Mistress of Misfortune (Dredthorne Hall Book 1): A Gothic Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “Do you think any other man will have you?” Lady Starling demanded. “Love is a foolish girl’s notion. Percival offers you his name and a home and protection. He is willing to overlook your faults, including this perpetual clumsiness that has lamed you yet again.”

  “No, someone tripped me last night.” There, she had said it aloud. “This was not my fault. A man with black boots tried to make me fall. Annie can show you the proof.”

  “It is a shame he did not succeed. It might have knocked some sense into your head.” Her mother stalked out of the room.

  Meredith rose early the next day, and waited by the sitting room window until she saw Thorne’s carriage approaching the manor. With her foot firmly wrapped she was able to walk with only a slight limp to meet her cousin at the door.

  “We must go at once,” she told her. “Mama is very cross with me, and if she wakes she will insist I stay home as a punishment. Possibly for the remainder of the year.”

  “That is cross.” Lucetta helped her to the carriage, which Harshad started as soon as they were inside.

  As they left Starling House Meredith let out the breath she had been holding, and regarded her cousin. She might as well tell her the rest. “Last night Percival made an offer of marriage. I refused him.”

  “Ah.” The older woman smiled a little. “I gather your mother wished you to accept.”

  “She demanded I do so.” Meredith described the unhappy events, and then said, “Apparently he intended to deliver his proposal at Lady Hardiwick’s assembly, but I was obliged to return home early. Had I known he meant to offer for me, I would have discouraged him at once. I feel very guilty about that.”

  The older woman patted her hand. “Do not blame yourself, my dear. He well concealed his intentions from you.”

  “I should have expected it, I suppose,” Meredith admitted. “He is to inherit, and my parents already regard him as a son. Yet I truly feel only sisterly affection for Percival, and he deserves a wife who can love him with all her heart.” She sighed. “We are all at odds now. I fear this may be my last visit to Dredthorne Hall.”

  “Hold fast to your resolve, my dear,” her cousin said. “In time the lieutenant will doubtless transfer his affections to another, and then your parents will have no choice but to comply with your wishes.”

  Meredith didn’t want to think about the disagreeable situation any more. “Last night at the ball Alistair mentioned that you are to be his new housekeeper. How did that come about?”

  “Quite quickly, and to our mutual satisfaction.” As the carriage stopped Lucetta stiffened and leaned out to peer at a small, old rig sitting to one side of the drive. She abruptly sighed and then met Meredith’s gaze. “It seems my brother has come to call on the colonel, which is doubtless on my behalf. I will meet you in the work room shortly.”

  Meredith agreed, and went directly to the reception room, where she found the vicar hovering over a group of books about the history of the church.

  “Good morning, Mr. Branwen.” She curtseyed. “Your sister is just arrived with me.”

  “It is good to see you, Miss Starling.” He gave her a short bow and turned as Lucetta came in with Thorne. “Lucetta, my dear. Colonel Thorne has related the news about your position here. I had hoped to have a word with you before I left.”

  “We will give you the room.” The colonel came to Meredith and offered her his arm, and escorted her out before closing the doors. “They will likely need some time. I see you are mostly recovered from the incident at the ball. What happened has been much on my mind.”

  “Think nothing of it,” she begged. “I daresay it helped more than it hurt.”

  Thorne frowned. “As you wish. Would you care for some tea?”

  If this was to be her last visit to Dredthorne, she wanted to make the most of it.

  “I wonder if instead I might look at one of Mr. Emerson’s journals.” Meredith gestured toward the hidden library. “If you do not object, that is. I have been very curious about them.”

  Thorne nodded, and walked with her into the dining room. “While removing the other books Harshad found the bulk of the journals are quite firmly wedged into the space, so it will take time to extract them. I have not had time to inspect those he managed to extricate. I cannot guarantee their contents will be suitable for a young lady to read.”

  “I am not easily shocked.” After last night, she doubted she ever would be again.

  He took a lamp from the table and entered the hidden library with her, where a small stack of journals sat on the desk. “Choose as you like.”

  Meredith took a journal from the center of the pile. When she held it up to the lamplight and opened the cover she smiled at a sketch of flowers on the first page. She showed it to Thorne. “It seems Mr. Emerson was something of an artist himself.”

  “Hopefully he wrote about gardening,” the colonel said as they emerged from the library and left the dining room. He looked up as the sound of hammering came from an upper floor. “I must go and speak to the carpenter about a delivery.”

  Meredith nodded, and went past the still-closed doors of the reception room into the sitting room. She couldn’t resist looking in at Thorne’s study, and decided the colonel would not mind her use of it. Curling up in one of his large leather chairs, she sighed and glanced at the journal. “Well, Mr. Emerson, we are alone at last.”

  Meredith opened the front cover and admired the sketch again before she turned the page. The first entry, which appeared to be written in a hasty manner, had no date.

  Every day I awake to the stillness and listen for her; every night I enter my chambers expecting her there waiting. Sometimes I think I can still smell her sweet scent on my pillow in the morning, as if her ghost comes to lay with me when I sleep. Why did I continue to build a mansion for a dead wife? Have I finally gone mad?

  “Poor man.” Meredith gnawed at her lower lip as she turned the page to find a sketch of an older woman with kind eyes surrounded by blooming roses.

  On the facing page, Emerson Thorne had written more.

  She is everything I see and smell and think and dream now, but the pain ebbs with each new dawn. I have done right to come here; more flowers appear in the garden each day, as if to keep me company. I think she may be sending them to me from Heaven.

  “How lovely.” She settled back to continue reading, and sighed as the next pages described in detail every bloom the old man saw, with detailed sketches of each. He wrote under them the names he knew, but then he began giving them more fanciful titles and wrote of what he regarded as their personalities.

  When it is quiet, Frost Rose peeks at me through the bed of new violets. Her face is all white flounces and dewy lace, and in her center, a purely golden heart. She seems to be waiting for me to appear with my tea every morning, and we are good company together.

  Prince Hyacinth thrusts his pikes of blue and purple bells toward the heavens, and his scent is as mighty as his colors. Was his namesake killed by the great god Apollo, as myth would have it? I know no bloom as bold or commanding.

  And then the crimson trumpets of Harlot Hollyhock draw my eye. She is all crimson in her gaudy display, almost taunting as she reminds me that I will never again know the joy of passion. I would hate her, were she not so correct in how she judges me.

  I stay longer and longer in the gardens each day, and soon I think I must bring some of the flowers into the house with me, and plant them about my bed, that I may sleep and dream of my lost beloved.

  To the next page a pressed, dried rose had been fixed, so ancient now it began to crumble the moment Meredith exposed the page. She quickly turned it over to find a very different passage written in a bold, slashing hand.

  He took her from me, but I cannot prove it. I only know it in my heart, as surely as I know his rage at being denied his prize. I saw him yesterday in the village, and the smirk of satisfaction he gave me told all. I went directly to the magistrate, but he insists grief has addled me
. He will not believe that my wife was murdered by that gloating villain. They are good friends, so I know he is protecting him.

  What am I to do without recourse? I dare not seek satisfaction by challenging him, for he is renowned for his prowess with the sword. Even if I were fortunate enough to land a lethal blow before he could slay me, I have heard the whispers among the servants. His family has sworn themselves my enemies. They should never allow me to live.

  I must take solace from being the means of his ruination.

  Appalled by the disturbing confession, Meredith quickly turned the page, only to find it had been torn out. What followed that were pages of plans for Dredthorne Hall’s gardens, written in dull, dry terms with no further mention of the terrible crime Emerson Thorne had suspected, or the name of the man he blamed for murdering his wife.

  She could show this to her cousin and the colonel, but what could be done? If the lady had been murdered a century past, then her killer would no longer live. Perhaps this was what founded that dreadful legend about the Thorne family curse.

  “Here you are,” Lucetta said as she came into the study, her face slightly flushed and her tone fraught with agitation. “I have finished bickering with my dear brother, who is reassured I am not casting myself to the wolves here. Other matters, well, they have resolved themselves. Shall we have some tea before we begin the work?”

  “I would like that.” Meredith took the journal and placed it on Thorne’s desk. Since the entry involved his ancestor, he would have to decide who, if anyone, should know about it.

  The revelation of Emerson Thorne’s suspicions lingered in Meredith’s thoughts all morning, distracting her. Despite her determination to carry on with the cataloging, Lucetta kept rubbing her temple and seemed unable to concentrate on the notations she had been writing. At last she put down her quill and sighed.

  “I fear I cannot think with this headache.” She grimaced. “Would you mind terribly if I retreat to my room? A cold compress and some rest should cure it.”

  “Allow me to help you upstairs.” Meredith started to rise, subsiding as Lucetta made a staying gesture. “Are you certain? I would not mind sitting with you.”

  “I am better left alone just now.” The older woman smiled before she retreated.

  Meredith glanced down at the short list of titles she had written, but instead saw the terrible words from the journal entry. She should find the colonel and tell him what she had discovered now, while Lucetta was resting.

  She closed the ledger and went to retrieve the journal from Thorne’s study, but when she approached the desk she saw no sign of it. Frowning, she went around and bent over to see if it had fallen.

  “Meredith?”

  She straightened without thinking, and banged her head on the edge of the desk. Clasping a hand to the sore spot, she squinted at Thorne, who was striding rapidly toward her. “Alistair. I came to retrieve the journal I was reading earlier, but it has vanished.”

  “Come here.” He guided her to the chair by the fire and moved her hand away to inspect her scalp. “I am sorry I startled you.” He placed the journal in her hands. “I found it when I came down to retrieve some plans.”

  She opened it and showed him the entry written after the page with the rose. “You should read this.”

  Thorne frowned as he did. “This is quite unsettling.”

  “I did not show it to Lucetta.” Meredith watched him skim through the following pages. “That appears to be the only entry he wrote about the matter. I thought since it concerned your family that I should say nothing until we spoke.”

  “I am not certain what to make of it,” he said gravely as he closed the journal. “It seems obvious that my ancestor wished to place blame for the loss of his wife. Grief can make a man irrational. Yet he seems quite convinced.” He looked into her eyes. “I should have read it first.”

  She felt miserable for him and herself. “I fear I have more unhappy news. After today my parents may not permit me to return to Dredthorne. They are quite put out with me for refusing to marry Percival.”

  He turned away, but said nothing.

  “I really do not wish to end a spinster,” she said quickly to fill the awful silence hanging between them. “I would like to have children, and a good home, and a husband. I have known Percival all of my life. Do you think I should accept his offer, Alistair?”

  “If you love him, yes.” He sounded angry and sad at the same time. “You deserve to be happy, Meredith.”

  She had hoped he would demand otherwise. She had yearned for him to offer to be her happiness. “It is only that I cannot be a wife to him. I could never do with Percival those things that…that wives do with husbands.”

  “I think you should speak about this to your mother,” he said stiffly, still not looking at her.

  “She will not listen to me,” Meredith said, rising from the chair and walking back and forth in front of the hearth. “She does not care what I want.”

  Thorne turned and stared at her. “And what do you want?”

  You. But I cannot have you.

  “Wifely affection,” she blurted. “I can never feel that for Percival. Marrying him will not change my feelings at all.”

  “I see.” Thorne moved away from her to stand at the windows, where he stared out at the back terrace. “Might I call on them and persuade them to–”

  Whatever he meant to say was interrupted by a sudden billow of flames and smoke from the fireplace. Embers pelted Meredith’s skirts, which caught fire as she stumbled away from the hearth. “Alistair.”

  Chapter 9

  Thorne tore the drapes from the window and engulfed her in them as he hauled her away, using the heavy material to smother the flames crawling up her skirts. Once he was certain they were extinguished, he picked up a fire bucket beside the hearth and doused the smoldering carpet with sand before returning to her to check her dress again, which no longer burned.

  “I am truly cursed,” Meredith said, her face so white it looked carved from chalk. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she dropped.

  Catching her, Thorne carried her out of the study and upstairs. He only realized he had brought her to his bed chamber when he placed her on the silk coverlet. He called her name, but she did not stir, and she barely breathed.

  Thorne had seen the shock of sudden injury kill soldiers, and frantically ripped open her bodice and dragged her scorched gown from her still form. He saw no burns, thankfully, only soot marks on her skin transferred from the fabric. He removed the dagger from his boot and used the blade to slice through her stays. Some color returned to her face as the release allowed her to breathe more naturally.

  Once he had her swaddled under the blankets on his bed he tore off his own soiled jacket and shirt and stretched out beside her. Gathering her against his chest, he tucked a leg over hers and warmed her with the heat of his body.

  “You must wake up, Meredith.” He looked down at her face and lifted a hand to stroke a tangle of hair back from her brow. “I have not yet shown you the rest of the house. You wished to see every room, did you not? And climb to the top of both towers to see the view. So, you will, just as soon as I have the steps made safe.”

  She did not move or respond, but the weak patter of her heart seemed to him stronger now.

  “Over the last day I have received a dozen new invitations,” he murmured, pressing her cheek to his own hammering heart. “Including another ball at Christmas. You must reserve two dances for me. I have never enjoyed dancing as much as I did with you.”

  She did not stir, but Thorne could feel the tension easing from her limbs. He thought he saw a tear on her cheek, but when he wiped it away he found it to be a shard of glass. He thought of the suddenness of the explosion of fire. If he went back to the study now, he felt certain he would find more shards of glass.

  Someone had dropped a lamp down the chimney, which had smashed and caused the blast. Someone had done this to hurt her.

  Thorne wan
ted to find the man responsible, and beat him to death. Instead he kept talking nonsense to Meredith, knowing the sound of his voice might draw her back to her senses. When she did not rouse, he pulled her close and held her tightly.

  “Listen to me now, my girl. I know you are frightened and weary. So am I.” He pressed his lips to her brow, “I have felt just the same every day since leaving India. But you cannot surrender, Meredith. You must fight this, and come back to me. We will find the one who has done this, I promise you. Together.”

  “Alistair.”

  The barest whisper of his name came with a soft puff of breath against his chest.

  “Meredith?” He gazed down at her, and cradled her face between his hands. “Say that again. Say my name. Please.”

  “Alistair.” Her eyes fluttered and then slowly opened, and she shook her head a little. “Why?”

  “Someone tried to hurt you, my dear,” he told her. “I put out the flames. You are not burned.”

  “No. That is not what I mean.” She glanced down at his bare chest, and the thin chemise covering her breasts. “Why are we here, like this?”

  He drew back a little. “You suffered a bad shock, and could not breathe. I had to remove your stays and warm you. Lying together in this fashion is the most effective means.”

  “Oh.” She nestled back against him. “That was very good of you.” She peeped up at him, her expression uncertain. “I fear I cannot tell Dr. Mallory about this method when he returns from his journey. I think he would not approve.”

  Thorne sighed his relief; she had come back to her senses. “Yes, and he would relate it to your parents, who would most certainly regard it unfavorably.” He lifted his hand to stroke her cheek. “Meredith, someone has been tormenting you by arranging these mishaps and accidents. Now I am convinced of it.”