~ Lord Of High Cliff Manor ~

One

When High Cliff Manor loomed before me at the end of the drive, a soft breath caught in my throat, for the imposing structure bore a vague resemblance to the castle I had daydreamed of as a child. I was blessed with a wonderfully vivid imagination, which had, in the quiet and lonely times of my youth, entertained me with picturesque visions of high adventure. My favorite was the castle, for I had proclaimed myself queen, and reigned over a vast kingdom protected by fire-breathing dragons. Best of all, I had been courted by knights in shining armor. I cherished those romantic visions and tenaciously clung to them for comfort when I’d lain near death, after the wagon accident that had claimed my parents.

But that was ten years ago, in my thirteenth year, and I was no more a queen than this place, for all its size and majesty, was a castle. It was not constructed of stone and mortar and guarded by a well-stocked moat of carnivorous creatures. Nor were there any gaping turrets, though the octagonal tower at the front entrance did give that portion of the house a medieval look. High Cliff Manor was an ornate, white frame dwelling that rose a ponderous three stories, overlooking the jagged cliffs of Puget Sound, in Washington Territory. To the rear of the structure was a neat fenced-in yard, where children could play, and a small covered porch with windows of gleaming glass that reflected sprawling lawns and, beyond, towering trees and lush vegetation.

And I knew that when I left this carriage and approached the front door, with its full-length oval insert of crystal-clear glass, its clarity would mirror my image. Not that there was much of me to reflect, for I was slightly less than medium height, with a slender figure garbed this crisp autumn morning in a beige flannel reefer suit and wearing a small hat with a feather. It wasn’t the most stylish outfit of 1882, but I hadn’t been employed by Mark Kennecott to look fashionable. After all, teachers were presumed to be prim and proper, although there was a limit to what my cheerful and adventurous nature could bear. For one thing, I refused to force my auburn curls into a knot at the nape of the neck, in compliance with the unwritten code for women of my profession. Nor would I allow my full lips to adopt a pinched, sour attitude, or my green eyes to narrow in a studious squint.

Unfortunately, because I did not look like the typical teacher, I’d been rejected for several private positions. While the majority of husbands had favored hiring me, the wives had squelched my prospects for work.

At least at High Cliff Manor I would not be under the scrutiny of a wife’s dissecting eye. The desk clerk at the local hotel, here in Port Townsend, had commented that Mr. Mark Kennecott was not married.

I wasn’t particularly surprised by that announcement, for no wife had been mentioned in his letters pertaining to this position. Moreover, he had clearly stated that the child I was to tutor was his seven-year-old nephew, Kirk Ramsay. However, Mr. Kennecott failed to inform me that the boy was sullen and suffered from recurring nightmares. This, too, I learned from the talkative desk clerk. "I hope you fare better with the boy than them other teachers did," the man said sincerely.

"Others?" I returned, trying unsuccessfully to suppress surprise.

"That’s right." He nodded. "Been three altogether, in, oh, I’d say the past six months. They couldn’t handle the boy and were sent packing, one right after the other. The last I heard, no teachers in these parts wanted that job. So now I knew why I’d been imported from down the coast in Portland and why Mr. Kennecott had advertised for a tutor in the papers there.

The clerk leaned closer and continued, his voice low and confidential. "Frankly, it ain’t just the boy keeping the teachers away, it’s that terrible tugboat explosion what killed his father, and all save one of his crew. Maybe you read about it, though, in the Portland papers. It happened right out there in the sound, last January."

I couldn’t hide my curiosity. Still, it was not my place to indulge in gossip over my employers, no matter how tempted I was. "No, I hadn’t read about it," I answered with the simple truth, for nine months back, in January, I’d been too busy caring for my ailing grandmother to pay much attention to the papers. And I was just about to put an end to this gossip by tactfully excusing myself when the clerk went on, "It was a thunderous explosion, rocked the ground for miles around, and the flames lit up the night sky like a million torches. It was a Kennecott tug that went up, you know."

Of course I didn’t know, though I was aware of the family business, Kennecott and Ramsay Tugboat and Barge Company. "What caused the explosion?" I asked.

A puzzled expression came into the man’s faded eyes, and his voice sounded distant, as if he’d been transported back in time, to the tragedy. "No one really knows. Mr. Kennecott says sabotage. Some say negligence. Others is just plain suspicious."

"Why suspicious?"

He shrugged. "The insurance, I suppose."

"You mean some people think Mr. Kennecott deliberately--" My voice broke on a wave of alarm.

The same alarm snapped the clerk back to reality, and I could see from the tightness that came to his mouth that he’d said more than he’d intended. He licked his lips, then said in a rush, "The Kennecotts is fine people, done a lot of good for the town. They’ve just fallen to misfortune lately, and only the foolish is suspicious."

Now what was I supposed to make of that? Were the Kennecotts upright citizens? Or was their integrity tarnished, yet still above reproach because of good deeds beneficial to the community? In all truth, I didn’t want to know, for if it turned out to be the latter, I would be compelled to seek employment elsewhere. I couldn’t afford to do that. Not now. Not until I’d replenished my savings. It had taken every penny I’d put away to cover my dear grandmother’s medical bills and, sadly, the ensuing funeral expenses.

Luckily for me, the uncomfortable corner the clerk had worked himself into dampened his zeal for gossip. He wished me well in my new position, then resumed his work.

I doubted Mr. Kennecott would have reserved an overnight room for me at that particular hotel if he’d known of the clerk’s loose tongue. Not that I intended to mention it to him. All I wanted was to get on with my life and my work. For now, both were here at High Cliff Manor.

From beside me in the carriage, the young driver, a sandy-haired apprentice from Kennecott and Ramsay, reined in. He jumped down, and as he extended a helping hand, the prickling sensation of being secretly watched suddenly came over me. Quickly I scanned the main-floor windows, half expecting to see someone peering out at me from behind a curtain. But there wasn’t a soul in sight.

"You go on ahead, miss," the boy said politely, after handing me down. "And I’ll fetch your bags."

Still distracted by the unsettling sensation that gripped me, I simply nodded. As I moved along the short walkway and ascended the porch steps, I resisted the urge to stop and scan the other windows facing the drive and the ragged cliffs.

I glanced back at the driver, hoisting valises, then let my gaze dart over the lawn to the woods on the west. The abundant Douglas firs and hemlocks rose majestically above a jungle of ferns and vines and the less stately deciduous trees, with their showy displays of flame-colored autumn leaves.

Wooded landscape such as this was familiar to me, for I was born and reared in a small logging community near Portland. As a child I knew the joys of exploring the forest and how perfectly suited it was to playing hide-and-seek.

Fleetingly I wondered if someone might have been spying on me from the woods, though I couldn’t imagine why anyone would be inclined to do such a thing. That thought led me to suspect that most likely the intriguingly quiet atmosphere, coupled with what the desk clerk had mentioned about the boy, the succession of teachers, and the mysterious tugboat explosion, had sparked my imagination.

I had hardly knocked upon the door before it was opened by an attractive, blond-haired young woman in serviceable gray. "Good morning," I said. "I’m Jennifer Shanley, the new teacher."