family and friends. Somewhere in there she managed to arrange a three or four day solo vacation once a year. That was the extent of Irene’s young and vibrant life.

  The way Judy saw it, she was not getting any younger and neither was Irene. She was hopeful that her daughter would settle down, get married, and have lots of children. Yes, she wanted to be a grandmother and while she could get around and about. One and two year old children crawled and that meant being able to get down on one’s knees and then get back up. With her advancing arthritis she wasn’t willing to wait on Irene another two to four years to find a husband and borne children.

  She saw her hopes evaporate when Irene came down with a rare illness that left her bedridden for nearly three months. The doctor said she had actually come close to dying. During that time she lost fifteen pounds before improving and fully regaining her health. Fortunately, she was eighteen pounds overweight before she fell ill. Now, at ‘5, 7” tall, and down to 126 pounds, she was as lovely and as curvy and as trim and fit-looking as she was when she graduated from community college. This made Judy hopeful that her daughter would attract the attention of a potential suitor and soon. But it did not.

  Having done the best that she could to raise two well-educated daughters without a dominant male figure in the home, Judy began to consider that perhaps her daughter was lacking in one area of education, one that only her more sophisticated sister Audrey could teach her daughter about; life, men, and love. Within weeks of that thought, she had made arrangements for Irene to fly over to England to be tutored by auntie over the summer. Irene seemed to like the suggestion to travel abroad. She just wasn’t let in on the educational part of the trip. Her mother and aunt, who were hoping the trip would amount to tours, stores, and boys, felt it was better this way.

  Irene passed a restless night, wondering if her scooter would remain hidden and undiscovered. It was a gift from her aunt and she did not want to lose it after only one week of ownership. She had learned to ride during her community college days years earlier. Her cousin Brian had taught her how to handle a bike after a wild twenty minute spin on his Harley Davis. She was hooked on bikes from that moment on. Her biggest adjustment here in England was learning to ride on the opposite side of the road. She found it more a mental challenge than anything else but after three days of practice she made the transition.

  Shortly after breakfast old man Dempsey arrived in his beat up truck which sported numerous rust spots. He was wearing a pair of worn coveralls and his usual dour expression.

  Her aunt slipped him a couple of pounds for gas, which amounted to six dollars in American currency, and Irene climbed in. Fortunately, the interior of the cabin had been recently refurbished. Irene was thankful for that. Her aunt waved them off.

  The ride into town to purchase gas was brief. The ride out to where she had left the scooter was a tab longer. Once they arrived at the property, which was located near the top of a hill, Irene got out and grabbed the metal gas can from the bed of the truck and headed towards the walkway. She was anxious to find out if her scooter was still there. Old man Dempsey followed.

  Rounding the hedge, she paused.

  “Hey, it’s still here!” she exclaimed, with a note of relief in her voice.

  “What’s that over there?” he asked, as they both walked around the side of the scooter.

  “It’s a gas can,” Irene said incredulously as she lifted it. “And it seems to be full of gas.”

  “I imagine the owner figured out why the scooter was left behind and decided to help you out.”

  “I guess that’s a possibility,” Irene murmured.

  “Well, which gas can are you going to use?” he asked briskly. “Come on, hurry up and choose one honey ‘cause this place is giving me the creeps.”

  “I imagine the one we brought along,” Irene replied, setting the gas can she held down.

  She watched as the old man poured gas into the tank but also looked about the property periodically to see if they were being observed by the owner. She saw no one. The old man looked too, as he poured gas, but with wide nervous eyes.

  After he rolled the replenished scooter off of the property, Irene sat down on it to start it up. After two attempts it purred like a panther. Old man Dempsey climbed back inside of the truck, made a U-turn, and headed back towards town, his pickup’s tailpipe coughing up smoke before settling down. Irene steered her scooter in the opposite direction, picking up where she had left off the day before. She had som
e sightseeing, window shopping, and shopping to do, as well. The picturesque town – Wayne Brier.

  It was a sunny and pleasant day. Throughout the small town, the indoor aromas of freshly baked pastries, candy, multi-cultural eateries, leather shoes and purses, and scented candle shops, invaded her nostrils. She even made a merchant friend or two along the way.

  Hours later she placed her purchases inside the carryon compartment of the scooter and headed back towards Ashbury Point, twenty-two miles away. When she passed the Seabreeze property she slowed down, then came to a complete stop. She gazed back in contemplation.

  Gunning the scooter, she made a U-turn and headed back towards the property and dismounted. She rolled the scooter back onto the estate and noticed right away that the gas can was still there. Picking up the full container she headed further on passing moss covered rocks, blankets of wild ivy, and a running brook on her right, until she rounded the graveled path and a splendid two story cottage came into view. Three dormers protruded from the second floor of the house.

  Stepping onto a rectangular concrete patio, lined with sculpted stone benches and large concrete pots of flowers and plants positioned between each bench, she approached the door.

  Taking the brass knocker in hand, she knocked at the door. But there was no response. She knocked again. Still no response. This time she decided to announce her presence, each time increasing her decibel. Again, no response.

  Setting the can down, she walked slowly around the side of the L-shaped cottage. To her left was a white colored French door. Inching towards it, she attempted to peer into the interior of the cottage but a dark curtain blocked her view.

  An unexpected loud flapping noise startled her, causing her to jump. Her heart jumped as well. The culprit behind the sound was an owl which had been perched on the rafters before taking flight. The stillness and quietness that permeated the place was eerie. If a scary looking owl felt it necessary to take flight perhaps she should too, she reasoned.