Garnet or Garnets Curse

Garnet

    Nancy B. Brewer

    Cover design by Nancy B. Brewer

    Copyright © 2013
    All Rights Reserved.

    Published By
    Brentwood Publishers Group
    Columbus, Georgia 31904

    Books by this author
    Published by Brentwood

    Carolina Rain
    978-1-59581-573-6

    Beyond Sandy Ridge
    978-1-59581-641-2

    Lizzie After the War
    978-1-59581-680-1

    A Doll Named Fannie
    978-1-59581-569-9

    Quotes and Poems in Black and White
    978-1-59581-663-4

    To order additional copies of this book or other books by author: www.nancybbrewer.com

    Retail orders: [email protected]

    “Garnet”
    is dedicated to the spirit, heart and wisdom of all women and to all those that love her.

    ~The spirit of a woman~

    Is softer than the morning breeze,
    Tough as nails and strong as steel,
    But flexible as the willow tree.

    The heart of a woman
    Is the foundation of humanity,
    Grander than the mountains high,
    But deep as the ocean blue.

    The wisdom of a woman
    Spans across all lands,
    Withstands all tests of time,
    And is never ending.

    Nancy B. Brewer

    The Cover Story

    The painting featured on the cover of Garnet was originally owned by the author’s great-great-grandmother. It supposedly was done by a traveling artist seeking lodging. The painting was placed in the back of an old clock. Although it survived a house fire, a portion of the image was destroyed by water damage and age. Ms. Brewer touched up the painting and designed the cover as a tribute to this unknown artist.

    Garnet is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

    Chapter I
    The Thorn That Stole His Rose

    13 October, 1889
    I will begin by briefing you of myself. I have been reared for the whole of my life in the region of France overlooking the Loire River. My mother figure and guardian was my Auntie Vandra.
    There were more stately chateau in the valley; ours being not a fortress, but more on the human scale. Nevertheless, ours was far from humble and a fitting dwelling for our social class.
    I am not French; I am Romanian. Forgive that fact, for I speak fluent French as well as Romanian, Spanish, Italian and English.
    My father, a wealthy nobleman, left his homeland of Moldavia with the decline of the Ottoman Empire. When he was settled, he sent for his child bride, Rose. She set sail at once, accompanied by my father’s youngest sister.
    After years of marriage my parents had resolved that theirs would be a childless marriage. Then at last, she conceived. My father employed the finest physicians in the land; but sadly, my mother died shortly thereafter.
    My father refused me. I cannot blame him for detesting me. I was the thorn that stole his Rose. After my mother’s death, he returned to Moldavia, leaving me nameless. Before he left he entrusted Auntie with a magnificent gold necklace inlayed with garnets. He instructed her to present it to me on my 16th birthday. With the necklace in her hand, Auntie looked upon my face and named me Garnet.
    For years, I prayed that one day my father would return. I mastered my studies and refined my social graces. I vowed to make him proud of his only daughter and to beg his forgiveness. But, Auntie offered no encouragement, reminding me that my father was an old man and grieving old men do not live long. As the years passed I lost sight of the joyous reunion.
    As a child I never questioned who paid the servants or satisfied my every need. It was the way of things and as far as I knew, it would be that way forever. Once I reached the age of one and twenty, I began to ponder the origin of our seemingly relentless wealth. Little did I know that all was soon to change.
    I shall never forget the night of my awakening from my seamless world. Auntie and I had hosted a small dinner party. It was late when the last guest left and I took to my room to prepare for bed. As my dress fell to the floor, I was tantalized by my naked reflection in the mirror.
    I did not consider myself guilty of vanity as I gazed upon the image projected on my mirror. The flickering light of the lamp was not too dim to see the girl that had developed into a beautiful woman. I undid my dark hair, shook it loose and watched it slowly fall across my breasts.
    Suddenly the curtains blew open. Their long lacy arms reached out to me as if to say “come.” As I turned, the mirror revealed the curve of my backside. I imagined a lover watching my slender body walk across the room. The old wood floors still held the warmth from the