Gothic Romance

by L. V. Lloyd

  “I realise riding might be beyond his capabilities at the moment,” said Jonathan carefully, “but surely it would do him no harm to learn how to handle the reins?”

  The expression of breathless anticipation on Evelyn’s face as he looked from one man to the other was enough to convince Jonathan that this was an issue worth pursuing.

  “Perhaps we could begin with an older horse, one that will keep to a walking pace, until Evelyn becomes accustomed,” he added.

  Lord D’Anvers frowned. “You’ll not go above a walk?”

  “You have my word, m’ lord. Not until I have your express permission.”

  “Well... I suppose, in that case...”

  Evelyn broke in eagerly, unable to wait any longer. “Thank you, father! I promise to take the greatest care.”

  The next day, Evelyn was like a cat on hot bricks, unable to settle to anything for more than a few minutes. As soon as lunch was eaten, Jonathan gave up trying to instil any more Latin into Evelyn’s head and led the way downstairs to the stables.

  Jonathan had already had a word with Jenkins, the head groom, and the trap was waiting for them outside in the yard.

  “Master Evelyn, been too long a time since we’ve seen you down here,” said Jenkins with a reproachful smile, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth as he came out of the stables. He nodded at Jonathan. “Mr Winter, sir. I reckon old Sampson’d be the best horse for the job. Gentle as a lamb, he is.” He gestured over his shoulder to where a dappled grey stood in the yard, head drooping as he drowsed.

  “I’m sure you know best,” said Jonathan, gratefully. “Come on, Evelyn, let’s say hello to Sampson and get the old fellow hitched up to the trap.”

  He handed Evelyn a rather shrivelled apple which he had saved from their lunch. “You can give this to him. Hold it out flat on your hand.”

  Obediently, with a mixture of nerves and excitement, Evelyn stretched his arm out, the apple wobbling only slightly on his hand. He grinned as Sampson lipped the apple then crunched it noisily between his teeth.

  “I did it!” Evelyn told Jonathan proudly, wiping his hand surreptitiously on his breeches.

  “So you did,” said Jonathan with a smile. “Now let’s get him hitched to the trap.”

  Jonathan took Evelyn carefully through each step involved in harnessing the horse. Although Jenkins was hovering—waiting anxiously to do the job for them—Jonathan considered that Evelyn would learn more through doing the tasks himself.

  Eventually, Sampson was securely in place and Jonathan gave Evelyn a heave up onto the seat before climbing up next to him. A flick of the whip above Sampson’s head and they were off, out of the yard and down the long driveway to the gatehouse.

  Until that afternoon, Jonathan had succeeded in putting the forbidden wing to the back of his mind. Lord D’Anvers had given him a careless explanation, tossed over his shoulder, about the top floor of the west wing being unsafe due to wood rot, and he had not thought much further about it, until today.

  But as they turned the trap back toward the house, he realised that the turret he had seen a light in—that very first night—was placed firmly in the top floor of the west wing. The realisation gave him a shock of surprise. For a second he felt a flash of superstitious dread freeze his heart. Had it been a human figure at the window, or... something else?

  He laughed at himself a trifle shakily. If he wasn’t careful, he’d start imagining the wing was haunted. No, far more likely a servant had been up there, on some errand for his lordship.

  This theory seemed to gain support when—the very next evening on his way to bed after a late night browse in the library—he saw one of the housemaids coming downstairs from the top floor. He knew full well all the servants had their sleeping quarters in the east wing. She gave him a startled look before bobbing her head in his direction and hurrying away.

  He looked after her, his eyes narrowing. Florrie was a sturdy, middle aged woman, hardly likely to be exploring out of curiosity, but if the wing was really unsafe, it seemed a foolish risk to send someone inside to dust and clean. Especially at night. What the devil had she been doing up there?

  His curiosity was piqued. Perhaps, one day when Lord D’Anvers was away on business and Evelyn was resting, he would have a look in the top floor for himself. Just a quick look.

  Chapter Five

  The opportunity came sooner than he had imagined.

  Later that week, Lord D’Anvers announced over breakfast that he had business in London and would put up at an hotel, the Clarendon, overnight before returning the following day. He set off later that morning alone, driving his curricle, with only a small bag to carry a change of clothes.

  Jonathan waited until evening and the house settled for the night. He felt a mixture of fear and guilty excitement as he waited, but his curiosity was bigger than both. Wearing his oldest clothes, and carrying a lantern, Jonathan crept down the passage and up the stairs to the third floor. He paused outside the door to the west wing and reached out gingerly to touch the handle. It was locked.

  He grimaced. He supposed he should have expected that. And a very sturdy lock it was too. Still, he had one more plan up his sleeve. He slipped back down to his room and opened the window. Ivy covered the walls and he leant out backwards as far as he could, and looked up. He was pretty fit, he was almost certain he could climb his way up to the top floor and at least get a glimpse inside through the window.

  Jonathan took off his slippers and eased out of the window, his hands gripping the sturdy branches, pausing for a moment when he got both legs out, holding his breath to see if the ivy would bear his weight as he had judged. The wind ruffled his hair but wasn’t strong enough to be a threat. Then the clouds parted, allowing the moon to shine through and light his way. Taking this as a good sign, Jonathan began to climb slowly and surely, upwards.

  Higher and higher he climbed, the ivy rustling as he fought his way through it to grab the thickest branches. He didn’t stop to look down but kept going; he thought he must be close now, it seemed as if he had been climbing for ages. Twigs and leaves scratched his hands and his wrists began to ache with the effort. He craned his neck upwards, and saw a window ledge just above and to his right. A few moments later and he was peering inside, heart pounding, his hands cupped around his face, straining to see what was in the room.

  Only terror kept him from screaming.

  A face was looking back at him, inches away on the other side of the glass. The bloodshot eyes stared wildly as if they would jump out at him, the mouth was twisted open in a snarl of rage, drool tracing a sickening path down the chin. It was the face of a madman.

  Suddenly a growl issued forth from the twisted lips, baring teeth like a dog. Jonathan thought it was sheer good luck that terror caused him to grip the ivy as if his life depended on it, when it could just as easily have caused him to leap backwards in shock, and fall to his death. Afterwards, he could never remember how he got there, but when his senses returned, he was back in his room, trembling.

  Hastily he stripped out of his clothes, threw on his nightshirt and buried himself under the covers, trying to block out the violent, thumping noises coming from the floor above. No sooner had he done so, when the handle to his bedroom door turned slowly and someone peered inside. He kept his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing. He heard a low whisper. “No, it’s all right. He’s there. Sound asleep.” The door closed again, softly.

  He lay still for a long time, wide awake, heart still pumping, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Who was that man? Not one of the servants, he was certain. He had never seen him before.

  There was a madman. Locked in the attic. It all sounded too fanciful to be true, but it was.

  Jonathan tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep, wondering how he was going to face everyone in the morning and pretend nothing had happened.

  Just before dawn, he heard the sound of a horse and carriage pulling up outside the front entrance. Lord D’Anvers had
returned early.

  All of a sudden, the door was flung open and D’Anvers stood there, still in his riding gear.

  “So, you were curious, were you?” he asked, striding across the room. He reached down and hauled Jonathan out of bed by the wrist. Jonathan stood before him in his nightgown, all thoughts of deceit swept out of his head.

  “I’m s-sorry, my lord,” he stuttered. “I didn’t mean any harm!”

  Lord D’Anvers was still holding his wrist in a tight grip. “What did you see?”

  “Nothing! Nothing, sir!”

  “You saw him, didn’t you? I promised to look after him,” D’Anvers continued in short, abrupt sentences, as if Jonathan hadn’t spoken. “I promised him that. As soon as we knew he was sick, even before the madness started. And now, he’s dying. The doctor says it won’t be long.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jonathan repeated, helplessly. He tried unobtrusively to free his wrist.

  D’Anvers appeared to come back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. He glared at Jonathan, as if it was all his fault.

  “He’s dying and he’s barely twenty! Look at you! So young, so fit. It isn’t fair!” A strange look came over his face as he stared at Jonathan in his nightshirt, the rumpled bed just behind him.

  Before Jonathan knew what was happening, D’Anvers grabbed him by the chin. “Maybe you can take his place,” he murmured roughly, before crushing his mouth down on Jonathan’s bewildered lips.

  Totally shocked, Jonathan froze, allowing D’Anvers to thrust his tongue inside his mouth. Horrified, he wrenched his mouth away, pushing the other man hard in the chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  For a long moment, D’Anvers stared at him, his breath coming in hard gasps. He still had a death grip on his wrist. Jonathan stared back, watching the thoughts flicker across the other man’s face. He tried not to show how terrified he was. D’Anvers was a strong man, if he pushed him down onto the bed, he didn’t know if he could fight him off.

  “Father?” a small voice came from behind them.

  Thank God! cried Jonathan to himself. D’Anvers dropped his wrist as if it burned him, and swung round to face Evelyn.

  “Go back to bed, Evelyn, everything’s fine,” he said in a nearly normal voice. To Jonathan’s infinite relief, he followed his son out of the room without looking back, and shut the door behind him.

  In a flash Jonathan was at the door, turning the key in the lock. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. D’Anvers had kissed him, another man!

  He had to leave. There was no way he could stay here a minute longer. Hastily he dressed and packed as many of his possessions as he could into a bag, small enough to sling round his neck as he climbed down the ivy. Everything else would have to stay behind. Maybe he’d send for it later, maybe he wouldn’t.

  By the time the sun peered over the horizon, Jonathan was several miles away.

  Aftermath

  Lord D’Anvers stood in the middle of the empty room. He had come with a polished apology on his lips, about being drunk, and twenty guineas to smooth things over, but no-one was here. He looked out of the window, down at the ivy and sighed. He really should have known better than to leave Jonathan in that room.

  He rubbed tired eyes. And to kiss him... he knew he couldn’t have done anything more stupid if he had tried. But for a moment there, he had just wanted...

  He straightened his shoulders. He supposed he had better go and find the lad; he couldn’t possibly afford to let him get away after that.

  Chapter Six

  Jonathan sat wearily on a bench by the side of the road. He had gone as far as he could without a rest. The milestone said Yorktown was only another three miles further, but it might as well have been thirty, the way he was feeling at the moment. He wished uselessly that he’d had time to grab something to eat before he fled, but he had just wanted to escape, there had been no time for plans.

  He rubbed his lips unconsciously, then stopped abruptly when he realised what he was doing. He knew that men could be attracted to other men—he could hardly have spent those years at university without being aware such men existed—but for the most part they had been willowy creatures; forming their own clubs, interested in art and fashion and holding themselves daintily aloof from the rough and tumble of the sporting men. He had certainly never encountered one like Lord D’Anvers.

  He rubbed his lips again.

  The clip-clop and jingle of a horse approaching, broke into his thoughts. He looked up quickly, just in time to see the nose of a black horse coming around the corner of the hedge behind him. Without thinking, he was over the bench and crouching down behind the hedge. He waited, his heart in his mouth, for the horse and rider to pass him. He had no doubts at all that the rider was Lord D’Anvers. Head down, Jonathan held his breath as each stride went past with agonising slowness, desperately hoping he had been quick enough.

  He waited until the horse was out of earshot before he scrambled to his feet. Which way could he go? It would be madness to continue on now toward Yorktown, there would be too much risk of running full into D’Anvers if he turned around. He didn’t dare go back the way he had come. The only choice was to go across the fields until either he came to another road, or he found somewhere to take shelter.

  He stumbled over the uneven ground, trying not to disturb the grazing sheep, cursing silently when his boot landed in something squishy. His back felt exposed and he hunched down, even though he knew his pursuer must be miles away by now. At last he reached a small copse on the other side of the field, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  He was tired and thirsty but there was nowhere, not even a small stream, where he could quench his thirst. He jingled the few shillings in his pocket. He would just have to keep walking until he came to a village or possibly a farmhouse, where he could buy something to eat and drink. He kept walking and eventually he came to a narrow lane. It appeared reasonably well used, but there were no signposts to tell him what lay in each direction.

  He was standing in the lane, trying to make a decision when a voice spoke lazily from behind him. “Going somewhere, Jonathan?”

  It was almost with resignation that he turned to face Lord D’Anvers.

  Jonathan couldn’t help it, he blushed. He braced his feet squarely on the ground and met D’Anvers quizzical gaze. “I won’t go back with you,” he stated, as firmly as he could.

  “Oh I think you will,” came the silky reply. Not for nothing had he persevered with that damn boxing. His fist caught Jonathan neatly and entirely by surprise, landing right on the point of his chin. Jonathan went out like a light. D’Anvers gave a wry smile of satisfaction and hauled him up over one shoulder. He grunted. The lad was heavier than he had thought. He gave a sharp whistle and Destiny trotted out from where he had hidden him further down the lane. He draped Jonathan’s unconscious form over the front of the saddle and got up behind him. Walking slowly, Destiny carried them both back to Castle Blackstone.

  Chapter Seven

  Lord D’Anvers deposited Jonathan, still unconscious, in his old room and locked the door behind him. For a moment, he leant back against the cool wood and closed his eyes, tried to get his unruly thoughts in order.

  Much as he wanted to be there when Jonathan woke up, he really needed to go upstairs and see Harry. He could only hope he’d be feeling calmer today.

  Jonathan opened bleary eyes and blinked. Where the devil was he? Had he fallen down and knocked himself out?

  He looked around the room. Hell’s teeth! He was at Castle Blackstone, lying on top of his bed. Fear spurred him to his feet and he staggered across to the window. As he had more than half suspected, there would be no way out down the ivy a second time. Someone had removed all the ivy for a good ten feet around the window. He went to the door and turned the handle, to no avail. He was locked in.

  He turned back to the room, knowing there would be no point in banging on the door. At least there was a pitcher of water beside
his bed. He drank thirstily and sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. How much time did he have before D’Anvers came to see him? He knew his lordship was the stronger man, physically, but was there something in the room he could possibly turn into a weapon?

  He had another drink of water and then got up to search the room.

  He was resting uneasily, after a fruitless search, when he heard the key turn in the lock, about an hour later. Lord D’Anvers came into the room as Jonathan scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t going to face him from a prone position.

  “What is the meaning of this, my lord?” Jonathan demanded immediately, trying to seize the initiative. His heart was beating fast, afraid that D’Anvers would want to kiss him again, or worse. Why else had he brought him back?

  “But what did you expect, my dear Jonathan?” asked D’Anvers, earnestly. “I could hardly let you run off like that!” He dangled a silver pin between two long fingers, “Not with such a valuable object in your possession.”

  “But I never—!” Jonathan protested hotly. Then stopped, as he saw the knowing smile on D’Anvers’ face.

  If Lord D’Anvers accused him of stealing, he knew full well whose word would be believed. Evidently, the other man was ready to apply threats as well as force to keep him there.

  “I won’t stay here!” Jonathan insisted. “You can’t keep me here against my will!”

  “Can’t I?”

  Lord D’Anvers had entered the room with good intentions. Not of apologising, that would have been admitting too much, but of assuring Jonathan he had nothing to worry about for the future, but he couldn’t help himself. Jonathan was so delicious to tease.

  He raised an eyebrow as Jonathan lifted his fists, ready to defend himself to the last breath. To Jonathan’s fury, rather than causing concern, the action brought a genuine smile to the other man’s face. “Amusing as this is you know, my dear chap, there’s really no need for these Cheltenham tragedies. You are here as Evelyn’s tutor, he’s taken a liking to you for some reason. That’s all.”