He wanted to be gone from the dark enclosing room, with its mocking misery, to be gone from this house of nightmares, of shattered dreams, and discovered secrets which could not be put back in the box.
Venice, 1880.
Alexander, Viscount Dundarran, seeks refuge from scandal amidst the fading grandeur of crumbling palazzos during the infamous Carnival in the city. There he encounters the enigmatic Lady Arabella Pembrook—a young, beautiful widow. Both are scarred by their pasts but find solace in each other and a chance at redemption.
But when duty calls Alexander back to England upon his father's death, a darker journey begins. Travelling to Ravenscourt, the decaying estate once belonging to Arabella’s late husband, Alexander must confront the house’s disturbing legacy which has echoed through the generations. Within its walls lie secrets that refuse to stay buried and will threaten everything he thought he knew. But can Alex uncover the truth in time?
Excerpt
They walked slowly up the long leaf-strewn drive, weeds now trespassing where once fine carriages had driven. In the silence their steps crackled on the dead leaves, punctuating the air as if they were being mocked by crackling crones watching from the surrounding trees. Alex fought the urge to turn back, but then the house came into view. Even the trees appeared to stand back from it, as if declaring a disassociation from this place of sorrow, which was stark against the glowering sky. With its elaborate windows, silver turrets, gables and spires, and richly patterned roof, it should have been magical; but as they advanced, Alex could feel the house’s reproach. The windows were all shuttered, so there was no welcoming light or sparkle from the small diamond panes of glass as they approached, nor any comforting smoke coming from the vast array of chimney pots, and the large oak entrance door was firmly shut against the world. Looking up at the clock tower which formed part of the impressive entrance, Alex noticed even the clock had stopped. It seemed to be a place frozen in time.
Parsons had not spoken on the walk to the house. His geniality at the gatehouse dissipated as they drew closer. There was such utter stillness that when a bird started cawing in the tree above them, both men jumped.
‘Bloody birds,’ muttered Parsons. ‘Of course, they gave this place its name. Ravens.’ He threw a stone at the large black bird, but in doing so he disturbed the woodland around the house, and a thick menace of ravens screeched up into the bleak sky, their large black wings carrying them up to perch on the house itself, the red clay roof turning virtually black. A small piece of masonry fell from one of the carved cervices which adorned the façade. The ravens shrieked with delight.
‘An unkindness of ravens,’ murmured Alex, as he flinched at the unholy sound.
‘A murder more like, and I would murder the bloody lot of them.’ As Parsons produced a large set of keys, the clouds, moving swiftly, cloaked the sky in darkness, making a misery of the day. Alex once again questioned if he should have come, but Parsons had opened the door – which was surprisingly smooth, with no ominous creak – and Alex shook off his fanciful thoughts.
They stepped into a small Gothic cloister with a low vaulted ceiling supported by finely carved stone pillars. Parsons lit a lantern which stood on a table in the style of a stone altar, and in the gloom Alex could see a plain tiled floor. He followed Parsons into the central hall, where the remains of the daylight streamed through the lantern roof which looked down on the cantilevered stairs rising up into the galleries. It was a vast, imposing room which would once have impressed any visitor, but the short burst of sunlight peeping through the clouds exposed the thick lingering dust and the cobwebs between the finely carved oak stair posts. Coverings shrouded the furniture, and the chill of the room was emphasised by the huge, empty stone fireplace which would have once provided warmth. The red patterned stair carpet had been discovered by moths, and probably even mice, and was riddled with fine holes, threadbare in places, and also covered in a thin layer of dust which betrayed the footprints leading up and down the stairs where Parsons and his wife had been so recently.
‘Used to have a staff of one hundred and fifty in its heyday. Now there’s only me and my wife, and we are simply here to keep an eye on things until the young master decides what to do with it when he inherits. I inspect the roofs and attics – make sure the house is dry at least, but it’s a lot for one man.’ Parsons was embarrassed at its state of disrepair.
‘Of course it is,’ Alex concurred, wanting to make clear he was not here to judge the poor man. ‘How quickly a house such as this can fall into such neglect.’
‘Well, even when Sir Charles was alive it had begun to change. Her Ladyship got rid of a lot of the servants in the last month of the master’s life, so it was uncared for even back then. Anyway, we tidied up the study and a bedroom for you, so hopefully you will be comfortable. I’ll show you to the bedroom first.’
Parsons led Alex up the stairs, turning right at the first landing. As they walked towards the next set of stairs, Alex paused to look down into the cavernous hall with its large stone archway leading back to the front door, and smaller arches leading further into the house. He noted the numerous portraits on the green patterned wallpaper, and it was as if the eyes of Ravenscourt were mocking him. Parsons paused at the door on the left and opened it slowly to reveal a charming bedroom with a comfortable-looking four-poster bed, which Alex longed to climb into after his tiring journey. The room had obviously been thoroughly cleaned and aired, as it had none of the neglect of the hall below. Fresh water had been left in a jug on the nightstand, and a fire had been laid, ready for lighting, in the decorative fireplace. A pretty golden armchair was set beside the fire, inviting one to linger in comfort. The wallpaper and drapes were decorated with charming songbirds perched on winding branches.
‘This is one of the turret bedrooms.’ Parsons signalled to an alcove in the corner of the room. As Alex stepped into the octagonal turret, Parsons pulled up one of the blinds and they could see down the leaf-strewn drive.
‘Best show you the study so I can get back before the rain starts,’ Parsons muttered, noting the gathering storm clouds.
They made their way back down the stairs and Alex could see more dark, shadowy corridors leading off the galleried landings, where doors were shut against forgotten rooms. Alex paused by a fine, full-sized portrait of a man on one of the walls. He was dressed in modern attire, but it was the face that Alex noticed – there was a certain charisma to it. Framed by dark brown hair, the face was handsome; with fine cheekbones, a secretive smile played on the full lips, but it was the dark brown eyes that pulled the viewer in. There was a hint of sadness in them, as if the man longed to step away from the view of the house behind him. There was a large gap next to the portrait where another picture must have hung.
Parsons noticed Alex studying it. ‘That is Sir Charles,’ he explained. ‘Lady Elizabeth’s picture used to hang next to it until the last mistress came and ordered it to be taken down.’ They returned to the entrance hall, where Parsons opened a large, arched double oak door. ‘This is the library. The study is through this door. We have made you comfortable in there rather than opening this room up, I’m afraid.’
Alex could understand why, as the library was a huge space with its double height ceiling rising up into a timber framed roof. It had a church-like quality to the room but in the shuttered gloom, with its shrouded furniture, it appeared sinister and unwelcoming.
The study however was a small, cosy room with a comfortable set of chairs in front of a carved fireplace and another fire laid ready to be lit. There was a sturdy oak desk, behind which stood large bookcases and red velvet drapes matching the red silk wallpaper. A small portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired lady hung over the fireplace. Holding a small child in her arms, she had such a sweet face that Alex felt comforted by her. It belied the absence that haunted the rest of the house.
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Samantha Ward-Smith
Samantha Ward-Smith is the author of Tower of Vengeance, her debut historical novel set in the Tower of London during the 13th century, and the forthcoming Ravenscourt, a Victorian Gothic tale unfolding across Venice, London, and the windswept Lancashire moors.
She lived in London for over three decades, building a career in investment banking while also pursuing a PhD in English at Birkbeck. For the past 13 years she has volunteered at the Tower of London, an experience that provided invaluable historical insight and directly shaped her writing.
Now based in Kent by the sea, Samantha continues to explore the intersections of history, place, and story, writing in the company of her two cats, Belle and Rudy.
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