“Your arrival is most opportunely timed,” said Sir Montague, “for it just so happens that the vicar is here, visiting from Castleton. Lady Mariah, may I present Doctor Bagshawe? And Doctor Bagshawe, this young lady is Miss Rebecca Lennox, my intended.”
The portly cleric mumbled his greetings and welcomed us to Willow Castle while Sir Montague showed Mama and me to a chaise longue near the fire and rang for Mrs Chapman. We were soon furnished with a sumptuous afternoon tea. I was famished after our journey and it required great restraint (and years of Mama’s training) to refrain from snatching up handfuls of the dainty finger sandwiches and tiny cakes. Dr Bagshawe made polite conversation, enquiring about our travels and the nature of our life in London.
*
Once we were suitably refreshed Mama and I withdrew, leaving the men to talk while Mrs Chapman showed us to our rooms. As we followed her through the corridors I wondered how I should ever get to know this place. It seemed so vast, full of identical doors and narrow window slits. I imagined that it must be dingy even in the height of summer and tried not to think about how forbidding it must seem at night. Already it felt as if there were more than three sets of footsteps echoing through the hallway.
We had been put in adjoining rooms, larger than those we had had in the hotel, but with furnishings that had lost their grandeur over time. The velvet seat covers were worn and threadbare, the tapestry curtains moth-eaten and the bedposts in need of a good polishing. Yet I could not help but be impressed. A little care would soon set this place to rights, and I would make it my concern to see that it got it. My husband and I – how strange it seemed to think those words – would turn this place into our very own home. The corridors would seem less ominous when they echoed with children’s voices rather than lonely footsteps, and perhaps we would have guests. Perhaps there would be cousins for our children who would visit during holidays and Mama and I should have a proper family at long last. I knew nothing about Sir Montague’s relationship to the rest of the family, but suddenly I was consumed with curiosity and longed to learn.
I passed a few quiet hours in that room, flicking idly through the pages of a novel and gazing out of the little arched window at the dramatic countryside. At length Mrs Chapman tapped on my door and offered to help me dress for dinner, informing me that she would continue to dress me until a suitable maid could be engaged.
“The heliotrope, perhaps, Miss Lennox?” she asked, whisking one of my new gowns out of the wardrobe. I nodded. Mama and I had selected that dress to set off the deep blue of my eyes. The pinky-purple brocade sat snugly over my new corsets, severely laced by Mrs Chapman, and the skirts flared out over a wide-hooped crinoline. I slipped my feet into a pair of velvet evening shoes and my hands into long white gloves. I was just letting Mrs Chapman drape a shawl round my bare shoulders when Mama came in, dressed in a sombre navy blue evening gown. She gave me an appraising glance up and down.
“Jewellery,” she said. “You need jewellery.” Of course I had no jewellery of my own, so she whipped the string of pearls from around her own neck and fastened them around mine. “Much better,” she stated, standing back to look at me. “I always think that a young women with no adornment at all looks like a young woman whom no suitor cares for enough to buy her jewellery and who has no family to pass any on to her.”
I couldn’t help but think that this was an entirely accurate assessment of my situation, but I did not say so. I merely thanked Mama for the loan of her pearls, which I knew to be an heirloom that she had had from her own mother and never parted with, not even when times were particularly hard.
I understood that under normal circumstances we would have waited for Mrs Chapman to sound the gong to summon us to dinner, but since we were depending on her to show us the way to the dining room we followed her out of my room and down the stairs.
“Lady Mariah, Miss Lennox,” Sir Montague greeted us, rising as we entered. “I trust you will forgive me for not entertaining you formally in the Withy Chamber, but I thought something more intimate was in order. In all honesty I prefer this room for such a small, select gathering. Miss Lennox, since you are mistress presumptive of Willow Castle, perhaps you would be so good as to take the foot of the table?”
I glanced at Mama for reassurance and she gave me a small nod. Sir Montague drew my chair back and seated me. As he pushed the chair back in and I leaned back I felt his fingers come into contact with my shoulder for a moment. I suppressed a shudder.
He seems quite charming, I told myself. That was just… unexpected. I have never had a dress that showed my shoulders before. No-one has ever touched me there before.
As Mrs Chapman served beef consommé followed by fillet of sole and roast capon, our little group made conversation on the subject of the weather, then moved on to a discussion of Mr Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities which Dr Bagshawe had recently read, then finally we arrived on the topic of my impending marriage.
“A quiet ceremony in the chapel here, Sir Montague?” Dr Bagshawe enquired, “Or perhaps your lovely bride is looking forward to the arrival of many guests and a lavish celebration in Buxton, or even Derby?”
“Oh, a quiet affair, certainly,” Sir Montague replied, casting a brief smile down the table at me. I returned it, wondering whether it was just the flickering candlelight that gave his eyes a slightly reptilian look. “I was thinking, my dear, that we should be married here if you are amenable. The castle has a private chapel, a very pleasant place, where the Chastains traditionally wed.”
“That will do very well, Sir Montague,” Mama answered for me. “We are strangers in this area and it is too far for the rest of the family to travel at such notice.” I saw a flicker of a grin cross Sir Montague’s face, but he indulged my mother’s fantasy that our own branch of the family had not abandoned us.
“Then we can be married as soon as you please, Miss Lennox,” Sir Montague said, while Mrs Chapman served syllabub for dessert. “I hope you won’t think me precipitate, but considering the circumstances I would prefer that we have the ceremony shortly. We need not wait to have the banns posted, I can obtain a marriage license allowing us to be wed within the week.”
Within the week! I had not realised that it could be so soon. I thought it would be at least a month – a few days to make the arrangements, three weeks of the banns being read in the local church – but I admonished myself that perhaps I was basing my assumptions on the lot of ordinary girls, girls who were not disinherited members of highborn families. I had never met anyone in my situation, therefore I did not know what to expect. As always, I looked to Mama for guidance. She seemed composed and not in the least concerned about Sir Montague’s suggestions, so I reasoned that they must seem acceptable to her.
“Within the week would suit me very well, Sir Montague,” I replied. “I thank you.”
“Then we shall proceed,” he said. “Let us agree that we shall be married in a week’s time. My cousin, Mr Mervyn Chastain, shall stand witness along with your mother and we’ll have you, Dr Bagshawe, to perform the service. It strikes me that it’s not quite the done thing to have two betrothed people residing under the same roof prior to their marriage, so with your permission, ladies, I shall remove to Castleton and give you the run of this place until after the ceremony. Mrs Chapman will look after you admirably and you must order things to your own satisfaction, get to know the place. I shall depart along with Dr Bagshawe after dinner.”
Our negotiations, such as they were, had concluded and we finished dessert in silence. Mama led me out of the dining room so that we could leave the men to their port and cigars while we were shown to a faded, dusty drawing room to take coffee. A short while later I heard carriage wheels on the gravel outside, moving away from the Castle, and I knew that we were alone and that the plans for my marriage were in swift, unstoppable motion.
3 The Night of Horror
I
had not imagined, upon seeing the imposing shape of Willow Castle for the first time
, that I should ever feel at home there. Indeed, as the days crept by I did not settle in entirely, but I found a few places where I could see myself becoming truly comfortable. The library was my favourite place. It had suffered less than the other rooms from the passage of time and want of maintenance, and I spent many happy hours working my way through the Chastains’ immense collection of hefty leather-bound tomes.
Amongst those books I found several hand-written volumes of the Chastain family history, evidently assembled by one generation after another. They were hard going, requiring me to decipher the hand in which they were written, so although I made a valiant attempt to learn what I could about the family and the castle, I frequently abandoned these books in favour of novels. However, I learned that Willow Castle was of Norman origin and had once been surrounded by a small village named Osier. While the Chastains had been resident in the castle since shortly after the Conquest, the village had apparently been abandoned by all who lived there some time during the 16th century and was eventually demolished. The reason for the villagers’ desertion was unknown.
I longed to wander all over the castle and roam the surrounding countryside, but Mama insisted that I stay indoors and keep to particular rooms.
“Once you have lived here for a while,” she informed me, “you’ll find that you enter very few rooms in a home like this. At Greycrags we had an entire wing that my brothers and I never set foot in, and for all I know no-one had set foot in since the house was built. The ballroom was opened up once, perhaps twice a year and there were many bedrooms which were all but forgotten. I have warned you before that a surfeit of curiosity is unseemly in a young lady. You had much better channel it into learning how to read the household books and plan menus.”
“But Mama, you have trained me in these matters all my life!” I replied, biting back my exasperation as best I could.
“I have given you a general training,” she said implacably. “Now you must learn the particular pleasures and displeasures of your husband. Mrs Chapman and the cook will be able to tell you everything you need to know.”
“Since they already know how Sir Montague likes the house to be run, should I not just allow them to continue as they are? Surely no-one will want me to be meddlesome?”
“It is an absolute necessity that you make some small changes as soon as possible. A lady should be guided by her housekeeper, not ruled by her.”
So I spent my mornings conferring with Mrs Chapman, learning about the routine of the castle. Or at the very least, I tried. I asked every question I could think of about Sir Montague’s habits, pursuits and dietary preferences, but she had little information to share. I wondered whether I had made a mistake and she was in fact new to the castle, but when I asked how long she had been there she informed me that she had been in service there from the age of twelve. However, Sir Montague had seldom been at the castle, ever since he had departed for school as a small boy. He had spent a good deal of time travelling in Europe until his father had died, prompting his return. Mrs Chapman, it seemed, was as much a stranger to his tastes as I was – or if she was not, she was determined not to impart any of the information she had to her new mistress. The longer we spent with our heads bent over menus, the more convinced I became that she was not lacking in knowledge, she simply did not want to assist me. She had dominated this house for longer than I had been alive. I promised myself that I would persevere until I finally won her round and could learn about my husband through her. A tedious process, but all part of the price of security.
*
Before I knew it, six days had passed and it was the eve of my wedding. As the sun set I rang for Mrs Chapman to draw a bath for me and while I bathed, Mama came to my room and laid out my wedding clothes. The white lace dress was draped over the back of a chair like an exhausted ghost. The moment I saw it, my stomach began to churn. I stared at it as I dried my hair, almost expecting it to rise up and pursue me all the way back to London. Trying to banish the image from my head, I half-listened to Mama’s attempts at conversation and tried my best to reply until at last I was too preoccupied with nerves to continue.
“I am sorry, Mama,” I said. “I am no company for you this evening. It’s just…”
“My child, I quite understand,” she smiled at me. “It is natural for a bride to feel nervous. If you prefer I can simply keep you company in silence?”
“Would you mind, Mama, if I spent this evening on my own?”
“If that is what you want, Rebecca. Will you come down to dinner, or shall I ask Mrs Chapman to bring you a tray?”
We agreed that I should have a tray, provided I agreed to keep it well away from my splendid white dress. Mama departed, and I tried to read. It was useless. My mind was a whirl of hopes and fears, so much so that I could not concentrate on the page in front of me. Instead I sat before the little arched window and gazed out at the dark valley, trying to make out the shapes of the hills on the other side. It was a vain endeavour. The night was too dark, the sky moody and pitch black as if preparing for a storm, and the neighbouring peaks were completely obscured. I hardly noticed Mrs Chapman slipping in to turn down my bed and light the lamp. I sat and stared into the void until the oil in the lamp had burned low and its light began to dim, forcing me at last to go to bed. I stretched out across the mattress, trying not to think about the fact that I would be sharing my bed the following night, but unable to resist. At length I succumbed to exhaustion and let sleep claim me, the deep and dreamless sleep of the truly terrified.
I was awoken by Mama gently shaking my shoulder.
“Rebecca!” she cried. “Wake up, child! This is the day we have waited for! Wake up, my daughter, your wedding day has arrived.”
Dutifully I rose and allowed myself to be dressed and fussed over. Mrs Chapman brought me a pot of chocolate and I tried a few sips. Usually I loved the sweetness, the luxurious thickness, the warmth and taste and comfort of it after so many years of the cheapest of tea. Today, though, I could not bear it. I sent the pot back almost untouched.
“You are a most beautiful bride, Miss Lennox,” Mrs Chapman complimented me as I stood before the mirror. Her tone was grudging, but the look on her face told me that she was telling the truth. I admitted even to myself that I was a credit to my Mama. I looked pale but composed, my slim figure neatly corseted and encased in lace, my thick dark hair piled on top of my head. I looked straight into my own blue eyes as Mama pinned the veil into place. I looked like a stranger to myself.
*
Mama and Mrs Chapman led me down to the parlour as if I were a sleepwalker. I saw nothing, heard nothing, merely walked where I was bid until I entered the room and an unknown voice caused me to snap back to attention. My eyes flickered in its direction and I caught sight of a gentleman, a stranger – a very handsome stranger. He was tall and dark, his hair slightly curled and his face suffused with a permanent expression of sardonic amusement. I liked him at once, before we had even exchanged a word. I liked him a great deal.
“Ladies,” he acknowledged us with a bow. “Pray forgive the lack of proper introduction. I am Mr Mervyn Chastain, cousin to Sir Montague. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Lennox, Miss Lennox – or Lady Rebecca, as you shall shortly be known.”
Mervyn Chastain kissed Mama’s hand then mine. My heart skipped a beat as he took hold of my fingers. The touch of his hand was warm and welcoming compared to that of his cousin. Our eyes met and I felt the rest of the world fall away. Was I imagining it, or did smile he bestowed on me speak of more than simple politeness? I murmured some courteous nonsense about being charmed.
“My cousin has asked me to act as witness, as I believe you know,” Mervyn said as we sat down to await the appointed hour of the ceremony. “However, he has also made me aware that you have no male relation to give you away. I know it’s a little unusual, Miss Lennox, but perhaps you would allow me to escort you down the aisle? I do not presume to take a place to which I am not entitled, but people tell
me that brides are often a little faint and feel the benefit of a gentleman’s arm to lean on. If I can be of service to you there…?”
He left the question hanging. Nerves had tied my tongue in knots, I could do nothing but nod mutely and give him a trembling smile. Then we sat in silence but for the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Presently it struck noon. I jumped as it chimed.
I had never been in the chapel before. It was a tumbledown affair that had once been a magnificent miniature of a full-sized church. My journey to the altar was a short one, past only three rows of pews. An hour before I would have considered that a blessing since it would have left me less time to be nervous, but now, as I clung to Mervyn’s arm, I could not help but with the aisle a little longer, for it would have given me more time to be close to him.
What a treacherous mind you have, I chided myself. Today of all days your thoughts should be of nothing but your husband and the joy of being a good wife to him. And yet here you are dreaming of his cousin after ten minutes’ acquaintance!
I directed my gaze at my groom and pinned a bright smile on my face. Sir Montague returned it politely, but I thought I detected a hint of boredom, as if he had somewhere else he would rather be. I dismissed the thought as I arrived at his side and Dr Bagshawe began to rumble his way through the ceremony.
*
The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel Page 3
