The Mistresses of Wistmere: A Neo-Gothic Novel

by Rachel Secor

  Turning her turbulent eyes toward the solicitor, Katherine asked. “Did they ever legalize their relationship?”

  “You mean wed?”

  “Yes! Did they wed?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if there were such a union.” He regretted insensitive reply and busied himself by rummaging through the papers on his desk. “I’m sorry Miss St. Pierre. I don’t seem to have any such paper here, but I’ll check through the ship’s records and the entries in the Registry at Somerset House as there is a compulsory registration for all marriages. There’s the possibility that during the months of the return voyage there could have been some sort of ceremony, either on board ship or on one of the islands.” What else could he say? What else could he suggest? How could he make this young woman feel better about her existence, about the news he had just revealed?

  Neal cleared his throat, trying to get past the awkwardness of the moment. Even Miss Belwood seemed embarrassed for she glanced down at the floor, seemingly interested in the pattern of the rug.

  “But I assure each of you that even without solid documentation, you are, indeed, the off-spring of Robert Craig, and, therefore, sisters. Well, half-sisters.”

  Not a look was exchanged by either woman to acknowledge this statement.

  Neal continued, “It was Robert’s wish that you treat each other as such, as sisters.”

  Silence.

  The solicitor scowled at the mute heiresses. “You will, I’m sure, become accustomed to one another in time.” Impatient with the lack of reactions and wanting to conclude his business with the women as quickly as possible, Neal unfolded a document before him and began to read it.

  “This is the Last Will and Testament of Sir Robert Andrew Craig: As it is apparent that I’m no longer upon this earth, God have mercy on my soul, I leave my estate Wistmere, with its livestock and steadings and all acreage between Lanark and Carstairs, my four ships and the business that encompasses them in Aberdeen, along with all my goods to my surviving children.”

  Neal looked up to see that he had at last been able to get the women’s entire attention.

  “I read now from your father’s own words: ‘Since my son, Garth William, has unexpectedly preceded me in death, I direct my will to my two daughters. Each of my surviving children are to be given a yearly allowance of two hundred pounds until their twenty-first birthday, whereupon it is assumed that by that time they will have married or have the estate in order and the shipping lines financially functioning. My surviving children are to make Wistmere their home and share in its maintenance. I expect that my daughters will not follow the examples set for them: that May-Jewel will not seek to follow her mother’s choice of work and will instead live her life in a more acceptable manner; and that Katherine, unlike her mother, will seek the world. And whereas each child has not known of the other until the reading of my will, I expect them to love one another as I have loved them. If for any reason my last wishes cannot be carried out, I leave the final dispensation of my worldly goods to my loyal friend, Neal Jameson and my partner, Alexander Fleming…’” Neal suddenly became silent and read the concluding lines to himself. The rustling of one of the woman’s dress as she shifted about in the chair brought his attention back to them.

  “Signed this day of our Lord… etcetera, etcetera,” he ended.

  Katherine listened with downcast eyes, purposely avoiding contact with those around her. As I have loved them, she repeated to herself. Propriety had denied her his love, and now, as if to make everything right, he has left her the cold ruins of his manor!

  Mr. Jameson rearranged the papers in his hands again. “These are Robert’s last wishes, and I am to see that certain actions are to be carried out. But you yourselves will be in charge of what civility there is to be between you. As of now, you are bound together by an inheritance. It is expected that you both will stay at the manor Wistmere until I come for your signatures on the first distribution of monies within a few weeks. If at that time, either of you want to disclaim any or all of the estate, then I will see to your wishes.” He placed a paper on the desk before each of them. “I’ll need your signatures on these attesting to the fact that I have read you the will and informed you of Robert’s wishes. It will also enable me to release a small portion of money to each of you at this time.” He rose and called Harry back into the room to witness their signatures.

  Handing a pen to each of the women, Neal waited for them to sign. He watched as May-Jewel instantly signed her name with a bold, flowery signature, smiling broadly at what, he was sure, she considered her first accomplishment as an heiress. He saw that Katherine St. Pierre hesitated.

  Unsure if this was what she wanted, but looking up at the faces before her, Katherine quickly signed her name with a petite and concise signature.

  The solicitor opened the office’s safe and withdrew two packets of money. Handing one to each of the women, he said, “I have arranged for your transportation to Wistmere. Give your addresses to Harry and a carriage will be at your places of lodging between eight and nine tomorrow morning. Alexander Fleming, Robert’s - your father’s partner will meet you at the manor. He will see to your comforts and your needs.” Then he added as if to anticipate their thoughts, “Yes, you must travel there together, and… may Godspeed.”

  The two women stood on the steps outside the building. A torrent of emotions and thoughts jostled each mind for release, but neither one spoke. Not looking at her new ‘sister’, Mistress Belwood walked away, deciding that the inevitable confrontation between them, that surely had to come, would wait until another time. She disappeared into the throng of people. The moisture in the air refreshed her face as she stepped lightly down the walk. Her happiness over the inheritance surged through her.

  “An heiress,” she declared, “I’m an heiress! And I own land, and a manor, and ships, and people.” Smiling as if the whole of Edinburgh should know, May-Jewel whispered her new title, ‘Mistress of Wistmere’ over and over to herself.

  Joy was not beating in Katherine’s heart, however, nor was there a smile on her rigid face as she solemnly hailed a carriage. Happiness should have filled her, but instead her throat felt painfully constricted. Seeking solace in the coach’s darkened interior, she leaned against its hard walls and vented the anger within her.

  “So, Sir Craig, you made me an heiress. An heiress of what? Of stone and wood? Of ships and slaves? Of money and jewels? What good are these to me now? Will this great fortune create a place for me in society? Shall I go to Wistmere because you decreed it?” Her shrill voice, filled with blistering hostility, ricocheted throughout the carriage. She fought to hold back the tears that brimmed her eyes. She didn’t want to be the Mistress of Wistmere.

  Chapter Three

  The driver, his back humped with age, halted the carriage and squinted at the half exposed form lying by the roadside. “What be this that interrupts old Charles’ journey?” he muttered to himself. “Be ye animal or human?”

  He got down and with unsteady steps made his way through the mud. As he approached, he could distinguish the form and its dress, realizing it was a woman.

  “What happen to ye? Were ye set upon by thieves?” Turning her over, he saw a smaller form beneath. “Oh, good Lord!” With a shaky hand, he made the form of the cross.

  He knew just by its condition that the babe was not living. He felt for the woman’s pulse and found it slow but steady. Because the babe was still attached to its mother, he took out his knife and cut them free of each other. Then picking the woman up, he carried her to the coach, laying her on the seat. Spying her bag alongside the road, he took it as well, placing it on the floor under the seat. Then he returned to retrieve the tiny corpse. Wrapping the babe in his own coat, he positioned it carefully next to the woman. Climbing up onto the driver’s seat, he smacked the reins on the backs of the horses to hasten their journey toward the beacon in the distance.

  A squat, white-haired woman stood in the kitchen door, r
aising a lantern to light the way as the carriage came to a stop.

  Feeling that the discovery of the woman and her babe was for him alone, Charles gruffly ordered, “Leave the light, woman, and get ta bed.”

  The cook grumbled but did as she was told, and only after she had left the kitchen did Charles carry the unconscious woman through to his quarters. “Must see ta the living first,” he mumbled. Laying her upon his bed, he left the room to retrieve a wash bin and warm water. He returned and washed the blood and mud from the woman. Once that was done, Charles dressed her in one of his own night shirts and tucked a blanket around her.

  “Aye, now to see to the babe.”

  He led the horses into the barn, dismissed the stableman, and retrieved the lifeless infant from the carriage. The endless rain beat on the old man’s back as he dug a shallow grave amidst the trees behind the barn. Mumbling a few words of prayer, he pounded the dirt down on the small mound and returned to the barn to take care of the horses.

  Returning to his room, his glance fell upon the small woman in his bed. He wondered what had led her to be stranded on the road during such a storm. Ignoring the fact that he was wet and cold, Charles gave into the curiosity that led him to inspect the contents of the woman’s bag. He found nothing of interest, only some odd looking clothes and a few little bottles of what he took to be toiletries. Her bag revealed little, but while draping the woman’s clothes to dry before the fire, Charles discovered a packet sewed into the lining of her cloak. Gently, he pried the frail stitching loose. Nervous, thin fingers then separated the ink-smeared papers that he found there. The outer pages were illegible, but one thick document wrapped in the middle of the others remained untouched by the rain and the mud. Squinting, he brought it over to the light cast by the fire and read its contents.

  “What be this! The master wedded agin?” He cast a wrinkled frown upon the woman in the bed and studied her face. But married to a foreigner? A new idea ran through his mind. She might be a fraud. Maybe she was only the servant of the new wife. She looked like a servant. No, he decided, if she t’were a servant, she wouldna have been carryin’ sech papers as th’ weddin’ paper aboot her. But still if she were the master’s wife, where then were her servants? And why was she left to die out in the elements?

  “Aye, the master had gone off ta India to seek his son. But wed a foreigner? An’ how did she fin’ her way here?” Charles brushed a strand of black hair from the woman’s ashen face.

  “Aye,” he uttered, “she be Indian an’ a young one!” Staring at her countenance, his mind bent first one way and then the other in consideration. He wanted to believe that his master had left a part of himself to return to Wistmere. Yet, how could he accept a heathen as his mistress? But she was Sir Craig’s wife! The papers proved that. Befuddled, Charles shook his head and placed the papers on the mantle. He decided that he would have to accept her as his mistress. “It would be what the master would have wanted.”

  “Poor thing,” he muttered, spreading another blanket over her, “ta come all this way only to birth a dead bairn.” The Master was dead and all his sons were dead, but his new wife wasn’t. She was there lying before him. The old man then vowed his life and loyalty to the new mistress of Wistmere.

  “Ah, now she be need’n nourishment. An’ I’ll tell her o’ the legacy when she awakens. It be hers now.” He grew befuddled again. Something nagged at him, something about the jewels. What was it that he was to remember? His face twisted in confusion. He shrugged it off and left the room. Charles chuckled all the way into the kitchen, pleased to have kept Lady Edythe’s secret for so long, the secret that he swore to take to his grave.

  The soup took longer to heat than the old man would have liked, but he felt confident that the woman was in good hands now and didn’t worry much about taking his time. With his hands shaking, the bowl and spoon rattling on the tray, he shuffled back to his room. As he entered, an unnatural quiet filled the air. The bed was empty, and the woman was gone! The bag, her clothes and papers were also missing. Charles panicked, dropped the tray, and set about searching the lower rooms, wondering where his new mistress could have gone.

  * * *

  The long, silent journey to Wistmere was filled with dust and the endless rocking of the carriage. But May-Jewel Belwood, to wile away the silent hours of travel with a mute companion such as Miss St. Pierre, directed her mind to her new position in society. She knew that her mother’s money could have kept her quite well for a number of years. However, she would have to marry eventually to live in the style to which she had become accustomed. Why settle for being a servant in marriage, when I can be the Mistress of a grand manor with no one to tell me what to do. And once Robbie’s fortune is in my hands, I’ll buy sour Miss St. Pierre’s share of everything, and she can go back to wherever she came from. May-Jewel looked at Katherine’s dour expression and scowled. But what if she isn’t willing? Well… I’ll just have to think of something to make her willing. Then I’ll do what all proper families do to hide their embarrassments and skeletons, she brushed dust from her cloak, I’ll feign ignorance and openly deny her relationship to the Craig family. May-Jewel looked back out the carriage window and turned her mind again to Wistmere and what she planned do there.

  Having no desire to look upon the stranger she was forced to travel with or to converse with her, Katherine remained silent and also stared out the window as the scenery flew by. She was still trying to come to terms with all that she had learned in the solicitor’s office, especially learning of her father and the fact that Wistmere was to be hers. Well, half hers. She wasn’t as sure about the ‘wealth’ of Wistmere as her companion seemed to be, for that was one subject Miss Belwood happily carried on about. Even while living in Edinburgh Katherine had heard rumors of the estate’s extreme disrepair, of the orramen that, in the absence of a factor, stole grain and fattened their own pockets with the proceeds. It was said that Robert let Wistmere fall to near ruin while he cavorted around the world. And as far as she knew that was the way the estate was left, and she didn’t look forward to handling the results. She wondered if that was why Sir Robert had put her in his will; he passed onto her the skeleton of a manor such as what he had become himself. He couldn’t give to her in life so he gave to her in his death. It was a cold thought, but one that kept returning to her.

  * * *

  On the last evening of the journey, the coach stopped in a small hamlet. Unlike the previous nights, the two half-sisters were forced to share a room as there was only one available. They stood together viewing their stark accommodations. May-Jewel’s quiet protest quickly vanished as she looked at the old furnishings and the narrow bed that they were expected to share.

  “Such wretched lodgings!” She said, moving to enter the room. But as she did, her foot became entangled in some unwoven strands of the threadbare carpet, and she plunged onto the bed.

  Katherine laughed and said, “For all your airs of superiority, you’re not very graceful, are you?”

  “Ignorant plebeian!” May-Jewel snapped, her face crimson as she rose, “What do you know of grace?”

  “I know how to pick up my feet and enter a room without tripping.” Katherine took off her cloak and moved to the far side of the bed, placing her case of toiletries on the dresser. When she had finished laying out all the articles, she looked about for the pitcher of water and wash bowl, and saw with dismay that May- Jewel had already used it all to wash the day’s grime from her hands and face.

  “Well, you could have saved some of that water for me so that I might be able to wash too!” Katherine said. “You have no consideration for others!”

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” May-Jewel retorted, reaching for the linen towel. “I’ve never had the experience that you so obviously have had of sharing wash water with another person.” She wrinkled her nose up at the stained cloth in which she was to dry her face. As it didn’t smell and it looked clean enough, she used it.

  Having to settle for cl
eansing her face with cream, Katherine fought to control the retaliatory words that formed in her mind. She fumed silently as her half-sister wrapped herself in a rose colored dressing gown.

  “She looks like a burnt pheasant!” Katherine declared under her breath. “Who would wear such a gaudy thing?” She knew who, indeed, would wear it. In the course of their interview with the solicitor not much had been revealed about May-Jewel’s life, but her mother’s line of work had been more than hinted at. Could it be, Katherine wondered disparagingly as she removed her dress and shook it free of dust, that the daughter continued where the mother had left off? For the first time since meeting May-Jewel Belwood, Katherine felt a surge of superiority. But looking again at May-Jewel, Katherine thought her half-sister suddenly looked vulnerable and small, a fish out of water, and she also saw the same insecurities and fear that she herself was facing. Suddenly Katherine felt petty and foolish, and not a bit charitable for her thoughts.

  Breathing a heavy sigh of repentance, Katherine eyed the blue traveling jacket that May-Jewel had casually tossed on the bed. She admitted to herself that, whatever her half-sister’s faults were, she had exquisite taste in clothing. While May-Jewel’s back was turned, Katherine picked up the jacket and held it in front of her.

  “Do you like that?” May-Jewel suddenly asked.