Prologue
Charlestown, South Carolina, 1842
John Brandon Quincy sat at the table in the study of his home in Charlestown and stared down at the empty piece of paper in front of him with a frown. He knew what he had to write; he just didn't know how to get started. There were so many things that he wanted to say, he had spent years trying to figure it out and now there was no delaying. But knowing what he needed to write and actually writing it were two different demons.
His mother, Malia, often stressed to him the importance of reaching out to his two half-sisters, Lucy Quincy in particular. After many years of wondering why it was so important that he do this, his mother finally revealed to him that Lucy was no blood relation to him, but she was still his half-sister in name, for she was the claimed daughter of his late father, Magistrate John Quincy. However, in harsh reality, she was the blood daughter of the also late convict, Arthur Denning.
"There are many things she doesn't know, darling," his aged mother told him, sadness prevalent in her tired eyes. "And some things she must learn for herself. But you should tell her the truth about your father and I. I myself do not have any strength left to do so, and your father is gone. Do this, my dear. Be the strength that I cannot."
John would never understand why his mother insisted that she wasn't strong, for she was the strongest woman he knew. She had the strength to leave behind her love and her life in England to bring him to America so he could be void of burden and scrutiny. There were no prospects in England for him, they were all miles and oceans away, and she brought him to Charlestown so he could find them. There were no limits for mothers where their children were concerned, and his was the proof of that.
In all honesty, writing this note to Lucy was the least he could do for his mother and, by extension, for his own conscience.
So, after taking as long as he had to gather his thoughts, John finally managed to put them to paper. Words came to him like a tide he had tried to hold back, and they flooded through his mind and down into his hands, bleeding words that he never thought he could write.
Lucy,
You do not yet know me, and that is no one's fault. There is nothing to say by means of introduction. I feel that now is the time to reach out to you, upon the death of your father, Magistrate John Quincy. The truth is, he was my father as well. I am your half-brother, John Brandon Quincy.
You may relay this information to whomever you please, for there is little left to hide. If it is proof of my relation to our father that you require, I am willing to provide that for you at your earliest convinence. Know that I do not ask anything of you, that is my promise.
You may recall a woman named Malia, a maid that lived in your home a long time ago during the case of the murder of a certain deputy in Lanfore. I was told some details of the story, though I cannot recall them all. She is very fond of you and thinks of you often. She is my mother, and we live in Charlestown.
I know what you must be thinking, especially of our late father, Magistrate Quincy, for I thought the same thing for a time. What sort of man would do such a thing to his family? I felt like a living, breathing burden, and wanted nothing more than to resurrect our father and demand answers from him. Alas, such a feat remains ever impossible, and I have had to struggle to come to terms with it. I can honestly say that I have not yet, but I have my life now, with the hopes of starting my own family in the future, so such things are better left in the past.
This does not mean, of course, that you aren't entitled to your rage. You have every right, though I am certain you do not need my validation of that to make it any truer. You are, after all, more of a child to John Quincy than I will ever be.
It has taken me a long time to muster up the courage to write this, but I hope it does not form any resentment towards our... No, Your father. He was a good man, and always will be.
I do not ask that you reply to this note. I would not blame you if you set it aflame upon receiving it. But if it so happens that you do not, know that my door is always open. My family is your family, Lucy. Know that if you ever feel alone, you are not. We are here. I am here.
Yours,
John Brandon Quincy
XXX
On the road to Lanfore, Hertfordshire
Lucy Quincy twirled a finger around a lock of her dark hair and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The carriage drove smoothly on the rocky road, but every once in a while they would hit a bump, and it would cause her to jump out of her skin. She was attempting to school herself from thinking about facing her old home again after so many years of being gone. Life in London's high society had been a welcome distraction at best, but after her father's passing, a return home was inevitable. Her mother's health was deteriorating, and soon there would be no one left to take care of affairs back in Lanfore.
Well, save for her.
"What's on your mind?"
Lucy looked up at saw her friend, Beatrice Thornton, watching her with concerned eyes. "I left home when I was thirteen. That feels like a lifetime ago. Returning is just making me feel nervous, that's all."
Beatrice nodded understandingly. "Quite sad your sister could not join us."
"Lydia's always been on her own agenda," Lucy scoffed. "I didn't expect her to come. She's not like me, she wants to be married and have a house full of children. I suppose that's where she and I have always differed. Familial affairs are something she finds tedious and better left in the hands of lesser folk."
Beatrice said nothing in reply to that, but Lucy saw the faintest glint of judgment in her eyes. Being close to twenty-six, Lucy knew that people judged her for not settling down with a wealthy man and having children. But for some reason that never appealed to her. She didn't want to settle for anything or anyone, she wanted to be free and live her life in her own way. Of course one day she wanted to fall in love, but her examples of marriage had always been her father and mother, and that was the worst example there was.
As it was, Lucy wasn't a romantic, she was a realist. In the world, there was no such thing as true romance, only momentary and temporary stirrings of the heart, some stronger than others, but all just as fleeting.
Even so, she had asked her sister to join them—demanded, more like—but the girl was stubborn like their mother. She refused to leave London, where she seemed to be flourishing at an unnatural pace in high society. She even criticized Lucy for volunteering to go and take a look around their old estate, stating that there was no sense in going back to an obsolete existence. She even suggested that the settling of their father's affairs should be left to their uncles, Robert and Matthew Quincy, but Lucy was going for more than just that. She had friends there that she wanted to see again, if they were still there, and it would be refreshing to say the least.
That didn't mean that she still didn't feel nervous. How much had her home changed since she had last seen it? Who was gone, who remained? She thought about her friend from Dawn-Bridge, James Boatwright. What was he doing? Running his father's estate, most likely. Mary Boatwright, his mother, was still alive, but Lucy wasn't certain about his father. There were many things she didn't know, and it was the pit in her gut that wouldn't stop bothering her. Was James married now? Was he not?
She hated not knowing things. It made her feel open to the possibility of disaster.
"I've never been to the country," Beatrice noted, glancing out of the window of their carriage. "In truth, I never had the intention of doing so. It seems largely spread out and quite boring."
"Largely spread out is an understatement," Lucy chuckled. "But I wouldn't call boring. When I was a little girl, three people were murdered in Lanfore. A deputy, and two servants from my own house!"
"No, truly?"
"Indeed," Lucy nodded. "Addison, a maid, and Roger, a footman. Both murdered, though I don't exactly remembered the circumstances behind it. Honestly, I was told very little, even after I left. Eventually, it stopped mattering to me."
"Good gracious," Beatrice shook her head, stunned. "Had it this happened at my house, I would have never forgotten it!"
Lucy smiled, but didn't reply. Of course she remembered everything that had happened, every moment. But she suppressed it for years, because she didn't want those demons to dog her every step of her life. The fond memories were what she held onto, though they were few and far in between. She didn't have close memories with her mother while they lived in Lanfore, which was something she always found odd. To this day, she didn't know what she had done to warrant such a distance from her mother. She just always felt like the odd one out, like she never belonged.
Or maybe that was how you wanted to feel.
"Is that it?" Beatrice asked, sticking her head out of the window. "Is that Lanfore?"
Lucy frowned, had they arrived so soon? Quickly, she scooted closer to the window and looked out.
Yes, there it was. Lanfore, her home. She saw the monstrous estate of Dawn-Bridge from the distance, and the sprinkling of Autumn leaves on the surrounding trees. It was picturesque, stunning. Like a fairy tale kingdom nestled deep in the artistic countryside.
Dear Lord... I'm home.
__________________
Author's Note: And book 2 is a go!! We figured we'd post the prologue early. But since finals is here, we won't be able to post much during this week. Chapter 1 will be posted on the 12th! :)
Vote and comment, let us know how you liked it! And we hope that you enjoy the rest!