Dark Persuasion

Chapter 1

The Ruffian

Patrick Rochester was an expert in wallowing in self-pity and remorse. He arrived from London at his uncle’s country manor early in the morning. An hour later, he set out to confront his past by returning to the scene of his transgression. The lashing of his soul had been set in motion, and Patrick fully expected old wounds to bleed.

It had been a long time since he visited the vast land holdings of the Rochester estate in Buckinghamshire. He was surprised at how much the landscape had changed. Ten years of growth altered the look of the region.

The familiar path through the woods remained, but for a brief moment he lost his bearings. Young saplings that he had once been familiar with had grown into mature trees. Plentiful shrubbery and dense ground cover all but wiped out the recognizable landmarks of his childhood.

Then, like a haunting siren of the woods, the wind blew through a large oak tree ahead. The branches swayed back and forth, as if to protest his return. When he halted below the gnarly limbs, an acorn fell and struck him on his shoulder.

How fitting, he ruefully mused with a scowl. Before dismounting his horse, Patrick tilted his head backward to gaze into the branches above. The limb was still there, only it loomed higher above the ground than he remembered. Its circumference appeared significantly wider. The tree had aged.

When the heels of his boots hit the ground, the sound sent a shiver through his spine. Would he ever forget the thud of her body hitting the hard earth? He doubted it.

After patting his horse on its hindquarters, he let the steed wander over to a grassy area to graze. The woods, except for the gentle breeze rustling the leaves, remained quiet.

Patrick walked over to the tree, which slanted toward the west. He placed the palm of his hand on the rigid, rough bark. Its patterned crust resembled ridges of streaking tears. Patrick drew in a labored breath and kicked the loose dirt at the base of the trunk. An acorn crunched under the heel of his boot. He bent down and picked up a handful, like he had done ten years earlier, and fingered the hard projectiles.

Scenes from the past rushed through his mind like a torrential flood. He heard his younger brother’s enthusiastic voice.

Come on, load your pockets.

Patrick felt dizzy and leaned his forearm against the bark. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. The branches of the tree seemed to reach out and pull him backward in time. Once more, he became a rebellious, twelve-year-old, angry boy. Vivid recollections swirled in his mind of one imprudent day of recklessness.

IT HAD BEEN A HOT SUMMER. His father, tired of watching his two sons, decided a holiday at his brother’s estate would do them well. The wealthy Lord Rochester, their uncle, agreed to a long overdue visit from his younger sibling.

It had been three years since their mother died, after bringing a stillborn girl into the world. For two boys, one twelve and the other ten, their uncle’s land was a delightful playground to forget their troubles.

The estate spread across numerous acres of rolling green hills and forested groves. Unfortunately, they spent the majority of their holiday under the vigilant eye of their strict father, unable to run freely and unsupervised. Yet, boys would be boys. When they willed to be disobedient, they collaborated together to find a way to escape.

On the morning of their departure home, they successfully sneaked out of the house for one more adventure. Their destination was the forest and a rather large oak tree they fancied to climb. Free of their father’s watchful eye, their imaginations ran wild. It was time to play! The tales of Robin Hood came alive in their fantasy-filled thoughts. The game was afoot. Their territory had been claimed.

They were no longer on the Rochester estate. Instead, they were in Sherwood Forest, being chased by the Sheriff of Nottingham. Rupert and Patrick became a band of merry boys defending their hideaway. The acorns, strewn about the base of the tree, became their crude weapons of defense. One must improvise when bows and arrows are in short supply.

With their pockets stuffed to the brim, they kicked off their stiff leather shoes, removed their sweaty socks, and enjoyed a carefree moment of roughhousing between two brothers. When they were good and dirty, they climbed barefoot up into the tree.

Patrick, being the leader of the gang, picked a suitable perch for their eagle eyes to survey the wooded domain below. The brothers settled upon a sturdy branch twenty feet above the ground. Their toes wiggled in delight while their legs swung back and forth in liberty. There would be hell to pay should their father find out their whereabouts. For now, they had escaped their prison of propriety. Life felt peachy.

The boys settled into their game and enjoyed their newfound emancipation. The two often competed with one another to be the victor in trivial challenges. Today, though, they banded together as they defended their fort with no clear competition at hand, as of yet. Their fantasy world encapsulated them both until suddenly Rupert elbowed his brother over a new development.

Look, we are under attack, he declared, pointing his index finger to the west. Over there, yonder, a girl approaches!  

Patrick’s eyes darted in the direction his brother indicated. He saw a lass a few years younger than Rupert, wandering down the pathway toward their fortress. Her long, raven-colored hair inspired Patrick’s already fueled imagination. He narrowed his dark eyes into a sinister glare and concluded that she must be the evil witch of Sherwood Forest.

He leaned over to his brother’s ear, cupped his hand around it, and whispered. We need to defend ourselves from that wicked witch. Let’s see who can pelt her best with our ammunition.

Rupert smiled and winked approvingly at his elder brother’s challenge. They both stuffed their hands into their pockets and retrieved the first round of projectiles.

The young girl had stopped beneath the oak tree. She stood curiously eyeing the discarded shoes and socks laying by the trunk. As she pondered the loot, Patrick took one acorn and aimed it carefully at the top of her head. With a mischievous grin, he proficiently popped her on the crown. Rupert followed with a hard hit, striking the back of her head.

Ouch! she bellowed.

Bloody good shot, Patrick whispered to his cohort.

The little girl grabbed her head. A look of aggravation spread across her face while she rubbed the tender spot with her fingertips.

Patrick stared at her with disdain. It would take more than one flying arrow to defend the hideout, he thought. It was time to pelt her again. Another careful aim and he plunked her hard on the back. Rupert answered his challenge and hit her on the shoulder.

The girl flinched and then tilted her head upward to peer up into the tree. The sun filtered through the branches, dancing around the edges of the leaves swaying in the breeze. Patrick saw her nose scrunch into an ugly wrinkle while she squinted, looking for the source of the pelting acorns. Finally, she discovered the two hooligans and scowled. The boys laughed at her expression.

Stop throwing acorns at me, you bullies!

Make us, replied Rupert, with a smug glare in his eyes.

Yeah, frigging stupid witch, make us, Patrick cursed. He roared over his insult, and then threw a handful of acorns directly in her face. Rupert followed his brother’s lead.

The girl screamed and looked away, shielding her head with her arms. Finally, after all the acorns were expended, the deluge ended. They had run out of ammunition.

You’ll pay for this, she screamed. She shoved both hands onto her hips and gave them a defiant glare.

Ooh, I am scared, Patrick mocked her, holding his arms and shaking with feigned fear. Rupert laughed at his brother’s antics.

If you don’t like it, go home and cry to your mommy, Patrick hissed.

I am not going anywhere. I’ll show you!

Patrick’s mouth gaped open when she pulled up the hem of her skirt and tucked it into the waistband of her bloomers.

You think I am a stupid witch? Well, just you wait. I am coming up there and putting a curse on both of you, she warned them, with anger burning in her eyes.

The brothers looked at each other in astonishment. The young girl placed her toe on the first knot in the tree trunk and hoisted herself up with ease.

I guess we are in for it now, Patrick. She is coming to get us.

Bloody girl, Patrick cursed. He projected a wad of spittle past her shoulder.

Don’t swear at me, you...you...rake! she yelled back. And stop spitting at me!

Is that the best you can do, call me a rake?

Surprised that she was about to reach their roost, Patrick steamed over her audacity.

You best not come on this limb, stupid witch, or you’ll be sorry, he sternly warned her. She ignored him and continued her unbridled ascent.

Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?

Without an ounce of fear and filled with gumption, she hoisted herself up onto the branch. With a smug look of victory, she sat down next to Patrick and glared at him triumphantly. He recoiled at her nearness.

There. See, I can be as good as you. Climbing a tree is nothing. I have done it plenty of times, she boasted, out of breath.

Patrick looked her over from the tips of her toes to the top of her black hair. She was an uninvited witch invading his domain and spoiling his fun. He did not like it one bit. Something would have to be done.

He looked at the hem of her dress still stuffed in her bloomers. She was not just a witch; she was a tail! He only possessed one thought at that moment, to rid himself of a loose female. Surely, she would cast a spell on them. They would be caught and hung by the Sheriff.

I am Charlotte Gray. What is your name? she pried, with a sickly, sweet voice.

Did she think they would bother to have a civil conversation with her?

None of your business, you tail.

Rupert gasped aloud over his brother’s comment.

Blimey, she probably doesn’t even know what a tail is.

"A tail and a dolly-mop. A stupid one, too," Patrick roared, pointing his index finger in her face.

Charlotte looked confused over their slang.

I do not have a tail, she indignantly protested.

The boys looked at each other and roared. So stupid, Patrick thought. She doesn’t know I called her a gutter woman. All young boys knew about the prostitutes in London who walked the streets. The men called them tails or dolly-mops.

Gee, it’s really pretty up here, she said, ignoring their teasing and swinging her legs back and forth. I wish I could fly like a butterfly!

Butterfly! You don’t look like a butterfly. He snickered. You look like a witch, and I bet you have a broom that flies you around, too!

Patrick jabbed his brother in the side. They giggled unabated, enjoying their verbal digs toward the female invader.

Charlotte glared at them. Well, if I am a witch, you two are devils, and you are going to hell for being so mean to me. I’ll put a curse on you!

Go ride your broom, Rupert spit back at her. Take off.

Patrick was proud of Rupert’s gibe. Good for him, he thought, backing up his brother’s taunt.

Yeah, ride your broom, witch!

Without forethought, Patrick placed his hand upon Charlotte’s back. Angry and fed up with the girl invading his territory, he gave her a hard shove.

Take off, witch!  

Charlotte tumbled forward with a bloodcurdling scream. Her body hurled toward the earth head first. No magic broom appeared to fly her away from Sherwood Forest, nor did butterfly wings sprout from her back. There was only the certain pull of gravity from twenty feet high and the hard ground to stop her fall.

Her body hit with such terrible force that the birds in the tree frightfully flew out of their perches. All Patrick heard was a sickening thud.

Damn, Patrick. You done killed her! screamed Rupert in horror. His eyes were wide like saucers.

For a brief moment, he thought it true. Her body lay motionless at the base of the tree. His stomach turned into a hard knot. There would be hell to pay for sure. He didn’t know why he had done it, he just did. She made him angry, and like everything else in his life that hurt, he wanted it to end.

We better climb down and see if I did.

He rose from his perch and then started to descend. Patrick maintained a stern look on his face for Rupert’s sake.

Father’s going to kill you for sure, Rupert declared, with a trembling voice.

Father will kill me, he thought shuddering. Already he had been in a pack of trouble for his disobedient behavior and foul mouth. Surely, he would carry out his threat and send him to a military academy over this offense. His life would be over.

They both reached the ground and stood staring at Charlotte in disbelief.

She cracked her head open, Patrick. My gosh, look at the blood.

Frigging girl. She will be the death of me, Rupert, he moaned. He turned and grabbed his brother by the shoulders and gave him a shake. You cannot tell anyone, you hear me? No one is to know what happened!

Shouldn’t we tell Uncle?

No! Tell him nothing, Rupert. You hear me, nothing!

Patrick grabbed his socks and shoes in a panic. Get your stuff. We are going back to the house. We have to get ready, anyway, to head back to London with Father.

We cannot leave her like this.

Tears filled Rupert’s eyes. Blood continued to ooze from the back of her head. He knew his brother could be mean, but this was the cruelest thing he had ever done.

Stop crying like a baby, Patrick barked. You want to get in trouble, too? The only way I can protect you from Father is to lie about it. Now get your shoes on and let’s go.

Rupert sat on the ground near Charlotte. He pulled on his socks and laced his shoes, all the while staring at her with fearful eyes.

Never saw anyone dead before, he mused with horror. Afraid Patrick would still think him a baby; he sucked in a deep breath and suppressed his tears.

A pain-filled moan escaped the lips of the nearly lifeless body next to him. I think I see her breathing! he exclaimed.

Damn! Rupert jumped to his feet. "She is alive!"

Patrick’s eyes narrowed when she groaned again. He convinced himself that she would survive, but he needed to get away from there and quickly.

Come on, he said, tugging Rupert by his shirt sleeve. She’s fine. Let’s get out of here.

LET’S GET OUT OF HERE. Let’s get out of here.

The words echoed in Patrick’s head. He sucked in a deep breath to calm his trembling frame. Reality returned, and the next thing he remembered was running like the wind down the pathway to his uncle’s country house. He had left behind an injured and bleeding girl in the dirt.

The only emotion he felt was fear of punishment from his demanding father. At the age of twelve, Patrick had been a cold and calculating sod. He didn’t care what happened to anyone because no one cared what happened to them. As long as they survived, it was all that mattered.

I thought you said you wanted to get out of here, so why are you back?

Patrick swung around to see Rupert approaching on horseback. His younger brother, now a young man in university, sat proud and arrogant upon the back of his black English thoroughbred.

What the hell are you doing here? he pressed for an answer. We just get back to Uncle’s, and the first thing you do is ride into ye ole’ Sherwood Forest. Rupert shook his head. Damn, Brother, you’re losing it. He moved his horse closer to Patrick and glared at him in the eye.

Looks like the frigging stupid witch’s curse is still haunting you.

Leave me alone, Rupert.

Patrick strode angrily away from the tree, moving toward his horse. After grabbing the reins in his hands, he put his foot in the stirrup and briskly mounted. He turned his distraught countenance away from his brother’s view.

Look at you! You’re pathetic. It's been ten goddamn years, Patrick. We did what was needed to dodge another beating from Father.

You did what I told you to do, Patrick shot back.

Yes, and no one is the wiser. She didn’t die. Rupert smirked.

Perhaps it would have been better.

Now who is the cry baby?

And now who is the bully? Patrick spat, turning his horse around. He kicked it in the ribs with his heels and left Rupert in the wake of his dust.

As his elder brother, he had taught his impressionable young sibling well. A cold stone heart keeps a man from getting hurt, he used to tell Rupert after he got a whipping.

Their father was an impatient man, who expected too much from his sons. Disobedience was not tolerated in any shape or form. Beyond the beatings were family secrets that Patrick buried in his subconscious.

After repeated offenses, his father sent him away to a military school. The young ruffian learned the meaning of real discipline at the hands of gruff sergeants and rigorous training.

Poor Rupert had been left behind to endure the ever-changing, depressive moods of their father and his abuse. Patrick never returned home. The outcome had been Rupert’s undoing, and Patrick deemed him damaged for life because of it.

By the time he graduated from school, Patrick knew that service in the Queen’s regiment would be far better than returning home. He enlisted to ensure that the sun never set on the British Empire and set out in pride to fight for his country.

The years passed, and both young men went their separate ways. The dichotomy of the brothers emerged. The soft heart inside Rupert turned to stone. In contrast, Patrick’s stone soul shattered, and his estranged conscience returned.

The sound of hoof beats from his brother’s horse came up from behind and then slowed to match his cadence. He turned and looked at Rupert, acknowledging his unwanted presence.

So, Brother, what is the plan? Rupert shot Patrick a wry glance.

I do not have a plan.

Maybe I should go talk to her for you. I could tell her how sorry you are. I will cry and wipe my eyes and make it all better, he mocked, sniffing and rubbing one eye with his fist.

Keep away from her, Rupert. This does not concern you.

Doesn’t concern me? It bloody well does. I saw her fly the witch’s broom to the ground too, you know.

Rupert brought his right hand to his chin and stroked it thoughtfully. In fact, I seem to remember her little derrière sticking up from underneath her dress. She did land in a contorted sort of way that made her look like a tail. She would have been an easy ride in that position, had she been older.

You are a sick son-of-a-bitch, Patrick railed. He abruptly pulled the reins of his horse, coming to a halt. Rupert followed suit, and the two faced off.

Say nothing to her or anyone else, Patrick demanded, his nostrils flaring. I will handle this as I see fit. He drew in an angry breath, shaking his head. So help me, Rupert, if you interfere...

If I interfere, you’ll do what? he said, throwing his head back. You are a bloody disappointment, Patrick. You have turned into a goddamn weakling of a man.

Rupert dug his heels hard into the sides of his horse and sped ahead, leaving Patrick behind. As he watched him disappear down the path, his gut turned into a hard knot. They were once extraordinarily close. Now, they were constantly at odds with one another.

Patrick wanted to move past from their contentions and find reconciliation, but too many hurts divided their paths. If they ever did reunite, it would take a miracle.

Chapter 2

The Butterfly

Charlotte sat in the carriage, fiddling with her gloves. The driver took a sharp left-hand turn. The sound of the crunching pebbles underneath the wooden wheels told her it would not be long, and she would be home.

It had been a long year away at school in London. She missed her family, especially her father. Charlotte was eager to share with him all that she learned attending the Academy for the Blind. She graduated from her courses and was ready to take on the world.

Her progress, tenacity to learn, and fierce independence surprised her teachers. For the first time in many years, she felt as if she could survive whatever fate held in store for her. No longer did she fear to face the world as a blind woman. Nothing would stop her now.

When the carriage swayed around another bend, she knew that they must have passed the wooded glen on the Rochester estate. Even now, it bothered her to journey near the tall trees she once admired as a child. Though she was forbidden to trespass upon Lord and Lady Rochester’s land, she could not help to do so every now and then when her father was not looking. The woods were enchanting. They called to her to explore and understand their secrets.

Charlotte blamed her father for turning her into such an impetuous and feisty little girl. Of course, her own lack of inhibitions and curiosity often got her into trouble. When Charlotte was old enough to realize that her father had hoped that his third child would be a boy, rather than another girl, she set out to fulfill that role to make him happy.

Of course, her mother tried to mold Charlotte into a young lady by dressing her in frocks of lace and ribbons. When she did so, Charlotte complained. She hated the confining dresses. Boy’s trousers were forbidden for her to wear but much more comfortable. Nowadays, it didn’t matter, because women wore fashionable lady trousers for riding bicycles and horses. However, ten years ago, it was considered scandalous.

When she was alone and needed to get dirty, she lifted the hem of her skirt and tucked it into the waistband of her pantaloons. Surely, her mother would have fainted had she known of her brazen habit.

It did not take long for her independent and fearless spirit to become her dominant trait. By the time she was eight years of age, she had convinced her father to teach her how to fish for trout in the creek on their property. Since she was the only daughter out of three who remotely showed an interest in such an activity, he readily agreed to be her tutor. After all, it was a masculine pastime he would have naturally shared with a son.

Much to the chagrin of her mother and her two older sisters, Charlotte enjoyed wading in the cold waters of the brook. Because she was not quite adept at casting, her father would stand next to her and snap the fishing line backward and forward until it lay upon the swirling pool frequented by rainbow trout.

Hold the rod and line like this, Charlotte. Let the fly float along the water’s surface.

With eagerness to learn, Charlotte took the rod in hand and anxiously watched the sun-kissed creek as she waited for a fish to bite.

Remember, if you feel a tug, pull up.

Is that when he bites the fly, Father?

He will think it is his juicy dinner, Charlotte, but he’ll be the one frying in the pan in Miss Crawford’s kitchen tonight.

The words left his lips, and a few seconds later a tug-tug came at the other end of the line.

I feel one!

Be patient, he spoke in a near whisper as if the fish would hear his advice. Now, next time he tugs, you pull the rod back with a jerk.

A hungry trout fell for the bait, and Charlotte felt the fish bite the fly. She pulled the rod backward with such force, that the hooked trout flew into the air, wiggling like a snake. The sight so caught her by surprise that she screamed and dropped the pole in the water.

Her father, amused at her reaction, burst into laughter and grabbed the rod before the fish could carry it down the creek. Swiftly, he reeled in the line to retrieve the trout trying to escape the frying pan.

Charlotte, you are supposed to reel it in like this. He patiently explained. The fish struggled to resist the pull of the line. A moment later, it reached the shore. Proud as any father would be with his son, he picked up the fish and held it before Charlotte.

Congratulations! You have caught your first fish.

I did! she squealed with delight. An excited smile spread across her face as she watched her father unhook the catch.

Do you want to hold it?

Charlotte reached out and touched the trout with her index finger and recoiled from the icky slime.

Ooh, she said as she wrinkled her nose. Put it in the basket!

Her father snickered at her reaction, opened the lid to the wicker fishing basket, and dropped it in.

He is a keeper, Charlotte. You did remarkably well.

At that moment, Charlotte knew she could be as good as any boy in the district—except for touching