CHAPTER ONE
Madeleine Gray’s Journal
1 August, 1721
Early Morning
The sky was a vivid, pale orange, the hue darkening as the sky became farther and farther away from the beach where I was in the sand, still. The sun stood low, almost skimming the surface of the water. The luminescent yellow light was casting rays upon the surface of the gentle ocean. The morning was in its awfully premature hours – the old grandfather clock in my bedchamber suggested the time to be around five forty-five. This was not unusual - I often awoke at this hour to go down to beach and watch the sun rise. I enjoyed the fact that it was always tranquil and serene.
I fell into the practice one right after my family moved here. My father was an Admiral in the British Royal Navy, but he retired when my sister and I were born. That was three years ago. It had started a few months before that, when I was fourteen. Father had received a letter from the King. The King wanted him back in the Navy. Specifically, in the Caribbean, to help the soldiers stationed in the Bahamas, Jamaica, and the Lesser Antilles find and capture the two remaining pirate threats in the Caribbean. Father agreed to be reinstated in the Navy, and thus, we moved away from York, to come here, to Kingston, never to return to our native country. It was a harsh post that he occupied, one that took many hours of the day. He was rarely home.
I flashed another glance at the sunrise, smiling. White clouds incased in the glowing sun, making the picture seemed almost angelic. Nature was beautiful, innocent.
In my own life, I rarely received moments of quiet and peace, such as this. It was always hectic, especially during my lessons.
I only had two lessons to take – French and music were the subjects. I was fortunate that I received education in the fields of reading, and writing when I was younger. It came, simple to me, so I did not understand why few women in my country were educated. I guess it was a benefit of wealth. I enjoyed those classes, for my tutors were kind and creating interesting lessons. But Music and French were a different story. Even though I was greatly interested in both matters, my tutors were both horrendous, cranky men. They went on for two hours – French was in the morning, music in the afternoon. My twin sister and I were taught together.
For French, I was taught by a man called Monsieur Jacques. He was a terribly pompous fellow, and a native of France, who possessed a broad black mustache and a head of receding, dark hair. Most of the lesson, he would babble on about how the English were better than the French in almost every possible way. Then he would go on to say how my sister, Helena, was a better student that I. Then we would get to the actual pronunciation, which lingered on for about an hour. He would hit us with the grammar book if we made even the slightest mistake.
Music was not any better. I played the cello. I had been playing it for eleven years – ever since I was five. That was the same time my sister started, except she played the violin. We practiced highly advanced music, mostly from the symphonies of Bach, Vivaldi, Scarlatti and Handel. Our tutor was a man in his late twenties, by the name of John Kent. He was an aspiring composer himself, and a man who also seemed to flaunt over the fact that he did not want to be here, tutoring teenage girls.
I took a deep breath, taking another glance at the view. I did not know what time it was, but I figured that I should begin to head towards home – my father left for his job at seven, awakening thirty minutes prior, at six-thirty. I did not want him to catch me out of bed, for if he did, I had the feeling that it wouldn’t stir well. And besides, I was tired. I would appreciate an extra hour or two of rest.
Later
I awoke later than usual – around nine, which was an hour before my lessons began. I was still a little tired, and hungry for breakfast. Sarah, our Negro cook, brought me breakfast in bed every morning – unless there was a special occasion, such as holidays or guests, in which case Father was home. The latter more than often meant that General George Harris was coming.
General Harris was a naval hero, and young, in his mid-thirties. He is single, brave and bold. He and Father are great friends, but I think that I have had the misfortune of getting to know him too well. For one thing, he boasts about his victories, about how a battle would be going wrong and he would always be the one who saved the day. It got very annoying, actually. On top of that, he himself wasn’t a very likeable person.
What’s worse yet, I have the feeling that Father Is planning on betrothing him to Helena or me. And besides, I have no desire to get married for at least two or three more years, when I’m nineteen or twenty. No matter what society says, my age – seventeen is too young.
I pushed myself into a sitting position on my bed, my back against the floral, goldenrod pillows. I slept on a four poster bed. The frame was a darkened wood, the color of chocolate. I pushed one of the lace canopy curtains aside, to see if breakfast was lying on the end table next to my bed. That’s how Sarah brought it every morning – on a tiny silver tray.
I was shocked to see the table’s flat, clear surface. It was . . . nine, wasn’t it? I looked at the grandfather clock. It was nine. This confused me, because I thought that Sarah was awake at six. She usually brought me breakfast at around eight-forty. Why wasn’t it here? I couldn’t wait to hear her explanation. However, I did not want to get out of bed just yet. I decided to wait a minute or two before trying to find her.
“Are you okay?”
I jumped, not having seen anyone in the room before. Maybe it was Sarah, who had my breakfast. I took a glance across the room, scanning the snow-white carpet and pale-blue walls, my eyes pinpointing every little detail. I didn’t see the woman initially, but I finally found her standing by the door, leaning against the portrait of a king.
It wasn’t Sarah. The woman was fair-skinned, with long, silver waves cascading down her shoulders. Her eyes, a deep, jade green, shone like emeralds, even from our distance. Her dress was a stunning green silk, the skirt parting to show a white kirtle. The collar and neck were adorned with pink lace, the color of lilies.
“M-mother?” I managed. Was what I was seeing real? I didn’t understand how it was possible. My mother was gone, dead. Five years had passed from the day she had disappeared mysteriously, suddenly. I knew this to be a fact; I hadn’t imagined it. The memory, which still was clear, had traumatized me. How could it not have? She was my family, and the best member of it.
Her death had been a cold, disturbing event. It had taken place on the evening of April 21st, 1717. My sister and I had just turned thirteen four days prior to, on the seventeenth. That morning, we had a birthday breakfast on the terrace, by all of the blooming spring flowers. My cousin, Isabella, in addition to my Aunt Catherine and Uncle Edmund, had showed up. I loathed this, because I hated my cousin, who was a snotty little brat.
We were served a lot of delicious looking food, which included oatmeal with sweet cream, smoked herrings, grilled trout with white butter sauce, beef tongue with hot horseradish sauce and cold veal pies. In addition to tea and cider, there was bread with butter, honey, orange marmalade, or raspberry, apple or cherry jam.
Man, you pop out stories every other second! How do you find the time to eat and sleep? 
