The Blackthorne Curse

By Blair Bancroft

After the death of her father, young Serafina Blackthorne of New Haven, Connecticut, becomes a reverse immigrant, traveling from the New World to the Old. To her grandfather, who lives on Dartmoor, a place where eerie legends abound and where she discovers, to her horror, she is marked for death by the Blackthorne Curse. The more Serafina attempts to outmaneuver the Curse, the more she seems to jump from the frying pan into the fire. She finally has but one hope left. But does her childhood friend really want to save her, or is he destined to be her executioner?

Author's Note: This book is a Gothic novel set in the Regency period—a style of story where a young woman finds herself basically alone and battling threats to her life, some from humans, some from possibly supernatural sources. But in spite of all the angst, it is also a romance. I hope you will enjoy reading this tale in a style made famous by Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, and Phyllis Whitney as much as I enjoyed writing it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Nov 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9780996188791

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

Book preview

Chapter One

New Haven, Connecticut, February 1816

Thump. Thump. Thump. The brass knocker on the front door of the snug little house just north of the New Haven Green sounded my doom—Fate knocking at my door in the form of the Reverend Silas Maltby and his wife. I knew because I had peeked out the window minutes earlier and seen them advancing up Church Street, two upright figures marching through a dusting of snow, their cloaks—one black, one gray—billowing about them in a brisk west wind. The overcast skies echoed their drab garments, yet the righteousness of the Lord shimmered about them with every step.

Sadly, I was not pleased with the Lord. Not since he took my Papa from me. Half a year before his fortieth birthday.

So after my glimpse of the inexorable approach of the Maltbys, I fled to the kitchen, huddling on a three-legged stool in front of the dancing flames in the granite fireplace, where a black teakettle hung from the hob. Papa would have chided me—gently—for being a coward, but he was no longer here. Just as this white clapboard house, the only home I had ever known, was no longer mine.

As, it seemed possible, the fledgling United States of America might no longer be mine.

Miss Abigail? Reverend Maltby and the missus are here. Our long-time housekeeper, Prudence Cogswell, stood in the kitchen door. You cannot keep them waiting, Miss Abby. They have only your best interests in mind.

Though I could hear a modicum of sympathy in her voice, my shoulders hunched, my head dipped lower. I don’t care! I cried.

Papa’s voice, crying Shame, shame echoed through my head. I winced, curling myself into an even tighter ball.

Abigail Blackthorne, you are no longer a child. You cannot afford to be. Time to grow up and take your place in the world. Your father would expect you to hold your head high and face what you must. The dead are gone. The living must survive as best they can.

I knew that, of course I did. If Papa had lived to a ripe old age, I could have faced the inevitable circle of life and death. At least that’s what I told myself. But to have him swept away in the prime of life . . .

I shuddered.

The colony of New Haven in the State of Connecticut is protected by Long Island, eighteen miles to the south, and seldom suffers severe storms. But in the third week of September last, a great blow swept over us—worse, everyone agreed, than had been seen in a decade or more. When the screaming winds finally died down, Papa went out to survey the damage, not realizing the abrupt silence was the eye of a hurricane. The winds soon slammed back from the opposite direction, shearing off the branch of a giant elm, which took my Papa down with it . . .

A cruel fate. For poor Papa. And for me. He was my only relative on this continent, for he had emigrated from Devon to take up a position as Professor of Philosophy at Yale College, which at that time was celebrating its one hundredth anniversary. A mere babe by the educational standards of his home country, but Papa always declared he enjoyed the challenge of educating the young men who would shape a whole new world.

Abigail . . . Prudence’s tone moved from tart to urgent.

I heaved a much-put-upon sigh and managed to unfold myself from the stool. I smoothed down the skirt of my ugly grayish gown, which had once been a rather stylish sprigged peach. (The mourning dye had not taken well.) I took a deep breath . . .

For heaven’s sake, Abby, do not scowl so! Now go. Prudence made shooing motions. She and our church sexton, Moses Bradley, had been courting for some time. Undoubtedly, she could hardly wait to be rid of me. But winter was marked by rough sailing, and communication with any family I might have in England agonizingly slow.

If, that is, I had any family at all. Papa had been strangely tight-lipped on the matter. He admitted to a father in Devon, but of my mother he had said only that she was of good family and that he mourned her loss.

Get yourself in there, child! You cannot keep the reverend waiting.

Prudence was correct, of course. Reverend Silas Maltby was an important man. His church, Center Church on the Green, was not only the original Congregational Church in New Haven but part of its governing body. A magnificent new house of worship had recently been completed, a building so fine, and with a congregation so powerful, that Yale graduations were now held there.

Built of fine red brick, its interior boasted an expanse of white walls and white wooden pews, with an equally white U-shaped balcony, built with lumber the British had graciously allowed through the blockade of New Haven harbor during the recent war. On the outside, Center Church was adorned with four white columns and arched windows picked out in white, in sharp contrast to its red brick walls. Topping the whole was a towering white bell tower. I had been told our church was a near copy of St. Martin’s in the Field in London. And I very much feared I was in danger of discovering the truth of this for myself.

Papa, help me!

I stepped into our small parlor, dropped my most respectful curtsy. Reverend Maltby. Mrs. Maltby.

Please be seated, Abigail, Mr. Maltby said in his beautifully modulated pastoral voice. The voice of command, no matter how benign he sounded. I sat. As you are aware from the note I sent round, I have finally had a response from one of your relatives in England. Your paternal grandfather, Mr. Gabriel Blackthorne. I regret to say that no response has yet come from your mother’s family.

Not surprising. My mother, who died when I was born, had been gone so long her relatives in England had likely forgotten her existence. The lack of information about any family I might have in England had seldom bothered me—until now, when unknown relatives loomed over me like the threat of black storm clouds in the distance.

Distance that might soon close, propelling me into a world I did not want. A foreign world. A world I had no desire to know.

Abigail, Reverend Maltby said, before I go over the contents of your grandfather’s letter, I would like to review the choices before you. He huffed a breath, glanced at his wife, who deftly took over his lead.

Abigail, my dear . . . Sarah Maltby modified her usual no-nonsense tone to suit my mourning and her awareness of my lack of years, as was expected from the wife of one of the New Haven colony’s most important men. As you know, your choices are limited. You are welcome to remain here—we will find you a home for the next few years until you are grown. The Skinners are expecting their seventh child and have urgent need of help. And Mrs. Josiah Canner needs aid with her grandmother, who has become . . . ah—somewhat difficult, I understand.

Which would put me under the same roof as Jonathan Canner, age sixteen, with pimples on his face and eyes and hands that tended to wander.

But seven children could well be worse.

You will be grown in no time, my child, Mrs. Maltby continued, the voice of authority issuing from a sharply sculptured face shadowed by her broad-brimmed gray bonnet. Your father has educated you far beyond the common. In a few short years some fine family will be delighted to snap you up as governess.

Governess! I did not succeed in hiding my wince. Governesses imparted the barest rudiments of math and history, while concentrating on manners, embroidery, drawing, the fine art of conversation, and leaving higher math, philosophy, Latin, Greek, and the intricacies of millennias of ancient history to go hang.

Perhaps an unknown grandfather in an unknown country would not be so bad.

Abigail. Reverend Maltby huffed an exasperated breath. "If you are thinking of leaving us, may I remind you the only religion you will find is Church of England. Exactly what we rejected when we came to the New World.

Everywhere? I ventured inanely, mortified that Mr. Maltby had so clearly read my thoughts.

Not for nothing is it called the Church of England, Mrs. Maltby intoned. But it cannot be helped. If you do not choose to stay with those you have known since birth, your grandfather is your only option.

And there it was. Dealing with seven children or an eccentric old woman and an overeager boy. With a future of teaching other people’s children until I grew old and gray. Those were my choices.

My papa had not raised me for this. Never!

My grandfather is willing to have me? I asked.

His words are terse, Mr. Maltby said. I must confess I could not detect a welcoming tone. But in effect, Mr. Gabriel Blackthorne writes that if you have no other place to go, you may live at Blackthorne Hall in Devon.

Where the Old World would become my new world.

But New Haven was home. This cozy house. The familiar faces. The broad expanse of the Green. The glorious white interior of Center Church. The soaring sound of the hymns on Sunday morning. The buildings of Yale clustered around their own more modest-sized green just across College Street from the church.

How could going back take me forward with my life?

But it wasn’t going back. I was an American, born and bred, being offered a great adventure. My personal voyage of discovery. By someone who was actually related to me by blood. My father’s father.

Silence engulfed the small parlor. They were waiting for me—the Reverend Maltby, his wife, and Prudence Cogswell. At fourteen, almost fifteen, I was being granted the right to make my own choice.

I will go to my Grandfather Blackthorne.

The die was cast.

Chapter Two

Plymouth, England, May 1816

I stood on the deck of the good ship Emily Jane and gazed in awe at Plymouth. At the River Tamar and the bustling city on both sides of it—so much larger and older than New Haven Colony. The shouts and grunts of the men unloading cargo mingled with the more distant sounds of the city, the piercing cries of seagulls. A drift of baking bread penetrated the ever-present salty tang of the sea and the odor of men too long without a bath. On both sides of us rose a forest of masts—merchant ships, fishing boats, the inevitable naval frigates, flying the flag we colonists spat upon whipping in the morning breeze. In spite of my worry about what lay ahead, the adventure of the spectacle called to me. I was here, actually here. On the enemy’s doorstep.

Where I was expected to live for who knew how long?

Would I ever go home?

It seemed unlikely.

My sense of adventure faded. My heart cracked with a snap that was surely heard over the shouts of workers below and the creak of the ropes holding the Emily Jane to the dock.

I had to be brave. Papa always said only the brave dared emigrate to a new world. And now . . . now I was discovering it took a good deal of bravery to go the other way. My chaperone, Mrs. Christabel Springer, whose home was near Bristol, had not let the vast distance and roiling seas deter her from a visit to her grandchildren in New Haven. But Mrs. Springer, a woman of fifty or more, was the solidly confident, intrepid wife of a wealthy merchant. And I . . . ? I could claim nothing more than having passed my fifteenth birthday and being far better educated than the other young ladies I knew.

Except . . .

Papa had educated me as assiduously as if I were a son. Until I met Mrs. Springer, I had not realized there were odd gaps in my knowledge. I had an excellent grasp of the history of England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. I had managed Caesar’s tales of Gaul in the original Latin and had begun to fight my way through Homer in Greek, but I knew absolutely nothing about the geography or people of the country that was to be my new home. The country that had been Papa’s home. Nothing about their traditions, beliefs, or the religion so despised by New England colonists.

To me, the British were the enemy. They impressed our sailors. They burned Washington. The war between our countries was so recent Reverend Maltby’s fiery sermons against the British still echoed through my head. Yet here I was. About to disembark on the shores of Devon, where, I was told, I would need travel only a short distance to Blackthorne Hall, which was situated on something called Dartmoor.

None of what I was told meant a jot to me until Mrs. Springer—looking faintly alarmed after I told her my destination—explained the lay of the land one afternoon during our month-long passage.

Never fear, child, she’d said, patting my hand. There are many sheltered valleys on Dartmoor. I am sure Blackthorne Hall must be nestled in one of them.

But what is Dartmoor? I had to struggle to hide my anxiety because even Reverend and Mrs. Maltby had looked a bit grim when they assured me I would find Blackthorne Hall a proper shelter for a young lady. Looking back, I suspect they were masking doubts instigated by my destination, that alleged haunt of demons and death—Dartmoor. But at the time I was as innocent of forebodings as the proverbial lamb.

Yet an shiver snaked up my spine as I saw that Mrs. Springer, a big-boned woman of high courage and ample intelligence, was having difficulty finding the right words to answer my question. Well, my dear, she said at last, it is a rather vast moorland that takes up a good portion of Devon.

Beg pardon, ma’am, but what is moorland?

Oh dear. Mrs. Springer frowned a moment before enlightenment dawned. Think of the great granite cliffs that tower over New Haven—the ones so creatively named East Rock and West Rock. I winced. My son informed me, Mrs. Springer continued, that granite is everywhere in New England, making farming a challenge. Well, my dear, on Dartmoor the situation is even worse. Picture those cliffs in your mind, then take away the trees, leaving only rocky ground with a bit of grass here and there. Stand some of the granite on end in great towers we call tors. Add bogs, rather treacherous bogs . . . greenish pools that swallow the unwary, Mrs. Springer added as she saw the question in my eyes. Do not, I beg of you, wander about without a guide until you have learned how to go on.

She forced a smile. There, there, child, do not look so downcast. It is not so bad. There are valleys here and there, marked by streams tumbling over yet more granite, and where trees and shrubbery grow and life is much like the rest of England . . . A shadow crossed her face. Well, perhaps more like Wales, dear. Dartmoor is rather wild. Only sheep and moor ponies thrive there, I fear.

Granite I understood. One could not live in New England and not be aware of granite. But the only granite in downtown New Haven were great blocks of it used to build foundations, fireplaces, and storehouses for ammunition. I had lived fifteen years with the sea at my feet and lush grass and trees everywhere I looked. That I could be going to a barren desert of granite . . .

There is also a prison at Princetown, Mrs. Springer added, though I am certain it must be some distance from Blackthorne Hall. It was built to house the thousands of prisoners taken in the war with France."

Americans too? I shot back, eyes wide.

Mrs. Springer’s hands flew up, covering her mouth. Oh, my dear child, I do not know. Forgive me for upsetting you.

Why had no one told me my new home was to be some end of the earth so bleak it was considered the proper site for imprisoning the enemy?

If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come.

No wonder Papa never mentioned his home.

Miss Blackthorne? Miss Blackthorne?

Horrified by allowing my thoughts to wander at such a crucial moment as our going ashore in Plymouth, I curtsied to Captain Barnswell.

"There is a slight misunderstanding, I fear. The coachman below, who says he has come from Blackthorne Hall, insists he was told to meet a Miss Serafina Blackthorne, not Miss Abigail Blackthorne."

Oh, Captain, I am so sorry. I completely forgot! I made a face, swallowed convulsively, and managed, Serafina is my name, Captain. It was the name my mother wanted, you see, but Papa said . . . well, he said Abigail was more suited to New Haven Colony. I gazed up at him with some anxiety, hoping he would not take offense.

Fortunately, a hint of amusement, as well as sympathy, flitted over Captain Barnswell’s face. American he might be, but clearly one more worldly than the many New England colonists. Thank goodness. For at that moment living as Abigail when I was born Serafina seemed a sin of criminal proportions.

I suspected Miss Serafina and Miss Abigail were one, Captain Barnswell informed me in a kindly tone. Your luggage, under Mrs. Springer’s eagle eye, is being off-loaded as we speak. He proffered a formal bow and added, It has been a great pleasure to have you aboard, Miss Blackthorne. We seldom have the opportunity to enjoy the company of a such a lovely young lady.

I could feel myself turning scarlet all the way from my toes to the top of my head. Compliments were few and far between in New Haven. Even Papa had not told me I was pretty, though I suspected from the reflection in the gilded hand mirror that had once belonged to my mother—as well as from the surreptitious glances of the young men in our congregation and the college students filling the balcony of Center Church—that my facial features were above average. Vanity, however, was not encouraged in the New England colonies.

Captain Barnswell personally escorted us off the ship, he and Mrs. Springer walking with me all the way to the unrelentingly black coach waiting on the quay. It was old, frayed about the edges, and, I suspected, lumbering. Yet it was drawn by four sturdy horses.

For a moment I could only stare. Four horses belonged on mail coaches on the Boston Post Road, but on a private coach . . .? Grandfather Blackthorne must be a man of substance.

I had known Papa was a gentleman, of course, but somehow there was enough mystery about his family that I could not help but wonder if he had been forced by adverse circumstances to make his own way in the world.

A young man only a few years old than I was strapping my luggage on the back of the coach, while an older man with graying hair beneath his countryman’s hat sat up on the box, holding the horses’ reins. As Mrs. Springer enfolded me a motherly hug. I fought back tears. This was the final farewell. Ahead . . . the unknown. I hugged her back, thanked her as prettily as I could with my throat threatening to close up at any moment.

My dear, Christabel Springer said for my ears alone, have courage. I am sure all will be well.

Warmth rushed through me at her good will. Swiftly followed by doubts. Did Mrs. Springer anticipate my needing courage to cope with my new home on Dartmoor?

Dartmoor. A cloud passed over the sun; shadows flickered around me. I shivered.

And then the moment was gone. The thrill of adventure surged back. I was on the verge of being a young woman. I had a grandfather who lived in a house called Blackthorne Hall. Likely a gentleman in comfortable circumstances. A man respected in the neighborhood. A man willing to give his granddaughter a home.

Granddaughter. I was someone’s granddaughter.

Would Gabriel Blackthorne look like an older version of Papa?

Would he like me?

The young man who had been strapping my luggage on the back of the coach approached. Touching his fingers to his forehead, he announced, I be John Oakley, miss. Up there on the box—he nodded toward the man holding the reins—that be my pa, Benjamin. The elder Mr. Oakley tipped the brim of his hat in my direction. Mrs. Yelland packed a bite to eat—basket’s on the seat. With that, he helped me mount the steps, started to shut the door.

Wait! I cried. He paused, his round face and pink cheeks framed in the opening. How long is the journey?

Reckon two hours, miss—more if it comes on to rain. He cast a wary glance at the sky.

Thank you. At no time did either Oakley look at me. Was that the way it was with servants here?

Or was it something else?

Uneasiness rippled through me—rather like that unsettled feeling people describe as someone walking over my grave.

Which made absolutely no sense.

I was alone, the proverbial stranger in a strange land, conjuring demons admidst kindly faces lit by a benign, if hazy, sun.

Papa would be ashamed of my foolishness.

The coach rolled forward, and I stuck my head out the window, waving a fond farewell to Mrs. Springer and Captain Barnswell. A short-lived moment. I gasped, teeth rattling, nearly biting my tongue, as the coach’s iron-bound wheels jarred over the cobblestoned streets. A tear escaped, the blob of moisture rolling down my cheek.

Papa would not be proud. Wipe your eyes. Chin up, shoulders back!

My stoic martyrdom lasted all of a quarter hour. As we rumbled out of the center of town and into the countryside, curiosity got the better of me. I pressed my nose to the glass and . . . oh my goodness, there was a stone wall, just like home.

No, not like home. The angle of the stones was not quite right and . . . Bushes, even small trees seemed to be growing right out of the stone. Impossible, of course, but that is how it looked. I had heard mention of English hedgerows but had not pictured them like this.

I blinked as we rolled past a farmhouse and barn, both built of stone. Soon followed by more