Cautiously, Adelaide approached him. “Are you the driver Mr. Llewellyn sent for me?”
The man’s face took on an expression of shock, his bushy eyebrows climbing almost to the bill of his tipped back flat cap. “Aye,” he said finally. “Mr. Llewellyn sent me.” He cackled at that as if it were some great joke.
“I hardly see why that is amusing, sir,” Adelaide admonished, startled by his rudeness and his rough manner.
The man shrugged. “I don’t suppose an upstart American would. All them yours?” he asked, gesturing toward the bags.
“Yes, they are,” Adelaide answered. Seeing little point in antagonizing him further, she elected to simply ignore his odd and gruff behavior. Instead she looked back at the stack of baggage. It represented the very last of happy times she’d had with her father. He’d been especially doting. Had it been guilt because he was half convinced to lock her away at Muriel’s urging? She desperately didn’t want to believe that. Instead she thought of the various silks, satins and velvets in those trunks and how treasured they would always be.
Those gowns her father had purchased for her in Paris had arrived at her home in New York, only to be promptly shipped back to her in England. It would be ages before she could wear them, but she had another trunk filled with the mourning attire that was called for.
“I’ll have to stow some here and come back for ‘em in the morning. Only enough daylight left for one trip to Cysgod Lys,” the man said and glared at her, as if daring her to challenge him. He seemed offended by her very presence.
Adelaide was not in the mood for a battle, especially when she could see the cart was far too small. “The two on top are all that I will require for now,” she said, in as conciliatory tone as she could muster.
The man climbed down with a grunt, tossed the bags into the back with far less grace and far more force than necessary, then helped her in after them. The rest he hefted and carried into the red brick train station. She stood there watching him, watching those treasured items disappear into the cavernous building. Panic suffused her. What if someone took them? What if she lost that last link to her old life and the family that she’d once been such a treasured part of?
Forcing herself to take deep breaths, and calm her raging nerves and pounding heart, Adelaide did all she could to present a calm appearance. She’d barely gotten herself situated in the cart before he clicked at the horses and they shot forward. Bobbling on the seat, she managed to right herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man smile. If she’d thought it was an accident, that smirk was all the proof she required to believe otherwise. Would Eldren Llewellyn be as unwelcoming to her as his servants were? What had she gotten herself into?
“What on earth were you thinking, Eldren? Really? She’s an American! You know what they are like.”
Eldren closed his eyes behind his hands as they rested on his face. Head tipped back on the top of the chair, hands covering his face, he was certain in that moment that he looked exactly what he was, a man exasperated beyond his endurance.
He’d been doing accounts all day and now he would be listening to his sister-in-law’s snobbery for the remainder of the evening it seemed. “Her father was a business partner and friend who lost his life in a terrible manner. The girl is traumatized from her experiences and her stepmother is a grasping—well, she has her hands on the bulk of Winston’s money and has no intention of caring for his grown daughter by another woman. What was I to do, Frances? Leave her to the tender mercies of a woman even colder than you?”
“You could have found a husband for her that was not part of our family! An American! She’s not even an heiress! And what of the title?” Frances continued, ignoring his insult to her. There was no love lost between them. The fact was evident in the way she sneered at him, her voice dripping with disdain and the snobbery that he so despised in her.
In fact, Miss Hampton Parke was an heiress, but Eldren did not see the need to inform Frances of that. She’d simply find something else to complain about other than the girl’s finances, her breeding, her pedigree, her nationality. The list was endless it would seem. But as to the money, the marriage settlement that Winston had provided for his daughter was far more generous than he had ever imagined and was certainly more than her stepmother would have wished. He had to wonder if perhaps that wasn’t the reason she’d been so cold and callous to Miss Hampton Parke.
As for his title, he doubted the girl was even aware of it. He had not used it in his dealings with her father as he’d found most Americans to be either unduly fascinated or completely repelled by his claims to nobility. In the end, it had been easier to simply refer to himself as Mr. Llewellyn rather than Lord Llewellyn, Earl of Montkeith.
“I need a wife, Frances. You, Warren and nearly every one else of my acquaintance have insisted upon it. Now you are displeased because I have chosen one. It stands to reason that displeasure must be your natural state of being.”
She huffed out a breath. “Eldren! How dare you say such things to me after all that I have done for this family! Had I not consented to marry beneath me—to a younger son, no less— to accept your brother’s proposal, all these business ventures you have involved yourself in would have gone to someone else entirely. I alone saved the Llewellyn family and the Montkeith Earldom. Your precious mines would have been abandoned and fallen to ruin!”
There was a grain of truth to that statement. The influx of cash that Frances had brought with her upon her marriage to his younger brother had spared them the worst of financial ruin and had allowed them to rebuild the mining empire their father had nearly destroyed. Frances also never let any them forget it. Eldren often wondered how frequently his brother was reminded of that in private. It might explain why the man spent more time nursing his brandy than attending his duties on the estate or at the mines. Of course, despite her beauty, Frances had not had so many offers to choose from. The coldness of her disposition went much deeper than simply being proper and circumspect.
Despite that, she’d dangled her charms before him frequently enough, angling always for a chance to be the Countess of Montkeith. He’d rather have died than wed her, and that, he suspected, was her true contention with Miss Hampton Parke.
“Frances, I am grateful for the generosity of your family. At this moment, I would be more grateful if you would leave me in peace. I wish to finish these accounts before Miss Hampton Parke arrives. It would not do, as her betrothed, to spend her first night in this house with my nose stuck in a ledger while she is left to fend off your vicious attacks!”
“Hampton Parke! It sounds like she was named after an estate!” The other woman sneered derisively.
“And your name prior to marriage was Deerfield. I’ve heard enough from you today. Go. Go to my mother. Go to your rooms. You may to go the devil, but you may not stay here,” he said firmly. Glancing over at his highly inebriated brother, he added, “And take Warren with you while he’s still able to walk out of his own accord!”
Her face took on that pinched expression that he abhorred, but after a moment’s hesitation, she spun on her heel and stalked out, the train of her green gown swishing behind her like the tail of a temperamental cat. There was little doubt he would pay for it later. She was hardly the forgiving sort and Warren unfailingly did her bidding. She was a termagant and one he was quickly losing patience with. After a moment, Warren rose, tipping sideways for a moment before righting himself and following his shrew of a wife from the room.
Eldren stared at the door long after it was closed, considering how to proceed. He could always send them packing. While he hated to do so to Warren, and certainly for the sake of their mother who was not at all well, he could not abide Frances and her attempts to manage him just as she managed her husband. It had been Frances, after all, who had continued to provide Warren with liquor even after it had become apparent that he was no longer simply drinking socially or occasionally allowing himself to become inebriated. It was a daily thin
g now, and she was the architect of it. And if he demanded that she leave and return to their own home in Bristol, it would likely be the last time he would see his brother alive. The situation was intolerable, no matter what he did, but at least at Cysgod Lys, if Warren were to become ill someone would tend him.
Turning his attention back to the column of numbers, he grimaced at the crack of thunder outside. It was late in the year for that type of storm, but Welsh weather was nothing if not unpredictable. He hoped the journey would not be too terrible for Miss Hampton Parke. There was much to love about their desolate corner of Wales, but there was just as much to fear. The harsh and rugged landscape had its charms, but the cold and wet of late autumn when the entire world appeared bleak and gray would never show them to their benefit.
Eldren did not know the girl. He’d seen her once and she had seemed unaccountably shy, but she had also been very young. She’d been dressed in the costume of a school girl, with her dark skirt and prim white blouse. Her dark hair had been in simple braids, a hallmark of her youth. At just past thirty, he was far too old for her. While some men had no qualms about marrying a girl fresh from the schoolroom, he was not one of them. Of course, his motives were pure. He only wanted to help her, to provide some sort of protection. Regardless of the oddness of Cysgod Lys, the darkness that seemed to hover about the property, it generally only had any impact on those who bore the Llewellyn blood. She would be safe from its influence. Besides that, he owed her father. The man had taken a risk and invested with him in something that could change the very face of their country.
He’d liked Winston Hampton Parke, had genuinely respected and admired the man. Even then, Eldren had to admit it had been remarkably short sighted of the man to believe that his wife, Muriel, would see to the girl’s welfare upon his death. The few times he’d been in her presence, she’d made it a point to speak as detrimentally about Adelaide as possible. Perhaps it was his exposure to Frances’ particular brand of venom over the years that he’d been immune to hers. Winston had not been and had seemed to believe everything she said.
If ever there had been a case of love being blind, that was it. Muriel was dazzlingly beautiful, but for all the warmth in her eyes, she might as well have been carved from ice. He’d learned from the lawyers almost immediately that Muriel had telegraphed them. They, in turn, had telegraphed him to apprise him of her schemes. He’d known of her plans for Winston’s daughter likely before the girl ever did. It had been telling that she’d immediately contacted him to disclose Muriel’s plans. Was it the case of the girl actually having scruples, or had she simply been trying to get her stepmother’s goat as Winston had been fond of saying?
Of course, he reflected that could simply be the product of her age. She was little more than a child, after all.
Eldren sighed. She was so terribly young. It seemed morally reprehensible to him, and yet what choice did he have? There was no one else to see to the girl’s welfare, no one to care for her. Yet, she was not family and he had no legal right or obligation to care for her, unless they were to wed.
The trustees assigned to oversee her marriage portion had jumped at the opportunity, immediately suggesting that it was the perfect solution to everyone’s problems and as he’d been a business partner of her father’s no one could suggest that her father would not have approved the match. At the same time, it also made him feel the union was destined for failure. How on earth could a girl like her be happy with a man his age—a man who was solely focused on his work to the exclusion of all else?
With nearly a decade and a half separating their ages, they could have little in common. She’d likely grow bored and resentful and he’d find himself fairing no better than his brother. Theirs would be a loveless marriage and devoid of even the hint of passion. It was the only way to end his family’s curse.
Would she even consent to such a thing? Part of him questioned whether to tell her prior to their wedding, but his honor would not allow him to withhold such information. She had the right to choose, after all. If she did say no, he’d help her to find a suitable husband, one who would perhaps offer her all that he could not.
Eldren closed the account books, his wayward thoughts refusing to be reined in. For that brief time, he allowed himself the luxury of simply brooding in silence.
CHAPTER TWO
The skies had opened and rain had poured down as if being tipped from buckets. The heavy wool of her traveling costume was soaked through as was the heavy veil that covered her face. Her teeth chattered and even in her gloves, her hands had grown impossibly frigid. So much so that they were numb and she could barely grip the edge of the seat with every jolt of the cart. It was pitch dark. There were lamps hanging on poles beyond the edge of the cart, illuminating the horses and the road beyond, but only by mere feet, making it impossible to anticipate those jolts and brace herself effectively for them.
“How can they possibly see where they are going?” She demanded of the churlish man who held the reins.
The driver, whom she’d learned was named Mr. Waddington, scoffed. “Don’t need to see, do they? Just need to pull. I’ll do the seeing for them, won’t I?”
“And how can you possibly see?” she demanded.
“Don’t need to see. I knows this road like the back of me hand!” he snapped angrily at her.
Adelaide said nothing further as the cart lurched, one of the wheels hitting a deep rut in the road. They traveled only a few yards further when that same wheel snapped altogether. The loud crack of it rent the darkness as the cart listed alarmingly and Adelaide was left clinging to the wooden seat for purchase lest she end up on the muddy road, trampled beneath the horses’ hooves or the remaining wheels.
Mr. Waddington cursed, or she assumed he was cursing. It was in Welsh so it sounded utterly incomprehensible to her.
“There’s no fixing it tonight and I’ll not leave me horses to be stolen,” he groused, taking one of the lamps down from the pole. “If you cut through yon moor, it’s less than a quarter mile to the house.”
Adelaide was horrified. “I can’t walk there alone in the dark. I don’t know the terrain. What if I fall?”
“I’d advise you not to then!” he snapped, clearly more concerned with the plight of the horses than with her. “Go on with you, girl! Don’t be standing here in the wet like you’re daft!”
As Mr. Waddington was clearly unmoved by her situation and as the rain showed no signs of letting up, Adelaide knew he spoke the truth. It would have been different if he’d come in a carriage that was covered where she could wait. But she was facing the devil’s own bargain. Stay with the cart and freeze or risk life and limb crossing an unknown field in the dark and rainswept night?
“I’d advise you to remove your veil. Widows weeds will not impress folks about here anyway,” he groused with his familiar ill humor and sharp tongue. “And if you try to cross the moor like that, you’ll step in a hole and break your fool neck!”
Adelaide took the lamp he extended toward her with great trepidation. “Are there wolves?”
“Some,” he said, not even bothering to offer her any reassurance.
“You must have a pistol with you. Give it to me,” she ordered.
“I will not! No woman ought to walk about armed!”
“No lady should have had to ride in a farm cart in the rain only to be set out miles from her destination to walk alone in the dark,” she snapped back at him. “If I cross that moor unarmed and unescorted, what do you think Mr. Llewellyn will have to say about it?”
Waddington grumbled, but he did return to the box at the front of the cart and came back with a small revolver. It was similar to the one her father had taught her to use years ago. Taking it from him, Adelaide checked it over, making certain that it was actually loaded and then carefully placing it in the pocket of her skirt. If Mr. Waddington was surprised that she knew how to handle firearms, he did not let on. His face was as stony and impassive as it had been since he fetc
hed her from the station.
Gathering all the courage she could muster, Adelaide left the relative safety of the small cart and crossed to the side of the road he’d indicated. There was a small stone fence there. She placed her lamp atop it long enough to scramble over it. Holding the light carefully in front of her, she set out across the field. In the distance, she could see the dim glow of lights and prayed that she was going in the right direction. A part of her, something paranoid and bordering on the hysterics that Muriel had accused her of, wondered if it wasn’t all a sham. Perhaps Mr. Llewellyn hadn’t even really been the one to wire her? What if it had all been some ploy by Muriel to lead her to her death and reclaim whatever moneys her father had set aside for her? It was not out of the question, much as she might wish otherwise. What did she really know of her betrothed, after all?
Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, testing the ground with every step to make sure that the earth was solid beneath her, it made for slow going. She’d rather arrive late than lay there in the darkness all night to be feasted upon by whatever beasts might be roaming in the dark, Adelaide reasoned.
The rain lashed at her skin until she was no longer capable of feeling the cold. Her arm ached from holding the lamp aloft but if she were to arrive at Cysgod Lys unharmed, there was no other option. But it was something else altogether that unnerved her.
Crossing that wide expanse of dirt and grass, with the light of a house in the distance and the hulking shadows of mountains just behind it, she felt exposed and vulnerable. More specifically, she felt observed. There was an overwhelming sensation, a prickling sense of unease, that someone or something watched her in the darkness. Was it Mr. Waddington watching her? Or was it something far more sinister? Or possibly a product of her own overworked and overwrought mind?
The Victorian Gothic Collection Boxed Set 1-3 Page 2