The Victorian Gothic Collection: Volumes 1-3

by Bowlin, Chasity

  The wind whipped at her veil until she simply yanked it from her head. The fluttering of it about her only added to her terror as it often blinded her. But with it gone, there was no logical explanation for the fluttering sound she heard. Not like the beating of wings, but rather like whispered voices overlapping in a crowded room. Like the hum of conversation in a church or at a funeral, she thought, where everyone had something to say but no one wished to say it loudly enough to be fully overheard.

  From her peripheral vision, she could see dark shapes flitting to and fro, moving quickly, always just out of her line of sight when she turned to confront them. Surely, if it was a pack of wolves, they’d have howled or made some sort of noise to communicate with one another? But only that fluttering sound beat at her ears, that and the rain. Every time she whirled in the direction of one of those swiftly moving figures, all she managed to do was make herself dizzy. Whirling again to her right, she stumbled, sinking to her knees on the soggy ground.

  “Stay there. Just stay.”

  The soft whisper was insidious. It sounded at once as if it had come from inside her own head and also as if had been whispered against her ears. She could almost feel the movement of air over that sensitive skin. It was the same voice of hopelessness she’d heard that night as the ship sank, the voice that had said she should just let go of the ropes, sink into that abyss and let it claim her.

  “It’s your imagination, Adelaide,” she said, trying to convince herself of it. “Get up. Get up and move or you’ll freeze to death right here!”

  Somewhere, she found the strength to stagger once more to her feet and step forward. One agonizing step after another, she pressed on. Realizing that paying mind to those fleeting shadows and fluttered sounds was only exhausting her further, she forced herself to ignore them and instead focused all her energy and attention on the lights in the distance.

  Yet the more she ignored those things, the more insistent they became. It was an assault on her senses, relentless and terrifying. Near tears; exhausted and beyond cold; her imagination was getting the better of her. Adelaide repeated that to herself every few seconds, hoping that she would come to believe it more firmly. Patting her pocket and feeling the heavy weight of the gun, it offered her a small measure of assurance. If something living stalked her on the open moor, she would defend herself, no matter the cost. She refused to consider that she might be stalked by anything else.

  Adelaide was close enough that she could now make out distinct windows and the dark shape of the roof line. Almost there. Buoyed by that thought and by the slight feeling of empowerment the brutish weapon gave her, she marched on, ignoring the whispers, the shadows, the rain, the cold, the aching fatigue, and the unrelenting sadness that threatened to swamp her. It was her constant companion since her father’s death, since that horrible night aboard the Mohegan.

  After what seemed ages, Adelaide reached the gentle slope of a drive covered in fine gravel. There was a gate just beyond it, the large brick columns on either side supporting an intricate work of art in wrought iron. Those gates were open wide, probably in anticipation of her arrival.

  The very moment she stepped through those gates, the whispers stopped. The feeling of being watched abated, and it seemed as if even the rain had lessened it’s terrible assault upon her. The hundred yards or so between the gate and the house were conquered by nothing more than will, for her body had been pushed far beyond the limits of what she could possibly endure, certainly in her already weakened condition.

  As she reached the front door, dark and ornately carved, she bit back a whimper as she lifted her hand to the door knocker. The heavy ring was clutched in the talon of a fierce looking dragon. His expression appeared gloating and superior. It was silly, but she felt the overwhelming urge to stick her tongue out at that mocking bit of ironwork. Luckily, good sense prevailed as the door was opened almost instantly.

  The butler was a man of indeterminate age. White haired, tall and possessed of a regal bearing, he could have been forty or seventy. It was utterly impossible to tell. “May I help you, madame?” he queried, clearly perturbed by her bedraggled appearance and unseemly arrival.

  “I am Miss Adelaide Hampton Parke. I am expected,” she managed, despite her chattering teeth.

  His eyes widened, his silvered brows arching upward in a manner that might have been comical. “Miss Hampton Parke, do come in. Come inside at once! Where is the carriage?”

  “There was no carriage,” she said. “Only a cart driven by Mr. Waddington.”

  The man blanched, his face turning the same shade of white as his hair. “Mr. Waddington? Did he set you out at the end of the drive in this?”

  “The cart hit a rut on the road and the wheel snapped… I walked.”

  “On the road at night?” He said it as if she’d told him she was a dancer from the Moulin Rouge.

  Adelaide frowned. “No… Mr. Waddington said to cut across the moor as it was a much shorter distance that way. In truth, I doubt I could have walked any further.”

  He didn’t say anything at all to that. Instead, his face had been schooled into an inscrutable mask. But there was something in his eyes that was not so easy to hide. Fear. Was Mr. Llewellyn a terrible man to work for, she wondered? Did he berate his staff and treat them ill?

  As if summoned by her thoughts, a door just off the large foyer opened and a man appeared there. Dark hair disheveled, as if his fingers had combed through it repeatedly, his satin necktie was askew and his previously starched collar now rumpled, he appeared to be nearly as exhausted as she was. And he was as handsome as she’d remembered. Any hope that she’d exaggerated that in her memory was now gone.

  “Miss Hampton Parke!” he exclaimed. “What on earth has happened to you?”

  Adelaide meant to answer him. She opened her mouth to do just that, but no sound would emerge. As she stared at him, the room began to grow dim, the darkness robbing her of her peripheral vision first and then slowly closing in until only blackness remained. Her last conscious thought was that she was sinking.

  * * *

  It was a breech in etiquette but a necessary one. As Miss Hampton Parke began her descent to the floor in a dead faint, his butler, Tromley, caught her before her head could strike the hard and often uneven surface of the stone tiles. Rushing forward, Eldren swept her up into his arms. “Her room has been readied?”

  “Yes, my lord. There is a room for her on the third floor.”

  “The third floor? Why is she not in the room down the hall from mine? Those were my instructions!”

  The butler looked chastened. “Many things about Miss Hampton Parke’s arrival have been altered, my lord. I fear Mrs. Llewellyn has had a hand in things. It was not the carriage that fetched the young lady from the station, but Mr. Waddington in an open cart. It became disabled on the road and he sent her—.”

  “He sent her miles in the dark alone?”

  “No, my lord. He instructed her to take the shorter route across the moor,” the butler finished, his face pinched and tight as he disclosed that last bit of information.

  Eldren didn’t curse, but the urge was there. If Waddington were in front of him, he’d have planted his fist right in the man’s face. “No wonder she fainted. I’ve seen grown men run at even the mention! Have someone go out in search of Mr. Waddington and fetch her things. I’ll have the maids borrow something of mother’s for the time being so we can get her warm and dry.”

  “I’ll see to it, my lord, and I’ll have a tray of tea and soup sent up to the Rose Room.”

  “No. If it hasn’t been aired out it would be worse for her. Tonight, she will take my chambers and I will sleep in the Rose Room. Have one of the maids see to it quickly,” Eldren said and turned to take stairs up to the second floor. At the foot of them, he looked back, “And Tromley, if at any point in time Mrs. Llewellyn gives orders to the staff that countermand my own, they are not to be followed… If they are, the person who does so will be dismisse
d.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  She was not overly plump, but she had a curvaceous figure. Of course, she was also draped in sodden wool which added considerable weight. By the time he reached the landing at the top of the staircase, he was winded. It was easier going down the corridor to his room. Maids scurried past him in the hall, having emerged from one of the many hidden panels in the hall that concealed narrow, dark corridors and servants’ stairs. Some made for the Rose Room, others made for his chamber.

  By the time he reached it, the fire had already been stoked to blazing. He placed her atop the counterpane. “Get those wet things off her before she succumbs to a chill.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the maid replied with a curtsy.

  Eldren turned to leave. He was furious—with Frances and with his servants. He’d given explicit instructions and every last blasted one of them had been countermanded by his managing, conniving, hateful sister-in-law. But if there was one positive aspect to the chaotic and horrible conditions in which his betrothed had arrived, he had been pushed beyond his limits with Frances and come hell or high water, she would be on her way. He would no longer tolerate her presence in his home.

  A maid was scurrying down the hall, a nightrail and wrapper in hand. He stopped her. “When you are finished assisting with Miss Hampton Parke, you will go to Frances’ chamber and pack her things. She will be leaving tomorrow.”

  The maid’s eyes widened in terror. “Aye, my lord. I’ll see it done.”

  He continued on his way, stalking along the corridor, his booted footsteps muffled by the aged carpet. The sconces on the wall, cast long shadows as he passed. They flickered and moved in an unnatural way, stretching out toward him like long, seeking fingers. He ignored it, just as he always did, but it made him cognizant of his temper. If he did not keep it in check, things would only get worse.

  He’d learned over time that any strong emotions on his part would only make those unsettling encounters intensify. Those same shadows had tormented him as a child, along with whispers and strange occurrences in the house. But with all the talk of ghosts and curses and not to mention the superstitions the servants had whispered within the earshot of a young boy with an ailing mother and a father already gone from the world, it was little wonder that he’d struggled. It was only as an adult that he’d managed to finally gain some sort of control over those occurrences by learning to control his own emotions. In the last few days, since he’d made the offer to Miss Hampton Parke to make her his wife, that control had slipped. But getting rid of Frances would alleviate a huge source of his current distress.

  Outside Frances’ chamber, he paused, raised his hand and banged loudly. Within seconds, she flung the door open, her lips curved in a triumphantly wicked smirk and the unmistakable flash of victory in her eyes. He’d never struck a woman in his life, nor would he, but she certainly seemed to know just how to push his buttons.

  “I hear your bride has made her arrival… at long last. I had feared she might have changed her mind,” she goaded, a wicked smile curving her perfectly formed lips.

  “Was that the purpose of sending Mr. Waddington for her? To scare her off? Or was having her ride in an open cart, ill sprung and dangerous to boot, in the coldest and wettest weather we’ve had in years an attempt on your part at something even more sinister?” he demanded.

  Frances shrugged. “She’s an American. Do they not pride themselves on being of such ‘sturdy stock’? What’s a little rain to them?”

  “That girl has been through hell. And you unnecessarily and intentionally put her through yet more of it,” Eldren replied, managing to just keep his temper in check. “You will leave here tomorrow, Frances, and you will return to your own home in Bristol. I will never entertain you in this house again.”

  She gaped at him. “What? You cannot mean to throw me out? And your brother? How can you bar him from his childhood home?”

  “I am not barring Warren from his childhood home. Nor is he leaving here tomorrow. Without you forever shoving a glass or a bottle into his hands, it is my hope that in your absence, we might be able to free him from the demons of drink which torment him! You’ve done more than enough damage already. A maid will come to assist you in packing. Take all that you wish to for if it is left behind, I will see it burned.” With that, he turned on his heel and left her to shriek her rage at his departing back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adelaide awoke somewhat disoriented, but memory quickly returned. She had fainted. It was, so far as she could remember, the only time in her life she had done so. Perhaps it wasn’t a faint, since she considered that far beneath her dignity. Perhaps instead it was some lingering effect of the minor head wound she’d sustained only two short weeks earlier when the Mohegan had begun its descent into the pitch black waters of the Atlantic at night.

  Pushing such distressing thoughts aside, she managed to sit up in the bed. The heavy wool traveling costume she’d donned for her journey had been removed and in its stead she wore a lovely nightgown of fine lawn with elaborate and beautiful embroidery at the sleeves and along the button placket at the front. A dressing gown of heavy brocade lined with velvet was draped across the foot of the bed.

  Above all, in all the things she noticed, she was warm. Her hair, though still damp, had obviously been toweled dry and braided. Unless of course she’d been unconscious for significantly longer than she’d realized, the thick mass could not have dried so much on its own. Scanning the room, she noted the clock on the mantle and pushed back the covers. The wooden floors, inlaid in a lovely herringbone pattern, were cold beneath her feet as she made her way to check the time. Her brow furrowed as she realized it was nearly ten o’clock. Had it taken her so very long to cross the moor, then? Recalling how gingerly she’d placed her feet and carefully calculated each step, it likely had. How long had that torment lasted, she wondered?

  A knock sounded at the door and she retreated quickly to the bed, shrugging into the heavy dressing gown as she called out for the person to enter. It was likely a maid, she thought, bringing water or tea or some other thing that might be needed in tending to an invalid such as herself. How humiliating to have fainted in the foyer in front of her intended! What an impression she must have made.

  The door opened and she turned to face it, but it was not a maid who entered, or rather not just a maid. While a girl did enter bearing a tray laden with a small tureen and a pot of what she assumed would be tea, it was none other than Mr. Eldren Llewellyn who held her gaze. He was taller than she’d remembered, but then she’d never seen him at such a close distance before. His broad shoulders filled the doorway and his well tailored coat conformed to the strong lines of his chest. He was a wealthy man, with business enterprises that spanned two continents, and yet he had the figure of a man who labored, with wide shoulders and thick, heavy arms. Why that should be the thing she noticed and why it should make her heart race to think of it, she did not know.

  “Mr. Llewellyn,” she began, and paused to glance at the maid who’d let out a squawk of surprise. Electing to ignore the girl, Adelaide continued, “Forgive me for making such a spectacle of myself upon my arrival. It must have been terribly inconvenient for you.”

  “It is I who must apologize to you, Miss Hampton Parke. It seems that the very explicit orders I left on how you were to be transported from the station to Cysgod Lys were countermanded by someone who presumed to know better. Suffice to say, they have been dealt with. I cannot tell you how very sorry I am that you were forced to endure the cold and damp in a rickety farm cart rather than a closed carriage. As to Mr. Waddington and his behavior, that will be dealt with as well. It was far too dangerous for you to cross the moor alone and at night no less, if you had fallen into one of the bogs, there is nothing that could have been done… regardless of how well armed you were. Tell me, do you always carry a pistol when you travel?”

  Adelaide blushed furiously. “No. I certainly do not. The pistol is Mr. Waddington’s
and I insisted that he give it to me before I set off across the moor. I was terribly afraid that I would be set upon by wolves.”

  “No wolves would attack you on the moor, Miss Hampton Parke.” There was something unsaid there, evidenced by the strange emphasis he put on certain words, as if the moor itself might have kept the beasts at bay.

  “Please, you must call me Adelaide. That is such a ridiculous name to have to utter repeatedly!”

  “Very well, Adelaide… and you may call me Eldren.”

  “Is the moor safe then? Mr. Waddington implied otherwise,” she asked. There was something in his manner and in the furtive glances of the maid that made her feel as if some important fact were being concealed from her.

  He paused and the maid behind her had grown deathly still. “No, it is not safe. But there are no animals who dare cross it at night.”

  “Will that be all, my lord?” The maid asked.

  “Yes, Dyllis, that will be all,” he replied.

  Adelaide frowned as she watched the girl bob a curtsy and depart. “My lord?”

  “I am the Earl of Montkeith. It’s an old title and one that is practically worthless outside of Wales itself. I never use it when I travel in America,” he explained, taking a seat in front of the fire where a small table had been laid with the food the maid had brought.

  “Did my father know?” Adelaide wasn’t sure why that mattered.

  “He did know. But he elected to keep the matter private, as I requested. He felt that if your stepmother knew of my title, she might get ideas.”

  It was sound reasoning and one she could not easily dismiss as it was entirely likely her father had been correct. Muriel would have thrown her in the path of this enigmatic man before she was even out of the schoolroom. “I see. I fear I’ve made rather a fool of myself then, referring to you as Mr. Llewellyn to all of your people here.”