VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR: The Chase & Daniels Series by L.S. Johnson (Giveaway)

Harkworth Hall

Excerpt:

I first heard of Edward Masterson
the day of the birds, though I forgot about them through much of what happened
after. Indeed, in the moment, their strange flight was only a disturbing
inconvenience, as it turned my father back from his walk to the village on
laundry day.

My father was a gentleman of small,
regular habits. He walked to the village twice each week, to gain news of the
wider world and have two pints of ale before walking back. In winter, he had
Mr. Simmons, who served as our steward as well as sometime butler and valet,
drive him. But in the fine weather of late spring he would set off walking, in
his plain suit but with his sword polished and ready should he meet any
ruffians.

The rest of our little
household—myself and Mr. and Mrs. Simmons; my poor mother had passed when I was
young—would plan much around this simple outing, for the house was too much
work for the Simmonses alone. My father made no objection to my helping with
light chores such as dusting, but he had recently been infected with the
disease of matchmaking, and he feared for my prospects should I develop a
working woman’s hands and complexion. His solution for our overworked staff was
to simply hire more help as needed, but I often snuck into his study to review
our account books and there was no surplus for such luxuries. Thus, I learned
to separate want from necessity, and while other women my age were dancing at
assemblies or practicing their needlework, I was scrubbing floors and learning
to make pastry. I learned, and I learned as well to not reflect upon my
circumstances, lest I fall into melancholy—and many days there was simply no
time for such indulgence. As soon as my father left, I put aside my role as
Caroline Daniels, landowner’s daughter, and became Caroline Daniels, maid,
stableboy, or whatever we needed me to be. Laundry especially was a daylong
affair, and more than once we had sent Mr. Simmons out to delay my father so we
could get the last damp pieces inside before he returned.

My father left, drawing the door
closed behind him. I waited in the hall, seeing in my mind’s eye his stout
figure striding down the drive. Now he would pat his pockets, ensuring he had a
shilling but little more, for he had once been robbed on his return and had a
fine watch and several shillings taken off him. Now he would think about that
watch, and touch his sword in reassurance. All was well and nothing was
forgotten; he could enjoy his journey in peace, and we could set about our
work. I counted to fifty, then with a deep breath seized the first laundry
basket and began dragging it back to the yard—

—when I heard the terrible sound of
the door swinging open again, and my father bellowing for Mr. Simmons. At once
I dropped the basket, smiling brightly. My smile faded, however, when I saw the
spatters on his hat and coat, including a red smear on his face.

“Are you all right? Did you fall?” I
rushed towards him, thinking to stop any bleeding with my apron.

“Quite all right,” he said. “Only
the birds are going mad.”

For a moment I stared at him,
believing I misheard him, but then I saw movement in the sky past his shoulder.
Birds of all sizes and shapes, flying at odd angles to each other but all
heading inland. As I watched two collided, then set at each other with horrific
shrieks and bared claws. Feathers drifted down as they fought.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.
It’s quite late in the year to be mating, and there are gulls up there.
They usually stay close to the shore—” My father suddenly broke off, frowning
at the laundry basket. “What are you doing with that laundry?”

“I was looking for a petticoat,” I
said quickly. “I cannot find it anywhere.”

He gave me a suspicious look, but I
was saved from further inquiry by Mr. Simmons appearing. As he fetched my
father a fresh coat, I slipped past him and went out onto the drive. Dozens of
birds filled the sky, and save for when their paths provoked a conflict, they
were doing so in near silence, as if they needed all their strength to fly. But
what were they flying towards—or were they fleeing something? I scanned the
horizon: there was not so much as a cloud, not a hint of an incoming storm.

Above me two more birds crossed
paths, and the larger one viciously raked the smaller. It tumbled to the
ground, then carefully righted itself and began limping forward, still heading
unerringly inland.

“Caroline, dear, don’t distress
yourself with such sights.” My father took my arm and led me back to the house.

“But what could be causing it?” I
asked, still craning my head. “Something has frightened them, something worse than
a storm.”

“They were probably startled by an
animal—perhaps we have a wolf again. I’ll ask in the village,” he said. “Oh,
and I forgot to tell you! I will be stopping at the Fitzroys’ on my way home. I
was thinking if Diana spends the season in town again, perhaps you could join
her? A stay of some weeks will help you become more comfortable in society, and
develop your acquaintanceships further.”

And there were so many replies I
wished to make, all at once. The Fitzroys were our closest neighbors, and Diana
my oldest friend. Having both lost our mothers early, and without siblings, we
had been for a time closer than sisters. The memories of our girlhood,
pretending to be the pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read, or the tragic princess
Caroline, still filled me with longing. But the Fitzroys’ finances had flourished
where ours had declined, and I took no pleasure in the prospect of marriage. A
season with Diana promised only embarrassing shortfalls and uncomfortable
encounters.

I wanted to say all these things,
and that I had seen far worse than a wounded bird in my life, for had I not
seen my own mother die in childbirth? But such was not the speech of a dutiful
daughter, and I quailed at the thought of disrupting our affectionate
relationship. I was still struggling for words when he kissed me on my forehead
and shooed me back inside, as if I was still a little girl.

Leviathan

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