Barrett's Hill

  Anne Stuart novels

  from Bell Bridge Books

  Nightfall

  Shadow Lover

  Lady Fortune

  Prince of Magic

  (coming 2014)

  Barrett’s Hill

  by

  Anne Stuart

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-459-4

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-502-7

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 1974 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlregge writing as Anne Stuart

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was published by Beagle Books in 1974

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Woman (manipulated) © Alena Root | Dreamstime.com

  Landscape (manipulated) © Wladimir Wetzel | Dreamstime.com

  :Ehbh:01:

  Dedication

  For Nana Heide

  Letter to the Reader

  Gentle reader,

  When I first wrote this book I couldn’t even envision the 21st century. I had been living in New York, simply for the sake of going to concerts, but in October of 1971, I decided enough was enough, and I quit my day job, bought an ancient station wagon, loaded it with books and records, and headed for my family’s old farmhouse in Vermont. In fact, my sister drove—I didn’t even have a driver’s license at the time. I was twenty-three.

  I spent that winter all alone in the farmhouse watching Star Trek in French on Canadian television, writing this book, getting lost in story as the snow fell around me.

  I wasn’t a newbie—I’d written plenty of fanfiction before fanfiction even existed, all about the Beatles and a certain Broadway actor and a folksinger and anyone who caught my attention. And this was fanfiction, inspired by a TV show that had half a season in 1966 before it was cancelled. (Or at least that’s where the hero came from.)

  And it sold. By magic, it seems, I got an agent and then a contract. And the first time I saw the book in a store my life changed forever.

  I’ve been writing ever since, living in Vermont, though now with my husband and an empty nest, and there are still so many stories I want to write. When I was growing up I never thought I’d become a writer—I just wrote.

  And that’s what I’m still doing. This is a glimpse into a very young writer at a raw but original stage. It was published by Beagle Greatgothics, (what a name!) which was part of Ballantine which was part of MacMillan. Even then there were conglomerates. I’m still writing, and I can’t imagine stopping. Writing isn’t a profession or job for me, it’s a calling.

  I hope you enjoy Barrett’s Hill. It’s a classic gothic—a girl in jeopardy stumbling into danger, a big old house, danger all around, and a mysterious stranger with magic kisses. It’s a little rough but full of life.

  See what you think about it.

  —Anne

  Chapter 1

  IT WAS COLD. Icy, icy cold. The kind of cold that pains your lungs when you breathe, cold that stings your face when you walk. Cold that seeps down into your bones and stays there till you’re three weeks into summer. Cold.

  People said the winter of 1881 was the roughest they’d lived through yet. Seemed like every other day we’d have a snow storm, and when the snow wasn’t falling and clogging up the twisty dirt roads, then the wind blew hard enough to knock a person halfway to Montpelier. By mid-November I was practically housebound.

  At that time I was living with my father’s cousin, the Very Reverend James Karlew Smathers. At the end of summer I had been dropped summarily on his doorstep per the instructions of my late and unlamented father’s will and consequently had spent the last three months in a constant state of rebellion against the holy postures of my cousin and his small-minded family. My father, a second-rate classics professor at a third-rate college outside of Boston, had only one good quality: he had left me entirely alone to bring myself up as I had thought best. My mother was never spoken of. She’d run off with an actor when I was barely four years old and then died some time later in a train wreck. My father seemed likely to live forever, I thought, until a disagreement with one of his colleagues brought on apoplexy, leaving me, at the age of twenty, dependent on a man my father had stigmatized as a hypocritical moron who supported himself by a God he didn’t believe in.

  I took after my mother in many ways; I suppose that was one reason why my father hated me. I had her elegant curves, her blue eyes, her face. I was no great beauty, but I’d made peace with that long ago, accepting the fact that I was ordinary. My hair was a redder blonde than hers had been, and I was definitely lacking her charm of manner. In character, much as I hate to admit it, I resembled my father, with a tendency to say what I thought despite what people might think, mainly because I really didn’t care. Unfortunately this failed to bring me closer to my father, since I detested him as thoroughly as he did me. I knew perfectly well that morning when I sat dry-eyed in Lawyer Hargreaves’s office, listening to that infamous will, that now my father had his final revenge for all the outrageous behavior of my adolescent years. He’d left my genteel fortune and my rebellious body in the care of the ruddy-cheeked individual looking suitably solemn as he sat to my left on the horsehair couch.

  “. . . in whose custody she will remain until she has learned to control her wild behavior and provided herself with a husband, or, failing that most necessary adjunct to womanhood, until she reaches the age of thirty-five, at which time her money will be taken over by a trust fund.”

  I choked in helpless rage, and Cousin Karlew, charitably assuming it was my grief getting the better of me, patted my shaking hand. I controlled the impulse to slap him away and raised my head defiantly. The Reverend looked at me in surprise. I think it was the poor man’s first inkling of my true nature. I could find it in my heart to pity him.

  “Well, Miranda,” Cousin Karlew turned to me when Mr. Hargreaves’s fussy little voice had finally finished reading my father’s last words, “I hope you know how glad your cousin Elinor and I will be to have you with us,” he said jovially, his eyes a bit alarmed.

  “I can imagine just how glad you must be, Cousin.” I smiled sweetly. “My father told me so much about you.”

  His face became more disturbed. “And my daughter Maxine is only a few years younger than you are. You and she will become great friends, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure,” I echoed tonelessly, glancing around the office for a way to escape this pompous man. My purse contained three dollars and some change, my few possessions of any worth were packed and already on their way to a tiny, misbegotten village in the hills of northern Vermont called Pomroy. I looked back into my cousin
’s colorless eyes. “Whenever you’re ready, Cousin,” I murmured, temporarily acquiescing.

  The train ride from Boston was endless, and Karlew did little to beguile the time. My black wool traveling dress was scratchy and rough against my skin; the air was stuffy and sooty. When I first sat down in my seat I’d taken out a frivolous novel, but the looks of shock and disapproval from my holy cousin made it impossible to concentrate, and I put it down within half an hour. The look of censure faded from his face, and some shred of tact (which he has not exercised since) prevented him from commenting on my lack of proper feeling.

  It was late when the train arrived in Montpelier. The August night was cold, and for the first time that day I was glad my only mourning dress was made of wool. Feeling quiet and strange inside, I waited on the little platform while Karlew arranged for my trunks to be sent on. I’d never seen so many stars—or maybe I just hadn’t noticed them when I’d lived in Boston. I was still staring skyward when my cousin bustled up.

  “We’ll push on ahead tonight, Miranda. The sooner you get settled with your new family the easier it will be for you in this time of bereavement.” He eyed me warily, expecting a denial. “I’ll just head on over to the livery stable and hire a wagon. Won’t take but a minute.”

  I stared after his stocky figure with speculative eyes. My father had never been terribly perceptive about human nature, and he had been wrong about his cousin. Karlew was no moron, however shallow he seemed. It was possible this could prove entertaining after all. But not for fifteen years, I promised myself firmly.

  An hour later we were following a winding dirt road along a seemingly endless series of hills and valleys. The pair of horses was slow and strong, lumbering along in front of us. The faint scent of manure clung to the wagon and mingled with the cool night air.

  “How much farther is Pomroy?” I asked, staring idly into the underbrush alongside the road. It would have been almost too easy to imagine dark and malevolent creatures skulking there, waiting to attack, I thought, and gave myself a little shake.

  “See that hill over there?” Karlew said, pointing to what my city-bred eyes considered a small mountain. “That’s Barrett’s Hill. We live a little ways up it.”

  It didn’t look suspicious or threatening, just a hill, like any other. I glanced at it with mild curiosity, then dismissed it from my mind, deciding it wasn’t likely to be of much importance to me. Foolish girl that I was.

  It was another forty-five minutes before we pulled up in front of a huge house, three stories high with several peaked roofs dark against the night sky. While Karlew stopped by the porch and I scrambled down, the front door opened, and a stout, friendly lady appeared.

  “Where’s the poor orphaned girl?” she cried. Then, seeing me standing there stiffly, she folded me into a hearty embrace. I endured it with good grace, wondering what had possessed my cousin to marry such an exuberant creature.

  “Hello, Nanny,” Karlew greeted her, quickly dispelling my illusion. “Is my wife asleep?”

  “That she is, Reverend, and best not wake her up. She had one of her bad nights,” she said significantly, over my head. “I’ll just take Miss Miranda up to her room and get her settled in, poor thing. She must be exhausted.”

  “I am, rather,” I said, letting her lead me through hallways I paid no attention to. Within fifteen minutes I had washed up a bit, changed into a borrowed nightgown, presumably belonging to my cousin Maxine—I couldn’t imagine a grown woman choosing that shade of pink—and been tucked comfortably into bed. I lay there, looking docile, while Nanny busied herself straightening the already immaculate room.

  “Don’t you pay no attention to that hill outside,” she warned before she left me. “Gives some people the willies, it does, but don’t you pay it no mind. You just get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow you’ll meet the rest of your cousins.” She beamed fondly at the thought of the treat in store for me.

  I lay there alone in the darkness, waiting for sleep. But I was too restless, too curious about my new surroundings. I knew I was up on the third floor, in a small but attractively simple room. I was lying in a sturdy old sleigh bed, a patchwork quilt covering me, bringing me warmth I’d never thought I’d need in midsummer. A small amount of light from the quarter moon came through the casement windows above the window seat, throwing fitful shadows of the maple leaves onto the braided rug. I could see Barrett’s Hill rising behind the house, and I found its presence comforting.

  When I awoke the next morning my first sight was a vision perched on the end of my bed. She had dark brown, almost black hair flowing in graceful curls around her shoulders, her dress a bright shade of rose pink that would make me look bilious but suited her perfectly, and her dark brown eyes were unpleasantly assessing.

  “Good morning, Cousin Miranda.” She smiled broadly, as though the number of teeth showing measured my welcome. “I thought I’d come and wake you up.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Maxine. I assure you are Maxine and not Cousin Elinor?”

  This apparently amused her, for she went into gales of affected laughter. I waited patiently for her to regain her self-control.

  “Heaven, you’d know how funny that is when you see Mummy.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I answered, glancing around the room for my trunks. “Have you any idea where my luggage is?”

  “None.” She surveyed me for a moment. “You aren’t going to like it here, you know. It’s the back end of beyond, and you’re not very pretty, are you?”

  I don’t know if she was expecting me to agree with her, but I kept my mouth shut. Maxine shrugged. “Still, you’re not my responsibility, thank God.” She jumped up, her curiosity satisfied. “I’ll see you at breakfast.” She almost seemed to disappear—a not unlikely occurrence for such a fairy-like creature. Or a troll, I thought.

  I arrived downstairs in my travel-stained black dress, my hunger winning out over my vanity. I was directed to the breakfast room by a young maid whose name, I later discovered, was Emma. I entered the dark, depressing little room and met Maxine’s smirk.

  “Good morning, Miranda!” Karlew said heartily across the room. “I trust you had a good night’s sleep?”

  I nodded absently, my attention drawn to the third occupant of the room, my cousin Elinor. She was short and washed-out. Her hair had faded to an indiscriminate shade of blonde and gray, her eyes had faded to a watery hazel. Even her clothes seemed faded. She fluttered nervously, rising from her chair and floating to my side with a trail of wispy garments behind her. She touched her dry cheek against mine, and I could see tears in her eyes as she pressed my hand.

  “My dear,” she murmured, quite overcome. “We are so happy to have you here! You poor thing.”

  Too much emotion before breakfast has always been against my principles, so I gently disengaged her clinging form, helped her back to her chair, and then sat down opposite her. Karlew flashed me a look of surprised approval before embarking on a long and boring prayer thanking Our Savior for the oatmeal. I survived it the best I could, staring at the red-flocked wallpaper above the dark brown wainscoting and the tasteful still life of dead pheasants staring down at me with glassy eyes.

  Karlew’s breakfast conversation was no better than his train conversation, consisting mainly of bald statements which he ended with “Eh?” expecting us to agree meekly. My cousins did their part; I preserved a stony silence. I was not about to compromise my principles to help Karlew’s obviously overwhelming vanity.

  “Miranda, would you come into my study when you are free?” he inquired affably—but I could tell he was not best pleased with me. I nodded my agreement and followed him into that room, prepared for a stern and pious lecture.

  He sat down behind his large, impressive desk and looked at me earnestly. “Miranda, my child, I am most disturbed.”

  I sat down gracefully
on a low stool. “Are you, Cousin?” My tone was not encouraging.

  He was daunted for a moment but rallied bravely. “My dear, I realize how great your grief must be—”

  “Grief?” I interrupted flatly. “Surely you don’t think I mourn my father? If you do then you must have forgotten what he was like. A more self-centered, evil-tongued, nasty individual—”

  “Stop!” he commanded, horrified to the tips of his Christian toes. “You can’t know what you’re saying!”

  “I know perfectly well what I’m saying, Cousin Karlew. You should have paid more attention to the will. Along with the trusteeship of all that money you have the care of someone my dear father variously called a termagant, a shrew, a feminist, and a creature worse than her mother. And that, my dear cousin, describes me well enough for your purposes. The sooner you give me possession of my money and allow me to leave, the happier we both shall be.”

  Karlew sat in silence for a moment, his bland face creased in thought. Finally he spoke. “Miranda, how can you ever hope to get along with your fellow man if you don’t take a more conciliatory attitude? Surely you must see that I can’t let you leave here until the terms of your dear father’s will are fulfilled? I would feel that I had broken a sacred trust if I avoided my responsibilities and let you run off.”

  He folded his hands and arranged his puffy features into a look of benevolence. “You’ll be happy here, Miranda. I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I feel your father regretted his renunciation of the Church and gave me your guardianship so that I could right the grievous wrong in your upbringing. I can think of no better way to start your life with us than with prayer.”

  With that he got down on his knees then stared at me suspiciously. “What was that you said, Cousin?” Reluctantly I sank to my knees on the slightly threadbare carpet.

  “I said ‘Oh, Lord,’ Cousin. A little prayer of my own.”