“It’s not particularly to my taste,” Robert said. “But I haven’t the heart to destroy the idyllic Greek countryside.”
She hadn’t been aware that he’d been watching her. “I certainly agree,” she said.
He gestured to the footmen, who left and returned almost immediately with the soup.
“It is a pleasure to dine with you, Miss Archer,” Robert said, as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. She recalled the same gesture from her arrival, and wondered if it might be a nervous habit. What would make a man like Robert nervous?
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Sheraton,” she replied.
As the soup was served, she stole a few glances at him, and noticed him doing the same.
“I trust your chambers are to your liking?” he inquired.
“Oh very much so,” she said genuinely, before tasting the soup, though she could smell it. “Artichoke. One of my favorites.” She took a spoonful. “This is delicious.”
They ate their first course without any real conversation which gave Gwen time to try and absorb her surroundings. Like everything else at Dredthorne, she was starting to realize, the dining room with the doors that looked like walls was not what it seemed. However, she was aware that Robert was watching her over his glass of wine. Perhaps he had become a man of few words, not that he had ever talked that much. Or perhaps he was not a skilled conversationalist.
But then Gwen understood what might be keeping his tongue still. Naturally he was curious as to the nature of her news, and she hadn’t spoken a word of it.
“I apologize that Regina isn’t with me.”
Robert examined her before setting down his spoon. “No such apologies are needed. In fact, if I can apologize for prying, I must ask you what happened. Your note was rather vague.”
Gwen steadied herself, sitting up straight in her chair. Visions ran through her head of how badly he might react, and of the many ways this evening might end in disaster. She took a deep breath. There was no help for it but to begin.
“Regina has run away,” she said slowly. “She wrote a letter stating that she had lost herself, and has gone to find herself again.”
Robert had enough grace to look surprised, even saddened, instead of enraged.
“It’s nonsense, I know,” she said apologetically. “But there were no warning signs, no strange habits that in retrospect could provide a clue as to what happened to change her mind. I feel terrible that I am going to have to break your poor brother’s heart.”
“Oh, Christopher couldn’t possibly count that as your fault,” he said. “Regina is but a child; so is Christopher, truly, but I know that my family was hoping that they could tame each other’s impulses.” He sighed as he shook his head. “It would have been such a good match.”
Gwen was shocked; it was almost as if the old Robert had been replaced by a better mannered twin. In fact his wistful tone almost made it seem as though he were lamenting his own lack of a worthy match.
Or perhaps, Gwen thought, that was what she wished to hear, due to her own very notable lack of suitors.
“I don’t know where she could have gone,” she finally confessed. “Or why she would have gone. If I had been in her place, awaiting my wedding…”
As the sentence died in her throat, Robert lowered his gaze, looking at the gleaming wood of the table intently as the main course was served. His face looked sorrowful as they ate the savory beef stew in companionable silence. She wondered what it was that he had gone through that had taught him some manners. He had not even raised his voice when she had told him the news.
“We have a had a mild winter,” he finally ventured. “I daresay the gardener is glad of it.”
“Do you grow your own artichokes?” she asked.
Their conversation ranged across a hundred little nothings, as though by some secret agreement they avoided the topic that had brought her to the hall. They talked about the upkeep of the mansion and the renovations that had been done to her room. Gwen was most interested in the discussion of the grounds and why they had been built so very far away from anyone else. The hall was so remote that she couldn’t think of any reason why the original settlers would have built here at all.
After their dessert course, Robert stood, helping Gwen from her chair. “I may not have all of the answers to Dredthorne’s mysteries, but I may have some clue where to find them. Would you like to see the hidden library?”
Gwen’s attention peaked. “A hidden library? Truly?”
She had always loved books. There had never been enough in her father’s library to sate her curiosity. Gwen had always wanted to know more, to know the answers why. Her father had said it was a curse in a woman to ask such questions, but her mother had called it wisdom whenever Father was out of earshot.
Robert went to the Pandora panel painting and pressed a finger to the portrait. Gwen went still as something clicked and the painting swung open.
“Why, that is a door,” she exclaimed.
Beyond the painting lay a large space that smelled of dust and old books, a scent that Gwen found positively intriguing. Inside, it was obvious that Robert hadn’t been the first one to discover it; unlike the hall itself, the books were meticulously cared for, dusted, and organized. She ran her fingers across the covers of several on a low, polished table, frowning.
“What are these?” she said.
They were smaller than the rest, and thinner. Fine leather bound the antique pages, and they were in remarkable repair.
Robert had gone to the opposite wall, and was perusing what appeared to be an antique Bible.
“Pardon? Oh. Those are a collection of journals from Mr. Thorne’s wife, Beatrice Thorne.”
“The builder of the hall?” she asked.
When Robert nodded, Gwen sat down at the table, pulling the first journal toward her. What would it have been like to be married to the man who had created such a bizarre estate? Two of the pages were stuck together, and she carefully peeled them apart. The handwriting was impeccable; if only her own penmanship was half as beautiful as this woman’s measured script.
Dear Journal –
Today I arrived at Dredthorne Hall. Mr. Thorne has created such a beautiful home for us; I have never been so excited in all of my time to see what our lives will bring us together. I know of no other land that is as welcoming and exotic as the hall’s grounds.
We left from our honeymoon at the seaside and traveled to the hall at speed. The carriage bounded lightly against the road, and Mr. Thorne and I held hands every moment of the way, enjoying each other’s company.
As we approached, I admired the dark shutters that hugged each brightly shining window. The bright red door was intensely welcoming, and there was a small shadow in the window of the attic.
“She’s rumored to have been cursed, you know,” Robert said quietly.
Gwen could feel his eyes upon her as she flipped through the journal’s pages but she couldn’t look away. It seemed like such a promising start to a marriage. Finally, though, Robert’s words sank in.
Gwen paused with her fingertips over the neat writing. “I beg your pardon?” Certainly she had heard him incorrectly, for Robert was not prone to jesting.
He sat down at the table across from her, causing the small chair to creak. Clearly, the books took precedence in terms of upkeep.
“There’s a legend in the village of Renwick that every owner of Dredthorne Hall is cursed,” he said, laying the Bible down on the table. “Every master of Dredthorne is doomed to fall in love with a lady who has stayed overnight at the hall; and she will die, no matter how strong his love, before their first wedding anniversary.”
She flicked back through the pages, noting that the journals began when Mr. Thorne had begun courting Beatrice, the future Mrs. Thorne. They were the work of a young woman, these pages of precise script. Could she possibly have not been healthy?
Gwen stopped her line of thought when she realized what she’d do
ne: given credence to a musty old legend. She sat back and leveled a steady gaze at Robert. “Before the first anniversary, you say?” Though she’d tried to keep her voice neutral, she hadn’t succeeded.
Robert shook his head, smiling slightly. “I know that you don’t believe me, but it’s quite true, Miss Archer. Each woman since Mrs. Thorne has gone mad or died.” He shrugged, and got up, taking the Bible back to its shelf. “Perhaps the journals will illuminate the dark and inscrutable past of the hall.”
Her fingers paused over the pages. Did she really want to know if such a thing could possibly be true? But before long, she was reading in full, the hidden library fallen away.
* * *
Robert watched Gwen for a long moment as she delved into the journal of Beatrice Thorne. Though he hadn’t read it, she was clearly fascinated, and something about her interest and intensity charmed him. He took a deep breath and wished, not for the first time, that Christopher would soon arrive. For there had never been a day, from the moment that he had met Gwen, that he had not been in love with her.
Even now she beguiled him, from the simple way she held the journal so carefully to the way she smiled as she turned the pages. From the minute he’d mentioned the library, there’d been a certain, very lovely light in her sea green eyes. It was going to be hell to wake in the same place as her, knowing that they were so close—and yet apart.
There had always been many things about Gwen that he admired: her honesty and steadfast nature; her obvious devotion to family. But it was her beauty, in such close proximity, that now entranced him. Her brunette curls framed a heart-shaped face whose skin was so perfect that it could belong to a newborn. He wondered what it would be like to reach out and touch it.
He cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. He was musing on nonsense. Nothing of the sort could happen now that Christopher had been accepted by Regina.
Gwen’s mouth had opened slightly, mouthing the words she read, and her face had gone pale.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“There’s a letter tucked in this diary,” she said, and her hand shook as she lifted the page out of the journal. “A letter from a Miss Louisa Wilson.”
Robert frowned, tilting his head as he brushed the hair back from his eyes. “I know that name. If I’m not mistaken, Miss Wilson was a courtesan,” he said. “She disappeared here at Dredthorne, perhaps some fifty years ago.”
Gwen’s eyes blazed with interest. “Did she.” She scanned the letter again, looking up and down the page. “Here,” she said, pointing to one passage in particular. “She believed someone was going to harm her.”
“Strange,” he said. “Who here would want to harm her?” He paused as he reflected. “Well, perhaps Mrs. Thorne, but I can’t believe a woman of her background could do such a thing. Besides, Miss Wilson was not murdered. She disappeared.”
Gwen carefully folded the letter and put it back. “I think we need to find out what happened to her.” She looked into his eyes. “I think if we can manage that, we’ll unlock more mystery than just that.”
Did her soft voice carry a hint of worry? Though he’d only suggested that she look at the library as a bit of a diversion, she’d obviously become quite interested.
“Perhaps bring the journals with you,” he suggested. “I’ll help you to carry them. We can study them while we wait for Christoper.”
Gwen stared at the long row of journals and quickly began to make a pile of certain ones. As they gathered up the small mountain of books, Robert wondered what he had just gotten himself into.
Chapter 3
Over the next few days as they waited for Christopher, Robert noted that life at Dredthorne Hall had settled implausibly into a routine of sorts. After breakfast, he and Gwen roamed the hall together, exploring distant staircases, looking for more secret rooms, and hunting for evidence of long forgotten foul play. They’d discovered a music room and even a medical supply closet, but nothing that shed any light on the fate of Miss Wilson. After lunch, Gwen would retire to read through the journals while Robert managed his affairs, as he did now.
He sighed, closing his eyes at the mountain of work before him. His father would have delighted in it—if he’d been here. The man took to paperwork like slaying a dragon. But increasingly, it was Robert’s duty to conquer the letters, records, and every other document pertaining to the household. His father’s health was in steep decline. They’d sent for the best doctors, healers, and medicines—everything that he and his mother could possibly think of, and more. But there seemed no solution to his increasingly watery cough and the swelling around his too thin waist.
Robert had to face up to the fact that he would soon be the head of the household—and he wasn’t sure how he would accomplish it. His mother was a wonderful wife to the elder Sheraton, and admirably managed their home in London. But Robert had no such help, nor any prospects for such.
His valet, Parks, appeared at the door. “May I help you prepare for dinner, sir?”
Dinner? How long had he been staring daggers at the onerous pile of papers. “Certainly, Parks.”
James Parks had served the Sheraton family for nearly thirty years, as had his father William before him. Always immaculate, he kept his gray and receding hairline oiled and combed back, his black suit clean and pressed, and his tie precisely knotted.
As Parks dressed him, Robert forced his thoughts away from London and back to Dredthorne. Why were women going missing at the hall? Nothing that he and Gwen had seen, aside from the journals, had given any indication.
As he walked down to dinner, he met her at the bottom of the stairs. Her sea green gown was the perfect complement to her jewel-like eyes. When he offered his arm, she smiled radiantly and graciously accepted it. He escorted her into the dining room and then to her seat, before motioning for the first course. But when he took his place and saw the onion soup, he almost pushed it away. He looked up to see Gwen watching him, a smirk curling the corner of her mouth.
“You as well?” she asked.
“Definitely,” he said, moving the bowl aside. “I’d rather eat a salad like a rabbit than taste one spoonful of onion soup.” He motioned for the next course. “What have you found in the journals?”
“Mrs. Thorne was definitely jealous of the courtesan,” she began eagerly. “She was famous for her many, shall we say, talents. She danced beautifully, and Mrs. Thorne couldn’t dance at all.”
He listened to her rush on, smiling as she spoke. In fact, he barely noticed the servants taking away the abysmal soup. But as she described how Miss Wilson played cards and was even known to gamble with the men, a tiny piece of white plaster landed on the table between them.
He gazed up as Gwen asked, “What is that?”
But Robert had no time to answer as he flew from his seat, dashed to where she sat, and shoved her out of the way. The massive chandelier crashed onto the table a second later, shattering the wood and sending splinters in every direction. He dove to the ground and covered her with his body as she cried out. For several moments there was no sound at all, then the servants began shouting.
Robert pushed himself up enough to see Gwen’s face. “Are you all right?”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she nodded a vigorous yes. Slowly he helped her to sit up and they surveyed the damage. The footmen were hurriedly putting out the many candles that had fallen, and it appeared that nothing had burnt. But the chandelier’s crystals were scattered in every direction, and the thick iron of its central support had driven into the table like a harpoon. Large splinters of wood were impaled in the back of Gwen’s chair. Robert realized that she had come very close to being seriously injured.
As the servants fluttered around them, Robert helped her to stand.
“Heavens,” Gwen muttered, putting a hand to her heart as she stared at the devastation. “We could have been…”
Robert blocked her view of the chair and motioned to Frances. “Escort Miss Archer to her
chambers,” he told the young woman, her staring eyes as big as saucers. “Frances,” he said sharply, and she finally blinked.
“Yes, master,” she said, with a quick bob.
“You’ll stay with her until I say so,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” she answered.
“Robert…” Gwen reached out for him, her hand trembling.
He gently took it with both of his. “You need to lie down, Gwen. Please, you’ve had a shock. Let Frances help you.” He looked over to Agnes. “Fetch a glass of brandy for Miss Archer and take it to her room.” Both maids curtsied and he reluctantly let go of Gwen’s hand. With a final long look at him, she nodded and followed the two women from the room.
Despite feeling like he could use a brandy himself, Robert took charge of the clean up. The servants, obviously unnerved, set to their tasks nevertheless. As they did, he looked up at the ceiling.
Four ragged holes in the panels surrounded an even larger one in the middle. Had all of them come loose at once? Or had one come undone, taking the others with it? Though Robert had never hung a chandelier in his life, he found it unlikely that such a monumental piece of lighting would be secured by anything but the strongest of means. Nor had there been the slightest indication that a failure of its securing mechanism was imminent. He had dined here every night since he’d arrived.
If not for that small piece of plaster…
Tomorrow he would bring a ladder to investigate, when there was more light. But even now he suspected that another Dredthorne mystery might be in the making.
“We hardly need another,” he muttered.
“Sir?” Parks said.
His valet stood in front of him with a brush in one hand and a pan filled with crystals in the other. “Nothing, Parks.” He looked around the dining room, which had almost been cleared. “When you’re finished with that, find your bed. We won’t be having dinner. Tell the others as well, if you would.” He glanced up at the ceiling again. “I’ll be inspecting that in the morning.”
Mistress of Darkness: Dredthorne Hall Book 2 Page 2
