Accursed Abbey: A Steamy Regency Gothic Romance (Nobles & Necromancy Book 1)

by Tessa Candle

  “Aye,” echoed her uncle, “the expense.” He shook his head. “The expense!”

  As the journey dragged on, and she had more of these unremittingly odd exchanges—she could not call them conversations—with her aunt and uncle, Elizabeth began to apprehend that they might be unwell. Perhaps their nerves were so strained with work that the loss of Elizabeth's parents had pushed them into a breakdown of sorts.

  She shook her head in compassion. Surely they were just very tired. Things would look better in the morning.

  When they finally arrived at her aunt and uncle's vineyard, it was too dark to see very much of the landscape, but the sour and yeasty smell of crushed grapes pervaded the area. She had learned from the Whitelys that wine grapes had been grown there for time immemorial. She supposed the smell never went away.

  “Are you harvesting now?” she asked her uncle.

  “No no!” He looked concerned, but his eyes animated at the topic. “They are not quite ready. Perhaps another two weeks. We shall see.”

  Her aunt's sudden smile looked a little crazed. “We check them every day.”

  Elizabeth found the exterior of the cottage humble, but charming, for it held within its plain stone walls and little coloured windows a sense of quaint juxtaposition. It put one to mind of an austere monastic cell, but one oddly ornamented to resemble a stained-glass cathedral.

  It was a confused little structure that could not decide if its purpose were self-mortification or the glorification of God.

  But when Elizabeth entered, she discovered in the jumble of notes, grapevine clippings, carafes, buckets and carboys, that the cottage's true purpose was to house an obsession with wine. It was a cluttered terror, and almost every surface held some holy relic of viticulture or oenology to the virtual exclusion of all else.

  The room that was to be hers was smaller than a servant's dwelling at her own home—her old home, she corrected the thought, for this was her home now. And this was her family. She ought not make a start by expecting the level of luxury that she had enjoyed in England, or it would end in disappointment.

  It had been cleaned rather indifferently, and the bed things could use airing. But there was a closet large enough to house her small collection of clothing and a little table and chair where she might read and write letters. What more did she need, really?

  She was bone tired and only wished to fall into her bed, but her aunt and uncle came to her.

  “Is everything to your liking?” Mrs. Whitely asked.

  Their faces looked as though they were thinking of something else entirely.

  “Yes, thank you, aunt. It is a cosy little room.”

  “Before you settle in for the night,” added her uncle, “would you write a quick letter to the solicitor in charge of the estate? He must be notified of your arrival here before he will release the trust to our control.”

  Elizabeth was taken aback. Surely such a letter could not be sent until morning, at the earliest. She could not understand why it must be written at such a late hour, when she was so exhausted from her travels. And yet they both looked expectantly at her.

  She supposed it would be unkind to refuse them, for they seemed to be so genuinely anxious about money that it was never far from their minds.

  “Very well.” She was about to ask for writing materials, but her uncle produced them before she could make the request and ushered her to the little table.

  When she had finished writing the missive, she scarcely had time to powder it and could not even check it for errors, which she was sure her tired mind must have made, before her uncle whisked it away.

  They bid her a good night's rest and left as quickly as they had arrived.

  Some small creature shrieked in the talons of an owl, its brief terminal cry cutting the night air, as Elizabeth readied for bed. She curled up with Silverloo in their new abode and fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Lord Canterbourne tossed about on the lumpy, straw-filled mattress that constituted the finest bed at the inn. Despite his long journey, he could not sleep.

  The singing and drunken carousing downstairs would keep a dead man awake and gave every promise of proceeding well into the night. But all the revelry was driven to the squalid periphery of his world by charming thoughts of Miss Whitely.

  He knew it was probably foolish to indulge feelings for a young woman he had met all on her own in a rustic farming region of Venetia, but he could not help the fascination. Of all the dalliances he had indulged in, a few had seemed more promising than others, but none had approached the connection and belonging he felt with Miss Whitely. It was as though she were intentionally placed on his path by some benign agent, as if they were meant to meet one another.

  Both of them were on such odd journeys—both abandoned and directed against inclination by a dead parental hand. And both were left to wonder at that parent's reasoning, perhaps at his sanity. They shared these misfortunes. And yet, would they have ever met if she had not been compelled to this new abode, and if he had not been sent on this bizarre errand?

  They both had mostly lived their lives in country retirement. How would they ever have come across one another in England? It seemed as though she were made for him, a treasure put in his way so that he might discover her.

  But he knew such magical thinking was even more preposterous than entertaining the hope of some future with her. And anyway, she was only just arrived here, how should he go about whisking her away and carrying her back to England again? Yet that was what he desired.

  He could not rationally support it and he could scarcely account for it, except that she was so lovely and seemed to so perfectly understand him.

  Canterbourne knew not how or when he had fallen into slumber, but the morning came too quickly. He would have little vitality to sustain him through the day’s long list of tasks

  He ate a light breakfast and endured a cup of horrid coffee, for there was no tea in the inn, and he could not be delayed by sending the servants to find some. Then he set about locating someone who might direct him to this Lord Orefados, who was to receive his mysterious bequest.

  The innkeeper knew the general area where Orefados lived, but suggested Canterbourne seek more specific directions from a local man, Signôr Barozzi, who organized and transported crews of migrant vine-workers.

  Lord Canterbourne found Barozzi sitting on a shaded veranda and enjoying a coffee at another inn. The place looked so superior to the one where Canterbourne had spent his first night that he decided to take a room there.

  “Si,” said Barozzi, “I know Lord Orefados. We don't have so many milords around here. Is funny—a second milord looking for the first, heh?” He laughed at his own wit.

  Lord Canterbourne overlooked the man's crude familiarity and, despite it, took a liking to his congenial attitude.

  “I have business with this milord. Can you spare someone, a driver perhaps, who might guide me to his vineyard?”

  “Oh yes. I can guide you myself, milord, if you can wait a few days. I will take some workers out to a neighbouring vineyard. You can follow behind,” he gestured with a grin at Lord Canterbourne's gold-emblazoned coach, “in that fancy carriage.”

  Canterbourne laughed and did not ask how Barozzi knew the carriage was his. It was rather ostentatious with its gold detailing and the Canterbourne coat of arms on the door. He had taken it from the family house in Paris, for travelling under noble colours made passage to other countries much easier. It was the only carriage of its sort on the street.

  “Say, what of this?” He handed Barozzi the direction written out by Miss Whitely's uncle. “Is this not the same road?”

  “Ah yes! And you are in luck, milord. It is there that I will take the workers. The people here call it the vinyard without hope.” He scratched his head and laughed sadly. “Is owned by a strange couple. They cannot grow grapes. They cannot make wine. But they never give up. Is like a madness. But they pay for workers, so...” He shrug
ged.

  Lord Canterbourne smiled broadly. This was going very well. He might visit Miss Whitely sooner than he thought. But he was sorry to hear that the Whitelys were renowned for their oddity. He had hoped he had merely met them at a bad moment.

  It made his next task seem more urgent. He needed to find a suitable place to live while he got further acquainted with Miss Whitley. And he must find an English solicitor, if one existed in the region.

  Chapter 8

  After a few days of trying to please her aunt and uncle, Elizabeth gave up. They were aghast at the suggestion that she make herself useful by tidying the house, not because such work was strictly within the purvey of servants, for they had no such pretences about them. The couple employed only one woman of all work, who came a few times a week. They feared, rather, that if they allowed Elizabeth to clean and straighten anything, she would disturb their carefully assembled experiments and researches.

  Elizabeth came to learn that almost every bit of dust-collecting detritus in the house was a part of such investigations. They had apparently been arranged according to a logic known only to the inscrutable reasoning of the Whitelys.

  Her aunt and uncle left early for the vineyards, returned late and refused any assistance from her. Their vines were the objects of their delight and their tireless labour. But neither the fascination nor the burden was to be shared with a civilian such as Elizabeth.

  “Oh no!” said her aunt, when Elizabeth asked to help. “You cannot imagine what damage might be done by the uninitiated.”

  “Oh, indeed,” said her uncle, shaking his head, “the damage.”

  “Aye, the damage,” rejoined his wife.

  Though she longed to be helpful, such communications as these made her almost grateful for the daily loss of their society. But she refused to fall into listless idleness and decline. She would find things to occupy herself with every day. She was determined.

  They permitted her to clean the kitchen, but only so long as she did not disturb two carboys that resided there and emitted an occasional bubble from a sour-smelling pink mash. Elizabeth was not tempted to defy this injunction

  She spent her first morning tidying, scrubbing and making a list of things for the woman of all work to do.

  On her second day, she made an inventory of their larder and decided she would quietly evict the half of its contents that appeared to have revolutionary tendencies, or were, in fact, actively revolting.

  On the third day, she made a list of things to purchase in town, for there must be a market somewhere. Then she completed her cleaning of the back room and larder. As she removed a bolt of canvas that leaned in one corner, she discovered a closet hidden behind it.

  With some trepidation about what fresh horror might be waiting inside, she opened the door slowly. Against every expectation, the compartment was clean except for a little dust. And her heart skipped with delight when she found a fishing pole and tackle stored inside.

  She was tempted to remove the gear, close the door and open it again, for it was almost as if the little cupboard were a magical portal that opened to reveal the desire of the heart. She dispelled the silly temptation to see if Lord Canterbourne would appear and instead set about cleaning and testing the rod.

  When she had done all she could do for the kitchen, she made lunch of some bread and cheese and ate it at the little table she had set apart to form the breakfast parlour. Silverloo was her only company, but she did not repine at the lack of conversation.

  After lunch, she took Silverloo for a walk to explore the property, intentionally walking away from the direction of the vineyards and toward the forested, rolling hills that imposed themselves between her guardians’ land and the backdrop of the pale mountains behind.

  As she approached the forest, she discovered that it was not a forest in the sense that she knew from her experiences in England. It was mostly scrubby bushes that climbed up the hillside, with only a few sinewy-looking trees to give occasional shelter from the sun.

  But Elizabeth had a broad straw bonnet, and Silverloo was delighted with the task of watering the low bushes, and so they wound their way happily up the hillsides.

  As Elizabeth ascended, she discovered that despite the August sun, cool winds came off the pale mountains up yonder. Her aunt said these were very important to the grapes, and that if the temperatures got too high, she and Mr. Whitely would walk between the rows, fanning the vines.

  Elizabeth had thought this sounded quite mad, but forbore to tell them so.

  She came to the top of the highest hill and looked out at the land around her. Below lay the orderly rows of her aunt and uncle's vines. She could see them, tiny in the distance, travelling among the rows as if caught in a simple maze, or as if they were bees, moving by impulse to parse each cell of their honeycomb.

  Beyond that lay the little village of Melonia. It did not seem so very far away from this prospect. Elizabeth mused that either the vantage point offered a distorted perspective, or her aunt and uncle had two of the slowest moving donkeys on the continent.

  Or was it that, despite the relentless toils of the workers, the pace of the countryside was unalterably slow, attuned to some ancient cycle that ignored the clacking irrelevancies of human clocks? Perhaps it trickled on like honey, quickened in the summer, slowed in the winter, but all the while unmindful of the human undertakings that became trapped, paralysed within its lagging, viscous flow.

  She wondered if Lord Canterbourne were there, under one of the coloured rooftops that formed a patchwork mass over the town.

  Would he come to visit as he had promised? Had he delivered the mysterious box? Had he already left and forgotten her, or was he, too, hindered by the dilatory gait of country life?

  To the northeast a much larger vineyard sloped up the side of the white dolomite mountain. There was a massive estate manor there. It rooted itself in the rock like a fortress and stretched upward like a vine creeping over the mountain face.

  Even further up the mountain stood the ruins of some ancient structure, perhaps an old monastery. She squinted for a few moments to be certain that she truly saw the plume of smoke rising from these ruins. It was thin, but it was there. Could someone be dwelling in such a place?

  The pale peaks seemed somehow brooding despite full sun and a clear blue sky. As she stared out at the mountain face, she was gripped by a forceful conviction that something was staring back.

  It must have been her fancy that made her hear a low malevolent hum issuing from the leprous white rock, as though an incensed monk were meditating there. And he was meditating upon her.

  She shook her head and laughed at herself, nervously reaching down to pet Silverloo, who also watched the jagged peak. A cold wind suddenly assaulted her and threatened to strip her head bare.

  As she tightened her bonnet, a tiny sparkle caught her eye through the branches. There was a stream running at the eastern edge of the bushy hills, before the vineyard at the next estate started.

  All her former unease was dispelled. Elizabeth could not help grinning stupidly at Silverloo as she scampered back down the hillside to fetch the fishing pole. Her aunt and uncle would not return from the vines until after sunset, in any case. There were still many hours for fishing.

  Chapter 9

  Lord Canterbourne mused that poor Tonner was probably bored out of his mind to be driving the carriage at such a plodding pace behind Barozzi's worker-laden cart. But Canterbourne was getting more accustomed to the slow place of the region and was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had made great progress, for all his being dislocated in a little back-eddy, insulated from the world's great currents.

  He had to marvel at the way things worked here. The local networks of people and the constant movement of migrant workers made for a wondrous hive, humming with gossip.

  He had hired a translator and made a trip to the local market. He thus discovered the name of an English solicitor, Mr. Johnstone, who was luckily visiting a sister in T
reviso. How this information became known in Melonia was a great mystery to Canterbourne.

  But then, he supposed it was also true that an astounding array of gossip was in constant transmission between London and every other part of England. It was only the exotic location that made the institution of idle talk seem something more strange and magical here.

  However it came about, he was thankful for the intelligence and had dispatched a special messenger to contact Mr. Johnstone.

  He had also found the small local bank and presented letters of introduction and a draft that he might draw upon. This process also required communication with the parent bank in Treviso, but he was assured such things would be resolved within days.

  And in the meantime, the head of the local bank took it upon himself to assist milord in finding a suitable residence to let.

  “The finest local residence is already taken, of course, by Lord Orefados,” said the man.

  But there were other large houses, some very grand indeed. He knew of one for sale, in fact.

  The little town had its charms, but Canterbourne did not wish to buy a house in the place. He only wished to have decent lodgings while he accomplished what he needed to—which was what, precisely?

  When he examined his motives, he only wished to stay long enough to deliver his box and remove Miss Whitely back to London. The first was a duty of the conscience, the second a conviction of the heart.

  He could not say why, but he was certain that she should not stay here. It was not just the eccentric minds and negligence of her guardians. He detected, though he could not say from where, a real danger to her in this place.

  The carriage pulled up, and Lord Canterbourne was roused from his thoughts.

  Barozzi's face, shaded by a wide straw hat, appeared at his carriage window. “This is the Whitely vineyard, milord.”