Gold Raven (58 page)

A prompt nod followed, "Yes, George Sinclair m
y
brother; my twin brother. I have only recently learned of his passing
which took place ten years ago. You see I paid his home a visit only
to learn of his demise, from his widow. She went on to give me a vague account of how this came about,
in the latter part of the year, 1818. His death was the result
of an unfortunate accident, so she claims. I ask you sir, what other way would
one label an accident ending in death? Of course, it is unfortunate! I personally
feel that his un-timely departure, may have been due to, how can I say, unsavory circumstances,
other than an accident. Since I was not promptly informed,
regarding the time it might have taken place, my suspicion is aroused.
Granted, my husband and I do a great deal of traveling abroad, but
we have always left a copy of our itinerary behind for family
and friends. I tell you — she simply did not wish me to know!"

“
I see.”

"No, you do not! I wish to know
exactly
, how he died;
when he died; why he died; and who killed him, because there is no
doubt in my mind, that someone had a hand in it."

"Where — or rather, with whom do your suspicions lie?"

"With that trollop he rescued by marriage. She was beneath our class in wealth and social standing. Her father was a gambler and a drunk. As for her, she is nothing more than a worthless gold seeking
mongrel! I want the truth! Do you hear? The truth!"

"Well Mrs. Mason, I'll need some information from you, like your
sister-in-laws name, address, so forth. The attending physician who
cared for your brother's body and the exact stated cause of death
given to you, and so on."

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Mason was making her exit. "I will
begin seeing to this immediately Mrs. Mason, you will be getting reports on my progress concerning your brother's death, I promise
you."

As soon as the door was closed, so was his mind to that case. Financial matters being what they were, he would follow through on
it, because he had to eke out a living while searching for his
true treasure. He walked behind his desk and stared out the window
facing the street off Lexington Ave. It was a busy time of day. People
milling about, carriages heading this way and that on the hectic
avenue.

'Where are you princess? Princess of treasures I wish to hold,
where are you?'

* * *

Sigh

The sound was low, mixed with a tired listlessness as the well-sprung, elegant landau made its way along Lexington Ave. While its
passenger sat in somber disinterest at the passing scenery;
her mood, often melancholy, with so little in her life to smile or feel
joy over. Unconsciously, her delicate silk-gloved fingers smoothed
the folds of her fashionable satin, mauve gown, with its matching
gossamer, silk, puffed sleeves.

In keeping with the fashion of the day, the empire waist fitted high beneath
her breast, for the rest of the gown to fall in a gossamer overlay,
accentuating the flowing mauve satin beneath. Dressing as a lady
would, the bodice went up to the neck with a tube collar and loop
cord trim. Her other hand held onto the vehicle strap that dangled next to
her head.
Her best friend, companion and employer had advised her that it would be best to insure no further problems from her son, Rory, by picking him up directly from school. Of late, his occupation was to
venture into more trouble than either of them had the energy to bail
him out of. Another sigh escaped her as she felt her habitual
headache coming on, thinking,
'Why Rory, must you be so difficult?'
He had everything a boy soon to be fifteen could ever want. He had
freedom to do almost all that he wished.
'God, what more does he
want from me?'
She closed her eyes, knowing the answer to that
question.

That
— what he at one time wanted, she could not give. Not if
she were to continue, walking, talking, breathing, seeing...living.
That
- was a weakness she could no longer afford.
That
— came at a high
price, one that she could no longer pay, while holding onto her
sanity. It was best this way. As things stood, were she to choose
perhaps giving in, and offering —
that
— now, he would not want it.
That was, her love, her care, her attention. Too much time had
passed. Now, all he wanted from her was what he had come to shout
more and more often of late, for her to, "Just stay out of my life and leave me
alone!" So she conceded. Consequently, his actions were making that
harder for both of them.

The truth was, before he had even been born, she had withdrawn
from him. It had not been easy, to close her heart to him but she had
to, or else not survive.

No greater chore had she ever known, as the one working with all her might,
not to love him, not, as she had loved
the ones from her past.

Naturally, she loved them with all of her being. No more, s
he could not afford to involve her heart in one such as he, to do so
brought on the kind of hurting that nothing could heal. She could not take
that
kind of pain and suffering anymore; to compromise would
very likely cost her, her sanity.

Emotional distance was best. If she could gain mastery of her
conscience all would be well.
'Has he not been enrolled into one of the finest,
private academies New York has to offer? Are his clothes not of the highest,
quality and standard? Does he not carry the well known name of, Sinclair?
Feeling bleak, she turned away from the window; anger taking root.
Thinking...she hated thinking. If she could only numb that which
triggered her thinking, she would not feel such torture when her mind
sent her on journeys of heartache and hell; filled with such silly dreams, stupid,
idiotic dreams.

Dreams never came true.

She tried to ignore the lump that swelled within her throat
when she thought about
who
he really was. All of that, her past, was
just that. That is why she hated so
passionately thinking back. And her son, Rory, was a constant
reminder of her past, if only she could push the memories away as
she had him.

Her heart missed a beat every time she thought of
them
, of
him
.
A tear fell that she quickly wiped away. She had spent too much time
hardening her heart, for thinking to come in and crumble all of her
hard-spent efforts.
I
will not cry! I'll not shed another tear! I swear that I
won't!'

Tears were such a useless waste. She wondered why God would
waste such an attribute on someone like her? On people like her?
When had shedding tears ever made a difference in the outcome of
her life? In the outcome of the lives of those like her? Therefore, use of them was for weak minded fools of hope. The
weak, crying for things that could not be
. With squared shoulders and cool
dignity, she carried on about her life. Reaching up, s
he stroked the two-inch wide streak of
white that grew amidst the tawny head of hair. It was always there
within her hairline above the arch of her right eyebrow. The only
place on her head where grey grew, the rest was the same as it had always
been.

A
bundantly wavy, heavy with curls, wild and tawny brown.
Though they held no emotion, other than a haunted look, her
eyes were still the light gold that sent any man's heart racing when looking
into them; her skin, still as smooth, clear and flawless as ever. Despite her
age, no wrinkles marred her creamy, caramel colored skin. Her lips were still full and lush; yet often observed pressed into stern lines. A smile as lost to them as the feel of long passed kisses.

Her fashionable attire draped a body that was slender. Although
her hips and rear remained wide and full, stress had taken quite a bit
of weight from her stature. However, not to the extent that it made
her any less desirable. Men, Negro and white, upon seeing her for the
first time, contemplated ways in which to try to win her favors, s
he had never shown an interest. They found their time wasted petitioning her
for mistress or wife, or simply for a taste of what she kept from them
all.

Disillusionment due to wrenching heartache, and tragic losses, made her contemptuous. Right now however, riding in the coach, looking back out of the window, those strings that she aggressively
tried to snip free of her heart, came back to give just a fleeting tug.
Every now and then,
he
— the strings connected to
him
gave her
heart, just enough of a jerk to make her wonder,
'Where are you?
How are you? Our children? Are they with you now? Are they happy? Do
they... still... remember me? Remember, that ... I am their mother?'

"We here Ms Lena, I'ah park and meet'im at the gate if you
want?" Rollo, Sandra's black driver called down to her, bringing her
from her daydream.

"No Rollo, that will not be necessary. He knows by now I will be
waiting, no need for you to go through any trouble." She assured him.

"Okay, but you know how he get sometime, when he see us here
waitin’ fo'im. Using that lie he ain't seen us, sneakin' off while we wait.
I tell you, that boy need a good firm hand to his backside. It ain't right
how he treat you sometime, Ms Lena, ain't right at all! That boy be needin’ a man in his life, like … well, you too." Rollo
complained in his deep rolling baritone voice, shaking his head, and then swallowing nervously after adding the last bit, fully aware of her disinterest in him or any other man for that matter. He never gave up hope or trying.

Lena sighed, blocking whatever words said by Rollo referring to her needing a man in her life, her focus was on her son, knowing that he may, once more, evade them.

She was so tired of
Sandra having to go and fetch him out of the constable's office for
hanging around at the docks and ships, getting into mischief. Sandra
was a nervous wreck most of the time as it was. Sympathizing with
her plight, Lena wondered if the outside world would ever leave her
alone to live her life in peace. It was enough for her having to deal
with her sister-in-law, who just so happened to make a surprise visit to learn about the death of her brother.

Thoughts of him made Lena shudder with revulsion.
Memories began flashing through her mind, horrible unpleasant
scenes that made her shaky and breathless. Trembling violently, as
George Sinclair's face came before her.

"Rollo!" She screamed his name, panicking and fumbling for the latch
of the door. "Let me out! Rollo let me out! I can't breath!"

Hearing her cry of desperation, Rollo was there snatching the
landau's door wide. His hand went within to take her small-gloved
hand, assisting her down. "What's wrong Ms Lena?" he asked
concerned, noting the sweat beading her brow.

"I just, need some air, Rollo. That is all, just, fresh air. I'm okay
now, I think I'll wait over by the gate, this way, we're
certain he sees us. Please hand me my scarf."

"Sure Ms Lena, here you go."

"Thank you."

She tied the matching silk scarf over hair that was pinned
back in a stylish bun at her nape, while the top was slightly puffed
with natural waves and curly tendrils hanging from her temples and
before her ears. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her skirt and stepped across the road to the brick boundary wall surrounding the school, onto
the plush green lawn, to wait for him by the wrought iron gate.

Within five minutes, the bell clanged announcing the end of another school day. The opening of the large double
doors
soon followed
, and male students began making their exit. Her pulses
throbbed from what she was sure would be his reaction.
As the crowd of students thickened, exiting the three story red
brick building, Lena began scanning each face and hair color to spot
her son. After the first fifty or so, four stepped out of the wide front
doors together, standing out from the others. They were among the
most popular of the elite students.