READ RANNEY - NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES€¦ · The book was Aesop’s Fables. I began to read, confused at first. Why was I reading about a fox who stole grapes, or a dog who wouldn’t

READ RANNEY - SHORT STORIES AND NOVELLAS

A collection of excerpts from:

Flash Fables The UnmentionablesA Dance in the Dark The Greatest Gift

This document is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other

applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including

resale rights: you are not allowed to give or sell this book to anyone else.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any

persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be

the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied

endorsement.

Copyright © 2014 Karen Ranney All rights reserved worldwide.

Read Ranney - Excerpts from Novellas & Short Stories

1

FLASH FABLES

A note from Flash

I was born on December 25, 2008, the last of a litter of six male Shelties. That’s why my

AKC name is Flash Photo Finish. The rest of my brothers are merle; I am the only tri-color in the

bunch. My black coat looks stupendous with my white ruff and tan and white paws.

For a year and a half I lived with my breeder and my brothers. One day a woman

appeared at the door, clutching a tattered map in one hand and looking frazzled.

“Are you Greta Elizabeth?” she asked. “I’ve come to see your Shelties.”

I was trotted out to be inspected and evidently approved because the next thing I knew I

was saying goodbye to my brothers and the two nasty cats in the household.

It was June, 2010 when I came to live with the person I call My Karen. Before that, she

told me she led a very calm and ordered existence. I can definitely state that her life hasn’t been

the same since.

However, I tend to be a very wise dog and impart a great many lessons without actually

saying a word. Since My Karen is a writer, she got the idea of putting down the lessons I’ve

taught her in this book.

Kibble and treats can be sent to me in care of My Karen. (I especially like cheese and

chicken.)

Flash, aka:

Flash the Wonder Pooch

Sir Barksalot

Mr. Mouth


2

A note from My Karen

When I was a little girl my father, being an Air Force pilot, was TDY (Temporary Duty)

a lot. Whenever he returned he brought me a gift. Early on, he realized that I loved books the

most.

One day he brought me an ugly gray book. Inside there weren’t pretty illustrations, only

line drawings and crowded type. Little did I know that it was to become my favorite present.

The book was Aesop’s Fables.

I began to read, confused at first. Why was I reading about a fox who stole grapes, or a

dog who wouldn’t let the cows eat their own hay? I didn’t realize I was learning life lessons.

Flash Fables is a small nod to that great book.

Flash and I hope you enjoy them. (Don’t send him anything - he’s on a diet.)

My Karen, aka Karen Ranney

The Keeper of the Kibble


3

PLEASE ALL AND YOU PLEASE NONE

Once upon a time, my brother was being groomed as a show dog. He was quite a

handsome creature, and I can say that with no jealousy whatsoever. You see, he and I look alike.

However, King had the malleable temperament to be in the show ring while I, Flash the Wonder

Pooch, had more of a distinctive personality.

Our breeder, a woman by the name of Greta Elizabeth, was very determined to be a show

dog owner. She had bred litter upon litter very carefully to obtain the very best characteristics in

her puppies.

This new litter, of which I was the last puppy, was comprised of six males. King was the

most promising of all of us. From the very beginning, she tested each of our personalities. To be

a show dog, you have to like the attention but first you must be agreeable and submissive.

Greta Elizabeth had a daughter by the name of Tonya. The two women exercised King

every day, putting him through his paces, training him to have perfect posture and accept the

applause of the crowd without flinching.

My four brothers and I sat there watching. We couldn't help but pick up some pointers

along the way. That's why, of course, I sit so perfectly and why I have a tendency to prance with

my tail aloft.

The more Greta Elizabeth and Tonya worked with King, the more he tried to please

them. The more he tried to please them the more dissatisfied they became.

Finally, they pulled in another person to assist, a man named David who had quite a

reputation with show dogs. For months David worked with King, even taking him to his ranch

outside San Antonio. When he returned King was the most pompous dog I’ve ever met.

Greta Elizabeth and Tonya were horrified. Instead of the pleasant manner King had

always possessed, he now acted just like David. He did everything David wanted. When David

crooked his finger, King came trotting. Greta Elizabeth and Tonya were so upset that they had

lost control over King they dismissed David.

It took King a few weeks to learn that he needed to listen to Greta Elizabeth and Tonya

again. But the minute he began to listen to them, the more dissatisfied they became.


4

Poor King couldn't please anyone.

The moral of this story: please all and you please none.

Or happy is the man who learns from the misfortunes of others, because Greta Elizabeth

and Tonya started eyeing me as King’s replacement. I had learned from his awful experience, so

I immediately pretended to be too stubborn and recalcitrant to ever be a show dog.


5

FLATTERERS ARE NOT TO BE TRUSTED

“You are such a beautiful dog," My Karen said.

She scratched me between the ears, in that little hollow right at the base of each ear. I

liked those spots and my ears flattened whenever she rubbed me there. The areas right in front of

my ears were also sensitive and she rubbed those with the knuckles of each hand, smiling down

into my face.

"What a beautiful dog you are," she said, her tone warm and crooning.

My eyes fixed on her, hopeful. Whenever she used that voice, it was almost always

followed up with a treat.

For the last month - ever since coming to live with her - I’d learned that all I had to do

was sit there and allow myself to be petted and praised. That’s all and I was given a treat.

I slipped to my belly, forelegs stretched out in front of me, nose in the air, ever

optimistic.

"You are the best dog in the whole wide world, aren't you?" she asked.

I smiled back at her.

"And so smart. Flash, you are the smartest dog ever."

I inclined my head in modest acknowledgment of her words. Who am I to correct My

Karen?

She went to the door of the kitchen, retrieved my leash from a hook there, and returned

to my side, slipping it over my head. Continuing to croon to me, she took me to the garage door.

Ordinarily, I would've balked right about now, but she was still telling me how wonderful I was.

I liked being told how handsome and smart I was. I especially enjoyed that all my

barking had been noted. Plus, I’d learned the tricks she taught me and repeated them every day.

I jumped into the back of the car with little urging, and before I knew it, we were at

another place, a building with which I wasn't familiar.

I didn't like the smells there - dogs, cats, and birds. My Karen knew how I felt about


6

birds. Overriding all of it was the smell of medicine.

I didn't want to go in, but she tugged on my leash and told me how wonderful I was.

When I awoke from the anesthesia, it was to find that two important parts of me were

missing. I was no longer Flash the Wonder Pooch. I was Flash the Neutered Pooch.

The moral of the story: flatterers are not to be trusted.


7

FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT

I live in a so-so neighborhood. It's nothing much to talk about. The houses are middle-

class. The neighborhood is middle-class. Frankly, I deserve a much better environment but it

could be worse. The roads aren’t flooded after it rains, and there haven't been any shootings here.

The house next door to me was sold not too long ago. I didn't know the people there, so it

didn't affect me all that much.

Until, of course, the Yorkies moved in.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a very tolerant dog - as long as you don’t

come into my house or property. I'm very warm and fuzzy. I believe in neighborliness and overall

general kindness toward my fellow creatures. The above has no bearing on my attitude towards

cats, squirrels, or divebombing doves.

When it came to the Yorkies - Hans and Helmut - I worried about what to give them to

welcome them to the neighborhood. I didn’t have a bone since I’m not allowed such things. Nor

am I permitted dog biscuits. I could give them some cauliflower but something told me they

wouldn’t be interested.

It’s an acquired taste, after all.

Even without a present to give them, I ambled over one day about a week after they

moved in and sat at the fence.

I used my very best manners and my warmest and sincerest Sheltie voice to bark out a

greeting that translated to: “Welcome to the neighborhood. I am Flash, the Wonder Pooch."

Both Yorkies immediately began yipping at me. It wasn’t a bark as much as it was an

annoying little noise, one that immediately assaulted my ears.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," I said once again, hoping for a more dignified response.

Hans sauntered toward the fence, and poked his snub nose between the boards.

“What are you?”

“I’m a Sheltie,” I said proudly. “A Shetland Sheepdog.” I decided not to recite my AKC

number at the moment.

“A Sheltie?” Hans said. “We’ve never heard of a Sheltie. You’re big. You’re clumsy.


8

You’re not nice and petite like we are. We don’t like your looks at all.”

Helmut stood beside him, snickering. (I have since learned that Yorkies snicker a great

deal.)

I decided there was nothing more to gain by being polite. I merely turned on my heel and

walked back to the kitchen door where My Karen let me in, smiling at my attempt to be friendly.

“Have you met the new neighbors? Are they nice?”

I gave her a soft woof, indicating my opinion of the Yorkies.

The intervening weeks have not become easier.

Hans and Helmut yip excessively. Whenever they are let out of their house, they

immediately come to the fence to bark at me. Me, a calm, and otherwise proud and aristocratic

breed, would like very much to herd them into position.

I have even dreamed of Yorkie-like sheep. Instead of baahing, they yip as I move them

into position.

I have taken to growling whenever I hear them in their yard. When I run out the back

door, alerted to their presence, the neighbors for a block around get into the discussion. The

Yorkies yip, the cute little white dog two doors down makes her presence known, the mastiff

barks, and the bloodhound bays at all of us.

We will never be friends, the Yorkies and I, and the more time passes, the less I like

them.

The moral of the story: familiarity breeds contempt. Or sometimes, it’s good to have a

fence.


9

THE UNMENTIONABLES

MY LADY'S DRAWERS

I do not tolerate idiots. Therefore, if you are in the way of being a fool, please do not

bother me. I am not impressed by stupidity. Nor am I wont to be swayed by silliness.

Also, I will tolerate no giggling about my construction, if you please.

I am, and have always been, of a certain function. I am here to cover the nether regions

of my lady while still giving her the freedom to exercise certain bodily functions.

My purpose is to curve around my lady's buttocks. In the front, I modestly drape from

the waist all the way down to cover certain portions of the anatomy. If there is a split between my

two legs, it is done strictly from a practical standpoint. And is not subject, whatsoever, to any

kind of amusement.

I have been, for this past year, attached to a certain lady. You might glean then, or not,

that she is a titled personage. I am, because I serve a function in her wardrobe and in her home,

quite fulsomely decorated with lace. However, I would still serve an excellent purpose being

plain and unadorned. Still, I can stand the test of attractiveness against any of the newer drawers

called knickerbockers proffered to my lady.

I am, if I might say so, quite handsome.

Plus, a little age has given me a certain ecru color. I am my lady's favorite pair of

drawers.

I was there when his lordship decided to ravage my lady in the carriage on the way to a

ball. Granted, she did look beautiful, but I have not quite forgiven him for ripping a few stitches

on my form. True, the seamstress healed me magically, and added a bit more lace in apology for

the rough handling. Still, I think he should have recalled himself to the place and the time. Later,

he stated he was overcome by lust for her.

My lady's complexion turned a rosy hue at that, and she forgave him all too easily. In

fact, there was little to forgive. She had been as lusty as he.


10

I was there when she realized she was with child. Every month, she protected me well

with the monthly cloths kept in the bottom drawer. That month, however there was no need of

the cloths. Nor was there a need the following month.

I was there throughout the wait. When, finally, her child grew so large that I could no

longer be used, she placed me lovingly back in my drawer and promised me that I would be seen

as soon as the babe was delivered.

In time, the child was born. Not an heir, but a girl. My lady didn't appear to be

disappointed in that fact. If anything, she was relieved that the child was healthy.

My lady has proven to be correct in her promise. I was, once again, in my proper place.

But the rest of our lives had changed dramatically. We were reminded, each hour, of just how

healthy the infant was. She wailed from morning until dusk, then all through the night. We grew

hollow-eyed and haggard, but the child cried on. We could hear her from here, and we were two

floors away from the nursery.

Finally, in desperation, my lady summoned the nurse.

"Why is she crying again?" she asked.

"My lady, I don't know. We have used whiskey on her gums, but she is too young to be

teething. I have sent for another wet nurse, thinking that the breast milk curdled from the first."

"Bring her to me," my lady said.

I could sense the nurse's absolute horror. Such things were not done. A titled woman gave

birth, and then gave the child to the nurse and nanny to be reared. Once in a while, true, she

stepped into the nursery to greet her offspring. This was done so the child could at least

recognize his parent.

Otherwise, a countess did not raise a child.

"I couldn't, your ladyship," the nurse said.

For a moment, there was only silence.

"You will bring my child to me, nurse," my lady said, her voice soft, but the meaning

clear. If the nurse would not do as she was told, she would be summarily dismissed.

Not another word was spoken. The nurse must have bowed and left.

I could trace the infant's progress from the nursery two floors up, down the stairs, then


11

down the second set of stairs, through the hallway and to my lady's sitting room.

The minute the infant and nurse entered the room, the child ceased in her wails.

My lady sat up in her chair, pressing one hand against her breast as if having received a

message from the infant tyrant herself. She motioned for her maid to assist her, removed her top,

then unfastened the busk of her corset, before making swift work of her chemise. Shockingly,

and in defiance of everything she'd been taught, the countess bared her breast and began to

suckle her daughter.

The infant immediately settled in to feed, sighing every once in awhile as if exhausted

from the battle.

When the earl entered his wife's sitting room a few minutes later, it was evident that the

nurse had summoned him.

"What is amiss here?" he asked, with all the subtlety of a man who had never been in the

company of women. There were times when I despaired of the human race, or at least the male

half.

"Your ladyship refuses to surrender the babe, Your Lordship," the nurse said, her face

twisted in disapproval.

The earl's eyebrows winged upward as he turned his attention to his wife.

"Is that true, Candace?"

She didn't answer, merely watched her daughter's face. Only then did the earl seem to

realize that the countess had divested herself of her upper clothing, and was allowing the infant

access to her breast.

You would think that the man had never before seen a breast used in such a fashion.

He paled, then reddened, then paled again, each shade of complexion accompanied by a

forward step.

"Candace. My dear, you can't possibly think –." His words trailed off into nothingness as

his wife interrupted him.

"Yes," she said. "I do think. And I have been miserable, Daniel. I cannot think this is a

bad thing. After all, this is my child. Who better to feed her then her own mother?"

"It's not done," he said flatly.


12

"Well it is now, Daniel."

For the very first time in all my years with my lady, she sounded irritated. Worse, she

directed that emotion to the earl, a man who looked as flummoxed by her irritation as I felt.

Thus was a battle begun, one of such proportions that I swear I never would have thought

it possible. My lady, demure and quiet spoken – even during that regrettable occasion in the

carriage – stood steadfast and firm against her more powerful and stronger husband.

She involved me in every campaign. She took to dispensing with her corset, dressing in

her chemise and me, with her wrapper atop us. This way, she could be more available to her child

when the baby needed to suckle.

Either that female was the greediest infant I have ever seen – although I will admit I have

not been around many – or she was just enamored of being held close in her mother's arms. She

was incessantly hungry and whenever she was put to the breast, her father seemed to sense it,

too, because he'd enter the sitting room just at that time, glare at his wife and the nurse, then turn

on his heel and leave.

Perhaps he thought that my lady would miss his company. True, they had not been

married long, and it had been a love match. Or one of lust, again thinking of that scandalous

episode in the carriage.

But in lieu of his presence, he'd gifted my lady with another distraction, the child who

grew more beautiful each day until even I was certain of her attractiveness.

And my lady – the changes in her were simply remarkable. Oh, she'd been lovely before,

but nothing as to what she appeared now. Her cheeks were rosy. Her blonde hair seemed to shine

even more. Her blue eyes sparkled with joy.

I do believe the Earl expected her to tire of such a diversion only too quickly. Instead, as

the days passed, my lady grew even more fond of her child.

Each day was the same. We spent the morning hours bathing the child, followed by a

total inspection, coupled with praise about her attributes. Her hands, her arms, her legs, her pretty

little belly were all admired. At times, my lady even added a few silly phrases, and I, as much as

I disliked overt sentimentality, had to smile.

In the afternoon, the infant napped, and so did her mother, a faint smile on the countess's


13

face indicating her complete contentment.

The baby thrived. No one could doubt that the countess had made an excellent choice to

feed her own child. Even the nurse fell silent. After the third day, she'd taken up a chair in the

corner of the sitting room, ready to be of assistance if needed.

One day, the earl entered the room, then abruptly stopped when he saw his wife and their

daughter. For a moment, I expected him to turn on his heel as he'd done every day for the past

week and, without a word, leave the room.

Instead, he walked toward us. "You are well, Candace?"

At that moment, his daughter turned her head and waving her fists at him, greeted her

father with a gurgle of laughter.

"See that, Daniel? Say hello to your father, my angel."

The poor man looked torn. He stood there, uncertain whether to leave or to respond to his

wife. In the end, he was defeated by his lesser instincts, because he turned and left the room

without greeting either his daughter or his wife.

This visit was to replay itself over and over for the next two weeks. Then, just when I

thought the earl was as stubborn as the countess, he entered the sitting room, stopped in the

middle of the chamber, regarding his wife and daughter with some intensity.

"She looks well," he said.

My lady smiled. "That's what happens when a child is being properly fed."

"Is that why she cried all the while before?"

"I believe it is. We tend to cry aloud for those things we most need."

"I am crying aloud, Candace. Can you not hear me?"

The countess sent a look toward the nurse who, in the way of all better servants,

understood immediately. The woman stood and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

There was only the earl, the countess, and the infant in the room.

Of course, I was there as well.

"You cannot separate me from my daughter, Daniel, not even for your convenience. If

you think to do so, I will stitch my drawers together."

I winced, but managed not to demonstrate my complete horror. As far as the earl, he


14

looked astounded at that statement.

"Motherhood has changed you, Candace."

She glanced down at her daughter, asleep in her arms, before turning to her husband.

"No, Daniel, I think it is love that has changed me."

His face seemed to darken. "Does that mean you did not love me, Candace?"

She smiled, an expression that seemed to perplex her husband.

"I seem to love you all the more now," she said softly. "Even when you are being an ass."

"I'm being an ass?"

"Oh you are, Daniel. By banishing our daughter to the nursery, you've shut yourself off

from so much joy."

"She's but a babe."

His daughter seemed to know she was being spoken of, because she woke and frowned.

"She is your child, Daniel. Can you doubt it?" She looked down at her child's face. "Look

at that scowl, Daniel. It is the mirror of yours. I do not know of two people with such a similar

temperament."

Once again, he studied his daughter.

"It is not done, Candace."

"It was not done, Daniel," she said agreeably. "Perhaps not in your father's time, or mine.

But it is being done here and now in this house."

His smile seemed rather rueful to me. "And if you do not get your way, Candace? You'll

sew your drawers together?"

"I doubt they should like that very much," she said which gave me a start, let me tell you.

"They are so accustomed to you."

Now that wasn't completely true. I felt the need to defend myself. But before I could

even think of a rejoinder, my lady surprised me once again by walking toward her husband and

thrusting the little noisy bundle into his arms.

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Hold her."

"I can't hold her. That's for nannies, governesses, and nurses."


15

"And mothers," she added. "And fathers, too."

"I had no idea you had this egalitarian streak in you, Candace," he said, but opened his

arms slightly.

He held his child with some nervousness, and little skill, but he was a determined man,

and would learn for no other reason than to not fail.

His daughter stared up at the earl with an earnest expression, almost as if she were

examining him now.

"She does look like me," he said in surprise. "But she has your stubbornness."

My lady didn't say a word. Instead, she went and sat again, regarding the earl with a

great deal more favor than earlier.

As for his lordship, he stared down at his daughter's face until she began to cry.

Dumbstruck, he looked at his wife.

"What do I do now?"

"You bring her to me," my lady said calmly, and opened the chemise the seamstress had

altered for her.

Without any hesitation at all, she bared a breast. When the earl reached her, she stretched

her arms upward for her daughter. Surprisingly, her husband did not move away after

relinquishing their child. Instead, he settled to his knees beside the chair, trailing his fingers over

the swollen breast, and gently touching the nipple as his daughter rooted for it.

"I confess to being jealous," he said.

"It's too soon, Daniel," my lady said in remonstrance.

The earl shook his head. "That's not what I meant," he said. "You are so close, the two of

you."

My lady extended her right arm and rested it on his shoulders. "Wherever we

are,Daniel," she said, "you are, as well. We are your family. You are ours."

His lordship has all the makings of a satyr. He leaned forward and kissed his wife.

Perhaps I still have some grievance over his mishandling of me, but he does not seem to

be in control of all his libidinous impulses.

He still salivates around my lady.


16

So, too, does his daughter.

From that day to this, there has been a change in our household. The earl sits in the

nurse's chair and has for many weeks now. He is the one to comment on their child's growth. His

daughter smiles and coos and has a decided preference for his company. Laughter abounds.

And there is, I am delighted to say, no more talk of stitching me up.


17

A DANCE IN THE DARK

CHAPTER 1

“Hello?”

There is no one here, Louisa. But it didn’t seem that way. Somehow,

incredibly, she didn’t feel alone, but as if she were being watched. As if someone was

there, waiting in the shadows. A feeling of alarm skittered over her skin and then

was silenced by a thought. There is nothing here, Louisa. It’s simply that you have

always disliked dark places. They make you feel unnerved. That is all it is. She

discounted the fact that she’d not been afraid of the dark since she was a child.

Ever since she was eight and had come to live at Bainbridge Hall, she’d

explored Hodge’s Hill and the surrounding countryside. But this afternoon, the sun

had gleamed just right on the outcropping of rock, illuminating the shadows behind

it, and the stone entrance that opened up to become this large, very dark, and

previously unknown cave. As a child she would have willingly explored it, she

thought, then stopped herself as truth washed over her again. As a child, she had

been timid and shy. She would have run from the spot and not asked a soul about it.

Even now, so many years later, the echo of that child’s voice resounded in her mind

as she stood in front of it. It’s dark and dirty and bats live there. Not to mention

spiders. Maybe even worse. You’ll soil your dress and muss your hair and people will

know you’ve been somewhere you shouldn’t have been.

She waved her hand in the air in front of her as if to banish so many


18

admonitions. She was no longer a child and dark places didn’t really scare her

anymore, and it was so odd to see something nearly hidden from view and then to

magically come upon it. Almost like a plain rock that turns out somehow to be a

diamond. The cave lured her to investigate, to take one step and then one more into

the solitary silence of a place she’d never known existed.

Perhaps she should not have explored this place on her own. It was not as if

she had meant to, after all. She had left Bainbridge Hall with her drawing

materials under her arm, intent upon a little solitude and promising her maid, her

Abigail, her grandfather’s secretary and all the other assorted persons she’d met

that she would be quite fine, that she was only going as far as Hodge’s Hill. They

had reluctantly refrained from accompanying her, granting her a precious gift of

time.

“I know you’re there. Why aren’t you answering?” Another step. She stood

there in the silence, absorbing all the sounds she heard. Somewhere, water dripped,

the wind soughed loudly as if it rushed through a chimney hole. Another sound,

unexpected and yet not totally so.

“I can hear you breathe.”

Silence again, and then the voice came.

“Are you always so intransigent?” The tone of it was decidedly annoyed.

She could not blame him, of course, she herself had sought privacy often only

to have it interrupted by yet another well meaning soul. No one in the world was

more cared for, cosseted, confined, and concerned about than Louisa Patterson. Very

rich young ladies normally are, she was told.

“No,” she answered honestly. “I do not believe I am. But I’m very good at

hiding from others, which is probably why I knew you were here. If you truly wish

me to leave, I shall.”

There was no response to that statement.

“If you’re trying to be unmannerly, you’re succeeding quite well.” The


19

darkness of the cave was pervasive. All she could see was blackness, the color of

night at its loneliest.

Why on earth had she come in here? Curiosity, it seemed, had gotten her into

a dilemma, one from which she could not politely extricate herself. After all, she

could not simply turn and walk away. Could she?

“You are not going away, are you?”

“I was just thinking how I could accomplish that with more manners than

you’ve evinced so far.” She frowned into the darkness.

“Is it entirely mannerly to lecture me on deportment , then?” The voice held a

distinct note of amusement now. Louisa felt her cheeks flush.

“I am sorry. My grandfather says I tend to think first and use reason only

later.”

“A lamentable habit.”

“I did not say that I agreed with him.” She touched her lips with her fingers,

more than a little surprised that such a thought had actually been said. Despite her

grandfather’s claims, there were few times in which she actually transgressed

socially. She was the Arthur Patterson’s granddaughter, a position about which she

was reminded daily, if not hourly. She owed a duty to her grandfather, one of love

and affection and strict attention to propriety.

“Ah, a woman with an opinion. How utterly rare.”

“Did you know that sarcasm is the pediment of fools?”

“Are you quoting, or is that, perhaps, a sentiment you’ve learned from

someone?”

“By that remark, am I to infer that it is your belief that women cannot

maintain a thought of their own?”

“Did you come in here to argue with me, then? Is there no one at Bainbridge

Hall to perform the chore with you?”

Surprise held her rigid for a moment. It was too good to be true, then, this


20

anonymity.

“Then you know who I am?”

“There is not much that goes on around here that I’m unaware of, Miss

Patterson.”

“And, I suppose, you shall mention to my grandfather how dreadfully

unmannered I’ve been.”

“You really must not sound so disconsolate. I have never exchanged a word

with your grandfather. Nor am I likely to. I simply am aware of a place not too far

removed from my own, much humbler, abode.”

“You cannot mean you live here?”

It was not silence between them then, the air carried too many sounds, a soft

shifting noise that might have been a footfall, a breath, a brush of fabric. All these

things seemed magnified and compressed in the darkness.

“You disapprove, I take it?”

She clasped her drawing pad closer to her chest.

“Come, you must have a thousand or more questions. I can almost hear them

popping from beneath your bonnet. Does your grandfather know of my existence, or

even this place? How can a man live among rock and stone? Why, above all, would I

choose such a place in which to make my home? Are you not suffused with

curiosity?”

It might be advisable to simply turn and leave after all. But the alternative

was to return to Bainbridge Hall and it was so lonely there lately.

“Yes,” she sighed, trapped in honesty. “For the answer to each and every one

of them.”

“A truly honest woman, then. Why did you come in here?”

“I have never seen the cave before. I wanted to see it.”

“And discovered a hermit in residence, and a surly one at that.”

“Is that what you are?”


21

“Surely not a reason to sound so absurdly gleeful.”

“Well, it is because I have never met one. My own life is too filled with

people.”

“You are young and unmarried. Such a circumstance is normal. As is this

meeting between us is not.”

“Oh, but this cave is part of Hodge’s Hill and therefore part of my dowry.”

“So, you claim ownership to my home. Does that fact demand an invitation?

Even outside the bonds of propriety, then?”

“No,” she said slowly. “You are correct of course.” It is just that my entire life

is comprised of being ever mindful of what other people say and what people think of

me. It had been refreshing to spend a few moments simply not caring.

“Sit down,” he said, and his voice was so close to her that she jumped,

startled. The impenetrable blackness was like a murky fog, shielding everything.

“Did I frighten you?”

“Yes,” she said, too discomfited for politeness.

Something brushed her hand, and she jerked it back, startled. It had been

like touching a spider’s web, something felt but not seen.

“Sit down, then, and I shall endeavor to be a host.”

“I cannot stay.” She fumbled with her drawing materials, grateful for

something to place between her and the deep shadows in front of her.

“Then go.” The voice was annoyed again, and did she imagine it, or was there

a tinge of disappointment there? Don’t be a silly goose, Louisa.

She really should not have said the next words, they were hideously

improper. “May I come again?”

“Perhaps I shall not be here.”

“If you are, may I visit you?”

There was no answer to her question, and long moments later, in the silence,

she turned and left the cave.


22

THE GREATEST GIFT

Chapter 1

Augusta Millicent Smithson was a devil on earth. That is, if the devil took on female

form, complete with a white wig and deeply rutted skin. Most of her servants thought so, backing

out of her presence as if fearing the thrust of a knife between their shoulders; those who believed

in such things crossed themselves hurriedly and with a passion once reserved only for the church.

Those relatives still living had long since decided that Augusta was, if not Satan, his apt

pupil on terra firma, an opinion they nevertheless hesitated from speaking aloud. It would not

have mattered if they'd shouted it from the rooftops, Augusta cared little for any person, living or

dead, and their opinions even less so.

She'd spent her life maintaining the great fortune she'd inherited, overseeing its use and

growth. Each day brought the realization that she could do very well without people as long as

she possessed money. The very nature of employing others to do her bidding. exposed Augusta to

the second great love of her life - power.

Yet neither obsession brought joy to her life. There were no lines crafted from years of

laughter on her face, no smile easily formed by grooves etched from just such an expression. Her

ice-blue eyes guaranteed the torment that comes from exposure to frozen temperatures. Her

mouth, when it smiled, exhibited such a grimace that it was a test of the most discerning to

decide if it were caused by bodily discomfort or evil itself.

Julia Anne Smithson had no doubt that it was caused by evil. Her aunt had the uncanny

ability of imposing her will on others when they were at their lowest ebb. She had fired the

undermaid not when she was accused of theft but when the girl had been hurt by a stone gargoyle

that had fallen from its perch at the roof line. Her foot was badly injured, and any other employer

would have set her to another task until she healed. Instead, she'd been sent from Cornwall in


23

disgrace and a promise of the poorhouse, not being able to work for a month or more. Or the fate

imposed upon the stable lad who'd been late saddling the huge gelding her aunt laboriously rode

each morning. He'd been summarily dismissed with no recommendation on the day he'd asked to

marry one of the apprentice cooks.

"Such is the price of sloth, Julia. You are to remember this."

Julia refrained from speaking at all. It was the wisest course. But then, her words were

rarely noted anyway.

For four years, she'd been subjected to Aunt Augusta, most of those years as cheerless as

the previous fourteen had been filled with joy. But when she was fourteen years old, she'd lost

her parents, her home, her laughter, and, occasionally, her hope.

Hope, however, was something with a life of its own. It continued to live, despite her

anxious efforts to drown it in unwelcome tears. It curled up its little feet and remained dormant

for a while, waiting until the most propitious moment to spring free and bring her a feeling

almost giddy in its wave of excitement.

Like now.

There was nothing about standing in front of her aunt's imposing desk that was different

this morning. Nothing to engender such a wayward emotion. Each morning, she did the same,

even when she was being punished, erect posture, hands at her side, chin at the angle her aunt

insisted upon, hair braided and tight against her scalp. Every morning, at the striking of the

clock, dressed in her black dresses with their edge of white ruching and the stern, practical shoes

that were polished every night, not by the upstairs servants but by Julia, in order to learn

humility.

Each time, it was the same. Aunt Augusta reading her day's correspondence, intent upon

the workings of her own mind and the stack of papers upon her desk, as if the sight of her only

niece held no more interest for her than a doorstep. And she did not, did she? But a doorstop

remained, solid, without moving. Should she stir after a few hours, the great boar's nose in the

pig's face would raise up. Those frozen eyes would pin her in place.

Eyes that were mirrors to a frozen soul.

"Quit your fidgeting, Julia. You know well the manners of a gentlewoman. Is it too much


24

to expect you to remember them from time to time?”

There was no response, of course. There never was. What could you say to such endless

criticism? I am sorry, Aunt. How many times had she said that in the last four years? How many

times, until it occurred to her that the repetition was no longer necessary?

What had she done?

Drawn breath. Accepted life as the great gift it had been from her parents. Been the

product of the union between Augusta's much-beloved brother and a woman who was not a

proper match. Her mother's family had not been poor; her grandfather had been knighted for

services to the crown. But nobility, and possessions, hadn't mattered to the man who'd stolen her

mother's heart. Her father had been titled, it was true, but the only appellation he'd wanted from

her was "Father," and the word he died with on his lips had been of his wife: "Beloved."

Sometimes, though, Julia thought, Aunt Augusta would have been pleased if Julia had

died in the four years her parents had been gone. There were moments in which she'd wondered

if Aunt Augusta would coax that bitter mouth into a smile upon learning of Julia’s untimely

death.

There were times she, herself, had thought it, sitting at her dressing table, not able to

spend one more night in this house, shrouded as it was by only the ghosts of joy. One more

endless day of regimen and criticism and harsh rebukes. Yes, there were times in which she'd

thought of dying and almost welcomed death.

Except for hope, the little feet of which were tapping a pattern against her heart right this

moment.

The porcine face raised up and pointed an imperious, wobbly, chin at her.

"You look sickly. Are you ailing?" If there was concern in Augusta's voice, it was the

same regard she would give a mount that limped or a stalk of rye that looked diseased. She was

nothing more than a possession.

"I am well."

"Good. Illness is an excuse for the weak. You'd be wise to remember this if you are to

avoid the fate of your parents. As if will alone could have halted the measles epidemic that

decimated their town, taking with it not only the very young and the very old, but the hale and


25

hearty.

Defense was inconceivable, however. It would gain her little but banishment to her room

for the rest of the day. She'd been there nearly a week, the reason she was looking sickly enough

to catch Aunt Augusta's notice. She was refused books or needlework or distraction of any kind

while she pondered her station in life; only one meal a day was permitted her and that was

thinned oatmeal with a piece of bread and lukewarm tea. All of this punishment for an infraction

too minute to recall at this particular moment. Perhaps she had spoken when she should have

remained silent, looked rebellious when she should have been meek, protested the endless

slander of her mother's name in such a way as to invoke the demon's wrath.

A twitch of Augusta's lips might have been a smile. Or a frisson of triumph. Julia looked

down at the carpet in front of her desk, knowing without being reminded that a direct stare would

only be rewarded by more punishment.

"You are eighteen today."

"Yes, Aunt Augusta."

"If my brother had lived, you would have been feted as a princess, of course.”

Silence. She was not falling into that neat trap.

"But he is not alive, and I am your guardian, am I not?"

"Yes, Aunt Augusta. "

"And what do you think I should give you on this grand day?”

It was the worst type of question, one that demanded an answer and for which there was

no answer. Anything she would say would be wrong.

"Your good wishes." It seemed an innocuous thing, this small, reedy sentence.

Aunt Augusta tapped fat fingers against her dimpled chin as if considering the matter.

The ice-blue eyes slitted.

"I imagine you've thought yourself well pleased by your prospects. "

Another trap baited with words. "I do not know, Aunt Augusta."

"It is my duty, is it not, to provide for your well-being?"

“I do not know, Aunt Augusta."

That, at least, was the truth. Julia truly did not know the fate to be meted out to her by


26

Augusta's hand. For the last four years, she'd lived subjected to the hills and valleys of Augusta's

whims. She'd been educated by a timid governess for two of those years, not permitted to attend

one of the gentlewomen's schools. Although wealthy, her aunt begrudged any amount of money

expended for Julia’s benefit. It was why there would be no coming out in London, no debut

parties, no balls, nothing that she could have expected had her parents lived. Her father's title had

passed to a distant cousin, and what money he possessed into his sister's hands.

When the mood struck her, Augusta would leave the Cornish coast and live in another

one of her homes scattered throughout England or reside in the London town house. For a few

months, Julia was allowed a taste of peace and freedom that was almost dangerous. She came to

expect it, to revel in it, thereby missing it more when Augusta returned and instituted her little

daily terrors.

"My present to you is your future."

The little feet of hope stilled at the look on her aunt's face. There was a smile etched

across those thin, bloodless lips, hidden in the bloated face rumored to have always been

unattractive. Yet years before, the features had not been blurred with folds of fat.

Julia didn't speak. She didn't have to. The words were coming, the fate hers to hear in

only seconds.

“I've contracted a marriage for you, Julia."

Hope breathed again, lived, danced, soared high in her chest, for all that she gave it no

outward encouragement. Like a puppy taken on a stroll for the first time, it was unruly,

unchained, ecstatic. Freedom. It breathed a song in her ear.

"In two weeks, you will marry Barnaby Carver.”

Hope choked on its leash.

Barnaby Carver was her aunt's solicitor, famous not only for his business acumen or his

skill with the law, but the number of wives he'd married and buried in the sixty years he'd been

alive. The fact that his advanced age was fast overcoming his matrimonial prowess as a point of

fame could be the reason he wanted another bride. The fact that her aunt hated her was

undoubtedly the reason Julia had been offered as the sacrifice.

Perhaps it was a hatred based on appearance. She had been told she looked like her


27

mother. Julia didn't remember her mother’s face clearly; the only miniature she'd possessed had

been taken from her when she'd arrived in Cornwall. Only her mother's smile remained etched in

her heart. Even now, she could close her eyes and envision it, feel the ache that spoke of loss and

pain laced with love. Even now, standing before her aunt, with Augusta’s glittery hard eyes

mirroring the dismal future she'd planned for her, Julia could feel the warmth of her parent’s

love. And mourn for its loss.

"What? No gratitude?"

"Thank you, Aunt Augusta." Words nearly choked her, but she would not give the older

woman the comfort of seeing her revulsion.

"Well, at least you've stopped those missish tears. My training has, no doubt, made some

changes in your frenchified nature."

“My mother was not French."

Aunt Augusta stood, palms flattened against the massive mahogany desk, "Your mother

was a French whore with a penchant for spreading her legs to any man with a shilling in his

pocket. She died of the pox and carried my brother with her."

There was a smile this time, a genuine eyes-lighting demonic smile that revealed

yellowing teeth as sharp as those of any carnivore.

Julia clenched her hands into fists, stood watching as the only relative she had left in the

world circled the desk and stood facing her, daring her to speak.

"She was a slut with the morals of a barn cat in perpetual heat, who enchanted my

brother and tricked him into marriage. Or are you what I believe you to be, a bastard chill of a

bastard whore?" The words were sweetly spoken, the clipped accents of nobility making the

insults that much more degrading.

Julia looked down at the floor.

"What? No protests?"

She'd had the words beaten from her. Julia would not now give her aunt the excuse she

so eagerly wished for, a justification for her own punishment.

Marriage to Barnaby Carver would be death enough.

A thought that, no doubt, added to her aunt's sudden good humor.


28

"Go to your room, Julia. Dream of your bridegroom." The sound of her laughter seemed

tinged with madness.


29

WOULD YOU…?

Like to join the Warm Fuzzies Newsletter? Click here for more information:

http://karenranney.com/subscribe-warm-fuzzies-newsletter/

Like to visit my website at http://karenranney.com?

Or read about my other books?

The Virgin of Clan SinclairHer imagination gave her a hero, Fate conjured up the man, and her mother insisted she marry him.

The Witch of Clan Sinclair A woman fights her attraction for the most arrogant man she’d ever met, only to realize that she was running away from true love.

The Devil of Clan SinclairHow much will a man sacrifice to attain his dream of a clan and an empire?

The Lass Wore BlackCan a woman learn a lesson about life in order to find love? A Scandalous ScotWould they be able to share their secrets or each hide a scandal? A Scottish LoveTwo lovers have a choice: to bury their pride or remain stubborn and lose a second chance at love. A Borrowed ScotAn American discovers that nothing is quite as he expected: neither the estate he inherited in Scotland nor the woman he was forced to marry. A Highland Duchess

http://karenranney.com/subscribe-warm-fuzzies-newsletter/

http://karenranney.com?

http://karenranney.com/the-virgin-of-clan-sinclair/

http://karenranney.com/the-witch-of-clan-sinclair/

http://karenranney.com/the-devil-of-clan-sinclair/

http://karenranney.com/the-lass-wore-black/

http://karenranney.com/a-scottish-love/

http://karenranney.com/a-scottish-love/

http://karenranney.com/a-borrowed-scot-3/

http://karenranney.com/a-highland-duchess-2/


30

A woman who doesn’t believe in love meets a man who believes too much. Sold to a LairdA woman agrees to wed to save her mother, unknowing that her new husband will change her life. A Scotsman in LoveA widower trying to endure his grief and a woman hiding from a violent act reluctantly find each other and discover, in the process, that life really is worth living. The Devil Wears TartanA man suffering from opium withdrawal must marry to carry on his title but the wife picked for him insists on not only being his love but his savior. The Scottish CompanionAn earl becomes betrothed to one woman and falls in love with her companion while trying to solve the mystery of who’s killing his family. Autumn in ScotlandAn English woman marries a Scottish earl, is deserted by him, and takes ownership of his moldering castle – until he returns from the dead, not exactly the person she remembered. An Unlikely GovernessA woman is hired to be the governess of a young duke, falls in love with his uncle, and has to decide if she trusts the man she loves enough to believe he isn’t a murderer. Till Next We MeetThe wife of a rake falls in love with him through his letters but when he dies, she’s shattered and unwilling to love again, even if her new husband is the man who’s loved her all along. The Highland Lords SeriesFive books that chronicle the lives of the MacRae family. One Man’s Love #1When the Laird Returns #2The Irresistible MacRae #3To Love a Scottish Lord #4So in Love #5

After the KissA penurious widow finds a set of erotic journals and arranges to sell them to a fascinating man who bargains for a kiss – and more.

http://karenranney.com/sold-to-a-laird-1/

http://karenranney.com/a-scotsman-in-love/

http://karenranney.com/the-devil-wears-tartan/

http://karenranney.com/the-scottish-companion/

http://karenranney.com/autumn-in-scotland/

http://karenranney.com/an-unlikely-governess/

http://karenranney.com/till-next-we-meet/

http://karenranney.com/one-mans-love/

http://karenranney.com/when-the-laird-returns-2/

http://karenranney.com/the-irresistible-macrae-3/

http://karenranney.com/to-love-a-scottish-lord/

http://karenranney.com/so-in-love-5/

http://karenranney.com/after-the-kiss/


31

My BelovedA Medieval story of a woman summoned from a convent to be wife to the brother of a Templar knight, a mysterious man who dresses in a monk’s robe and tells her they must never touch. My True LoveA Scottish girl dreams of an English boy, and when she finally meets him, she helps him solve the mystery of his home’s past (including the story of My Beloved). Upon a Wicked TimeA duke reluctantly weds, understanding his duty, but the marriage of convenience is disrupted when his young bride insists that he be a true husband in all ways. My Wicked FantasyThe widow of a solicitor is involved in a carriage accident, begins to hear a ghostly voice, and falls in love with the man married to the woman who haunts her. Heaven ForbidsA widower agrees to accompany her niece to Scotland and falls in love with her niece’s husband. A Promise of LoveA twice widowed English woman is tricked into marriage to a reluctant laird and learns that all men aren’t cruel and the future can be bright. Above All OthersA penurious young woman who had previously sacrificed her innocence out of loneliness enters into an unholy bargain with a rake who is already rearing an illegitimate child. TapestryA young girl loves her injured neighbor but the journey to love is filled with tragedy and loss.

http://karenranney.com/my-beloved/

http://karenranney.com/my-true-love/

http://karenranney.com/upon-a-wicked-time/

http://karenranney.com/my-wicked-fantasy/

http://karenranney.com/heaven-forbids/

http://karenranney.com/a-promise-of-love/

http://karenranney.com/above-all-others/

http://karenranney.com/tapestry/

Documents

READ RANNEY - NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES€¦ · The book was Aesop’s Fables. I began to read, confused at first. Why was I reading about a fox who stole grapes, or a dog who wouldn’t