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

  “Dredthorne? But I was only just…” The young woman went very still. “Bessie.” She sat up and regarded him with visible panic. “My rig… I had an accident, and my horse–”

  “She lost a shoe, but I believe otherwise she is fine,” Alistair assured her. “I had my steward take her to my stablemaster. He will attend her.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She sank back, a little color returning to her cheeks. “I feel so dreadful for imposing on you like this. If you will give me a few moments to collect myself, I will leave you in peace.”

  “You are not going anywhere like that, young woman.” He nodded at her injured limb. “Do I have your permission to examine the arm?”

  “You need not, sir,” she said quickly. “I think it is only a bad wrench.”

  “Oh, you are a doctor?” he asked, pretending surprise. “That is quite providential. My right shoulder has been paining me of late. Perhaps, when you are recovered, you would be good enough to look at it?”

  “You know I am not a doctor,” she chided. “If my arm were broken, it should hurt a great deal more than it does.”

  The fact that she would know such a thing troubled Alistair, and he knelt beside the chair.

  “What is your name?” When she hesitated, he added, “I know it is not proper to ask so directly, but I must call you something other than 'young woman'.”

  “Of course, forgive me. I am Miss Meredith Starling.” She offered him her good hand. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, Colonel.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” He clasped her hand briefly. “Now, Miss Starling, please allow me to ascertain that your arm is not seriously injured. Broken bones are nothing to trifle with, and I have much experience with such injuries from my years in the Army.”

  She gave a reluctant nod and winced as she held out her arm.

  Alistair supported the limb with one hand and carefully felt along the length of it with the other. She caught her breath when he touched her wrist but made no other sound. He then bent the limb up from the elbow to establish her range of function, at which point he saw the red stain on the underside of her sleeve.

  “It is not broken, but your wrist is badly sprained, and you are bleeding,” he said, gently lowering her arm. “I will send to the village for the doctor.”

  “He is not there,” she told him. “Doctor Mallory’s father fell ill, and he traveled to London last week to visit him. But he should return by week-end.”

  That left Alistair with no choice. “Then with your permission, I will cut open your sleeve and treat the wound.”

  She paled but nodded quickly.

  “I must fetch my medical case.” He stood. “Do not move from this chair while I am gone.”

  Meredith maintained her façade of serenity until the colonel left the room, at which point she collapsed back against the chair with a groan. The bad luck of the rig accident didn't surprise her, but she had never fainted in such a ridiculous fashion. Waking up to find herself the guest of the stern-face colonel had completely bewildered her, too. As reclusive as he was, why would he trouble himself to look after a stranger who had been silly enough to ditch her rig by the road?

  He is simply being polite, Meredith thought. Though he may be terse and abrupt, he is still a gentleman.

  While the means had been rather drastic, her dearest wish to see the inside of the house had been granted. It was more beautiful than she had ever imagined. The room in which the colonel had brought her appeared to be a morning salon, abundantly furnished with several chairs, lounges and one particularly sumptuous velvet and whitewood settee. In contrast to their surroundings everything looked new, suggesting the colonel had brought them with him to Dredthorne. The soft silvery fabrics went well with the Grecian design of the faded embossed wallpapers, and the old yet intricate Persian rugs. Meredith thought the rough gray quarry stone used to frame the fireplace exceptionally suitable, given the portrait of the iron-haired gentleman hanging above it.

  The style of that painting, and the fact that its subject wore a jacket that had been fashionable a century past, made Meredith wonder if she was looking upon the original owner of Dredthorne. His long face and lantern-shaped jaw seemed quite severe, but the artist had captured something softer in his eyes. Sorrow, perhaps, or an intense longing.

  “You have a delightful home, sir,” she murmured, and then jumped a little as Colonel Thorne came in with a large leather case under his arm and a tea tray in his hands. On the tray was not the makings of any tea, but some folded linen, a pair of shears and a rather large open decanter of dark amber liquid. “Pray, what are those spirits for, Colonel?”

  “You,” he said as he set down the case and tray, and then saw her face. “More precisely, your arm, Miss Starling. Untreated wounds can easily fester.”

  “Yes, of course.” She heard a booming sound and the rattling of windows, which had grown puzzlingly dark. “Oh my, have the French invaded Renwick?”

  “Lightning. A very large storm has blown in,” the colonel said as he picked up the shears, and paused as a muffled drumming sound filled the room. “And there is the rain.”

  Meredith watched as he took the shears to her sleeve and carefully cut it apart to a few inches above her elbow before snipping it away entirely. As she turned her wrist she grimaced; her fall had left a large, unsightly graze on the underside of her forearm. “Doctor Mallory always uses coal tar soap for such things.”

  “Soap is rarely found on the battlefield,” the colonel said as he cradled her arm with the folded linen and picked up the decanter. “But liquor can always be had wherever men fight.” He met her gaze. “This will burn, my dear, but only for a few moments. Brace yourself.”

  Meredith felt herself blushing at his casual endearment and quickly nodded, biting her lip as he poured the spirits over the wound. The pain she managed as always by concentrating on her breathing to keep it slow and deep.

  Thorne set down the decanter and blotted the excess from the wound before examining it closely. “I do not see any dirt or debris lingering. I will bandage it now.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, feeling despite her efforts a little light-headed, and then cringed as a huge bang exploded outside the house. “This storm must be very bad.”

  “It will likely turn the roads to rivers.” He removed from the leather case a roll of white, loosely-woven cloth, which he used to dress the wound. He then took out what appeared to be half a leather glove encircled by a number of narrow, buckled straps.

  “This will allow the sprain to better heal,” he said as he fitted the odd glove over her hand. Once he tightened the buckled straps around her wrist Meredith found that she could wriggle her fingers but not move her hand at all.

  “I think Doctor Mallory would be very interested in this,” she told him. “He resorts to wood slats and cloth ties to immobilize injured parts, and they are quite awkward. They also itch terribly.”

  Thorne sat back on his haunches and regarded her with a frown. “Exactly how often have you injured yourself, Miss Starling?”

  “More than I should,” she admitted, and forced a smile. “Now I have imposed on you too much for even the most generous of good Samaritans. If you would be so kind as to have my rig brought up, I will trespass on your kindness no longer.”

  “The roads are flooding, and your rig is in pieces, Miss Starling,” he said bluntly. “You have had a very bad shock and should not be moved. Once the storm passes I will send word to your parents of your accident, but you are not leaving.”

  Chapter 2

  It took a moment for Meredith to set aside her dismay and respond to Alistair Thorne's alarming declaration. “Thank you, sir, but I cannot linger.”

  The colonel's eyebrows arched. “You have a pressing appointment elsewhere?”

  “I intended to deliver apricots to some of our acquaintances in the village, but that will be impossible in the storm.” That he didn’t recognize the impropriety of their situation seemed clear, but p
ointing that out would be unmannerly. “My mother warned me to stay away from Dredthorne Hall, so I should not even be here. When night falls and I do not return, she and my father will become frantic.”

  “I could allow you to return home, I suppose,” Thorne said, and outside lighting struck again, causing the opaque window panes to rattle. “My carriage is presently at the wheelwright for repairs, but there is the cart. The horse may not mind a one-armed driver.”

  And now he was laughing at her. “I am happy to walk,” Meredith assured him.

  “On foot I expect it would take you perhaps an hour, provided you are not swept away by a sudden torrent.” The hard line of his mouth curved. “Are you a good walker in a flood, Miss Starling?”

  “No one is, Colonel.” As accustomed as she was to her misfortunes, it seemed very unfair that he should be entertained by them. “I am glad that you find my situation diverting.”

  “The estate agent mentioned how notorious Dredthorne Hall has become with the locals.” Thorne said. “That you survived a night under my roof should make you the heroine of the season.”

  So, he knew about the curse, Meredith thought. He seemed indifferent to the rumors, which made her feel a little easier. As for her own predicament, she would simply tell her mother that she had taken refuge in the village, and no one would ever be the wiser.

  “The storm should not last. They never do here,” Meredith said, but when she saw him untying his cravat she went still. “Sir?”

  “Calm yourself. It is the only silk I have at hand.” Once he unwrapped the snowy length from his strong throat, Thorne folded it in half and held it diagonally across the front of his jacket. “It will serve as a comfortable sling for your arm.”

  “Yes, that would be helpful.” Meredith sat forward as he draped her neck with the soft, thin fabric and cradled her arm with it. From the silk she could feel the heat of the colonel’s body, and smelled a trace of some dark, spicy scent she could not identify. She had never been so near a stranger, and the thudding of her heart perplexed her.

  Why in Heaven's name did she wish nothing more than to move even closer to him?

  “You should rest before luncheon.” Thorne straightened and offered her his hand. “Allow me to escort you to one of the guest rooms.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” Meredith's fingers trembled as she gripped his and rose slowly. Her head felt as wobbly as her knees, but when he tucked her arm securely in his she steadied. “You are everything kindness.”

  Thorne gave her an odd look. “Hardly.”

  She tried not to gawk about her as Thorne guided her out of the morning room and into the reception hall, but the timeworn beauty of Dredthorne could not be ignored. Above her head soaring ceilings adorned with paintings of cherubs and angels soared, framed by gilded alabaster carvings so intricate they appeared to be constructed of golden lace. Even the copious amount of ancient abandoned spider webs festooning them could not obscure their artful appeal. Dusty paintings occupied every wall in sight, in clever arrangements that captured the eye and invited longer contemplation. Although entirely out of fashion with the current trend of sculpture salons, the free-standing statues that appeared in random spots seemed perfectly placed, and were often flanked by over-large floor vases containing small trees and foliage. Unhappily all of the plants had died long ago.

  Why didn’t the colonel have fresh flowers brought in to provide some color and fragrance to the gloomy hall? Surely there was plenty to be had from the gardens.

  How presumptuous, her conscience chided. Not an hour under his roof, and you’ve already made yourself mistress of the house.

  The staircase to which Thorne led Meredith flowed up from the scarred, darkened walnut floors like a long, elegant arm gesturing toward the clouds. Once more her secret desire to climb one of Dredthorne’s staircase towers returned to her, but she couldn’t ask to traipse across the house for such a whim. She paused to admire the gray-shot white marble steps, which even with the edge chipping and cracks invoked a sense of stepping onto clouds.

  “You’ve noticed the abundance of fripperies my ancestors installed,” the colonel said as they proceeded up the staircase. “They quite overrun the place.”

  His masculine contempt made her hide a smile. “The first Mr. Thorne was said to be quite enamored with all things French.”

  “A regrettable inclination,” Thorne said. “Yet thanks to the Regent it remains an enduring craze in London. I feel fortunate not to have a pink and white writing table in my study.”

  “I have heard India described as most exotic,” she said, hoping he would not think her over-curious. “Is it very different from England?”

  “Indeed, for their ways are decidedly unlike ours,” he told her. “The natives consider all animals holy. They regard cows as most sacred, and never use them for meat. They paint and adorn the beasts and permit them to freely roam.”

  “How exceptional.” Meredith supposed such a thing would appall most beef-loving Englishmen, but she thought the practice rather endearing. “Is it true that they travel by elephant?”

  “They do. They also worship the beasts.” His jaw tightened. “As well as monkeys and snakes.”

  Once on the second-floor landing the colonel guided her to a spacious guest room at the back of the house. Meredith halted outside the threshold as she took in the antique white furnishings and faded green and floral decor. From the traces of paint that remained on the walls they had once portrayed a flower-speckled meadow beneath blues skies with golden clouds. The chamber had been recently cleaned and dusted, and the linens replaced. Yet everything she saw suggested that, like the rest of the house, no one had slept here for at least fifty years.

  Such a pity, she thought, and then regarded her host, whose expression seemed impatient. “I have kept you too long. Thank you again, Colonel.”

  He inclined his head. “Rest, and we will talk again at luncheon.”

  With reluctance Thorne left Meredith and returned downstairs to his study. The stack of letters on his desk awaiting his response did not interest him, for he knew they were more of the same entreaties from his former Army comrades in India. Even the General himself had written, demanding to know why he had resigned his commission.

  You have been the most effective field officer under my command, Jarvis had penned in his own bold, slashing hand. You must know that I cannot replace you. If you desire a promotion, you shall have it. If it is a question of finances, they will be managed. You have but to name your terms, and I will attend to them personally.

  Jarvis did not exaggerate or make false promises; Thorne could ask for virtually anything, even his own elephant, and the General would have it waiting for him on the docks in Mumbai. Yet he could not return, for he remained unfit to serve king and country.

  A throat cleared behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder at Harshad. “What of the mare?”

  “She is well, Master. The stablemaster found nothing amiss,” his steward said. “He has replaced the shoe and watered and fed her.”

  Thorne imagined that news would relieve his guest. “The young lady has injured her arm, and with the storm she must stay the night. I have put her in that green guest room. Advise Cook there will be two for the meals.” He saw Harshad's expression. “What is it?”

  “Kshantu heard a dog howling in the night,” Harshad said. “It means–”

  “Death is coming.” Thorne did not subscribe to such superstitions, but while in India he had learned to respect how seriously his native troops attended to them. “Does he mean to string lemons and chilies over the doors?”

  Harshad grimaced. “That he is has already attended to, Master. But he feels the rig crashing out on the road was no accident. Someone has beset the girl with the evil eye.”

  “We do not curse ladies in England, Harshad.” Even as he said that, Thorne felt again that something seemed very odd about Meredith Starling's mishap. Could she have contrived it in order to gain admittance to the h
ouse? She did seem particularly enchanted by Dredthorne. “Once the rain stops bring her rig into the barn. While you're there please assure Kshantu that this is all simply an unhappy coincidence.”

  “As you say, Master.” His steward bowed and retreated from the room.

  Thorne went to the north-faced window of his study, and looked out through the murky panes at the drive. As soon as the weather cleared he would have to return Miss Starling to her family, and endure the accusations they would hurl. Any attempt to bully him into offering for their daughter, however, was doomed to fail.

  Even before he had been beset by his affliction, marriage had never tempted him.

  Thorne had spent his childhood watching his ill-suited parents grow apart. His mother despised the port towns in which they had lived while his father was off at sea, and kept to her rooms most of her life. His father in turn felt contempt for his wife’s petulant inability to perform even some of her duties as a mother. A succession of nannies had raised Alistair until he was of age to be sent away to school.

  Nor had there been any choice of professions for the only son of Captain Thomas Thorne; once his studies had ended his father had promptly begun making arrangements for his entry into the Navy. But Alistair had never cared for the sea, and preempted the captain’s machinations by taking a commission in the Army.

  The only act of outright defiance Alistair had ever committed had been enough to completely sever his relationship with his father. Thomas Thorne had immediately declared him disowned, and had never spoken to him again.

  Alistair tried to keep in contact with his mother by writing to her, but never received a single reply. He imagined the captain had also seen to that by destroying the letters or forbidding his wife to respond. In time he had abandoned writing, and from then on considered himself as good as an orphan.

  Rumor mills and grapevines riddled the military, and it was through the latter that Alistair learned his parents had drowned when a pleasure boat they had chartered sank off the coast of Spain. Although Thorne had not seen his family in more than a decade, their loss ended all hope of someday reconciling with them.