Dark and Stormy
By Deirdre O’Dare
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2018 Deirdre O’Dare
ISBN 9781634867443
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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To the wonderful tradition of Gothic romance on which I grew up from the Brontes to DuMaurier with the shivers, the angst, and the happy endings! It is humbling yet inspiring to build on such great traditions and take them into new paths.
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Dark and Stormy
By Deirdre O’Dare
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 1
Martin FitzHugh leaned forward and peered through the coach’s rain-streaked window. Even when a flash of lightning briefly lit the night, he could see nothing. The rest of the time, so deep was the darkness, he felt it to be solid. However, sound made up for any lack of vision. The wind, shrieking as if in torment, ripped the remaining leaves from the trees and hurled them down where a pounding rain flattened them into the mud. The great hooves of the four horses squelched and slurped as they strained into the traces. The coach itself creaked and groaned as it twisted and lurched along.
After that, Martin slumped back, bracing himself in a corner and praying the vehicle would not upset, while he tried to shut the storm out of his awareness. For the tenth or perhaps fiftieth time, he questioned his sanity. What had possessed him to accept a position at some remote Welsh hold? It might as well be Darkest Africa for all the civilization he had seen the past two days, while they followed a deteriorating road deep and yet deeper into the hill-cut region. By now, they must be in an impenetrable wilderness.
Although he could barely understand the driver’s thick accent, Martin thought he had said something like “Ve iz nearly there now, sor,” in answer to his timid question as to their whereabouts. That had been hours ago, around sundown, before the storm struck.
I believe my life is turning into a cliché. Martin gave a wry chuckle at the wild thought.
Indeed, it was a dark and stormy night, perhaps the darkest and stormiest he had ever experienced. His waning faith that he would arrive safely at Ravensrawn declined to nothing. If the coach was not struck by lightning or crushed beneath a falling tree, surely the horses would bolt, causing it to careen from the road and sink into a bottomless swamp or go flying off a cliff.
The coach jerked to a stop. Martin only realized it once he noted no more jolts, tilts, and sloshes. Although the storm had not abated the wind carried broken snatches of speech to him. The muffled words were too few to make any sense of. Much as he dreaded sinking his new boots into the muck, he contemplated alighting to find out what had happened. Had the coach mired or broken some critical part? He could not believe there would be highwaymen out on such a night as this.
Before he could act upon the thought, the door against which he had been leaning fell open so suddenly he almost tumbled out. Black against black, a hulking figure loomed over him and a pair of quick, strong hands seized him before he fell…even before he could resist. He muttered an oath of protest upon finding himself borne through space. For a moment, wind and rain lashed him. Then, he settled upon hard thighs and the rounded pommel of a saddle, as an enormous, oily-textured cloak enveloped him, cutting off the wind, the wet, and the cold. A powerful arm gathered him close as the horse surged and wheeled away from the coach.
Martin found himself bundled so thoroughly he had to struggle to find a crack to stick his nose through. He inhaled the cool, damp air and willed himself not to give in to the fear, which threatened to overwhelm him. Had terrible turned to even worse?
However, even terror could not nullify his native curiosity. Although he doubted his captor could hear him above the noise of the storm, to which was added the sounds of the massive horse driving through the night, he framed several anxious and indignant questions. “Who are you? Where are you taking me? What do you think you’re doing, anyway?”
The answer came in a low-pitched rumble of a voice, somewhere above him. “I do not think I am doing anything. I’m merely doing it. What I am doing is taking you to Ravensrawn, bypassing a bridge washed out by this devil-spawned storm. As to who I am, ‘tis nothing you have need to know. It would never do to have the urgently needed tutor for the young earl and his sisters swept away to sea in a flood, so I came to fetch you thither. My apologies if the conveyance does not suit. I could arrange for no better at short notice.”
“You know me then…who I am, I mean?” The revelation took Martin by surprise. How could this faceless man recognize him in the pitch-dark night?
When the rider laughed, the motion rocked him a little in those powerful arms. “Could there be so many young gentlemen traveling to Ravensrawn when the road leads nowhere else and by his Honor’s coach at that? Who else could you be but young Master FitzHugh?”
“Aye. There is that. I must admit I am he. Now, you are one better than I, for you know who I am, while I do not know who you are.”
“For now I am your humble servant who must remain nameless. The deed is of the moment, not the doer. Hang on now for Nightwind must leap a gorge. It’s not so very wide or deep, yet if you struggle, it might unbalance him.”
“I’ll be very still,” Martin managed, turning his face inward against the warm, solid bulk of the man’s body. Although he considered himself a courageous person, he squinched his eyes shut. There seemed to be nothing he could hang on to, though he felt around inside the bulky cloak.
One had to be mad to go around leaping unseen gorges in total darkness. He could come to no other conclusion. He was the prisoner of a giant mad man taking him who-knew-where. With a free hand, he gathered a handful of the stiff cloak, the only thing within reach. Before he was quite ready, he felt the horse gather itself and spring.
For a moment, it felt like flying and then he heard a splashy thud and knew they were again on solid ground. He could not forebear a sigh of relief. In a few more moments, he heard the hollow clatter of hooves upon wood, perhaps another bridge. Then, through a gap in the cloak, he could see light—smoky, sputtering torches thrust at intervals into metal brackets on a stone wall.
Soon, Martin found himself standing on wet cobbles. He swayed at first, relieved of the cloak, and was surprised to feel the rain had ceased and the wind no longer reached him. He turned to thank his strange benefactor, hoping for a glimpse of his face, only to find the dim lights did not penetrate the shadow of the rider’s hooded cape.
“Thank you, good sir, whoever you
might be. I do believe this is Ravensrawn and I have arrived safely due to your concern.”
His benefactor replied to that appreciation with clipped, terse words. “‘Tis of no moment. I’d have been riding anyhow. ‘Twas only a short distance out of my way. Good morrow, Master FitzHugh. I must be off now.”
“Stay,” Martin called. “At least tell me your name so I may inform my employer of the service you’ve done for both him and me.”
“He’ll know.” Those final words were flung back as the stranger wheeled the tall, dark horse and it leaped away into the gloom. Horse and rider seemed almost to vanish in front of Martin’s eyes, swallowed by the night.
Martin stood bemused for a moment, until a gentle tug on his arm turned his attention. He saw an elderly-looking woman beside him, urging him by anxious gestures to come along inside. That seemed a sound idea, as it was still damp and chilly, although the rain had stopped.
Passing through a heavy, planked door bound with massive iron fittings, they followed a set of twisting corridors, and a set or two of stairs, which soon had Martin quite lost. At length, they came to a pleasant room where a bed waited, turned back to warm. A lively fire leaped and danced on a stone hearth, providing both heat and light.
“This’ll be your quarters, sor,” the woman said. “If there be anything ye need, ring and it’ll be brought. I’ll have a bath sent and nightclothes, since your traps have yet to arrive, stuck in yon coach.”
“Who was that man, the one who brought me here?”
The woman cocked her head, birdlike. She made no answer to Martin’s question. “Ned be yer chamberlain,” she said, ingeniously. “He’ll be up soon with a hot posset and help ye to bed. We mun’t be waking Himself so late. In the morning, he’ll speak with ye about your duties, and ye’ll meet the Little Master and his sisters. Good morrow to ye, sor.” With no further ado, the small woman turned and marched out.
Martin suddenly realized the extent of his weariness and the soreness of his body, bruised by bouncing about in the coach. Curiosity must take a place behind the simple comforts of bath and bed. He suspected if he tried to follow the woman, he’d only find himself hopelessly lost.
If this were truly Ravensrawn, it was the strangest manor house he had ever seen, more like some ancient, fabled castle of old. Though fine, the furnishings of his room looked old, more suitable to the fifteenth century than the latter half of the nineteenth. What a strange place he’d come to. Everything went fuzzy and dim then, and later he didn’t truly recall anything else before he found himself in bed, sliding into sleep.
He slept long and deeply, disturbed only by fragmentary dreams of dark riders and bottomless gorges, imprisoning castles and faceless strangers. London and the only home he had known since childhood were weary miles away, farther than he might ever go again. With naught to return to, what would be the use of making the journey? Of course, in time this new position would be no more as the young children of the late Earl of Montcalm would grow quickly beyond the need of a tutor. However, he’d confront that matter when it arose. Perhaps a similar situation would present itself at the opportune time.
* * * *
When he awoke, Martin suspected the hour was later than his usual time to rise. Back home in his uncle’s London townhouse, he often rose as early as most of the staff. Over the past few years, the staff diminished at a steady pace as Uncle Claiborne’s financial situation became ever more perilous. At last, the unfortunate gentleman’s gambling debts exploded and Martin’s world with them.
With no home to return to and his uncle facing debtors’ prison if not a bad end at the hand of some of his creditors, Martin had no choice except to make his own way in the world. As a result, here he was in Wales, embarking on a career he had never envisioned. Not that he’d expected a brilliant future, although when he’d become his uncle’s ward at the age of fourteen, he’d anticipated at least a comfortable existence. He now thanked good fortune that he had gained a decent education before the money well ran dry. It should now stand him in good stead. He felt himself well qualified to be a tutor for aristocratic children.
Before he stretched and flung back the covers to get out of bed, a diminutive, hunched figure scuttled in. He recognized the fellow from the night before—his chamberlain, Ned, according to the elderly chatelaine who had welcomed him. If there were leprechauns in Wales, Ned must be one. Two obsidian eyes glinted, embedded deep in his wrinkled apple of a face, which seemed to shape a perpetual grin revealing a crooked mishmash of dingy teeth.
Now the man scurried across the room, flinging wide the shutters to let a beam of misty sunlight into the room. He then knelt to blow the coals to life and added a bit of wood to the fireplace.
“Good mornin’ to ye, sor. What might ye fancy to break yer fast? Be ye a drinker of tea or that horrid coffee muck?”
Before he could reply, Martin heard some commotion in the corridor outside his door. Ned flung it open and two husky lads came staggering through it bearing Martin’s weighty trunk between them. At Ned’s direction, they set it down beside a towering, dark, wooden wardrobe. A young woman then came in next, balancing a tray that held a ewer of steaming hot water, a folded wash cloth and shaving gear. She slid it onto a bureau to the left of the fireplace, bowed at Martin and then less deeply in Ned’s direction before she flitted away.
“Tea is fine,” Martin said, remembering to provide his breakfast preference. “And a scone or two or perhaps toast—whatever is available.”
“In a flash, sor. Need ye aid in shaving and dressing? Now that yer luggage is here, I’ll have the trunk emptied posthaste and garments laid out.”
Martin realized he still wore the commodious nightshirt he’d been given, a garment made for a larger and stouter man than he would ever be. “I can manage,” he assured Ned. “I know where things are in my trunk, unless the contents shifted greatly on the journey. Do go on about your normal tasks. I’m no lord to be waited on, only another hireling on the manor’s staff.”
“Nay, I can tell ye be a gentleman and I’ll treat ye accordingly. His Honor indicated ye were to be shown all respect.”
That was news to Martin, but he couldn’t bring himself to object. While Ned scuttled off to see to his breakfast, he shaved, washed, and dug into the trunk until he found suitable attire. He wasn’t sure if he would meet his new employer today or not. He did plan to see the child or children, though. Hadn’t both a young lord and sisters been mentioned? Somehow he’d gained the idea there was more than one child for whom he’d be providing schooling.
A mischievous mouse of anxiety nibbled at his viscera at the thought of meeting his new employer. Children should not pose a huge challenge, although he hadn’t been around any for some time and never in the position of their tutor. It might prove more complicated than he expected. He wanted to gain their trust and respect and also to become a bit of a friend to them.
Two hours later, he found himself in a long room downstairs from his quarters in the space designated as the library. Indeed, huge shelves of books lined the walls. Most were so dusty and aged in appearance he doubted they had been read for decades. They also looked far too large and imposing to serve the needs of the schoolroom. A sound at the door alerted him. He turned quickly as the elderly chatelaine, who he now knew was Mrs. Morgan, ushered three children into the room.
The tallest and, he assumed, eldest then stepped ahead, leading the other two by the hand, a boy on her right and a smaller girl on her left. She stopped a few feet from him, dropped the two hands, and sketched a curtsy.
“G-g-good d-day, sir. I-I-I am Emmaline.” She tipped her head in the direction of the boy. “T-t-this is D-d-donovan. H-he d-d-doesn’t speak.” The boy inclined his head, his gaze skating past Martin’s in a frantic dart. The older girl then turned to the smaller one. “And t-t-this is Ch-Ch-Charlotte.”
The two older children were both very slender, almost waifish looking. They shared the same dark straight hair, deep-set brown eyes,
and exquisitely fine features. Although the boy was a bit shorter, they could almost have been twins. By contrast, the small girl was blonde and blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked and seemed not abashed or timid at all.
“Hello, Mr. Man. Em says you are to be our schoolmaster. She says we must obey and not ever think of defying you. Is that right?”
Martin had to smile at her earnest question. Despite the fact she did not seem half as bashful as the other two, he squatted to get closer to her level. “Not untrue, Lady Charlotte, although perhaps not the whole truth either. Yes, I will be teaching and guiding you, yet I trust I’m not such a dragon as to demand instant and total obedience.”
She giggled. “Oh good! You do not look like a dragon at all.”
Martin stood and addressed the other two. “How old are all of you?”
“I-I-I am e-eleven,” Emmaline said. “D-d-donovan is nine and Ch-charlotte is five.”
“Have you had tutors before or other schooling?”
“W-w-we had a governess in—W-w-well, before Mama and Papa went to their heavenly reward. Since then we’ve been shuffled about until Uncle Dylan returned from Africa a bit over a three fortnights ago and took us in hand, bringing us back here to Ravensrawn.”
Martin nodded. “I see. Things must’ve been sad and difficult for you for a time, then.”
He thought Emmaline blinked back tears. Though Donovan’s lips quivered, he squared his small shoulders and stood as stiff as a soldier on parade.
“We were not mistreated. It—Things were just uncertain for a time. Still, it’s been good to come home, even though we had not lived here for some time.”
The two older children were so clearly trying to appear courageous and unmoved by the apparent tragedy in their lives. He’d had no idea of all this background. Dealing with children who had been through such traumatic events was outside of his realm of knowledge. Still, he vowed he would do his best for them. Truly, being a friend might be the best thing he could do, at least to begin.
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