A Dark Horse Rising: What Is Love? Tis Not Hereafter Present Joy Hath Present Laughter What’s to Come Is Still Unsure

By Lin Harbertson

The year is 2016. Uncertainty walks upon the earth. Brexit in England. The American election. Margarete’s husband Andre Dupres wants an heir and demands a divorce.

Her greatest fear is upon her. She is alone. In a small town on the edge of the Yorkshire moor. Will she survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823006880

Lin Harbertson

Lin Harbertson lives in Virginia with her husband, to whom she is grateful for all his knowledge of forensic medicine. She is currently writing her fifth novel and enjoys painting, writing stories and growing endless varieties of peonies and clematis.

Book preview

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"L ADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR ATTENTION please! It’s time to get this show on the road."

The speaker, fair haired and grey eyed was calling a meeting to order in Roystone, a small town in the north of England. He had a reputation for getting things done which is why he, Rafael Ivanovich, was calling this particular meeting to order.

For the first time in five hundred years the town of Roystone was being run by someone who was not a Nightingale. For five hundred years the Nightingale family had dominated the town, secured its existence, donated its coat of arms, and its museum, but times had changed. Now an upstart newcomer by the name of Rafael Ivanovich was running the town, someone with a velvet hand and a ruthless grip of steel.

The meeting—being held at the town museum beneath the Roystone coat of arms that portrayed from the bottom to the top, blue water, fish, and sheep, on either side of these was a rampant unicorn crowned with a white rose and above all the words St. Egburt— was one of extreme urgency and importance. The economic welfare of the town was at stake.

There had been a time when the racecourse had been the town’s claim to fame. Recently, however, its popularity had been usurped by the ghost of John Trentham, a ghost that appeared nightly in the Museum. Some, particularly the Reverend Oglby, the ecclesiastical leader of the town’s ancient Norman church, said the prosperity of the town was not being acquired in good faith. He had called for an exorcism but had been overruled by a majority of the town’s inhabitants.

Twelve of the town’s leading businessmen were seated around a large circular table, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee. They were aware that Rafael Ivanovich was not Mayor, not even an official, but still they obeyed him. As Dr. Nightingale lay dying, he had given to Rafael all the information that lay secreted in his files. Use it well, he had told him. You are of gypsy breeding, but your son will be a true Nightingale.

What would we do without the Americans, Rafael thought selecting a chocolate doughnut. Racing season was over and so was his rigid diet. Quiet please, he said. First item on the agenda is the town’s ghost.

We’re desperate, your Worship, announced Willy Ramsbottom, aka Wily Willy, the towns leading loan broker. He had the loudest voice and had been voted Best Auctioneer at the local Antique Auctions for the past several years. There were nods of agreement all round. You must do something. Money’s tight and getting tighter.

The times we are living in are hard for everyone. What is the problem exactly? said Rafael Ivanovich. He was chairing the meeting for the Mayor, who had wisely departed on an extended holiday to warmer climes until the Brexit vote was over. After all, Rafael was the Lord of the Manor, and thus according to many of those present, Lord of the town whether or not the Mayor was present.

What are we going to do if the Brexit vote doesn’t pass? Willy was not to be put off and his broad Yorkshire accent was as distinctive as his red cheeks and his belly that threatened to burst from its confining belted pants.

Aye, lad, said yet another. What are we going to do? Unemployment is going through the roof now that the steelworks have closed.

It’s the damn Chinese dumping steel again, said another. And the Vietnamese. The European Union will destroy us all. Haven’t you heard? The Irish are importing coal from Poland of all places and look at their unemployment rate? It’s fine in the summer with the tourist trade, but they have no industry whatsoever. And in winter? Thank god for daft American tourists.

Have you seen the new rules from the E.U. on how many sheep I can keep in a field? said yet another. They’ve never even seen my fields or my sheep.

Or any sheep, commented another. Perhaps they keep them in their closets.

Now then, keep it clean, Rafael interrupted.

How about all the flooding? interrupted Allan Ford. It happens every year now and it’s the rules and regulations from the E.U. that’s the cause. The rivers silting up and more and more rules each year. Allan was most indignant. His land bordered the river, really a stream, that crossed the main road in Burnham.

We thought ’t'gypsies were a problem.

Gypsies? We have another problem right now, much worse.

They all laughed harshly but as hate speech was against the law, their thoughts on the Muslim invasion went unspoken. They had to be unspoken. A law banning hate speech had been passed with draconian punishments.

And watch out. Knives have been banned, said another. That poor bastard in Scotland got four years for wearing a potato peeler with a sharp beak on the back around his neck.

And everyone’s seen the ghost the last ten year, said Willy. I know what we need. We need a new ghost.

They all looked hopefully at Rafael. After all was not his mother, Sirisa the psychic?

I miss Sirisa, said another.

We all do, and there was a nodding of heads all the way around.

Rafael smiled wryly. His mother, Sirisa, the gypsy psychic, was now retired. He wondered, how many of these men were his friends? How many were his enemies? Julius Caesar was murdered by the leading men of Rome. Which of these men would kill him and replace him given the chance? How many of these leading men of Roystone had been clients of his mother? He chewed thoughtfully on his doughnut. Fortunately, all of them.

Sirisa now ran the town’s principal hotel, The Spirit of Yorkshire located in the Manor House. And the Manor House was his for his lifetime. If, by chance, he should die? Then ownership would revert to Margarete DuPres, the granddaughter of Dr. Nightingale, now an American, and thereafter to her children.

How many of these men present were his allies? John Stokes was a solicitor and an ally. His two brothers were sitting next to him, one a builder, the other a money lender. Were they his allies? He hoped so. He had encouraged both of them to succeed financially since Dr. Nightingale’s death.

How like old doc Nightingale was he himself? He admitted he was a good imitator of Dr. Nightingale’s policies. Did that make him a bully? Did he care? He ran the town efficiently and was aware that behind his back and to his face people called him Ivan the Terrible.

He looked at his list. He was surprised that a representative of the European Union was not present, but then Brexit was going to put a stop to all that nonsense.

Three builders and developers were present to discuss how to increase the popularity of the town. He looked at them and his eyes hardened. He knew they wanted the Manor House and all its land. Initial scirmishes had already begun. It was always the same. They either wanted to tear down the manor house and build multiple residential. Or they were serious socialist communists who were convinced that it was morally wrong for anyone to own that much land. They wanted the power to condemn it and build low-cost government housing. The latest offer was from the Moslem community who wanted to build a Mosque and a Welcoming Center. He was also aware that for all of them, with him out of the way, their dreams had a much greater chance of coming true.

Harry Hastings, the vet, a definite ally, was late as usual. Mr and Mrs. Grimes who owned the Art Shop were already seated as was the owner of the Olde Book Shoppe. That made twelve all wanting to increase the prosperity of the town of Roystone. He didn’t blame them. He agreed with them. But how to do it?

He looked at his watch and his attention wandered. He wanted to be with his son Peter, riding horses instead of being here at the Museum. Peter’s mother, Margarete DuPres was in town with her husband, Andre Dupres. He had to come up with an idea of meeting her. He had hoped she would speak to him when she had brought Peter to the Manor House. She had come to the door with a copy of the contract which stated that once Peter had reached the age of ten, he would spend his summer holidays with his father. Margarete had seen him and bolted back to the car. He knew she spent her summers and most school holidays with Edith and John Hastings on their sheep farm. He also knew that she had an office in Burnham, where she wrote wills. There was one possibility. He could disguise his voice, make an appointment, and walk in but would she even speak with him?

He had everything he had ever wanted, social position; money; respect. They had even offered him the position of Mayor and he had turned it down. He, Rafael Ivanovich, the gypsy, had turned down the chance to be Mayor! He much preferred to run the town from behind the scenes. Why would he want to be Mayor? He had the Superintendent of Police in his pocket, and even old Doc Nightingale hadn’t been able to accomplish that. Nothing of any importance in the town got done without his say so. Now he had his son, Peter, for the whole summer staying with him. What a boy. What a job Margarete had done of raising him. He was so proud to be his father. All he needed to make his life perfect, was Peter’s mother.

Was it a woman he needed? He could have almost any one he fancied. But there was only one he wanted. She with the black hair and the blue eyes and such a body on her. She was the one he lusted after. Would she forgive him? After all he had stolen her inheritance. It was his for his lifetime only, and afterward it would be hers and her children’s. He had seen her almost two years ago in Washington DC. She had seen him and the look she had given him. That was why he was still waiting, waiting his chance to be with her. He loved her. He would wait for her. Was she interested in him? The intensity of the look that had passed between them. Oh yes, she was interested in him, even though he was living in her Manor house with all her money and now he had her son as well. Their son.

We need a new ghost. The muttering was growing louder. He remembered the last time he had been in the Museum. Considering what had happened, he was surprised there was a ghost at all. Amazingly, the ghost did still appear most nights as if on cue, but people were increasingly sophisticated these days. They were demanding more. What on earth did they want?

In his opinion, people should be very careful what they wished for.

The meeting was concluded with nothing decided. Everyone attending agreed to wait for the Brexit vote. Rafael rose to his feet and said genially.

"I agree it is the ghost that makes Roystone special. And yes, I agree it is the ghost that brings in psychiatrists and psychics to the Convention Center every year, but before the next meeting next month, I want each of you to think of some other way to encourage people to come to Roystone. And now, I declare this meeting adjourned and I recommend you all get out and vote.

It was as he was leaving that someone stuffed a bag of chocolates into his hand. Made them specially for you governor. He absently ate one or two on his way home. He was thinking of a way to meet Margarete. The best one he could think of was going out to Burnham. Maybe he’d do it that very afternoon. He’d make an appointment with her, using an assumed name.

He was feeling a little giddy, but he ignored it. He greeted Peter and saddled his horse. It wasn’t until he was in the air, flying over the jump that he realized something was wrong. He felt himself sliding to the ground……. unconsciousness.

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WOULD BE IT TODAY THAT he would make his announcement? It would be soon. Maggie regarded Andre sideways as he daintily ate his boiled egg. He chewed on the neatly cut pieces of buttered toast she had prepared for him and read his newspaper.

Let’s go to Whitby and watch the sun fall into the sea, he said, regarding her with eyes that seemed to see her and yet not see her.

She sighed. How she had once loved this man. He looked most distinguished that morning. Six feet four inches, oozing masculinity, dark hair neatly combed, clean shaven, white short sleeved shirt and shorts, socks and tennis shoes. Yes, there was a time when she had loved this man. Now she regarded him critically. The dark hair was streaked with grey and he looked much older. There were the beginnings of a definite softness about the belly and the jaw and his expression was petulant. Yes petulant. He wanted something she had been unable to give him.

Let’s have a day together, he said. It says here in the newspaper there are supposed to be all sorts of celebrations. Probably the Druid devotees singing and dancing pagan rituals. They’re doing the same thing at Stonehenge watching the sun move through some stones. Summer Solstice, it says. And at some place called Cadbury? Never heard of it. I thought Cadbury was chocolate.

Did he mean a last day together she wondered?

Don’t be silly, daddy. The sun doesn’t move it’s really the earth turning, Tasha said.

He ignored his all-knowing child and considered out loud another local tradition she knew he loathed. We could eat fish and chips in newspaper and pour vinegar over them.

Nobody does that, Tasha informed him. "It’s all served in fresh white paper, in case of germs.

I can’t anyway, Maggie said. Whitby was at least an hour away. Whitby, a seaside town in North Yorkshire, with a long narrow road that tumbled down a steep hill to the sea, would that particular afternoon, be overwhelmed with cars. Whitby. At one time it had been a place where people collected jute on its beaches. It had been a bastion of Anglo-Saxon Christian religious fervor with its Abbey perched high on the edge of the cliffs. Now, along with the church, the religious fervor seemed to have been swept away. The sea had worn away the cliffs on which the Abbey had been built, until it was too dangerous to use.

I have to be at Grimes Art shop this morning. He wants to talk to me about the Show next week and then there’s the Antique Book Shoppe; that’s where it’s being held. There are details we have to work out. Later this afternoon would work though. We could view the celebration from our own beach.

She had always thought the beach at Roystone far superior to any other, with its golden sand and a tide that went out for miles. There’ll be plenty of space on our beach for the pagan celebrations.

They both heard the ringing of the telephone. I’ll take it in my study, he said. I’ll be working until we leave. He closed the door behind him. Was that the sound of the key turning in the lock?

They had been married for ten years and the knowledge that he was now locking her out of his life, struck home to her. That it should come to this? All because she couldn’t provide him with a son and an heir? She had been his precious and most beloved, darling Margarete. They had made love under the stars. They had tramped the Yorkshire moor together looking for stone circles. He had adored her and Peter, even if the child wasn’t his. A second child, a girl, had been born twelve months after Peter. Maggie had believed herself to be blessed with a loving husband and two wonderful children. She remembered the summers they had spent in the house on the edge of the moor. How much fun those summers had been. The visits from his Canadian family, his two sisters, Felicia and Kathy, and all their brood of children, had been like those weekends she had spent with the Hastings family. Edith and John Hastings were still her best friends.

Andre’s decision to go into politics had taken them all by surprise. It was what he had always wanted, he said. You must sell the house on the moor, he told her. We won’t have time for it now. I have to be a resident of Virginia and the children need to be in school. I know the house is in your name, but it was my money from the ranch in California that paid for it.

How she loved that house but obediently as her husband had commanded her, she sold it and purchased a home in Virginia. Put it in your name only, Andre had told her. If I am going to be an elected official, I cannot look as if I have a lot of money or property in my name. I have transferred ownership of the property in Arizona to you.

He campaigned hard and won an election and a seat in Congress. She thought their lives would go on as before. She had found a wonderful private school for Peter and Natasha. She thought they would all live in the home she had bought for them. However, their accountant told her that her husband had acquired a home closer to Washington DC on the edge of a golf course. It hurt her deeply that he had never mentioned it, that she had never seen it, never even been invited for a visit.

She knew in her heart why. She could not produce a male heir for his Estate. His family had owned property for several hundred years. It had been handed down generation after generation. It meant everything to him. After the birth of Natasha, she had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage.

All their wonderful holidays had ceased now that Andre had been elected. How Peter and Natasha had enjoyed those trips to France and Italy. The people he had introduced them to and the breadth of his mind had been a constant stimulus for them all.

Andre scrambled through the next election with a reduced majority, and Maggie found she heartily disliked the people he introduced her to. There was nothing physically or mentally attractive about any of them. All he did was repeat their opinions to her. She sighed. Her conversations with her husband were becoming a rarity. Why? Desperately she searched for other reasons than her inability to produce a male heir for him.

Was it because of the fundraising she had balked at? It was endless, and so were the dinners, and the speeches. He made the same one, over and over. She heartily disliked the people he was associating with. She felt they were, what was the word, duplicitous? They said one thing but their minds and their eyes, said other things. Their faces kept dissolving into the faces of rapacious wolves, no matter how much they smiled and smiled.

And Andre? All she knew was, that he was no longer the man she had married.

Find a church you like, he told her. We must let my constituents know I am one of them. And it’s about time you made your mind up where you intend to live, England or America.

Maggie knew she ought to be able to make up her mind. After all, she was an American citizen now and there were things she loved about America that she wished England would take heed of. Like America’s written Constitution, a Constitution that guaranteed her freedom of speech, the right to say what she wished. And here in Virginia, she had the right to own as many guns as she wanted. She belonged to a local gun club, she slept with a gun under her pillow, and she had a small gun safe next to her bed. She wished she had bought a larger one.

I told you so, Mike said. He owned the local gun shop that was filled with fascinating guns and equally fascinating gun safes. Got your carry permit yet?

Of course. This is Virginia. This is America. It is my right. Maggie was keen on her rights. It was so different here from England where she had absolutely none. Would she always be torn between these two countries?

She had tried to find a church she liked, after all Virginia was a State with a church on every street corner. She sighed again. She had been baptized Church of England and confirmed in the Church of England. It was too late for her to change.

She decided she would take the children to her church in Roystone. She liked the small Norman church that was seven or eight hundred years old. Everything about it was familiar to her. The stained-glass windows, the simple altar, the wooden pews, the sense of peace that was centuries old. The hymns were familiar too. Hymns like We plough the fields and scatter, the good seed on the land. It was a cheerful sort of hymn and she often sang it when she walked on the moor.

If she had to choose, she would live and die on her beloved Yorkshire moor. The moor with its villages, its open land that belonged to the people, its stone walls, its sheep and its sky, the ever- changing patterns of light and shadow on the grass and its ancient stone circles. She never got tired of painting the moor in all its moods. Sometimes she turned her paintings into feltings made with the wool from Edith Hastings sheep. She and Edith Hastings were getting ready for their first big show. They were going to sell some of their feltings, made with wool that had been woven and dyed with the machinery she had imported from Canada.

Thankfully you became a citizen of America, Andre told her over breakfast that morning as he chewed on his toast. "After all, I couldn’t have a wife who was legally still British, could I? And for god’s sake spend more time in Virginia with me. I have another election in November, and I must campaign and raise money for it. I am your husband and America is your home now, isn’t it? Leave Britain to the British. Where do you stand on Brexit by the way? I have been campaigning against it."

What business was it of his whether Brexit passed or not? she asked herself indignantly. Was that why he was here? To campaign against Brexit and the separation of England from the European Union?

Her heart ached. The real reason for his anger with her dominated her thoughts. He wanted a son to carry on the family name. When would he ask her for a divorce? Will it be today she asked herself? Soon. It would be soon.

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AFTER LUNCH, HE SAID TO Tasha, Come on, you know it all weasel, he said. You are off to the babysitter. I need to talk to your mother.

But Edith was busy finishing a weaving for the Show, so they had to take her with them. Natasha swam in the children’s pool at the beach and Maggie’s heart ached. Last day with Andre? They didn’t wait with countless others for the red ball of the sun to fall into the sea. Andre was annoyed, not over the pagans on the beach, some dressed in white sheets as they danced around enormous fires, but with the Brexit signs that were everywhere.

Disgraceful, he kept muttering as they stopped for fish and chips on the way home. Two small pieces of fish with chips wrapped in paper, with a warm glass of something called the British called lager. He sighed longingly and she knew he was thinking of steak and sweet potato fries and a cold beer and home.

Maggie wasn’t sure which Andre thought more inappropriate, the desire of the British for their freedom from the European Union or the uninhibited dancing and music of the Druids on the beach. But she was sure it was the sight of all the Brexit signs that made him grind his teeth.

I have some news for you, he said.

She tried to put her hand over his on the gearshift, but he shook it off.

His voice hardened. Margarete, I want a son to carry on my family name. The phone call, this morning, I’ve moved on.

Moved on? she questioned him.

His voice hardened again. "Yes, I want a divorce. I’m a member