Read Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3) Online
Authors: Marie Ferrarella
Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3)
The Women's Contemporary Originals from Marie Ferrarella
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Copyright © 2015 Marie Ferrarella
Cover images from Shutterstock.com
Moonlight Surrender
by
Marie Ferrarella
Chapter One
Rain came down steadily, dolefully, playing wretched
havoc with the dirt road. The storm made the journey even more arduous and vile than it already was. Nature
had joined hands with the fates to attempt to prevent her
from reaching Paris.
At least, it seemed that way.
Elizabeth Beaulieu wound her fingers around the worn leather coach strap and sighed as she stared out the window. The English countryside was dreary and bleak. Trees on either side of the road hung their heads as if in meek submission to the heavy drops that fell with monotonous regularity upon them.
She had always loved rain before this trip; now she hated it. The rain was slowing them down, presenting yet another obstacle in a long, frustrating series of hurdles. A storm was responsible for her being on this miserable road in this miserable country in the first place. If not for that storm at sea, she would be in Paris now and her mind would be at ease.
She truly hoped her mind would be at ease then.
A light buzzing sound like that of a mosquito in flight
caught her ear. Sylvia was snoring. Beth glanced toward the only other occupant in the coach and smiled tolerantly at the heavyset matron.
Poor Sylvia. This was all so hard on her. Sylvia had stayed below deck during the typhoon, praying the entire time they were being tossed about like peas being shelled into a bowl. The older woman had nearly worn out the beads on her rosary, begging an indifferent God for a calm sea. When the storm finally passed, the merchant ship was afloat, but just barely. It was badly in
need of repair. The vessel was too unsafe for them to at
tempt to continue the journey. Blown off course, they were forced to dock on the northernmost side of England.
The captain had offered to take Beth and Sylvia on the remainder of their journey when the ship was seaworthy once more, but that would take time. And time was something Beth didn’t know if she could spare.
That was the frustration, not knowing. Was she too late? Would she be in time? Or was she concerning herself needlessly?
If only the letters had not stopped arriving.
The coach lurched like a drunken man as the wheels struggled over a rut. Sylvia ceased snoring for a moment, but kept on dozing. The gentle noise resumed. Beth folded her hands in her lap, mentally urging the horses on faster. There had been no ship ready to sail for France for days, so she had decided to take an overland route to Dover. Once there, she could easily cross the Channel and reach France.
More time spent .... more time wasted.
I’ll find you, Father
, she thought.
I don’t know how, yet, but I swear I’ll find you.
Sylvia’s snoring grew louder. As she slept, the woman restlessly tried to find a comfortable position on the hard seat. The humid air hung about them, thick and
moist. Sylvia had been unhappy about the journey right
from the beginning. She had spent most of the crossing moaning, her face at times a shade of green that rivaled the very water they were sailing on.
There was no end to the sympathy Beth felt for the chaperone her mother had insisted accompany her on this journey. Beth was certain she would have fared better alone. As it was, she felt responsible for the other woman, though at forty-three, Sylvia was nearly twice Beth’s age. Sylvia was at home amid her paintings, her books, and the garden. This was not a journey for a
woman who considered a morning walk around the ve
randa strenuous exercise.
But Dorothy Beaulieu had insisted and Sylvia had ac
quiesced.
Beth had been more than willing to make this journey
alone. To avoid taking any unnecessary chances, she had thought of disguising herself as a young boy, the way her neighbor, Krystyna McKinley, had once done
on her initial journey to America. Mrs. Beaulieu had ad
amantly refused to hear of her daughter traveling alone, disguise or no disguise. It just wasn’t done. Rather than waste time arguing, Beth had accepted a fidgety, nervous Sylvia as her traveling companion.
A smile lifted the corners of Beth’s mouth as she looked at Sylvia again. It wasn’t as if the woman could do anything to help her if something did happen. Unless, perhaps, she might strangle an assailant with her rosary beads, Beth mused, then hastily say ten Hail Marys as penance for gross disrespect of the holy object.
No, dear Sylvia would be no help at all to her in any perilous situation. It would be upon her own quick mind that she would have to rely, a mind she had inherited from her beloved father.
Dear God, she hoped he was safe, and that all this was for nought.
Beth sighed and blew out a long breath as she watched the branches point green-rimmed fingers toward the ground in supplication for the storm to end.
The heavy rain had ceased; now there was only an an
noying, continuing mist which did not alleviate any of the oppressiveness of the weather. Her traveling dress was sticking to her body like an uncomfortable second skin. Beth wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She felt as if she was in a pot of water boiling on the hearth at home.
Home.
Virginia.
Longing burst through her like magnolia blossoms in spring. She was so terribly homesick. But staying safely
lodged on the front porch of the lovely mansion, which her father had built for her mother, three sisters, and herself, would not help solve the mystery.
Her father had seemed to have vanished. There were
no letters from him, no responses to their written suppli
cations for a word to quell their fears ... nothing.
Dr. Philippe Beaulieu was missing in Paris, in the
land of his birth. He had disappeared just as a revolution
had threatened to break out and engulf the country in
fire. What filled Beth with apprehension was that the
revolution on everyone’s tongue, in everyone’s mind, was a revolution of the poor pitting themselves against the rich. Philippe Beaulieu was descended from a very old, revered line. He was an aristocrat at a time when his former countrymen held aristocrats suspect and looked upon them with envy and hate.
If only he hadn’t been moved to return. If only he had been content to stay at Eagle’s Nest, enjoying the fruits of his new life in a brand-new land, a land he had helped to form.
But the whispers of revolution that had drifted across the sea concerned him. He was worried about his family in Paris. Added to that, he felt an overwhelming sense of compassion. If there was a revolution, he felt he could be of some service. He was a trained physician with years of experience. Revolutions always needed physicians to tend to the injured. And to close the eyes of the dead.
Another man would have been gratified to rest upon his laurels, to enjoy his well-earned retirement by the time he had entered his fifth decade. But Dr. Philippe Beaulieu was not like other men.
As concerned as Beth was, this selflessness, this ability to put everyone else above himself, was what she had always loved best about her father. He was always so willing to give of himself. The Beaulieus of Paris
had been wealthy for generations. Dr. Beaulieu used his
money to provide his family in Virginia with all the comforts they could possibly want. But his wealth and his respected position in Virginia society did not stop him from ministering to the sick. It was his calling. Being a physician, he had told his tearful wife on the eve of his departure, was who and what he was. Without his work, he was nothing.
Fourteen years before, he had fought in the American
Revolution, caught up in the cries of freedom and liberty. He had fought beside his countryman Lafayette to
bring independence to the Americans—and to heal their
wounds when it was necessary.
Now it was more personal. But the cry had an uglier
tone this time. His beloved homeland was threatened by hatred and fear. Foremost in his concern was the welfare of his old mother and a maiden aunt who lived with her.
He had no choice, he informed Beth privately, but to go.
Beth understood. Of all his children, she was the most like him. His feelings, his beliefs, were hers. When Philippe set sail, he left things, he told her, “in your capable hands.”
Beth looked down at them now as her fingers twisted
together. “Capable hands.” “Capable Beth.” “Sensible Beth.” How many times had she heard those?
It was to her that her mother had turned one night to pour out her heart and reveal the fears she didn’t voice before the others. Dr. Beaulieu had promised to write
home faithfully each week. And he had. The news in his letters painted a grim portrait of a world he no longer
recognized. But he had vainly tried to be optimistic
about the situation, writing to his family that this cloud
would pass. The letters arrived regularly, just as he’d promised. Each merchant ship from France that docked in the Virginia harbor had a letter for Mrs. Beaulieu, if not two.
And then, nothing.
A whole month went by. Then five weeks, then six. And the news from France, when they heard it, grew steadily grimmer. The Virginia Gazette editors, Riley O’Roarke and his sister, Rachel Lawrence, always attempted to keep abreast not only of local events, but also of world events, when information was available. There were articles in the Gazette that told horrible stories of aristocrats in France being threatened, of ances
tral homes being taken over, of people imprisoned. And
worse.
And still there was no word from Dr. Beaulieu.
Beth had quietly listened to her mother as the frail, regal woman had echoed Beth’s own fears about her father’s welfare. It was a cool evening. Beth stared into the flames of the dying fire in her hearth and made up her mind to travel to Paris. She told her mother that she would go to her grandmother’s home and see for herself why there were no more letters arriving from her father.
Perhaps there was a simple, logical explanation. If not, she would deal with that when the time came.
Dorothy Beaulieu clutched her daughter’s hand, wanting to rely on the girl’s strength, yet afraid for her. “Oh, Beth, you can’t go.”
But Beth’s mind was already made up. “There’s no one else to go, Mother,” Beth pointed out softly. “The others are too young.” Garnering her father’s favor, Beth had always felt much older than the others, even though Anne was only two years younger than she and the twins a year younger than that.
Dorothy blinked back tears as she looked at her eldest child. “What if something happens to you?” Dorothy knew she couldn’t live with herself if something terrible came to pass.
Beth never worried about things that hadn’t happened
yet. It was a waste of time and energy. She covered her
mother’s hand with her own. “Nothing will happen, Mother. I have always taken care of myself.”
