Gene of Isis
Authors: Traci Harding
To my husband David and daughter Sarah for all their love and support throughout my pregnancy and the writing of this book and for John, our new addition—welcome to the family
19
th
Century
Ashlee Granville, the Honourable Miss Granville
Heroine
Lord Thomas Granville, Baron of Suffolk
Ashlee’s Father
Lady Granville, Baroness of Suffolk (Margaret) Ashlee’s Mother
Lord Eric Cavandish
Earl of Derby
Lady Vanessa Cavandish
Countess of Derby
Susan, The Honourable Miss Cavandish The
Earl of Derby’s daughter
Lord Simon Cavandish The
Earl of Derby’s son
Sir Damian Cavandish The
Earl of Derby’s brother
Mrs Beatrice Winston (Beat)
Ashlee’s nanny
Dr Rosen
Psychiatrist
Lady Charlotte, Dowager Countess Cavandish
Ashlee’s Governess
Lord James Devere The
Earl of Oxford
Mr Earnest Devere The
Earl of Oxford’s younger brother
Miss Catherine Devere The
Earl of Oxford’s sister
Lord Douglas Hamilton
Viscount of Herefordshire
Clarissa Hamilton The
Viscount of Herefordshire’s deceased wife
Mr Frederick Hamilton The
Viscount of Herefordshire’s cousin
Albray Devere
Spirit of the Red
Gnome
Chiara
Dead gypsy witch
Christian Molier
Curator, Arsenal Library, Paris
Cingar Choron G
ypsy outlaw
Chavi Choron
Chiara’s grand-daughter
Rumer Choron
Cingar’s sister
Gasgon de Guise
Duke of Orleans
Jessenia G
ypsy bride
Danior Terkari Masked
bandit
Falcone Bellacino (Captain Falco)
Italian mariner
Lord Malory
Grand Master of the Sangreal knighthood
Mr Banks
English Consul in Alexandria
st
Century
Mia Montrose
Archaeologist/Ancient Languages
Andre Pierre
French Archaeologist
James Conally (JC) and Christian Molier C & N
Excavation
Tusca Resi
Molier’s secretary
Akbar
Guide in the Sinai
Kadar
Akbar’s subordinate
Kamali
Akbar’s subordinate
Marty
Chopper pilot
th
Century
Lillet du Lac
Guardian of the Keys
Lilutu du Lac
Lillet’s sister
Pierre-Roger Mirepoix
Lord of Montsègur
Guillaume de Lahille First
Knight
Bernard de Saint-Martin First
Knight
Guillaume de Balaguire
First Knight
Jean Ray
Courier
Hugues de Archis
King’s man
Pierre Amiel, Archbishop of Narbonne
Inquisition Representative
Marie de Saint-Clair Grand
Master of Sion
Pierre de Saint-Martin
Credenti guardian
Albray Devere
Sion Knight
Christian Molier
Sion Knight
FROM THE POST-SINAI JOURNALS OF LADY ASHLEE GRANVILLE-DEVERE
Those who have known me during my life would tell you that it is highly appropriate that I was born in 1817, at the dawn of the steam age. I never had a problem letting off steam, getting steamed, or steaming right on ahead.
As the only daughter of the Baron of Suffolk—the Honourable Lord Granville—you would think my youthful days would have left me with little to complain about. Had I been born the conformist my parents desired, I would have had no grievance with them and I would not have shamed them as I did. Had I been the son and heir my father desired, I would still have spent my life at loggerheads with him, and my name would still be Ashlee Granville, except my first name would end in a ‘y’. I dare say I would have loved the freedom of speech that being male would have awarded me, but even so my perceptions and opinions would still have been swept under the carpet.
For what I once thought was my father’s
disapproval I now know was his fear and guilt, which no amount of impressing could have dispelled.
It was not my fault that I was born with the gift to hear the unsaid in everyone and everything. Furthermore, it was a prerequisite of my breeding not to suffer bigots, liars, cheats and hypocrites: who could sit idly by and watch such creatures make fools and sport of good people? Certainly not I.
Let me explain.
As a young child I assumed that anyone could tune in to the inner thoughts of those around them and to the impressions that people left on objects they came into contact with, so that everything said and done in the course of the waking hours seemed to me to be a comical charade for the sake of pleasantness. You thought one thing and then said precisely what everyone else wanted to hear, even if it meant betraying your own judgement. If everyone could hear what you were really thinking, then why not say it out loud? In fact, why bother speaking at all? My attempts to rectify this silly process always ended in many gasps, arguments among the adults, being sent to my room, and tears—usually my own. I learned that the everyday verbal charade of lies did keep the peace, and so I too mastered how to play the game to appease and please my betters.
Thankfully, there was one person in my world who truly cared for me and had my best interests at heart and that sentinel was my Nanny, Beat—shortened from Beatrice. She was the first to realise I had a gift, one of an otherworldly nature that only last century would have seen me burned as a witch. Nanny Beat was not a well-educated woman, yet she was smart enough to teach me to keep my observations to myself. Had my talents
been limited to just the one ability, it might have been possible to keep my psychic talent hidden. But, as any good psychic will tell you, otherworldly phenomena come in myriad forms, and at the most unexpected moments. How can a child choose between what is commonplace and what is not, when, for a child, every experience is new and extraordinary?
For as long as I can remember all I ever wanted to do was explore. Until I mastered the art of reading, and even of sitting still long enough to listen to a story, all my adventures took place in the great outdoors on our estates—my father had several, and we moved from one to the other, at the right season, as was the custom of the socially ambitious. I adored the creatures of nature: the unusual creatures tending the land, and the others that fed and lived off the land. Most people thought the former were but characters in fables, because when I spoke of them to the adults, I received vague smiles and a pat on the head. I later discovered that my mother, assuming Nanny Beat to be filling my head with fairytales, had often spoken sharply to her on this subject. Nanny never let on that the true source of my inspiration was my own perception.
I was aware that a large number of disembodied spirits dwelt on our estates, both in the manor houses and in their grounds. I chose to ignore them as they were, in the main, bitter spirits and not very good company. I could easily discern the dead, as shades lacked the colourful light-body at the core of every living thing.
‘Shades’ is a term I came to use later in life when referring to the majority of ghosts, as they are
merely shadows of their former souls—the unwanted and unneeded rubbish left behind by the spirit after it has ascended to higher places. Shades is indeed the more appropriate name for these forms.
During my formative years I learned how to more accurately read the colours people emitted via their light-body, but certain assumptions came naturally while I was still a youngster; like, stay away from people sporting big muddy patches! And only approach Father when his light-body is expanded, as this meant he was in a good mood.
When an individual was generating ample amounts of energy from the light centres of their subtle form, the light-body would grow in size, it would become less dense and more light filled. The light-body would reach out to feed, nurture and exchange energy with any living thing that it came into contact with via its expanded form. But when an individual had been sucked dry of life energy, the light-body would retract close to the body to form a kind of shield, until the energy levels were replenished and it could again contribute to the world around it.
It had not escaped my parents’ notice that I had an uncanny knack for finding lost items, and that I could predict events such as the weather, unexpected guests and so forth. This aspect of my nature was widely accepted by everyone at the house and it was praised by my parents, as it seemed harmless—until the summer of 1825, which was just prior to my eighth birthday.
CHILDHOOD
FROM THE CHILDHOOD JOURNALS OF MISS ASHLEE GRANVILLE
The visiting Earl of Derby, Lord Cavandish, who had attended Oxford University with my father, was staying at our estate en route home to Derby from Europe. His wife, Lady Cavandish the Countess of Derby, accompanied him.
They had arrived in the afternoon and yet, come evening, our guests had not relaxed. Lord Cavandish had lost, from his pocket, his father’s dying gift to him—a fob watch. The lord was beside himself trying to figure where the watch could have gone, or if and when it could have been stolen.
Silently annoyed to have his important Nationalist discussions constantly derailed by his associate’s concerns, Father sent up to the nursery for me.
‘It’s like a sixth sense with her,’ I heard Father say as I approached down the hall, and the jovial tone in which he spoke made me proud; it was rare he spoke of me at all, let alone to boast about my unusual talents. ‘As this…
additional
sense of my daughter’s is rather extraordinary, we do try to keep it to ourselves, you understand? Still, as it seems to
be the only course of action that might ease your mind, I trust you will keep the details of anything that occurs under your hat.’
‘My dear Lord Suffolk, that goes without saying,’ Lord Cavandish assured my father.
As our house in Suffolk was the estate to which the Granville peerage of baron was attached, my father was referred to in conversation as Lord Suffolk, my mother as Lady Suffolk. This was also true of Lord Cavandish, who would be referred to in conversation as Lord Derby, as it was to his estate in Derby that his title of earl was attached. Only in a letter or a written invitation would the Lord and Lady Cavandish be referred to as the Earl and Countess of Derby. Likewise a baron and his wife were never spoken of or addressed as ‘Baron and Baroness’ by their peers or superiors, but were always referred to as ‘Lord and Lady’ of whatever county their highest family peerage and estate was located within. One could be an earl in one county and a baron in another, whereby the lower title and estate could be passed on to the eldest son, until such time as he inherited the higher title of earl and passed the lesser title of baron on to his eldest son.
‘Do you really think your daughter shall be able to locate my treasure?’ The earl sounded desperately hopeful, and quite intrigued.
‘I’d place money on it,’ my father warranted, ‘and you know that I am not a gambling man.’
Nanny Beat knocked on the door of my father’s private library and when he responded with an ‘Enter’, Nanny gave me the nod to proceed. As I was formally introduced to the Earl of Derby, I deduced that he was outwardly more happy than he was inwardly.
The lord’s light-body was dulled, especially around his heart, and yet I sensed he was not a bad person—more a victim of torment than a tormentor. Then I noted what appeared to be a dark, ghostly knife driven through his back and into his heart. I’d never seen such a thing before and it appeared to be very painful. Still, he didn’t seem to be aware of it and I knew better than to mention my observation.
‘My dear Lord Derby has lost an item that is very precious to him, Ashlee.’
I marked that my father did not name the item, which gave me the opportunity to show off. The answer was too easy, for it was foremost in the man’s mind. ‘A watch,’ I said, and the lord’s smile broadened in disbelief. He suspected that I might have overheard them talking.
My father was also smiling. ‘Do you think you could tell us what has become of this item?’
I nodded. ‘If I may put my hand in the pocket from which the watch went missing?’
Happy to oblige, the lord held open the left side of his deep blue coat to expose his silken gold waistcoat. Yet, unlike the right-handed majority of men who did carry their watch in their left pocket, the Lord Cavandish was left-handed and I sensed this. When I say I sensed this, I mean that my inner voice alerted me to the deception and I acted upon the information—my inner knowing never steered me wrong.
I didn’t have to look up to know that Lord Cavandish was giving my father an impressed look as my hand examined the right-side pocket of his waistcoat. I perceived a vivid image of the watch, as it had resided in this pocket, and I shivered,
inexplicably consumed by a deathly cold chill, although the evening was warm.
The Earl of Derby must have dozed off in the carriage at some stage, as the watch was turned on its side, and it had slid out of the pocket into the lord’s jacket. When he stood to exit the carriage, the watch fell onto the carriage seat and slipped down the back into a timber void there.
I came out of my short trance and withdrew my hand from the nobleman’s pocket. ‘I believe the watch is still in your carriage, Lord Derby.’
‘But I had the carriage searched.’ Lord Cavandish felt that I had just opted for the easiest and most logical conclusion.
‘Shall I have your carriage brought around to the front of the house?’ my father asked.
‘I see no harm in having a second look,’ Lord Cavandish agreed, to humour his host.
By the time the carriage was at the front driveway of the manor, my mother and Lady Cavandish had also joined us. Nanny Beat was observing quietly from the front door.
‘You may proceed, child.’ Father gave me leave to retrieve the item from the carriage.
I skipped down the stairs and was aided into the coach by the coachman. I went to the spot on the forward-facing seat where the watch had done its disappearing act, and stuck my tiny hand into the gap between the padded seat and the backrest. My fingers probed every nook and cranny until I found the missing item, which had slipped into the far corner, quite beyond the reach of someone with a larger arm.
‘Here it is!’ I held up the watch in triumph as I
exited the carriage, and immediately noticed an extra nobleman standing among those cheering my success.
He was not one of the living, for there was no colour in his light-body. In fact, his life force was all concentrated within his head area, and the rest of his being was just a shadow the same as the shades that haunted our estates. It appeared that his spirit was weighed down by the mistakes of his earthly life, which were preventing him from moving on. Hence, this manifestation was a ghost in the true sense of the word.
My shocked expression did not go unnoticed.
‘What is it, child?’ my father inquired impatiently.
Don’t be afraid,
said the ghostly fellow, finely attired in a slightly out-of-date suit. M
y brother,
he motioned to Lord Cavandish,
is in great danger and you’re the only person who can help me warn him in time.
‘Answer me, Ashlee!’ Father demanded, whereby my petrified eyes jumped to look at my father.
‘Sorry, papa,’ I mumbled, knowing he would not want me to state my woes in front of his esteemed guests. I looked back to the ghostly presence descending the stairs toward me.
Tell him the truth, Miss Granville. It will be to your advantage, I promise.
But I knew from prior experience that it would
not
be to my advantage—the truth never was.
The lives of my brother and his family depend on you,
the ghost told me.
I’m sorry I must place such a burden on your tiny shoulders, but you are the only channel open to me
—
‘Ashlee!’ Father’s patience came to an end.
‘There is a ghost, papa,’ I stammered, ‘and he insists that he is the brother of Lord Derby, come to warn that their family is in danger.’
‘What?’ gasped the earl and his wife, whilst my father’s angry astonishment steadily snowballed to render him speechless. Lord Cavandish recovered his wits swiftly. ‘It is true my brother is deceased…he died in very mysterious circumstances.’ It surprised everyone that the earl would award me his interest, patience and, more astonishingly, his confidence. ‘It has been like a dagger in my heart to think that my brother would not come to me for help before circumstances became so desperate that he would take his own life!’
Everybody gasped as one, except the ghost and me.
‘Mr Cavandish, have your wits taken their leave?’ demanded his wife. They had obviously gone to great lengths to keep the suicide a secret. ‘You have no place raising such issues with a child!’
Thus was the guilt of the first son and heir to an earldom. The younger brother had had little by comparison and Lord Cavandish couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for his brother’s sad end. I had hit an emotional nerve and the lifeblood of the lord’s guilt had come pouring out; even he now looked surprised at his reaction.
‘I see the dagger in your heart, my lord.’ I gamely defended the earl as he had defended me. ‘I understand that there is unrest in a good heart that should be at peace.’
All eyes turned my way. My father would have apprehended me at once, but he saw fit to apologise to Lord Cavandish first, who wouldn’t hear a bar of
it. His focus remained on me. ‘How do you see these things, Miss Granville?’
Allow me to handle this.
The ghost knelt before me on one knee to beseech my permission.
I nodded, unaware of what I was really agreeing to. There was a rush of stabbing cold, reminiscent of the chill I felt when I had first sought the whereabouts of the watch. It seemed likely that this spectre had caused the watch to go missing, specifically so that I might find it.
The rest of that night I can only recall from my Nanny Beat’s account of what followed.
‘Don’t feel guilty, Eric.’ I stood tall to say this to the Earl of Derby, the deep male voice emanating from my mouth a shock to one and all. ‘I didn’t take my own life, my life was stolen from me.’
‘Damian?’ Lord Cavandish was mortified to recognise his brother’s voice, and he caught Lady Cavandish as she fainted.
My parents were too stunned for rational thought and nobody dared move as Lord Cavandish pursued his answers.
‘You were murdered, dear brother? By whom?’
‘Her name is Miss Eleanora Parks.’
‘A woman?’ My father was surprised to learn the murderer’s gender.
‘A woman with several large brothers,’ Damian replied.
‘We have a governess named Mrs Eleanora Parks.’ The earl looked a little panicked as he stated this.
‘Well, Miss Parks would have to be known as Mrs,’ Damian explained, ‘to disguise the fact that her son was the bastard of a nobleman.’
Now Lord Cavandish was turning pale. ‘What are you saying, Damian?’
‘I took advantage of Miss Parks once and she in turn took revenge upon me!’
‘Oh, dear god.’ My mother crossed herself and retreated to the house, for she couldn’t listen to any more.
‘I must believe your confession, Damian.’ Lord Cavandish was appalled. ‘Was there no end to your wretchedness?’
‘Fear not, dear brother, because Miss Parks put an end to me,’ Damian retorted in spite. ‘She had me trapped and then tortured until I would recognise the child she carried as my own. She forced me to marry her and then she had me hanged!’
‘Oh, my god,’ gasped Lord Cavandish, as he took a step backward. Damian had been found hanging from the rafters of a cheap hotel room.
‘Now there is only a handful of lives standing between Miss Parks and her son inheriting the entire Cavandish estate! I know I caused you grief while I was alive, Eric. I hated being second-in-line and I never did much to improve upon my lot. However, you and yours do not deserve to die by
that
woman’s hand. Your children are already ailing with her poisons…please,
go home immediately!
Before it is too late for your heirs…’
Despite my father’s assurances that I was quite likely ill, and certainly delusional, Lord Cavandish and his wife left for home in all haste. My father had been greatly looking forward to having some intelligent male company and my little flight of fancy had brought that to an abrupt end. He should
have known better than to encourage my delusions, he raged to himself—was Ashlee possessed?
Thomas Granville was not a religious man, although he followed the teachings of the Church of England as befitted his social standing. He was a Nationalist, and a keen follower and supporter of the sciences, technologies, business and commerce, all of which, to his mind, were often hindered by the superstitions of the church! He had belonged to a secret brotherhood at one time, and although he appreciated the social connections available to him through such a society, he’d found their initiations too ritualistic for his liking. During the incident that had led him to abandon the society, Thomas was pretty sure he’d been drugged. The memory made him shiver, but he pushed it back into the dark recesses of his memory to consider more pressing matters.
Perhaps Ashlee was insane?
Now that was an easier premise to stomach. His daughter needed a psychiatrist not a priest!