A Dark Horse Rising

Lin Harbertson

Description

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?

Sujets

• Romance
• Novel
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 24 avril 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798823006880
• Langue: English

Extrait

A Dark Horse Rising
 
WHAT IS LOVE? Tis not hereafter Present joy hath present laughter What’s to come is still unsure
 
 
 
 
LIN HARBERTSON
 
 
 
 

 
 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
 
 
© 2023 Lin Harbertson. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
Published by AuthorHouse 04/19/2023
 
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0689-7 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0687-3 (hc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0688-0 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023907462
 
 
 
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
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1

“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.