Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3)

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Info

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Marie's Mailing List

  The Women's Contemporary Originals from Marie Ferrarella

  Marie's Originals

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2015 Marie Ferrarella

  Cover images from Shutterstock.com

  Moonlight Surrender

  by

  Marie Ferrarella

  Chapter One

  Rain came down steadily, dolefully, playing wretched havoc with the dirt road. The storm made the journey even more arduous and vile than it already was. Nature had joined hands with the fates to attempt to prevent her from reaching Paris.

  At least, it seemed that way.

  Elizabeth Beaulieu wound her fingers around the worn leather coach strap and sighed as she stared out the window. The English countryside was dreary and bleak. Trees on either side of the road hung their heads as if in meek submission to the heavy drops that fell with monotonous regularity upon them.

  She had always loved rain before this trip; now she hated it. The rain was slowing them down, presenting yet another obstacle in a long, frustrating series of hurdles. A storm was responsible for her being on this miserable road in this miserable country in the first place. If not for that storm at sea, she would be in Paris now and her mind would be at ease.

  She truly hoped her mind would be at ease then.

  A light buzzing sound like that of a mosquito in flight caught her ear. Sylvia was snoring. Beth glanced toward the only other occupant in the coach and smiled tolerantly at the heavyset matron.

  Poor Sylvia. This was all so hard on her. Sylvia had stayed below deck during the typhoon, praying the entire time they were being tossed about like peas being shelled into a bowl. The older woman had nearly worn out the beads on her rosary, begging an indifferent God for a calm sea. When the storm finally passed, the merchant ship was afloat, but just barely. It was badly in need of repair. The vessel was too unsafe for them to attempt to continue the journey. Blown off course, they were forced to dock on the northernmost side of England.

  The captain had offered to take Beth and Sylvia on the remainder of their journey when the ship was seaworthy once more, but that would take time. And time was something Beth didn’t know if she could spare.

  That was the frustration, not knowing. Was she too late? Would she be in time? Or was she concerning herself needlessly?

  If only the letters had not stopped arriving.

  The coach lurched like a drunken man as the wheels struggled over a rut. Sylvia ceased snoring for a moment, but kept on dozing. The gentle noise resumed. Beth folded her hands in her lap, mentally urging the horses on faster. There had been no ship ready to sail for France for days, so she had decided to take an overland route to Dover. Once there, she could easily cross the Channel and reach France.

  More time spent .... more time wasted.

  I’ll find you, Father, she thought. I don’t know how, yet, but I swear I’ll find you.

  Sylvia’s snoring grew louder. As she slept, the woman restlessly tried to find a comfortable position on the hard seat. The humid air hung about them, thick and moist. Sylvia had been unhappy about the journey right from the beginning. She had spent most of the crossing moaning, her face at times a shade of green that rivaled the very water they were sailing on.

  There was no end to the sympathy Beth felt for the chaperone her mother had insisted accompany her on this journey. Beth was certain she would have fared better alone. As it was, she felt responsible for the other woman, though at forty-three, Sylvia was nearly twice Beth’s age. Sylvia was at home amid her paintings, her books, and the garden. This was not a journey for a woman who considered a morning walk around the veranda strenuous exercise.

  But Dorothy Beaulieu had insisted and Sylvia had acquiesced.

  Beth had been more than willing to make this journey alone. To avoid taking any unnecessary chances, she had thought of disguising herself as a young boy, the way her neighbor, Krystyna McKinley, had once done on her initial journey to America. Mrs. Beaulieu had adamantly refused to hear of her daughter traveling alone, disguise or no disguise. It just wasn’t done. Rather than waste time arguing, Beth had accepted a fidgety, nervous Sylvia as her traveling companion.

  A smile lifted the corners of Beth’s mouth as she looked at Sylvia again. It wasn’t as if the woman could do anything to help her if something did happen. Unless, perhaps, she might strangle an assailant with her rosary beads, Beth mused, then hastily say ten Hail Marys as penance for gross disrespect of the holy object.

  No, dear Sylvia would be no help at all to her in any perilous situation. It would be upon her own quick mind that she would have to rely, a mind she had inherited from her beloved father.

  Dear God, she hoped he was safe, and that all this was for nought.

  Beth sighed and blew out a long breath as she watched the branches point green-rimmed fingers toward the ground in supplication for the storm to end. The heavy rain had ceased; now there was only an annoying, continuing mist which did not alleviate any of the oppressiveness of the weather. Her traveling dress was sticking to her body like an uncomfortable second skin. Beth wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She felt as if she was in a pot of water boiling on the hearth at home.

  Home.

  Virginia.

  Longing burst through her like magnolia blossoms in spring. She was so terribly homesick. But staying safely lodged on the front porch of the lovely mansion, which her father had built for her mother, three sisters, and herself, would not help solve the mystery.

  Her father had seemed to have vanished. There were no letters from him, no responses to their written supplications for a word to quell their fears ... nothing.

  Dr. Philippe Beaulieu was missing in Paris, in the land of his birth. He had disappeared just as a revolution had threatened to break out and engulf the country in fire. What filled
Beth with apprehension was that the revolution on everyone’s tongue, in everyone’s mind, was a revolution of the poor pitting themselves against the rich. Philippe Beaulieu was descended from a very old, revered line. He was an aristocrat at a time when his former countrymen held aristocrats suspect and looked upon them with envy and hate.

  If only he hadn’t been moved to return. If only he had been content to stay at Eagle’s Nest, enjoying the fruits of his new life in a brand-new land, a land he had helped to form.

  But the whispers of revolution that had drifted across the sea concerned him. He was worried about his family in Paris. Added to that, he felt an overwhelming sense of compassion. If there was a revolution, he felt he could be of some service. He was a trained physician with years of experience. Revolutions always needed physicians to tend to the injured. And to close the eyes of the dead.

  Another man would have been gratified to rest upon his laurels, to enjoy his well-earned retirement by the time he had entered his fifth decade. But Dr. Philippe Beaulieu was not like other men.

  As concerned as Beth was, this selflessness, this ability to put everyone else above himself, was what she had always loved best about her father. He was always so willing to give of himself. The Beaulieus of Paris had been wealthy for generations. Dr. Beaulieu used his money to provide his family in Virginia with all the comforts they could possibly want. But his wealth and his respected position in Virginia society did not stop him from ministering to the sick. It was his calling. Being a physician, he had told his tearful wife on the eve of his departure, was who and what he was. Without his work, he was nothing.

  Fourteen years before, he had fought in the American Revolution, caught up in the cries of freedom and liberty. He had fought beside his countryman Lafayette to bring independence to the Americans—and to heal their wounds when it was necessary.

  Now it was more personal. But the cry had an uglier tone this time. His beloved homeland was threatened by hatred and fear. Foremost in his concern was the welfare of his old mother and a maiden aunt who lived with her. He had no choice, he informed Beth privately, but to go.

  Beth understood. Of all his children, she was the most like him. His feelings, his beliefs, were hers. When Philippe set sail, he left things, he told her, “in your capable hands.”

  Beth looked down at them now as her fingers twisted together. “Capable hands.” “Capable Beth.” “Sensible Beth.” How many times had she heard those?

  It was to her that her mother had turned one night to pour out her heart and reveal the fears she didn’t voice before the others. Dr. Beaulieu had promised to write home faithfully each week. And he had. The news in his letters painted a grim portrait of a world he no longer recognized. But he had vainly tried to be optimistic about the situation, writing to his family that this cloud would pass. The letters arrived regularly, just as he’d promised. Each merchant ship from France that docked in the Virginia harbor had a letter for Mrs. Beaulieu, if not two.

  And then, nothing.

  A whole month went by. Then five weeks, then six. And the news from France, when they heard it, grew steadily grimmer. The Virginia Gazette editors, Riley O’Roarke and his sister, Rachel Lawrence, always attempted to keep abreast not only of local events, but also of world events, when information was available. There were articles in the Gazette that told horrible stories of aristocrats in France being threatened, of ancestral homes being taken over, of people imprisoned. And worse.

  And still there was no word from Dr. Beaulieu.

  Beth had quietly listened to her mother as the frail, regal woman had echoed Beth’s own fears about her father’s welfare. It was a cool evening. Beth stared into the flames of the dying fire in her hearth and made up her mind to travel to Paris. She told her mother that she would go to her grandmother’s home and see for herself why there were no more letters arriving from her father.

  Perhaps there was a simple, logical explanation. If not, she would deal with that when the time came.

  Dorothy Beaulieu clutched her daughter’s hand, wanting to rely on the girl’s strength, yet afraid for her. “Oh, Beth, you can’t go.”

  But Beth’s mind was already made up. “There’s no one else to go, Mother,” Beth pointed out softly. “The others are too young.” Garnering her father’s favor, Beth had always felt much older than the others, even though Anne was only two years younger than she and the twins a year younger than that.

  Dorothy blinked back tears as she looked at her eldest child. “What if something happens to you?” Dorothy knew she couldn’t live with herself if something terrible came to pass.

  Beth never worried about things that hadn’t happened yet. It was a waste of time and energy. She covered her mother’s hand with her own. “Nothing will happen, Mother. I have always taken care of myself.”

  Dorothy shook her head. “Yes—here, in Virginia. But France is a foreign country, and you’re—“

  “An American whose father taught her well,” Beth concluded. “And remember, I speak the language. There’s nothing to worry about.” She smiled as she kissed the older woman’s soft cheek. “It’s settled. I’ll go on the first ship sailing for France.”

  Mrs. Beaulieu rose and restlessly began to pace about her daughter’s bedroom. She was torn between a mother’s protective love and a wife’s growing concern. “Elizabeth, I really don’t believe that you should go. These are dangerous times, especially for a young woman. And I—“

  Beth placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders. As Dorothy looked into Beth’s eyes, the young girl shook her head.

  “You’ve nothing to say about it, Mother, so please don’t trouble yourself with arguments I won’t listen to.” A resigned smile lifted the corners of Dorothy’s mouth. As with her father, when Beth’s mind was made up, there was no changing it. “Someone has to find out what has happened to Father.”

  Beth let her hands slip from her mother’s shoulders as she took a deep breath. “I’m the logical choice.” They both knew that Dorothy’s health had been failing for the last few years. “You’re not well enough to endure the journey, and we’ve already dismissed the girls as being far too young. That leaves me.” Beth smiled warmly at her mother to assuage the fears she saw in the other woman’s eyes. “And I’m equal to the challenge.”

  Dorothy smiled. With light fingers, she touched Beth’s cheek. Sometimes, Dorothy wondered who was the daughter and who the mother. Beth had always seemed so much older than the others, so sure of the path she was taking. It grieved Dorothy deeply that Beth hadn’t gotten married and started a family of her own, the way other girls her age had. Perhaps it was her fault, Dorothy thought. She depended on Beth far too much.

  “I never really told you before, but you were everything your father ever wanted.” Dorothy smiled, remembering. “He used to look at you when you were a little girl while you slept and say to me, ‘This one, she will do great things. Wait and see.’ “ Tears filled Dorothy’s eyes once again and threatened to choke away her words. “He loved you very much.”

  Beth refused to accept such a fatalistic attitude.

  “Loves, Mother, he loves me very much. Father is alive.” She squeezed her mother’s hand tightly, making a promise. “And I will find him for you. For us. And bring him home.”

  She knew her father would not be pleased about the request, the demand, really, but there were things he owed to his family ahead of his native country.

  “The noble cause can go on without him.” Beth had been barely eight years old when her father had fought in the American battle for independence, but she remembered it vividly—waiting up by candlelight, wondering if tonight was the night her father was coming home. “I think that one revolution is more than enough for any man.”

  Dorothy nodded. She knew that look on her daughter’s face. It mirrored one she had seen on Philippe’s time and again. They were a stubborn pair, she and Philippe. “All right. But you’ll take Sylvia with you.”

  Beth thoug
ht of her former tutor. The woman had stayed on to teach the twins. Alone, with no family, Sylvia resided now at the Eagle’s Nest as her mother’s companion and confidante. Beth was horrified at the thought of taking Sylvia with her. Protests sprang to her lips, mingling until they merged into a single strangled sound of protest.

  “Mother.”

  But Dorothy Beaulieu could be just as stubborn as her daughter and husband if the situation required it. She shook her head.

  “I won’t hear of anything else, Beth. You must have someone with you to protect you.” Dorothy watched Beth’s mouth open in protest. She held up her hand to stem the flow of words. “Please. I will feel better about letting you go.” She looked into the deep blue eyes that reminded her of her husband’s. “For me?”

  Beth sighed deeply. If nothing else, she had learned that there were times when concessions had to be made. “All right, for you.”

  But she wasn’t going to like it.

  And she didn’t. Sylvia was a dear, sweet woman who was afraid of almost all of God’s creatures. They both knew that she belonged back home in Virginia, not aboard a merchant sailing vessel, nor on a swaying coach bound for yet another seaport. Rather than a help, Sylvia had been a hindrance, requiring more than a little care on Beth’s part.

  Beth would have preferred not to have to worry about the woman, her seasickness, her queasiness on the coach, her fearful start at every noise. She wanted her mind free to concentrate on rescuing her father if he indeed needed rescuing. In the single trunk she had brought, tucked away inside the false bottom, was enough money in gold to ransom Philippe, if ransom was what was necessary. And within her breast was enough courage to face any challenge she might encounter while attempting to free her father.

  Sylvia’s snores droned on as the horses’ hooves plodded along the muddied road.

  Faster, Beth thought impatiently, staring at the land through a curtain of fine mist. Faster.

  Beth prayed that she would not arrive too late.

  Chapter Two