Charlotte Mayweather, the penniless and illegitimate dependent of Drymote Estate, struggles to find her place in the
world after the death of her uncle leaves her unloved and
alone. When Edward Cotterhugh first arrives to claim his new
inheritance, the heir of Drymote seems intent on nothing
more than careless frivolity, much to the chagrin of his father,
who will stop at nothing to see him embedded in good society. Charlotte quickly learns that Edward’s insouciant attitude hides a far darker past, though. As Edward learns to confront his ghosts, Charlotte fears that she is losing her sanity as
her mother did before her. Together they must unravel the
mysteries of Drymote upon All Hallow’s Eve before it is too
late.
Charlotte Mayweather, the penniless and illegitimate dependent of Drymote Estate, struggles to find her place in the
world after the death of her uncle leaves her unloved and
alone. When Edward Cotterhugh first arrives to claim his new
inheritance, the heir of Drymote seems intent on nothing
more than careless frivolity, much to the chagrin of his father,
who will stop at nothing to see him embedded in good society. Charlotte quickly learns that Edward’s insouciant attitude hides a far darker past, though. As Edward learns to confront his ghosts, Charlotte fears that she is losing her sanity as
her mother did before her. Together they must unravel the
mysteries of Drymote upon All Hallow’s Eve before it is too
late.
Shelter—there must be shelter somewhere.
Charlotte Mayweather peered dismally around the wild and rambling grounds of Drymote Estate, trying to blink the rain out of her eyes. Hydrangeas, their mop heads drooping under the onslaught, bobbed in silent agreement around her and the Michaelmas daisies swayed with the winds, but nowhere seemed to offer any sanctuary from the sudden downpour. Nobody knows I am out here. Nobody is coming to help. The realisation chilled Charlotte’s skin as thoroughly as the rain did, leaving her shivering and miserable.
The climb up to Drymote house was too steep and too far to run to, even if she hadn’t twisted her ankle when she fell. She clutched at that ankle now, sprawled upon the ground, trying to rub the throbbing ache away as the pebbled path tattooed indentations on her skin. Her respectable mourning blacks were now mud-dyed brown and she had lost her second-best shawl somewhere out there amongst the bushes when she had raced the storm for shelter and lost. She tutted under her breath as she surveyed the damage. Her dress had scarcely been respectable as it was, old, meticulously mended, slightly too small. She had hoped to make it pass muster for Albert’s upcoming ball with some cheap glass jewellery and some old velvet ribbons, but there was no hope of that now. Is that really my most pressing concern? I will not be attending the dance at all if I have joined Uncle John in the grave.
Charlotte gritted her teeth and forced herself to sit up. I never should have left the house today. Again, the hydrangeas bobbed in agreement. She scowled at their sanctimonious faces.
“It’s a little late for recriminations now,” she told them sternly. Unsurprisingly, they did not reply. She huffed out a damp breath and wiped her hair out of her face, smearing little kisses of mud across her forehead.
The truth was she felt like she could no longer breathe in the silent, grief-stained halls of Drymote, still wearing their mourning wreathes, crowned in crêpe at the door. These days it felt like she could not breathe anywhere where the wind was not howling and the skies were not an open call for freedom. Still, she could not help but curse the feet which had led her through the extensive gardens. She had spent the day meandering down pathways, past the glass-houses and the lake, through the walled garden and the orchard rows to the farthest depths of the garden’s limits, down to the hidden, lurking corners where Uncle John had fallen prey to the eccentric fashion of follies. And yet, perhaps one of those buildings might yet suit her purposes now, for she could hardly sit out there in the rain all afternoon. The staff would certainly think her eccentric if she did.
No, they will think me mad. Rich old Lords like Uncle John can be eccentric—penniless, illegitimate wards are only ever mad. Perhaps they will even send me away to the same asylum my mother died in. Charlotte shuddered, and it was not merely for the rain seeping through to her very bones. She could think of nothing worse than the beckoning madhouse. Better by far to die out in the open skies than locked away, chained to a bed, forcefed by an orderly.
She squinted through the dense flower beds, trying to acclimate herself after her fall. The Hermit’s Retreat, though by far the smallest of John’s follies, was also the nearest, so it was in that direction that she began hauling herself. Another flash of lightning seared across the shrouded sky, burning the clouds white. She limped onwards, her ankle whimpering with pain every time she put her weight to it. Her old mourning dress, a remnant from Aunty Ursula’s funeral a few years back now, was weighed down with the waters that clung to it. She left a sweeping trail of mud in her wake as her sodden skirts kissed the pebbles and earth.
She looked around for aid, but the howling world around her remained endlessly empty. The few gardeners—those who had remained at Drymote after Albert had inherited it and purged Uncle John’s old loyalists for cheap agency hires and untrained foundling maids—were clearly bottled away in the gardener’s bothy, drinking hot toddies and planning the planting season for next spring. She could not say she blamed them.
“Who would be fool enough to come out in this weather?” she muttered and laughed at her own imprudence, but it was quickly cut short. The ground beneath grew slippery as she staggered across it, her booted feet sliding upon the grass, chewing up chunks of mud with every slippery footstep. She fell again, adding a litany of bruises to her impending hypothermia, and though she tried, she found she could not regain her feet this time. She gritted her teeth.
“They don’t call you stubborn for nothing, Charlotte Mayweather,” she told herself fiercely. “You are going to make it to that folly if it is the last thing you do.” She could not bear to put the weight upon her foot again, so she rolled up onto her knees and began the painful crawl down that final twist of path. Pebbles and twigs stuck to her palms and scraped her knees even through her petticoats. She was sure she looked ridiculous. Perhaps the rain was a blessing after all. She could only imagine how much they would mock her if anybody was to see. She forced herself onwards grimly, and when the cave-like temple came into view at last, Charlotte could have wept.
The Hermit’s Retreat was small, a single one-roomed building, decorated within and without in small white shells studded upon the walls, and a mosaic of pebbles upon the floor and upon the ceiling. There were no windows in it, and for that she was glad, for they would only have let the rain come howling in, nor was there a door, just a small opening in the foremost wall which she dragged herself through still on all fours.
Out of the worst of the wet, she collapsed gratefully to the floor, dripping and exhausted. She closed her eyes, letting her breath come trembling through her icy lips, her fingers massaging the pain throbbing from her ankle, the only place upon her whole body where heat was humming, it felt. And her eyes leapt open at once, as a cough emanated from above her.
A pair of boots stared at her. She stared back for half a moment and then pulled herself upright with a yelp to see the tall outline of a man lingering in the shadow of the corner. She had been so eager to escape the rain that she had not seen anybody hiding within. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she felt her whole body turn to flame, even as her gaze skated over him. She did not recognise him. He was not one of the house staff, nor the garden men. Fear at once coursed through her, as though she had been struck by the lightning still intermittently zig-zagging through the greys and blacks outside. She struggled up to her feet, but the man stepped forwards, holding out his hands in a placating manner, a somewhat smug smile lingering on his lips as his gaze raked over her dishevelled appearance.
“Pray, do not. You will only do yourself more mischief.”
She ignored him, though she did need to lean upon the wall to take control of both her feet. She was all too aware that he had just watched her crawl into this folly on her hands and knees, probably much to his amusement.
“Who are you?” She tried to sound as imperious and commanding as she could, given the circumstances. The mud bespattering her clothes showed up all too clearly with each lightning flash outside, and the white light reflected off the rainwater still pooling beneath her feet. “What are you doing in my uncle’s house?”
The stranger smiled. He had an arrogant face, she thought. It was well-formed and handsome, but it carried that knowledge all too clearly in the tilt of the chin and the straight and haughty nose. His lips twitched up in one corner, a smirk more than a smile. His hair clung to his head too, drenched with the rain that had caught them both, and droplets sprayed about them as he flicked it subconsciously off his forehead. Those eyes... The thought drifted lazily through the back of her mind, even as she sought to quash it. His eyes were so dark they seemed almost black. She felt her skin burning even hotter, if such a thing was possible.
“This is your uncle’s house, is it?” The man looked around at the Hermit’s Retreat, his stare lingering scathingly upon the shells adorning the walls. “I cannot say I think much of his decor. Nor for his guest quarters. Why, there is not even a bowl to wash up in.” He grinned again, what he presumably thought was a charming and disarming smile. “You belong to that fine old house up there, then?” he asked.
He turned and stared out of the little doorway, his gaze fixed upon the sheets of water all but hiding the gardens from view. The trees, their boughs weighed down with water, blocked even the topmost roofs of Drymote from sight. She stared as well, as if she might find a way home. “They said in the village that the lord, forgive me, your uncle, was dead, though.” The words were callous, thrown at her with all the unfeeling lightness of a stranger, and they stuck in her throat.
“Yes,” she said with quiet dignity. “You have heard right. Lord John Cotterhugh has been dead a month past.” Had it really only been a month since Uncle John’s weathered hands touched the leaves and flowers of his beloved garden in benediction? A month since his fingers last plunged beneath the earth as if he were rooted there too? She swallowed and forced back the treacherous tears blinking to her eyes, unwilling to expose herself to yet more ridicule before this stranger. “It is his brother, Albert, who owns Drymote now.”
Uncle John had died intestate, the abruptness of his own mortality taking him unawares, and everything had gone to Albert by law. Uncle John had not even left her so much as a token to remember him by.
“Ah, I see. And your uncle, Albert—”
“He is not my uncle,” she interrupted with a vehemence that surprised even her. She blinked and swallowed the anger which rose to her throat. “At least, that is, there is no blood to bind us.” And little inclination on either side to forge a relationship without it. “Aunty Ursula, John’s wife, was my mother’s sister. It was she who was my blood-kin. They took me in when my mother died, and when both Ursula and John followed her to the grave, Albert kept me afterwards through charity.” Charity! How that word stung her lips! She pressed them together as if she could take the pain from the words that way. Something flickered in the stranger’s eyes—pity, or contempt? Neither one was ideal.
“I see. Well, would this Albert prosecute me for trespassing upon his lands? I was passing by when the urge to wander them came upon me, and then the rains came upon me too, far too suddenly for me to escape. A punishment from the fates for my temerity, perhaps? Or was it you, you old denizen, that summoned such storms to haunt me?” he asked the mural of the glowering Greek god upon the ceiling. The mural frowned down at them sternly from beneath a flowing beard of grey pebbles, and the man beside her twinkled at Charlotte merrily, a lopsided, conspiratorial smile lingering upon his lips.
“I am sure that he would remind you that these woods are not public land.” That is putting it tactfully. Albert is a stickler for his rights.
“All land is public land if you are brave enough.”
“Ah, the poacher’s motto.” The man grinned and did not try to deny it. He was empty-handed, at least. The sudden rain-burst must have interrupted his hunting. Charlotte crossed her arms, about to summon some rebuke to knock the arrogant stranger off his pride, but as she stopped leaning against her arm, her knee buckled beneath her. The stranger darted forwards and caught her around the waist and gently guided her towards the pebbled floor.
“May I test your ankle? We must see if it is sound.”
Charlotte hesitated. It was hardly appropriate to let a stranger examine her, but her ankle was badly hurting. She could feel it swelling up inside her boot even now, throbbing with pain. She gave a sharp jerk of the head, and he was already undoing her laces before she had finished nodding. She gave a gasp of pain as he took her foot in his hand and rolled it about expertly.
“It is swollen and badly twisted, but it is not broken. You must rest with it elevated for a day or two.”
Charlotte frowned at him. “You are a medical man?” He spoke with all the confidence of one, and yet she had never known a doctor take to poaching before.
The stranger laughed. “I fear not, but I have been in my fair share of scrapes. One learns how to patch oneself up in time.”
She did not find that hard to believe. He had the aura of a man who attracted trouble. His eyes sparkled again, and she became abruptly aware once more of how dishevelled she looked. And here I am giving myself all the airs and graces of an heiress. He must think me a fool.
“Thank you for your advice,” she said stiffly. “I will surely take it when I can.” She tried to get her boot back on, but found it impossible. The man laughed.
“Take it now then. Here.” He caught her foot in his hands and, sitting down upon the pebbled floor, he rested it atop his own leg to keep it high. She felt herself blushing, but he scarcely seemed to notice. He rested his back against the shells of the wall, and together they added to the dampness of the floor, their two muddied capes dripping amongst the pebbles as they regained their strength. A soft silence swam between them for a moment as the thunders rolled outside, and, despite the winds and the weather, the little hut felt almost warm as they were cocooned within it.
His hands still rested upon her foot, as if he had forgotten they were there, and it was an action at once so intimate and comfortable that she almost forgot that they were strangers and it was wildly inappropriate. He does not think of it as anything other than a medical fact. And yet she scarcely could remember the time anyone had touched her so casually or confidently, as if they had a right to. If it affected him in any way, he did not show it. The anonymous Greek god stared lifelessly down at her with untold scorn.
“I think the rain is lessening,” the man said softly, still staring out at the world beyond the doorway. “Let me fetch someone for you.”
“There is no one left to fetch.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice. Once upon a time she would have had John to worry about her, or even Fletch, the head gardener who had both lived and worked here for thirty years, but he had been ousted from his home without so much as a by-your-leave when Albert took over. Charlotte had protested, pleaded, cried and stormed, but she could not change Albert’s mind. Poor Fletch. He had let her climb up on his workbench when she was only a sprout herself to poke sunflower seeds into pots and water them in with his heavy cast-iron watering can, chasing her out of Uncle John’s glasshouses with a mock ferocity if she ever ventured in there unsupervised. To lose them both so close upon the heels of one another was cruel, and to have them replaced with the carelessness of Albert was even crueller.
The poacher quirked an eyebrow at her. “Albert will not notice your absence?”
“Not today. Today, Lord Cotterhugh”—she stressed the word for the impertinent poacher—”would not notice if the skies turned purple. He is too busy awaiting the arrival of his only son and heir.”
The stranger smiled. “Ah, and is that such a propitious occasion?”
“It has a rarity value. Edward has not visited us at Drymote since he was a child. The only likeness we have of him is a painted miniature from when he was a boy, with a cherubic smile upon his chubby cheeks. I imagine he is rather different now.” Probably squat and balding like his father. And a somewhat spiteful smile twitched at her lips as she imagined the dashing heir everybody swooned over waddling up the path to Drymote as Albert’s copy, save thirty years of life. She turned to see the poacher was watching her with amusement, and she blushed again. “This can scarcely be of interest to a stranger such as yourself.”
“On the contrary, I find it all very intriguing. Tell me more of the denizens of Drymote.”
“There is little more to tell. Edward will inherit Drymote Estate after his father passes, and Albert wishes him to be here now to learn how to run it properly. That is all.”
“There are no scandalous rumours to report? How disappointing.”
“Oh, there are scandalous rumours aplenty, but I am far too sensible to listen to them.” The rumours had trailed through the half-empty halls of Drymote long before the announcement of his upcoming arrival had. Edward had abandoned his degree at Cambridge, where he had been all but ready to take a first. Edward had travelled all across Europe, disappearing and reappearing sporadically every few months. Edward had won a duel against a celebrated Italian pistol master. Edward was a renowned lover and a romantic. If Edward were half as large as his reputation, he would be too tall to fit through the doors. She wondered if he was going to be as insufferable as Albert. She was not sure she could handle two of them.
Albert had made it his business to make her life a misery since he had inherited Drymote, tucking his toes into the master bed scarcely before Uncle John’s corpse had cooled in it. If Edward was as cruel as his father, perhaps she would move down to the Hermit’s Retreat permanently. Perhaps I too could take to poaching with this handsome stranger... His eyes sparkled at her as if he could read the thoughts from her mind, and she felt her skin turning to burgundy.
She struggled to her feet, a gasp escaping from her lips as she placed her weight tentatively upon her ankle once more. He got to his feet too and offered her his hands, but she ignored them.
“Forgive me, I should not be alone here with you. As you have noted, the rain is slowing now, and I must return to the house to prepare myself for the arrival of Albert’s son. If you had any sense, you would leave, too. If any of the gardeners caught you poaching, they would be duty-bound to report it to Albert.”
He leant forwards, his eyes sparkling ever more brightly, close enough that his breath whispered over her damp and chilled skin, warming it through. Charlotte felt a shiver run through her, and it was not earned by the cold. I must not succumb to his temptations. He knows full well what it is he does.
“What of you? Will you report me to Albert—forgive me, that is, Lord Cotterhugh?” She hesitated and took the boot from his hand to buy herself time. She ought to, she knew, but she could not deny that she was reluctant to do so.
She forced her foot back into it, crying out slightly as the wet leather chafed against her swollen skin. He watched her, and she could feel his gaze upon her still.
“Well?”
“It... it would not be... gallant of me to injure a man who has done me good,” she said stiltedly. “No, I will not tell Albert today, I am sure he would not like to be bothered about it on the day of Edward’s arrival, but if I should see you in these grounds another time, I cannot promise so much again.”
“Oh, you will certainly see me in these grounds again, now I know it is inhabited by such fire-spirited nymphs.” She scowled at him and he laughed loudly. “For now, I will content myself with accompanying you back to your door. You would not deprive me of your company for some little while longer, I am sure.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hands to stem the flow of words escaping her. “No, do not fight me, I am quite decided. Would it be gallant of me to let an injured lady limp her way to the doors alone?”
She scowled fiercely. “You mock me, sir.”
“No, I merely tease you, there is a difference. Besides, I have a hankering to see this house and the entitled little lordling who will inherit it. The point is moot anyway, as your foot has swollen too much to allow you to hobble home alone.” This, at the very least, was true. She felt her head spinning as she tried to place her weight upon it.
“Come,” he said persuasively. “I have no rabbits with me, nor any blood upon my hands to give me away as a poacher or pilferer. We will say that I was passing by the borders of this oh-so-private land when I heard you fall and, being the heroic man I am, came hurrying to the rescue. Surely they will not prosecute me for that?”
She hesitated. Albert would rebuke her for such errant behaviour, but in truth she was not looking forward to the long and damp stagger homewards alone, and she could hardly crawl all the way up those slopes.
“It is a risk,” she said warningly.
“Ah, but it is my risk to take, and after all, what is life without a little adventure?” She strongly suspected it was the call of such adventure which tempted him to it, and not the overwhelming allure of her company. He was a man for whom the pleasure of life was the risking of it, she thought.
“I thank you then, and will gladly accept.” He reached down and tried to put his arms around her waist, but she batted him away. “What are you doing?”
“You cannot walk. Let me carry you.”
“You will not carry me across the fields! I do not know you!”
“I will not be impudent, I promise it upon my honour—if you can trust the honour of a poacher and thief.” The thought seemed to amuse him. “You are such a slight thing, I doubt I shall even notice the weight of it, if that is what concerns you.”
“That is not what concerns me, sir,” she snapped. “I will not allow myself to be carried. I was given two feet and I will use them.”
He rolled his eyes but offered no more arguments. He proffered his arm instead, and she threaded her own through it, wincing as she limped out into the world once more. The air was fresh, the storm blown through it having washed away the cloying closeness that had been oppressing her all day. Were her clothes not clinging to her, muddied and sodden, and her ankle not still throbbing with pain, Charlotte thought she might even have enjoyed it.
The man looked around the grounds as they made their slow and laborious journey back to the house looming up the hillside above. “These gardens are very fine.”
“They were my uncle’s pride and joy. Even on his death bed, he was entreating me to take care of them.” She felt tears prickling at her eyes, even before this stranger, and looked away lest he saw them there. Uncle John’s words came calling back to her as he’d lain ashen-faced and fast-failing in his bed, clasping desperately to her hand, his words falling into delirium and rambling. Your future is held safe in these gardens, child. Remember that when I am gone. My love for you is bound fast in the same stones that hold my love for Ursula. You must remember, you must recall it, your happiness and security will be found in these gardens. He had stared hard at her even as his strength had failed and she had promised to recall it, only to soothe the troubled ailments of his mind. He had all but lost his wits by the end, falling into paranoia, seeing ghosts and conspiracies everywhere, and she had often thought that she had lost him even before he died. No, my uncle is not lost. He is still here, as deep-rooted as the trees he once grew. She did not want to return to the cold and empty halls of Drymote where Albert now reigned. She did not want to wait upon the arrogant presumption of the new heir. She would gladly have lived out here beneath the wild and whipping winds and the endless skies forever if she could have. Alas, she could not. The real world came crunching up inevitably to meet her as they rounded the final corner and made their way up the long and sweeping driveway. She sighed and drew herself back into the present moment.
“I am within sight of the doors now, you ought to go whilst you can.”
“You are ashamed to be seen with a man of no name and no estate?” he ventured with a grin.
“I would prefer not to lie, and I do not know how I can explain your presence without either injuring you or telling falsehoods.”
“Ah, I think that neither will be necessary, in fact,” he murmured as the doors above them were thrown open. Albert stood there, gaping at the two of them.
“Go,” she whispered. “Quickly, before it is too late.” But it was already too late. Charlotte extracted her arm from her benefactor’s as Albert came hurrying down the steps, his patches of baldness glinting in the grey and leaden daylight.
“Sodden! Absolutely sodden! You will catch your death of cold. And late! Do you even know the hour? We were so worried about you!”
Charlotte stared at him. She did not think Albert cared enough to worry about her well-being. She stared even harder as Albert thrust his arms around the man next to her, squeezing him tightly. “Why did you not take the carriage I sent for you? You have not grown any better since the last time I saw you. In fact, I declare you grow positively worse.”
“Forgive me, Father. And you too, Miss Mayweather.” The man grinned, turning to face her with an irascible smile and a small bow. “I fear I forgot to introduce myself properly upon our first acquaintance. Edward Cotterhugh at your service.
Although introduced to me in the category of historical mystery, The Heir of Drymote by Beth Fuller is certainly a historical romance novel. The chemistry between penniless relation, Charlotte Mayweather, and Edward Cotterhugh, heir to the Drymote estate, is tangible, and it is fun and a bit sexy to watch their romance grow throughout this novel. Edward, masking his self-loathing for his past behind a facade of a devil-may-care attitude, manages to bring Charlotte out of her shell upon his arrival at Drymote; however, Charlotte’s pleasure at being more free of society’s perceptions is dashed when she begins to suspect that she’s going mad, as her mother did. Will they be able to overcome their obstacles and find love?
Although the plot was a bit cliché, Fuller’s writing is very good. She’s well-rounded in her descriptions, focusing not only on the romance but also on the setting and period of the Drymote estate. I find that some romance authors focus too much on the steam, forget they’re writing a historical novel, and then throw in the word “carriage” or “corset” to remind themselves and readers. Not so with Fuller! I was enjoying the setting and other details as much as the romance.
I thought that Charlotte was a fairly naive character; I gathered the more sinister aspects of the plot in chapter 4, while she didn’t realize them until the end when Edward pointed them out to her! So, I found myself wanting to yell at her a bit throughout the book. However, I don’t think this is atypical for a woman in that time period to be that sheltered or that willing to let the men around her take charge. This doesn’t mean I forgive Charlotte for being that unsuspecting but, as a modern woman, it does grate on me a bit. I have no faults with Edward as a handsome, chivalrous, romantic, and surprisingly sensitive character; what’s not to like?
All in all, I thought The Heir of Drymote was a great romance. It was fun to watch the development of Charlotte’s and Edward’s feelings for one another as the couple resists Edward’s overbearing father and the separate futures that he wants for each of them. It got spicy, at times, but it’s not explicit, so I think this could reach an audience of 17+. If you’re looking for a historical mystery with a hint of romance, this book isn’t for you - but if you’re looking for a historical romance with a hint of danger/mystery, give this book a try.