Becoming governess to a difficult child in a robber baron’s gloomy mansion on the Georgia coast is not the life Sarah Anne had envisioned or wanted. The cultural clashes between her rural southern upbringing and that of the wealthy northern family send her reeling, but she is determined to be a success. She needs this job for all other doors have closed. Her position is further complicated when two young men of the family vie for her attention, engendering emotions that she fights but cannot quell.
Through patience and dedication, Sarah Anne breaks through the emotional wall with which the girl has surrounded herself, but in the process realizes there may be very good reasons for the child’s troubling behavior. Something is not right within Ripon House. As her understanding of the family dynamic deepens, a terrible suspicion forms. It seems Sarah Anne’s employers are hiding a dark secret – a secret someone may have committed murder to safeguard.
CHAPTER ONE
Is she dead? The flesh on her face feels cool to the touch. It would really be too bad if the whore is in fact no longer among the living. Killing is not a taste I have developed thus far. Much more satisfying to think of them permanently marked and remembering. Checking her throat is in order.
Ah, good. My method holds true. A strong pulse thumps beneath her surprisingly alluring flesh. If she were a lady instead of a whore, she might even tempt me into an actual relationship. As is, she will live, but with considerable bruising around her windpipe and an ugly scar near her hairline.
See how the moonlight brightens the blood trickling over her temple toward her ear. Perhaps I should deepen the rouge on her tawdry cheeks by smearing some of it on them. Yes. That’s better. She now looks exactly like what she is – a whore who will remember tonight for a very long time.
If she hadn’t resisted, I wouldn’t have hurt her. But then, they always force me to hurt them. All they have to do is submit, but the stupid trollops never catch on until it is too late.
Chapter 2
Oglethorpe Island, Georgia
1890
The sound of buggy wheels crunching over crushed oyster shells would now forever be associated in Sarah Anne Mercer’s mind with loss and unexpected beginnings. This position was not what she had dreamed of, but there was no going back for all other doors had closed. Nervous hands twisted mesh gloves until the fibers dug into the webbing between her fingers, raising red welts between the strings. Glancing down at the mess, she forced her hands to rest primly in her lap and stretched her neck to relieve the tension building at the base of her skull. Dwelling on what might have been was a useless, unedifying occupation. Acceptance was the only course. Instead of wishing for a different life, she must focus on this time, this future, this place.
The buggy bounced over a rut, sending a tingle up Sarah Anne’s spine. As she grabbed an armrest for support, dampness rose on her forehead and beads of moisture formed on her upper lip. Drawing her gloves from her hands, she attempted to fan herself, but nothing could decrease the discomfort of air so thick it felt liquid against the skin. South Georgia’s heat and humidity had not diminished simply because the calendar declared that autumn had commenced. Heat and nerves were not a good combination. She trained her gaze ahead and fixed it upon a clump of palmettos to avoid embarrassment. Fouling the vehicle’s leather appointments with the contents of her predawn breakfast would be a disastrous introduction.
The road curved around a stand of pines and her destination came into view situated upon a broad expanse of manicured lawn. A small gasp escaped. So Uncle Zach’s prejudice had not influenced his opinion after all. His description, while uncharitable, was quite accurate. Ripon House, all three glowering stories of it, squatted on Oglethorpe Island like a boil on the backside of a beautiful woman. Rumor among the locals had it that the boil was filled with corruption, but Uncle Zach did not place credence in such speculation. As a man of science, he dealt with facts. Of course he did. He wouldn’t have sent her here if he suspected anything untoward. All would be suitable and she would be a great success. This house was now her destiny for better or worse. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, Sarah Anne straightened her posture and plastered on what she hoped was a confident expression.
The driver cleared his throat. “Best not keep Mrs. Bogard waiting, Miss. She gets in a powerful stir when folks wastes her time.”
“Oh. Of course. Thank you. I guess I’m a little awestruck by all of this.” Babbling was a nervous habit Sarah Anne thought she had rid herself of long ago. To staunch the flow of words, she jumped from the buggy before the driver could get around to her side, but when she made to grab her satchel, he stepped forward.
“We cain’t have that, Miss. Wouldn’t be right.”
Heat rose in Sarah Anne’s cheeks. “Thank you . . .” She looked inquiringly at the driver.
“George, Miss.”
“Thank you, George. I hadn’t thought of that.”
A wry smile spread over the driver’s features. “Pardon me saying, but I suspect there’s lots about this place you ain’t thought of just yet. Give it time and you’ll settle in fine. I can see you a young lady with grit.”
Sarah Anne gave her advisor a weak smile. Oh joy. Grit would be required. It wasn’t that she didn’t possess a certain amount of the stuff. Orphaned at age ten and sent to live among people who cast sidelong glances at her dark hair, dark eyes, and prominent cheekbones, she learned early on how to deal with snide comments and left-handed compliments. The only issue presently at hand was how much grit would be needed. Sarah Anne peered up at the house and fought back a sigh.
The driver waited patiently for her to precede him up wide stone steps that led onto a deep veranda. That fixture of Southern architecture looked very odd tacked onto this particular house, as though someone had been determined to sneak in a feature that actually made sense in their subtropical climate. All he had accomplished was to enhance the granite pile’s sinister appearance. A small shiver ran down Sarah Anne’s spine.
As Uncle Zach told it, controversy had swirled from the moment of the house’s conception. The architect, a graduate of Virginia, surely knew better, but he didn’t allow something so pedestrian as training to get in the way of a colossal fee. The builder, a Savannahian by birth and inclination, must have had objections, but according to local gossip, generous compensation had overcome any qualms he may have had. The good people of Mayweather County absolutely had objections, accustomed as they were to unmolested access to the riches of the island’s acres and waters. Uncle Zach had often railed against Mr. Jedediah Littlewood’s iniquitous defilement of the land in having his monstrosity of a house built. The fact that the Yankee industrialist owned the entirety of the barrier island did nothing to lessen his enmity. Of course in the end, Ripon House had gone up stone by craggy gray stone. Nobody was happy except the man who had the thing built.
Sarah Anne shifted from one foot to the other before mahogany double doors, her hand stranded at her side unable to knock. Hesitation in the face of the unknown had never been her nature, but today it froze her into a state of inaction. This was so unlike the woman she thought herself to be. To complete her humiliation, her midsection once again threatened open rebellion. This would never do. Inhaling slowly, she held her breath for several beats then allowed the air to escape in one measured stream while she distracted herself with an inspection of the house’s exterior.
Despite the day’s warmth, the windows stood firmly shut and the drapes drawn. If windows were the eyes of a structure, Ripon House chose to be blind to the world around it. An atmosphere of gloom seemed to hang about the place. The house might have been in mourning, but no one had mentioned a death and no black wreath decorated the door. It was as though Thornfield Hall, that haunted Yorkshire manse of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, had been transported to the Georgia coast. It did not suit. Not in the least. There might not be an insane Bertha Mason guarded by Grace Poole hidden away in the attics, but Sarah Anne couldn’t quite rid herself of a niggling sensation of unease. The place just didn’t feel right.
Sarah Anne bit down on her inner cheek to rein in her rushing thoughts. This was not the time to let her imagination run free. Failing in this position simply was not an option.
With that, she squared her shoulders and yanked the gloves back over her hands until her fingers strained against the mesh. The force of her knock served as a physical reminder of why she stood upon the Ripon House threshold awaiting admittance to its world.
Through patience and dedication, Sarah Anne breaks through the emotional wall with which the girl has surrounded herself, but in the process realizes there may be very good reasons for the child’s troubling behavior. Something is not right within Ripon House. As her understanding of the family dynamic deepens, a terrible suspicion forms. It seems Sarah Anne’s employers are hiding a dark secret – a secret someone may have committed murder to safeguard.
CHAPTER ONE
Is she dead? The flesh on her face feels cool to the touch. It would really be too bad if the whore is in fact no longer among the living. Killing is not a taste I have developed thus far. Much more satisfying to think of them permanently marked and remembering. Checking her throat is in order.
Ah, good. My method holds true. A strong pulse thumps beneath her surprisingly alluring flesh. If she were a lady instead of a whore, she might even tempt me into an actual relationship. As is, she will live, but with considerable bruising around her windpipe and an ugly scar near her hairline.
See how the moonlight brightens the blood trickling over her temple toward her ear. Perhaps I should deepen the rouge on her tawdry cheeks by smearing some of it on them. Yes. That’s better. She now looks exactly like what she is – a whore who will remember tonight for a very long time.
If she hadn’t resisted, I wouldn’t have hurt her. But then, they always force me to hurt them. All they have to do is submit, but the stupid trollops never catch on until it is too late.
Chapter 2
Oglethorpe Island, Georgia
1890
The sound of buggy wheels crunching over crushed oyster shells would now forever be associated in Sarah Anne Mercer’s mind with loss and unexpected beginnings. This position was not what she had dreamed of, but there was no going back for all other doors had closed. Nervous hands twisted mesh gloves until the fibers dug into the webbing between her fingers, raising red welts between the strings. Glancing down at the mess, she forced her hands to rest primly in her lap and stretched her neck to relieve the tension building at the base of her skull. Dwelling on what might have been was a useless, unedifying occupation. Acceptance was the only course. Instead of wishing for a different life, she must focus on this time, this future, this place.
The buggy bounced over a rut, sending a tingle up Sarah Anne’s spine. As she grabbed an armrest for support, dampness rose on her forehead and beads of moisture formed on her upper lip. Drawing her gloves from her hands, she attempted to fan herself, but nothing could decrease the discomfort of air so thick it felt liquid against the skin. South Georgia’s heat and humidity had not diminished simply because the calendar declared that autumn had commenced. Heat and nerves were not a good combination. She trained her gaze ahead and fixed it upon a clump of palmettos to avoid embarrassment. Fouling the vehicle’s leather appointments with the contents of her predawn breakfast would be a disastrous introduction.
The road curved around a stand of pines and her destination came into view situated upon a broad expanse of manicured lawn. A small gasp escaped. So Uncle Zach’s prejudice had not influenced his opinion after all. His description, while uncharitable, was quite accurate. Ripon House, all three glowering stories of it, squatted on Oglethorpe Island like a boil on the backside of a beautiful woman. Rumor among the locals had it that the boil was filled with corruption, but Uncle Zach did not place credence in such speculation. As a man of science, he dealt with facts. Of course he did. He wouldn’t have sent her here if he suspected anything untoward. All would be suitable and she would be a great success. This house was now her destiny for better or worse. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, Sarah Anne straightened her posture and plastered on what she hoped was a confident expression.
The driver cleared his throat. “Best not keep Mrs. Bogard waiting, Miss. She gets in a powerful stir when folks wastes her time.”
“Oh. Of course. Thank you. I guess I’m a little awestruck by all of this.” Babbling was a nervous habit Sarah Anne thought she had rid herself of long ago. To staunch the flow of words, she jumped from the buggy before the driver could get around to her side, but when she made to grab her satchel, he stepped forward.
“We cain’t have that, Miss. Wouldn’t be right.”
Heat rose in Sarah Anne’s cheeks. “Thank you . . .” She looked inquiringly at the driver.
“George, Miss.”
“Thank you, George. I hadn’t thought of that.”
A wry smile spread over the driver’s features. “Pardon me saying, but I suspect there’s lots about this place you ain’t thought of just yet. Give it time and you’ll settle in fine. I can see you a young lady with grit.”
Sarah Anne gave her advisor a weak smile. Oh joy. Grit would be required. It wasn’t that she didn’t possess a certain amount of the stuff. Orphaned at age ten and sent to live among people who cast sidelong glances at her dark hair, dark eyes, and prominent cheekbones, she learned early on how to deal with snide comments and left-handed compliments. The only issue presently at hand was how much grit would be needed. Sarah Anne peered up at the house and fought back a sigh.
The driver waited patiently for her to precede him up wide stone steps that led onto a deep veranda. That fixture of Southern architecture looked very odd tacked onto this particular house, as though someone had been determined to sneak in a feature that actually made sense in their subtropical climate. All he had accomplished was to enhance the granite pile’s sinister appearance. A small shiver ran down Sarah Anne’s spine.
As Uncle Zach told it, controversy had swirled from the moment of the house’s conception. The architect, a graduate of Virginia, surely knew better, but he didn’t allow something so pedestrian as training to get in the way of a colossal fee. The builder, a Savannahian by birth and inclination, must have had objections, but according to local gossip, generous compensation had overcome any qualms he may have had. The good people of Mayweather County absolutely had objections, accustomed as they were to unmolested access to the riches of the island’s acres and waters. Uncle Zach had often railed against Mr. Jedediah Littlewood’s iniquitous defilement of the land in having his monstrosity of a house built. The fact that the Yankee industrialist owned the entirety of the barrier island did nothing to lessen his enmity. Of course in the end, Ripon House had gone up stone by craggy gray stone. Nobody was happy except the man who had the thing built.
Sarah Anne shifted from one foot to the other before mahogany double doors, her hand stranded at her side unable to knock. Hesitation in the face of the unknown had never been her nature, but today it froze her into a state of inaction. This was so unlike the woman she thought herself to be. To complete her humiliation, her midsection once again threatened open rebellion. This would never do. Inhaling slowly, she held her breath for several beats then allowed the air to escape in one measured stream while she distracted herself with an inspection of the house’s exterior.
Despite the day’s warmth, the windows stood firmly shut and the drapes drawn. If windows were the eyes of a structure, Ripon House chose to be blind to the world around it. An atmosphere of gloom seemed to hang about the place. The house might have been in mourning, but no one had mentioned a death and no black wreath decorated the door. It was as though Thornfield Hall, that haunted Yorkshire manse of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, had been transported to the Georgia coast. It did not suit. Not in the least. There might not be an insane Bertha Mason guarded by Grace Poole hidden away in the attics, but Sarah Anne couldn’t quite rid herself of a niggling sensation of unease. The place just didn’t feel right.
Sarah Anne bit down on her inner cheek to rein in her rushing thoughts. This was not the time to let her imagination run free. Failing in this position simply was not an option.
With that, she squared her shoulders and yanked the gloves back over her hands until her fingers strained against the mesh. The force of her knock served as a physical reminder of why she stood upon the Ripon House threshold awaiting admittance to its world.
