Dark Prelude
Worlds of romance by author Andrea Parnell…
“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
“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
“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
A prequel to the novel Dark Splendor
Dark Prelude
Copyright 2011 Andrea Parnell. All rights
reserved.
Published 2011 by Trove Books
Smashwords edition 1.0, June 2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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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
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 slowly, 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.