Dark Prelude

  Worlds of romance by author Andrea Parnell . . .

  DARK SPLENDOR

  “This is an entertaining blend of eerie shadows and romantic interludes. An excellent gothic romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A beautifully written, lyrical—almost poetic in the narrative—book! . . . If you appreciate a great story and the true beauty of words that are put together the way they should be, you will love DARK SPLENDOR.

  —Rendezvous

  “The grand Gothic Romance could never be better represented than in DARK SPLENDOR.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “A tantalizing blend of suspense and sensuality, with all the thrills and chills that lovers of the Gothic enjoy.”

  — Romantic Times Rave Reviews

  WHISPERS AT MIDNIGHT

  “The perfect blend of anticipation and apprehension . . . seductive tale by a superb writer of romantic suspense.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Takes romance, mystery and intrigue and weaves them into a good story.”

  —Rendezvous

  DELILAH’S FLAME

  “First-rate…a devilishly delicious heroine. Her exciting adventures glue you to the book’s pages.”

  –Janelle Taylor

  “Delilah is a delightful, charming heroine…in and intriguing story.”

  –Patricia Matthews

  “A delicious and titillating romance.”

  –Romantic Times

  Dark Prelude

  A prequel to the novel Dark Splendor

  Andrea Parnell

  Dark Prelude

  Copyright 2011 Andrea Parnell. All rights reserved.

  Published 2011 by Trove Books

  TroveBooks.com

  Smashwords edition 1.0, June 2011

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this free ebook. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com or one of its retail distribution partners, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

  Publisher’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Frauke Spanuth, Croco Designs www.crocodesigns.com

  There is a serpent in thy smile, my dear,

  And bitter poison within thy tear.

  —Shelley, The Cenci

  Chapter 1

  London, 1751

  Shivering miserably, Silvia Bradstreet, clutched her heavy woolen cloak against the wind, her gloomy thoughts little better than the weather. Had she come to this? That she would freeze to death on the London streets? Winter held a formidable grip on the city, shutting out the sun with murky, grey clouds and the bitter pelting of a late snow that fell to the streets like a shower of brimstone to become dingy slush mottled by tracks of those unfortunate enough to be about in the treacherous weather. The fierce wind bore a chilling moisture from the sea as it wailed between blackened buildings, sounding like the mournful cry of despairing souls. How foolish she had been not to defy Uncle Hollister. Lately he had grown impossible, his sober days largely outnumbered by the drunken ones. But to send her on a fool’s errand in such weather was demeaning and cruel.

  Still, she had little choice.

  At times her uncle flew into a scalding rage over the simplest matter and she had begun to fear for her safety. Today his attack of angry words had wounded her pride and brought a flood of tears to her eyes. “Curse me, Missy. I’ll be master of this house ‘til my dying day and I’ll not have you trying to run it for me,” he had shouted and kicked a chair across the kitchen. “Left to you we would eat nothing but soup and stew! Now get to the butcher and buy the chops and have a dinner on the table this night that’ll fill a man’s belly! And don’t be forgetting your place again!” With that he had taken the stewpot from the stove and tossed it into the street. She choked back a lump in her throat. No danger she would forget her place again. She had no place. Her once kindly uncle had turned caustic and she was little more than a maid to him.

  She sighed ruefully, then set her jaw and trudged on. Lips, blue from the cold, curved into a deeper frown. She had a more immediate concern than Uncle Hollister’s abominable disposition—getting home before the cold claimed her. Because of her uncle’s poor credit, she had been forced to walk blocks farther to find a butcher they did not owe. Passing the docks, as she made her way home with the bundle, the wind roared colder and stronger, biting and stinging her face like a spray of icy needles.

  Behind her a carriage rattled its way along the cobbled street, spinning dirty snow behind its wheels. Before she could jump aside, a splash of filthy wetness splattered her cloak. The carriage swept past while Silvia shook the snow from her garment. Almost instantly a stabbing cold pierced the damp fabric to sap the little remaining warmth in her body.

  She could fight the chill no longer and drew into the narrow, secluded entry of a shipping company to escape the angry wind. A lantern mounted beside the door flickered haltingly in the dimness of the winter afternoon.

  Silvia folded her arms across her chest. Still she shivered with cold. She thought dejectedly of her situation. There was no reasoning with Uncle Hollister. He would have his way and damn those who tried to deter him. She sighed dispiritedly, longing to reach the warmth of the kitchen. But the numbness of her feet and the thought of the rude welcome she would receive from Uncle Hollister kept her from hurrying back along the street.

  Slumping against the wall in despair, Silvia brushed the snow from her lashes with the back of a dusky wool mitten. Her gaze lingered on a notice posted beside a window frame in the entryway. The lines blurred together until her eyes cleared.

  Able bodied men and women wanted

  Passage paid

  Sailing date: the twentieth of March, in the year of our Lord, one thousand and fifty-one.

  Indentured servants. She had read of them and many she knew had left England for a new life in the colonies. Perhaps she should inquire, since a dim future waited her in London. No more than a few shillings lined her pockets, and that not for long if Uncle Hollister found them. Her frown slipped away as she pictured herself sailing out of the harbor and for a moment the heaviness eased from her heart. Bond servants received a tract of land at the end of their term. At best, here she could expect to be a ladies maid, and even those positions were hard to find without the proper connections.

  Behind her the heavy door creaked and swung open, trapping her against the wall. When it swung away she turned to face a bent figure swathed in a black topcoat and thickly furred cap. A pair of shriveled lips curled in the patch of face she could see. Silvia shivered, not against the cold but from an inner wariness.

  “Come inside.” His gravelly voice whipped in the howling wind and reached her ears as a guttural plea.

  She set her mind to refuse. Instead she stifled the impulse and followed him through the doorway. Perhaps it was madness, or the cold, or perhaps fate had intervened in her favor for once.

  He led her through another door off the narrow hallway. In the small office Silvia stood motionless as the warmth from an iron stove melted the chill from her bones. The old gentleman removed his coat and cap and carefully, painstakingly, hung them on a polished walnut rack. Under the strong light, she discerned the fine worsted fabric and the wide beaver collar of the garment. The expensive quality painfully reminded Silvia of her threadbare cloak.

  “What’s it to be, girl?” He lowered himself into a chair slo
wly, deliberately, as if the effort took all his strength. His skin held a grey pallor and stretched thinly over a bony frame. His hair, but a few dull strands, circled around his skull from temple to temple. A pair of gray eyes, small and beadlike, peered from behind his spectacles with a curious keenness that momentarily alarmed her. His teeth were yellowed as old tusks and his skin like crumpled parchment, his face cratered with ancient pockmarks a pair of wide mutton chop side whiskers would not cover.

  Apprehension held her immobile for a moment. Her shoulders shook a bit though the stove had started to warm her chilled hands and feet. She acknowledged to herself that the old man’s appearance gave her pause until she chastised herself for her uncharitable thoughts. Had Uncle Hollister so embittered her that she was distrustful of everyone, even the compassionate old gent who had brought her in from the cold?

  “Will you sign the paper now? I’ve waited the whole of the afternoon and you are the last of the lot,” he said patiently.

  What was the accent? Germanic, perhaps. But what could he mean?

  “I’m sorry, sir. I believe you have mistaken me for someone,” she said, lowering the scarf from her hair so that he could see her face clearly. She tried to smile and the attempt seemed as difficult as moving features of stone.

  Her braided hair fell across her shoulder as she pulled her scarf loose. She quickly lifted her arms to anchor the braid in a twist at the back of her neck. Her hair was dark, a glossy black, and her skin fair and smooth as cream. Cheeks, too bright from the cold, were softly rounded and her lips bore the natural pout of a little girl. Wide, honey brown eyes with black curling lashes dominated her face. When her hair slipped from its confines as it had in the wind, it curled about her temples, and she looked like an innocent, lost waif.

  Silvia met his eyes as he lifted his head to look at her sharply, absorbingly. He stared, his small eyes now keenly alive. A slight flush tinged his lined skin. An expression of excitement replaced the look of hollow disappointment on his dour face.

  “Why you are a mere child, my dear.” Surprise now tempered his countenance and the accent was far heavier than she had realized. An odd, slightly eager look lit slits of light in his eyes.

  Silvia responded quickly and crossly giving her chin an annoyed tilt. “No sir, I am not. I have seen twenty and two years and long since left childhood.” She frowned, wishing she had spoken in a less bitter tone. Her misfortune was in no part due to this old man. And even if offered by mistake, he had let her dry her cloak by his stove and warm her limbs enough to complete her journey without feeling so dreadfully the bite of the cold.

  The gentleman rubbed his boney chin thoughtfully. This girl would suit his needs far better than the one his clerk had found. He noted the fine lines of her face and the worn state of her clothes. The dark hair, the look of innocence ignited his thoughts. She was just what he had been searching for, just the right one to deliver to his employer. And here she had walked right in his door when he had been about to settle for a lass who was in no way her equal.

  “Sit down, miss. Perhaps good fortune has brought us together.” A labored kindness sounded in his voice and why it should cause her to shiver, she could not discern. “If I had a pot of tea...but it is not a custom I have adopted from you British.”

  She arched a dark brow. “Oh no, sir. I see your mistake and mine and must be on my way home.”

  “You have a family, Miss . . . ?”

  “Miss Bradstreet. Silvia Bradstreet. Only my uncle, I keep house for him,” she answered with a touch of resignation to her tone.

  She was beginning to think it had been wrong to come in. The old fellow seemed too intent on her. She had thought he might be able to tell her about the notice. But the idea of traveling to the colonies as a bond servant had left her mind as the chill had left her body. Uncle Hollister would give no quarter to having his dinner late. She would scarcely have time to roast the lamb for him even if she hurried home.

  “Your pardon, Miss Bradstreet, he said after a moment. “You are right. I did mistake you for another, but perhaps fate has intervened,” he paused, letting his eyes sweep over the papers spread before him. “You see, had you come an hour later, the quota would have been filled. But as you are here now, I am quite willing to reward your endeavor on this cold day. There is one berth left and it is yours.” He paused, waiting her reply, his eyes now alight and seemingly larger.

  Her brows arched. She felt a rise of unease. “Sir, you speak of dealings that are unknown to me. I merely stopped to take shelter from the cold. The notice aroused my curiosity, nothing more. I believed you had taken pity on my plight and invited me in to warm myself.”

  He stirred a gnarled hand on the desk top, pulled out a sheet of paper and removed the cap from an inkwell. With a shaky hand he dipped in a pen and wrote a few lines.

  Looking up he said in a low voice, “Again I am mistaken and I beg your indulgence. My name is Weber.” His hands wove together momentarily as if he needed to control them. “I am in the employ of Wilhelm Schlange, owner of this shipping company.”

  He paused and stared at Miss Bradstreet. If his instinct for judging people did not fail him, this young woman told him a little less than the truth. She had been interested in the notice, anxious for a chance to run away from someone or something. The look had been there in her face. He could not have been wrong. She was hesitant, unsure, but not lost to him yet. There was something she wanted to get away from, or someone. He knew most of those who entered willingly into bond service were not so much seeking a new life as fleeing the old one.

  “I thought you sought passage to the colonies.” He continued. “A Schlange ship, the Eastwind, sails in two weeks and the position is one of importance on Mr. Schlange’s estate. And a fairer agreement than most. If you should change your mind, you can notify my man Wickes here to make the arrangements.” He paused and Silvia thought how penetrating and unusual his eyes were as they searched her face. “There is good opportunity in the colonies for a young, healthy woman. And when your time of service ends, you would have a share of property with what wages you earn.”

  “Sir, I thank you but I have no wish to leave England.”

  He seemed not to hear as he opened an embossed leather box on his desk. From within he lifted a block of black sealing wax and a gold signet. His feeble hands scrawled a few words with pen and ink then folded the paper. With more sureness he struck a flame to life and dropped a glossy spot of wax on the fold of the paper. The heavy scent of the melted wax reached her nostrils as he pressed the seal into it.

  “Take this.” He stood and handed her the letter. “It bears the Schlange seal. If you change your mind, give it to Wickes here.” He indicated a man in a distant shadowed corner whose back was to the two of them. “I bid you a good evening, Miss Bradstreet.”

  She took the paper and tucked it into her pocket thinking it might be best to humor the old man. “Good evening, Mr. Weber. I thank you for your kindness.”

  Her first intake of breath outside came in a rush that filled her 1ungs with such freezing air it yanked her back to reality. For that very few moments in the warm shipping office she had glimpsed a chance to be someone else, to start a new life. But now on the familiar dismal street she remembered the task before her.

  Lifting her skirt to avoid the muddy slush, she ran as best she could in the wet snow and reached the row of plain, dark houses where she had resided since the age of fourteen. Inside, all was quiet. She went straight to the kitchen, thankful Uncle Hollister was not home. A disquieting excitement lodged in the back of her mind as she thought of the strange events and her conversation with Mr. Weber. But then she shook off the thought. It was out of the question. Uncle Hollister would never consent.

  Tension tightened her shoulders as she went about her work. Apprehension swept through her head with a depressing thought. He would arrive half drunk at the dinner hour, for he never missed it. Food and drink were the only events for which Uncle Hollister ob
served punctuality.

  At seven the chops were roasted and the vegetables boiled. Silvia set the table with two pottery plates as she heard a rattling at the door and the thump of a cane in the hall. Fear and anger knotted inside her as she quickly stoked the fire in a blackened grate and set the kettle on. Two rough wooden chairs at a table covered by a muslin cloth filled the dim kitchen. Uncle Hollister had sold what good furniture they had until the house was barely furnished and the only decent pieces remaining were the small cherry dresser and wash stand in her bedroom.

  She flinched but forced a smile as he burst into the kitchen like a burly hound eager for his supper. The red veins in his face prominently lined a bulbous nose and flabby cheeks. As he loosened a waistcoat splattered with ale, he grunted a greeting. She detected the aroma of his breath, rancid with the foul staleness of drink. Silvia shivered in spite of herself as she watched in disgust while he settled his heavy frame in the kitchen chair. A pity. Since Aunt Agatha died, he had sunk deeper and deeper toward the gutter until his business was ruined and what little money he made, he lost in gambling.

  The meal passed with not a word uttered until he had finished the chops. “That’s a good girl, Missy.” He wiped his greasy mouth on a sleeve and leaned back in the chair. “Now you mark it down to consult me before you set dinner on the table. Never could abide a stew, more broth than anything else. A man needs meat and that’s a matter you should take note of if you want to catch a husband.” He paused a moment to light his pipe and puff until the acrid smoke filled the kitchen. “Past time you found a man, Missy. Too choosy I say. There’s room in the house and a pretty girl’ll have no trouble gettin’ a young gent to say the words.”