Entry: Historical Short Story

Maris Manor
by Carolyn Kenney

The year was 1840 and the English countryside was alive - finally. Rich green trees and vibrant flowers linked heaven to earth in a striking display of colors. Christine walked leisurely down the path leading from Maris Manor to Colina Hill situated on the edge of the family property. The green grass beneath her feet looked like velvet. She took off her shoes and felt the soft earth stir with each step.

Five months ago, Christine Kelly graduated from a private girl’s school. Why did it seem like five years? Shortly after graduation, her father, Patrick passed away from an unexpected heart attack. Christine and her mother, Rose, were devastated and now lived alone in the beautiful mansion with their few servants. Christine’s uncle, Charles Kelly, had told them two weeks after the funeral that her father had not left a will. Thinking about it now, Christine reflected sadly, “That is highly unlikely.” Now as the only surviving son, Charles said that Maris manor would fall to him.

Christine neared the top of the hill; on the other side, the hill abruptly descended to the sea below. The view from the top was breathtaking! A voice from behind startled her; she jumped and almost lost her footing.

“Christine, how are you?” Suddenly, Charles Kelly was standing beside her; she shivered despite the warmth of the summer day. “I was looking for your mother, but could not find her. You must watch out for her or something may happen to her.”

There was a sneer on his face and his eyes had a sinister look to them. He continued saying, “I need to get into your father’s library. My attorney would like to review some papers. However, the door is locked and the servants do not seem to have a key.”

Ignoring her uncle, Christine said, “It’s getting late, I must be getting back to the manor.”

“Here, let me help you,” said Charles. As he extended his hand to Christine, he gripped her shoulder firmly. They stood facing one another with Christine’s back to the raging sea below.

“Let me go!” she exclaimed. “Now!”

Charles released her and Christine stumbled forward. She quickly regained her balance and rushed away from her uncle. As she walked down the path, she heard Charles behind her laughing silently.

At the bottom of Colina Hill, Christine began the walk home, deep in thought. Suddenly, she heard a warm familiar voice. “Christine!” James Bentley was walking towards her.

“James!” said Christine. “I’m glad to see you!” They had been friends since childhood; James was now studying law.

“When did you get home?” Christine inquired with joy.

“I arrived today,” said James. “How are you and your mother?” The tender look on James’s face made Christine relax and almost forget the conversation with her uncle.

“James, I was on Colina Hill trying to sort things out regarding my father‘s estate. Uncle Charles followed me!” said Christine with a heavy heart. “He frightens me!”

James said, “Christine, what can I do to help?”

Christine blurted out, “Uncle Charles told my mother that father did not leave a will, so he will inherit Maris Manor. However, I know there is a will! However, nobody seems to know where it is.”

“You haven’t been told what is in the will?” asked James in amazement.

“No,” said Christine sadly. “Mr. Abington, our lawyer, is coming tomorrow to see mother.”

James said, “I would be more than happy to come over when Mr. Abington comes to visit you and your mother.”

Christine exclaimed, “That would be wonderful. He is coming at 11:00 tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” said James, “I will see you then. “Don’t worry about the will or Charles Kelly. I know things will work out.”

“Goodnight James,” said Christine with joy in her heart.

The next morning both men arrived promptly at 11:00 a.m. “Hello Thomas. Hello James,” greeted Rose Kelly warmly. “It is wonderful to see you both. Please sit down everyone.”

Thomas Abington said, “A few years ago, I drew up the necessary paperwork for Patrick’s will. However, he wanted to keep it in his possession. He took the will and I never saw it again. Rose, did he tell you where he put it?”

Rose Kelly’s face was stricken with fear as she said, “No. Patrick told me about the will, but he never said where he put it. I assumed that you would have it. Charles wants this manor and now I’m afraid that he may get his wish.”

Thomas Abington said with concern, “I believe the will is somewhere in this house.” He looked at Rose and Christine saying, “The sooner one of you is able to find it, the better. Otherwise, Charles will inherit everything. Look around the manor and I will be in touch with you again. If you find anything, please let me know at once.”

“We will Thomas,” said Rose and walked him slowly to the door.

“Christine, what are we going to do?” asked Rose.

“Mother, please try not to worry. I know this isn’t easy, but father must have put the will somewhere safe. Why don’t you rest? James and I will look for it.”

Turning to James Christine said, “Let’s start in the library.”

They walked down the hall to the library where Christine unlocked the door. After searching the room thoroughly, Christine said, “James, I really don’t think it is here. Father would have left it someplace safe, but also someplace that few people would know about.”

“Do you have any idea?” asked James

Christine said, “Let me think about it. Can you stay for lunch?”

James said, “No, but I will return tomorrow and we can continue looking in other rooms.”

“Thank you, James,” said Christine. “You have been a wonderful friend.”

“I am glad to help you and your mother,” said James. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

James walked down the front steps and Christine closed the front door gently. Suddenly she remembered an incident from her childhood and returned to the library. Walking over to her father’s desk, she sat down in the plush leather chair. She looked out the window as thoughts of her father came to mind.

As a child, she would spend hours here in her father‘s library playing quietly or reading while he worked.

One day she asked, “Daddy, what is that at the top of the manor?”

Christine pointed out the window. The widow’s walk always fascinated her. The widow‘s walk! Why hadn’t she thought of that before? A little alcove was tucked away at the top of the stairs near it. Years ago, Patrick Kelly had given his daughter a key and told her to put it in her jewelry box. Christine did as she was told and forgot all about it - until now.

Christine hurried to her room, opened the jewelry box and with relief found the key. Silently, she headed for the stairs to the alcove. Eyeing the door at the top, she removed the key from her pocket and slipped it into the lock. The door creaked open. She knelt down and felt around in the dark when suddenly her hand fell upon a large envelope.

Carefully Christine picked it up and stepped outside into the light. Her heart raced as she saw the familiar handwriting of her father on the outside with his name and underneath written “Final Will and Testament.” What a tremendous relief. Now, her uncle would have no part of Maris Manor.

Christine straightened up and locked the alcove door. She slowly walked onto the landing where she could see the land she had grown to love. She glanced once more at the envelope in her hands when a voice startled her. “Christine, my dear,” said Charles. “What do you have?”

Christine turned to see her uncle. She demanded, “What are you doing here?”

“I see you have the will,” he said. “Why don’t you let me have it?”

Christine shouted, “You will never get this house! Get out of here - now!” Slowly she started to walk around her uncle, but he stepped in front of her. She stumbled, grabbed onto the railing and steadied herself. All she could see was the drop two stories below to the rich green earth.

“Give me the will!” exclaimed Charles with a gleam in his eyes that revealed a side of him Christine had never seen before. She needed to get away from him and away from this precarious position.

Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw James walk quietly through the door of the widow’s walk. He shouted, “Get away from her Charles!” Charles Kelly turned in amazement to face the younger man.

“J-James,” said Charles, “I did not expect to see you here!”

“I bet you didn’t,” said James glaring back. “I suggest you leave this property for good.”

“What!” exclaimed Charles. “This is my property now. Two women cannot care for this land.”

“That’s funny,” said James. “I heard that at the first opportunity you are going to sell this manor and the land surrounding it. Now leave here once and for all.”

“Th-this is my l-land!” stammered Charles as the younger man started walking towards him. Charles turned back to face Christine who was standing against the railing. “Give me the will, Christine.”

“Never,” she said. Charles lunged forward to grab the will; Christine stepped to her left barely avoiding him and he crashed through the railing to his death.

Christine screamed; James raced to her side where she buried her head in his strong chest. “Christine, are you all right?” asked James.

With tears she looked up into his deep blue eyes and said, “Yes, James. Is Uncle Charles dead?”

“Yes, he is.” said James hesitantly. “Oh Christine, I am so sorry.”

“James, I don’t know what I would have done if you had not been here. Why did you come back?”

“I decided to come back and have lunch with you and your mother. I thought you could both use a little company. As I came up to the front door, I saw you stumble onto the widow’s walk with Charles right behind you! I ran into the manor and up here!”

“James, I had the will in my hand, but it slipped when Charles went to grab it,” said Christine with a heavy heart. “I’m afraid that I may have lost it. Will life ever be normal again?”

“The will fell to the ground, but I can see it. Christine if I have anything to say from now on you will never worry again.” He put his arm around her waist and led her through the door.

Submitted by

Carolyn Kenney

Entry: Historical Short Story

Battle Casualty
by Richard C. Leonard

Some kids are lucky. They get to have grandparents—both grandmas and grandpas. And some even get to know a great-grandparent or two.

All I ever knew were my two grandmothers. Mostly I remember my mom’s mother, Grandma Chandler, because she lived the longest. I was in high school when she died. I remember sitting on her lap when I was little and thinking how fat she was. In fact my brother and I had a saying about heavyset people, “A little bit fat, but not as fat as Grandma.” She was sort of crabby, too.

So I wish I had known my other Grandma better, Grandma Whitcomb, my dad’s mother. I only saw her a few times, because she lived in Vermont and we lived in the Midwest. The last time was when I was ten, but I remember it well. We were staying at her house while on a trip, and my parents had to go somewhere so she was trying to “entertain” me while my brother was taking a nap.

I don’t know why she thought I would be interested in them, but she brought out a box of old photographs. The ones I liked best were pictures of trains my grandfather had taken, because he worked for a railroad. But there was one more that made me curious. It was a picture of my dad and my uncle sitting on the steps of the old Whitcomb place with Grandma. She was a lot younger, then, but it was easy to tell that it was she in the photo. My grandpa wasn’t in the picture, because I guess he took it.

But there was another lady in the picture, an older one.

“Who’s that other lady?” I asked Grandma.

“That’s your great-grandmother Whitcomb, your dad’s grandma. She lived with us while your dad was growing up.”

I got the feeling that Grandma hadn’t been too happy about that. I asked another question.

“Why did she have to live with you? Was Great-Grandpa Whitcomb dead?”

Grandma paused and looked out the window, then turned to me. “No, Larry. He wasn’t dead. He just didn’t live with your great-grandma.”

I couldn’t understand that, so I blundered ahead. “Why not? Didn’t he like her?”

I thought for a minute that Grandma wasn’t going to answer me, but finally she did.

“I don’t think he disliked her. But he went off and left her alone with your grandpa and his brother, your dad’s uncle Will. And he never came back to her.”

“Why not?” At age ten a boy doesn’t know that some questions can have embarrassing answers.

“Larry, let’s just say he wanted to live somewhere else but your great-grandma didn’t want to go there.”

I persisted. “Where did he want to go?”

“He wanted to go to Oklahoma. It used to be Indian Territory but they were opening it up to settlers from the East.”

“Why did he want to go there?”

“I guess he was just tired of milking cows in Vermont. He thought he could get rich if he went someplace else. So he went by himself, because your great-grandma wouldn’t go with him. He left her all alone with her two boys and never even sent her any money.”

“That wasn’t nice.”

“No, Larry, it wasn’t very nice. I’m afraid Great-Grandpa Whitcomb wasn’t a very nice man. So that’s why your dad’s grandma had to live with us.”

I studied the photograph again. “Didn’t he ever come back to her? What happened to him?”

Grandma sighed. “No, he didn’t come back to Vermont till after Great-Grandma has passed away. When he was an old man he came back and lived in the old soldiers’ home in Bennington.”

“Was Great-Grandpa a soldier?”

“He was in the Civil War, with the Fourteenth Vermont Regiment.”

“Did my dad ever see him?”

“He saw him once. He was in Bennington with his cousin who knew him. They saw him sitting in a rocking chair on the porch at the soldiers’ home. But they didn’t cross the street to talk to him.”

“What was his name?”

Grandma closed her eyes, as though she didn’t want to say it. “His name was . . . John L. Whitcomb. But look, Larry, your parents are back. Please don’t say anything to your dad about what I’ve told you about his grandfather.”

That was my last talk with Grandma Whitcomb, because she died soon afterward. Later on I did ask my dad about his grandfather. He wasn’t upset, but he didn’t have much to add to what I had learned from Grandma.

Time passes quickly, doesn’t it? All too quickly. Before I knew, it seems, I was married with children of my own and my parents were grandparents. Then my father died, and eventually my wife and I had to move my mother out of her house into a retirement home.

That’s when I found the box.

It was a box of old letters my dad had saved, letters between his grandparents—my Grandma Whitcomb’s parents, not my grandpa’s. They were interesting, and that’s a story in itself. But there was another document that caught my eye. It was written in fading ink with crude spellings and missing punctuation. At the top was written “The Battle of Gettysburg, by John L. Whitcomb.” It wasn’t a letter. It was more like a talk my great-grandfather had given to some fellow veterans of the Civil War, and it bore no date. It began like this:

On or about the 25th or 26th of June 1863 the 2nd Vt Brigade were encamped in the vicinity of Occoquam River in Virginia.

Great-Grandfather went on to tell how his brigade had to march toward Gettysburg to meet the Confederate army. He told of an incident along the way. As they marched along his company heard cheering from the ranks ahead of them.

And soon our Co came up of course the mystery was explained. It was this. In the door of a small Cotage house stood a young Girl. She had on an apron. Now comrades you must think that a young lady with an apron on was small cause for so much Cheering. From the waist to the bottom of the dress skirt stripes of red and white alternate. From the waist up to the throat and joints of the sholder something in the shape of a triangle was blue and over this were spread the Stars. The Stars and Strips, Emblem of Liberty. Could any one help but Cheer. No. And up went three cheers from Co G and a rousing Tiger, and so on until all had passed by.

Fascinated, I read on through the account of the march, which included mention of the capture, trial and execution of a “Rebel Spy.” Finally the brigade reached the scene of the battle about to unfold.

Soon now we began to hear musketry mingled with the louder and heavier reports of Cannon, and the wounded were coming back. I never shall forget the first one of them. His face was all covered with blood, he was wounded about the head, his cap in his hand, and as we passed him he swung his Cap and shouted, Boys, we have had a hard one to-day, but now we’ll lick them. A little ways further and we are on the battle field of Gettysburgh. Night is near at hand. The fighting soon stops and all is quiet but an occasional gun from some picket post.

But the day had been a fearfull one for the First and Eleventh Corps. Gen Reynolds of the 1st Corps was killed, shot through the neck. He was at the time riding forward with a few members of his Staff to inspect the field, with view of bringing the rest of his troops into favorable position, when the enemy opened a full volley of musketry, a ball striking him in the neck. Feeling wounded he turned to his soldiers and shouted, Forward men: for Gods sake forward, and fell dying into the arms of one of his companions. Hundreds from the ranks of the 1st corps lay beyond the village stretched in death. Of those who went into the fight in the morning but one half remained.

John went on to relate the awful drama of the battlefield.

Just at day light the next morning, July 3rd, the enemy opened with a few Guns on our position. The second shot that came over went into the Cassion of Gun which close to my Company, blue the whole thing to pieces killing two horses and wounding several of the men and some of my Company did not escape unhurt. In the smoke and confusion we charged right down to the front about 30 or 40 rods and lay down.

For two hours this storm of shot & shell raged in all its fury. We were the first line of battle, and during these few hours there was 125 cannon concentrated on this point, the left centre. At length came the expected Charge of Infantry. Longstreets Corps, massed with Pickets division in front, came down on us with a rush. Our men waited untill they got most to us, and jumped up and began firing, which brought them to a stand still, the ground strewed with their dead and dying. Again with the fierceness of desperation they rushed forward and again were met with the same deadly reception. At about this time they undertook a flank movement. Col Rose of the 14th with part of the Regt head them off, and at the same time, the 16th Regt Col Veasey mad a charge and broke them all up, Hundreds of them throwing down their arms and coming into our lines as prisoners. The tide of the Battle lulled for a time, And again the Artillery did its work alone, untill about 4 oclock when the last desperate Charge was made, the Grand effort which was to sweep the Union lines, or result in the total defeat of the rebel army.

I continued reading through Great-Grandfather’s account of “Pickett’s Charge.”

Nearly the whole of Pickets division, finding itself unable to retreat, was captured, and the remaining divisions reeled back in confusion leaving the ground literally covered with dead. This decided the fate of the Battle. The enemy had staked all upon this last desperate Charge and had been hurled back in confusion and enormous losses.

At dark our Brigade was relieved and sent to the rear for rest and to support a Battery. The roll was called in Company G and of the 36 or 8 that went in, in the morning, only about 14 answered to their names, some killed, some wounded and some missing. The 14th Regt suffered the most of any of the Brigade beaing in the most Exposed position. Myself and a Comrade were detailed to pick up the dead. That I must say, Comrades, was the hardest duty I had to perform while in the service.

I laid the yellowed pages down, not trying to stifle the tears that ought not to well up in the eyes of a grown man.

War, wherever it breaks out, is a scourge upon the human race. The Civil War tore the fabric of our nation and scarred the lives of those who were exposed to its horrors, whether of South or North. The dead and maimed paid their awful price, and those who survived the battlefield paid a price of their own in memories that beset them the rest of their lives.

Did the trauma of Gettysburg have something to do with why John L. Whitcomb later deserted his young Vermont family and struck out upon a new venture in a then-remote part of our country? I will never know the answer. And I do not excuse what my great-grandfather did to his loved ones.

But I will never be ashamed of him.

Submitted by
Richard C. Leonard

Contest Reminder and Recommendation

Happy Monday Morning, Pixels. Just a reminder to get your Historical Short Stories to me by Friday for this week's contest. See the contest details in the post below.

Now for a personal recommendation.

This weekend I devoured a new book - Healing Stones by Nancy Rue and Stephen Arterburn. The authors tackled a difficult subject, and my review wouldn't do it justice. Words to describe this book are realistic, beautiful, painful, loving, life-changing. You just have to read it to see for yourself. A definite must-read.

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Healing Stones
(Thomas Nelson January 1, 2008)
by
Stephen Arterburn & Nancy Rue

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

Stephen Arterburn is the founder and chairman of New Life Ministries—the nation’s largest faith-based broadcast, counseling and treatment ministry—and is the host of the nationally syndicated “New Life Live!” daily radio...

By 1996 Nancy was a full-time writer. The Christian Heritage Series made that possible. She was writing those books from the early 1990's until 2000.And then a new opportunity came along--the Lily series. If she ever doubted that she was going to make it as a writer, man, that little red-head put those fears to rest! And, of course, Sophie followed Lily, with some teen and grown-up books in between -- plus the non-fiction books designed just for you.Nancy and her husband live in Tennessee now, overlooking a beautiful lake, lots of sycamore trees, and the rocky Tennessee hills. They have a bright yellow power boat named BANANA SPLIT which you can find us on no matter what the weather. Marijean and her husband live nearby with my three grand-dogs and three grand-cats (and two grand-snakes . . .)

ABOUT THE BOOK

With one flash of a camera, Demi's private life becomes public news. She doesn't know it yet, but her healing has just begun.

Christian college professor Demitria Costanas had vowed to end her affair with a colleague. But she gives into temptation one last time...and a lurking photographer captures her weakness for all to see. Quite literally, she's the woman caught in adultery. And almost everyone--herself included--has a stone to throw.

Enter Sullivan Crisp, a decidedly unorthodox psychologist with his own baggage. He's well-known for his quirky sense of humor and incorporation of "game show" theology into his counseling sessions. And yet there's something more he offers...hope for a fresh start.

Reluctantly the two of them begin an uplifting, uneven journey filled with healing and grace. By turns funny and touching, this story explores the ways humans hurt each other and deceive themselves. And it shows the endlessly creative means God uses to turn stones of accusation and shame into works of beauty that lead us onto the path of healing.

An auspicious debut for a candid yet tender series about pain, healing, and God's invitation for second chances.

This week, the
Christian Fiction Blog Alliance
is introducing
Sister's Ink
Broadman & Holman Books (February 1, 2008)
by
Rebeca Seitz

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Rebeca Seitz is Founder and President of Glass Road Public Relations. An author for several years, PRINTS CHARMING was her first novel.Rebeca cut her publicity teeth as the first dedicated publicist for the fiction division of Thomas Nelson Publishers. In 2005, Rebeca resigned from WestBow and opened the doors of GRPR, the only publicity firm of its kind in the country dedicated solely to representing novelists writing from a Christian worldview.Rebeca makes her home in Kentucky with her husband, Charles, and their son, Anderson.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Sisters, Ink marks the first in a series of novels written by, for, and about scrapbookers. At the center of the creativity and humor are four unlikely young adult sisters, each separately adopted during early childhood into the loving home of Marilyn and Jack Sinclair.Ten years after their mother Marilyn has died, the multi-racial Sinclair sisters (Meg, Kendra, Tandy, and Joy) still return to her converted attic scrapping studio in the small town of Stars Hill, Tennessee, to encourage each other through life’s highs and lows.Book one spotlights headstrong Tandy, a successful yet haunted attorney now living back in Orlando where she spent the first eight years of her life on the streets as a junkie’s kid. When a suddenly enforced leave of absence at work leads her to an extended visit with her sisters in Stars Hill, a business oppor­tunity, rekindled romance, and fresh understanding of God’s will soon follow.

Endorsements:

"What more can any woman want? Sisters, Ink weaves the love of sisters, the fun of scrapbooking, and a romance as sugary and tingling as Sweet Home Alabama. A must read for those who love southern fiction."--DiAnn Mills, author of Leather and Lace and When the Nile Runs Red

"Fun . . . funny . . . fantastic! Rebeca Seitz has brought together scrapbooking and sisterhood in a lively romp, with a love for going home again."--Eva Marie Everson, coauthor of The Potluck Club series.

New Contest Theme: Historical Short Story

Happy Monday, Pixels!

This week's contest is inspired by our guest judge, Maureen Lang. Her latest release, On Sparrow Hill, is a romance set in two time periods - Victorian Ireland and contemporary England.

This week, submit your historical (doesn't have to be a romance, although it can be) short story - 2,000 words or less - for your chance to win an autographed copy of Maureen's book. Submit your entry to tracyruckman [at] gmail.com by Friday, February 15th. The winner of this contest will be announced on Monday, February 18th. Other events will be taking place on the blog in the coming days, but I'll post the story entries as they come in, and try to keep them all grouped together.

Meet our guest judge:

Maureen Lang has always had a passion for writing. She wrote her first novel longhand around the age of ten, put the pages into a notebook she had covered with soft deerskin (nothing but the best!), then passed it around the neighborhood to rave reviews. It was so much fun that she's been writing ever since.

Eventually Maureen became the recipient of a Golden Heart Award from Romance Writers of America, followed by the publication of three secular romance novels. Life took some turns after that, and she gave up writing for fifteen years, until the Lord claimed her to write for Him. Soon she won a Noble Theme Award from American Christian Fiction Writers, and a contract followed a year or so later for Pieces of Silver (a 2007 Christy Award finalist), followed by its sequel, Remember Me.

Maureen lives in the Midwest with her husband, her two sons, and their new puppy, Susie.