"A beautifully scripted Gothic tale of haunted English moors and the monsters residing there."
Reviewed by Paula Myers
Posted March 13, 2010
Fantasy Historical
Recently widowed Emma Andrews is spending time at Dulwich
Manor with family and friends when odd, unexplainable
events begin to occur. Always a bit unconventional for the
Victorian times, Emma is drawn to the Sanctuary, a
Stonehenge-like area on the property, and the strange
Hawthorne tree growing there. When her young niece
Henrietta begins drawing pictures of the tree, sight
unseen, and speaking of an invisible friend, Marius, Emma
wonders if there is more going on in the rain-misted moors
than any of the guests realize. Emma's search draws her
into a tangled drama of monsters and mystery. As she probes
further the strange goings on, she discovers a shocking
truth from her past that changes her life, her very
existence and all she believes in.
Jacqueline Lepore creates a beautifully scripted
gothic world in DESCENT INTO DUST. Ms Lepore draws the
reader in with her words, which paint a picture of haunted
English moors and the monsters residing there, ready to
destroy those foolish enough to trespass. Emma is a strong
heroine, shaped by a past she barely understands as she
copes with a future she must embrace to survive. She is
confronted by a monster that has been a part of her life
since birth, a monster that made her into the woman who may
lead to its ultimate destruction. This is the first in this
series, and I look forward to Emma's next adventure!
SUMMARY
March 1862. The misty, moody, rain-lashed moors. A scrounge
of mysterious deaths. A child in peril. A manor house with
strange Latin inscriptions that look like clues. An
inscrutable handsome stranger whose motives are unclear. A
fraught relationship between sisters. A secret family
heritage that will change one woman's life forever, and give
the world one slim chance to vanquish an ancient and
undreamt-of evil. Plus: vampires. A bunch of them. And a hint of the most
powerful vampire of all: The Dracula. When young Victorian widow Emma Andrews travels to her
cousin's country manor, she expects it to be an ordinary
family visit. Instead, she will discover she has hidden
powers, meet a mysterious stranger, battle a menacing
evil--and change the direction of her life forever.
ExcerptI was twenty-three years of age in March of 1862 when
I traveled to my cousin’s home in the countryside of
Wiltshire. The fifth day of that wretched month found me
huddled in my carriage, the drizzly gray gloom outside
soaking a bone-deep chill into every aching part of my
body, which had been roughly abused by the long confinement
and ill-kept roads over which I’d traveled coming up from
Dartmoor. I did not know then that these would be the closing
days of ordinary life. The only suggestion of the
monumental changes that were about to occur was the
headache that had come upon me upon crossing the Dart
River. The pain, as fine as tiny needles being pushed into
my temples, increased as I crossed the chalk downs and
approached Dulwich Manor. At the time, I assumed this was due to anxiety, for
my younger sister and her new husband were among the guests
invited for an extended stay at my cousin’s sprawling
country house. As I was long accustomed to contending with
Alyssa without anything like this haunting megrim, I
suppose I should not have made this rather obvious
misattribution. But how could I have thought differently,
back then? The house was a large, ugly thing, squatting low on
the land like a spider on a softly rounded hilltop. Stones
blacked with lichen and soot formed a plain rectangle of
unadorned walls dotted liberally with cross-hatched
windows, lying dormant under leaden skies. There were no
signs of life about it or any of the outbuildings.
Everyone had taken shelter from the rain. I emerged into a light drizzle and drew the cowl of
my cloak over my head. At the top of the impressive set of
carved steps a very correct looking servant waited. “Emma
Andrews, Mrs. Dulwich’s cousin,” I told him. He did not quite meet my gaze, as all good servants
manage not to do, as he opened the door wider and ushered
me inside to a vaulted hall. I was instantly struck by the
feeling of being very, very small in a very, very large
place. The gasjets on the wall leaked only a small puddle
of light in which I stood, beyond which I saw only shadowy
hints of the rest of the room. “I shall tell madam you have arrived,” the manservant
intoned soberly. Once alone, I quickly checked my appearance in a pier
glass hung on the wall. I was decidedly damp. My hair was
nearly a ruin. The expensive gown I had donned that
morning, thinking it would lend me courage, had been a bad
choice. There was nothing to be done about the crushed
silk. A smart travel dress would have been better, had I
owned one. But such things required seamstress
consultations and fittings, all amounting to too much time,
time I never seemed to make room for in my ordinary
routines. I did take comfort in the fine brushed wool of
my cloak which Simon, my husband, had given me for
Christmas last year, a month before he died. It was of
excellent quality. A voice brought me up sharp. “I am most put out that
the weather is foul,” my cousin, Mary, said as she swept
into the hall. “I wanted to show the house to its full
advantage.” She posed regally in the hall of the Jacobean house,
her pride radiating from her. She knew her surroundings
elevated her, as wealth is apt to do. She had married well
and that is always a woman’s conceit. And yet, it had not been mine. My late husband,
Simon, had left me his wealth, something I found made my
rather ordinary life a bit more convenient than it had
previously been, but little else had changed because of
it. I certainly took no pride in showing it off. “The house is magnificent, Mary. I am anxious to see
what you have done with its restoration. It seems very
grand indeed.” That pleased her, thawed her a bit. She cocked her
chin at me and turned slightly so that I might press a kiss
upon her cheek in a rather pretentious gesture for a woman
only three years my senior. But I complied. I have no
trouble indulging others’ vanities, if they are harmless. “Come then, Emma,” she said, “the parlor is through
here. Give Penwys your cloak. Alyssa and Alan have
already arrived. I know she is anxious to see you. Penwys
will see your things are delivered to your room and the
servants will put everything to rights. You can go
upstairs when you’ve met everyone and freshen up then.” She was showing off a bit, taking on the same airs
Alyssa was so fond of. As just as with my sister, they had
the tendency to prick my sore spot and made me wicked. “Oh, very well,” I conceded, “but please direct your
man to be very careful with my portmanteau. It is old, and
I take extra care of it since it had been my mother’s.” The mention of Laura—my beautiful, tragic mother—
changed her expression to one rife with thoughts best left
unsaid. “Your belongings will be treated with the respect
they deserve.” We proceeded together down a short corridor. Above,
a series of large arches stretched across the high ceiling
like ribs, giving me the unsettling feeling of traversing
the interior of a vast corporeal chest. My eye was caught
by some words carved at the apex of the last of these stone
vaults, just above the heavy double doors beyond which I
could hear the muffled sounds of conversation. An odd
place for decoration, I mused. It would be easily
overlooked as it was placed high overhead. But I could
read the three words. Corruptio optimi pessima. I stopped. Something strange and unpleasant
fluttered through me. The air went crisp, as if ionizing
in preparation for an electrical strike. Mary saw me staring. “Interesting, isn’t it? Those
carvings are all over the house. The man who built the
original manor was a bishop, back before Henry, when the
papists still had the run of the place.” She
laughed. “It’s a curiously religious dwelling as a result,
and I’ve kept it that way through the restoration. These
ominous sayings carved here and there are terribly quaint,
don’t you agree?” My voice was dry as dust. “Do you know what it
means?” She must have forgotten my unfortunate habit of
overburdening my brain with reading, for she thought I
didn’t know. “I believe it means ‘the best of men are
incorruptible.’” It did not. The fact that she didn’t know made my
uneasiness grow. It felt to me—very strongly so—that it
should be important the owner of this house understand what
was written into its very bones. The correct translation
was “Corruption of the best is worst.”
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