The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel

by Burns, Nathaniel

Without a congregation of guests to sing hymns and recite prayers together, the service was over swiftly. In what felt like a mere few moments, Sir Montague and I had repeated our vows, my finger had a chilly band of gold upon it and my new husband was raising my veil for our first kiss. His slender fingers pinched at the lace as he pulled it up and over my head, and for a fleeting moment I was reminded of childhood terrors, the monster that I had been convinced lived under my bed, my absolute certainty that only the valance stood between me and the creature underneath and that I must never, never allow that thin piece of cloth to be raised…

  His hands were on my arms, gripping them tight, pulling me towards him, then his lips were on mine, hard, cold, then he released me and I reeled back. He supported me, a hand on my back, offered me his arm and walked me out of the chapel to the scant sound of applause from Mama and Mervyn.

  Our wedding breakfast followed in the castle’s room of state, which I had not seen before. It was known as the Withy Chamber, and when I set foot in it I learned at last why Willow Castle was so named. The Withy Chamber was an immense, pentagonal room, right in the centre of the castle, with a high, arching ceiling. The walls were covered in an intricate pattern of willow branches, not reaching down as if to find water the way a willow tree should but snaking and curling up towards the roof as if they would burst their way out through the dark rock and devour the whole building. It was oppressive one moment, fascinating the next.

  We seated ourselves around a long table in the middle of the room and I smiled mechanically as Dr Bagshawe said grace. Mervyn, acting by default as Sir Montague’s best man, stood and said a few words of congratulation to my new husband, wished me joy and proposed a toast. He was seated at my right hand side, and as he resumed his seat I had a fleeting vision of the rest of the party fading away, leaving only Mervyn and me at the table, taking our first breakfast alone together as man and wife.

  I shook my head, dismissing the image, and hoped that my face was not flushed. My mouth was dry, so as soon as the toasts were done I reached for my glass of water.

  “Water, Lady Rebecca?” Mervyn asked in teasing tones. “Not champagne? I should have thought you would be in the mood for a more celebratory beverage, now that you’re blissfully allied to my dear cousin.”

  He shot a glance at my new husband, who was exchanging pleasantries with Mama. The look Mervyn gave him did not speak of cousinly affection.

  “In truth, Mr Chastain,” I replied, “I would much rather drink tea. I tried champagne for the first time on my first evening here and I cannot say I cared for it. Champagne at this time of day… I think I would much prefer tea.”

  “Then tea you shall have, my dear cousin!” Mervyn exclaimed. I raised a feeble hand in an attempt to prevent his making a fuss, but before I could dissuade him he was calling out “Montague!”

  My husband turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

  “What’s the matter with you, man?” Mervyn teased. “Can’t you see your wife is almost faint for tea? Says she can’t drink this filthy stuff.” He drained his own flute of champagne.

  “My dear wife,” Sir Montague said. “You should have said. Mrs Chapman!” He summoned the housekeeper over and within minutes I had a fresh pot of tea in front of me and a raging crimson blush across my face. My husband turned away from me and resumed his conversation with my mother. Her face was calm, but I could tell by the expression of her eyes that she was furious at the solecism I had committed.

  “Thank you, Mr Chastain,” I whispered to Mervyn, my head bowed to conceal my feelings of shame. A lady may feel embarrassed, but Mervyn was my guest therefore I shouldn’t allow him to see it in case he felt embarrassed too.

  “I apologise if I caused you any discomfort,” he whispered back. “My cousin would benefit from a little livening up, I feel, and occasionally I simply can’t resist rattling his cage. As you may have learned already, it doesn’t take much.”

  “I have learned very little about him,” I said. “This is only the second time we have met. All I know of him I have learned from Mrs Chapman, so I suppose I shall have to learn his ways as I go along.”

  “Really?” Mervyn raised an eyebrow. “How interesting. I could have sworn that Montague told me he had become acquainted with you during his time in London and that you knew one another quite well. Perhaps I’m just confused – we don’t enjoy the closest of relationships, Montague and I. He could have had any number of wives that I haven’t heard of.” I must have been staring at him in alarm, for he laughed a little and reassured me that he was teasing.

  Our strange little group passed the rest of the day in stilted conversation and quiet games of cards. Dr Bagshawe stayed to tea, then to dinner. I understood that it would have been traditional to set off on honeymoon following the wedding breakfast, but since we had no trip planned and nowhere to go we were simply passing time until night. It seemed that everywhere I went there was a ticking clock, counting down the seconds until darkness, until the moment when Sir Montague would extend his hand to me and suggest that we retire.

  *

  As my husband led me into the darkly-draped gloom of the master bedroom, I wished with all my heart that I was returning to my solitary room. The door closed behind us, and I found myself alone with a man for the first time in my life, alone in the flickering candlelight with a man I did not know.

  “Come here, Rebecca,” he instructed, beckoning me over towards the bed. I approached him, my heart pounding. “I suppose we ought to do this properly.”

  I froze as he slipped his arms around me and pressed his lips against mine. It lasted longer than the brief kiss we had exchanged during the wedding, long enough for me to wonder when it would end. His cool fingers brushed the nape of my neck and I felt him fiddling with the hooks on my dress, trying unsuccessfully to undo them.

  “Wretched things,” he muttered, pulling back from me. “Turn around.” I did as I was told. The chilly air rushed in to bring up the gooseflesh on my newly-exposed skin. I gasped.

  Is this permitted? I wondered as he pulled the dress over my head and began to unpick my knotted crinoline laces. Mama has told me that a lady submits to her husband in all things, so I suppose it must be, yet she has also told me that it is improper to be seen in a state of dishabille by a gentleman. I wish I had known to ask her. Can he still send us away if I displease him? I do not want to risk getting things wrong.

  My head spun as my corsets fell away from me and I filled my lungs. Sir Montague turned me back towards him, drew my chemise over my head and slid my stockings off one by one. I fought the impulse to cover myself. Perhaps it would have been the modest thing to do, but perhaps it would have looked too childish and unsophisticated. I stood frozen as he moved around me, examined me, made small noises of what I hoped was approval. He commanded me to unpin my hair and it fell in a cascade over my body, dark waves over my alabaster flesh.

  Then he kissed me again, not the formal, gentlemanly kiss he had given me before but a rough, urgent kiss. With savage strength he snatched me up and threw me onto the bed, bearing down on top of me. I tried to wriggle out from beneath him, but he was too strong, even as he struggled to pull off his fine grey jacket and unfasten his breeches. I felt his hand on my face, not a caress, but a firm grip round my chin as he pressed his lips on mine. As I tried to draw breath I felt his tongue invade my mouth, and after that I felt nothing distinct.

  As Sir Montague’s actions became too much for me I felt my mind plunging into darkness. I stared fixedly at the dancing flames of the three candles, pinpricks of glowing light on a background of velvet black. I felt as though I were falling through endless emptiness, borne unsteadily on a cushion of air, my progress a series of downward jolts rather than a smooth descent. With every jolt there was pain, such pain that I was certain the final impact would surely kill me. The air around me grew hotter with every passing moment and I was seized with a strange fancy that I was on a journey to Hell, that my destiny was to be c
onsumed by fire. I thought I heard myself cry out in fear and agony, but the voice was not like mine. It was more than one voice, perhaps several, too many sounds for me to distinguish – ragged gasps of torment, low, guttural moans of enduring anguish, piercing shrieks of acute suffering, occasional soft ripples of an inhuman chuckle, the last more disturbing to me than all the rest put together.

  How long that night of misery lasted I did not know. I must have slept, for I was aware of waking several times into pitch darkness and feeling the hellish process begin again. Finally my fitful slumber was broken by the first gentle rays of the dawn creeping across my pillow. Sir Montague was sound asleep with his back to me, and I felt an urgent need to quit our shared bed before he woke and turned his attention to me again. I slipped out from under the sheets and carefully removed the counterpane, wrapping it around myself as I curled up in the chair by the window and watched as the blessed sun began its merciful ascent. My night of horror was at an end.

  4 The Devil

  A

  fter breakfast the following morning Sir Montague vanished into his study and Mervyn left the castle on some unknown errand. Mama and I were left to each other’s company. I found myself torn, longing to tell her of Sir Montague’s actions the night before but fearing that she might think me guilty of some impropriety. I decided it would be best if she did not ask me about my wedding night, so I concentrated on my book, feigning absorption though in truth I was too exhausted to take in a word I read.

  I need not have worried. When Mama finally broke the silence it was only to say “My child, you are a wife now. We are secure, and I hope you will be happy. There are many things that Sir Montague will require of you. Do all that he asks, and never forget that what passes between a lady and her husband is no other person’s business. Not even mine.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, yet at the same time I suddenly felt alone in a way I never had before.

  It had been my understanding that after their wedding, a married couple would spend their honeymoon getting to know one another. I had not expected Sir Montague to lavish time and attention on me, but I had thought that he would care to know with whom he was sharing his home. His lack of curiosity was astonishing.

  We met at mealtimes and nighttimes only, and though I searched and searched for a topic of conversation that would interest him, I failed every time. Music, literature, his travels, his home – nothing elicited more than a brief response followed by a return to a somewhat inhospitable silence. Then I would be left to make small talk with Mama and Mervyn. Most nights he slept in the small bed in his dressing room and did not trouble me.

  Indeed, after only a couple of weeks my husband began to take off on business trips, each of a few days’ duration. I came to the conclusion that he had only wanted to marry me so he could access his inheritance, but I bore him no ill-will for that. I had known it was not a love match, and it seemed to me that there were worse fates than a convenient, comfortable marriage to a disinterested man. My life at Willow Castle was remarkably similar to my life in Lisson Grove, albeit luxurious by comparison. Now that Sir Montague had come into his fortune we had extra servants besides our housekeeper and cook. I made a few futile attempts to order them, mostly to occupy my time, but in reality we all knew they answered to Mrs Chapman.

  Mama got into the habit of taking an afternoon nap before tea, leaving me with a precious hour each day to spend with Mervyn. I had got my blushes under control but still found that my heart beat a little faster whenever we were together, so I had promised myself that I would not seek his company. However, we shared a passion for reading and would meet each day in the library – not by design, or at least not my design. I considered abandoning my daily visits to the library, wondering whether I should take my books to my room or sit in the parlour instead. But I loved that high-ceilinged, book-lined room with its dusty fragrance. Besides, changing my routine would have meant admitting to myself that I was increasingly fascinated with my husband’s cousin. As long as I refused to acknowledge it, I could remain convinced of my own innocence.

  I also refused to consider the possibility that Mervyn was deliberately choosing to spend time with me. His arrival in the library seemed to coincide exactly with the sound of Mama’s footsteps retreating down the passageway on her way to her room, but I understood that some men were creatures of habit.

  *

  One afternoon in late March the weather took a turn for the worse. Sir Montague had been called away to Matlock by some business or other, but now the roads were covered in a thick blanket of late snow. Willow Castle, a quiet enough place at the best of times, was silent as a tomb when muffled under snowdrifts, and the stone walls may as well have been made of ice. The chill in the air was so bitter that Mervyn was forced to abandon his usual place at the bureau and join me by the fire. Sitting in such close proximity, it would have seemed strange to have said nothing to each other.

  “Enjoying your book, Lady Rebecca?” he asked cordially. “That particular volume is rather dry, as I recall.”

  I glanced down at the volume in my hands. It was a slim book, one of the more recent histories of the castle, covering the period to the beginning of the century. “I am not enjoying the style, it’s true,” I agreed. “But I am trying to learn as much about this place as I can.”

  “No point in reading that, then,” Mervyn grinned. “It doesn’t contain any of the interesting bits. My uncle, your husband’s father, prided himself on his attachment to reason and rationalism, so he got rid of all the more entertaining books about Willow Castle. There used to be an excellent summary of all the myths associated with it and with the Chastain family in general, but that was probably among the first to go. Unfortunately he had his purge while I was away at school, otherwise I’d have saved that book. It was a favourite of mine, growing up.”

  “You grew up at Willow Castle?”

  “I did. Hasn’t Montague told you? I had the misfortune to lose my parents at a young age, so I was sent to live with my mother’s brother. Apart from a brief sojourn at school, I’ve been here ever since.”

  I had no idea. Sir Montague had told me nothing about Mervyn other than occasionally referring to his as ‘my wishful cousin’, and I had not thought it polite to pry into his background during our dinner table conversations.

  “Then you and Sir Montague were close as boys?” I asked.

  “Ha, certainly not!” Mervyn laughed. “I think he resented having another boy on his territory, especially one who got on better with Montague’s father than he did. Montague never liked it here and was quite happy to be off at school, but he wasn’t pleased to learn that I, who hated school with a passion and was miserable there, was being kept at home to provide company for my uncle. He should be grateful to me, though – if it weren’t for me, he would have had to come back here after university and take over running the estate. Instead, I stayed here and took care of things when my uncle no longer could, and Montague was free to go gallivanting round the Continent. I don’t think he’s very happy to be here now that the castle is his, but he would rather stay here and make himself miserable than simply leave and allow me to get on with things.”

  “So does that mean you will be staying indefinitely?” The words were out of my mouth before I could check them, laced with greater enthusiasm than I should have allowed.

  “I hope so,” he said, with a smirk that made me wonder whether he had noticed my tone. “I should like to stay here forever. But Montague has indicated that he would prefer it if I weren’t here. I am concerned that left to his own devices he won’t maintain the place well – he’s his father’s son, and you can see how poor a state of repair the place is in, despite my best attempts to keep it up. However, it’s his estate and if he doesn’t want me here, I can’t insist. I am looking for another situation, but I’ll be loath to leave Willow Castle.”

  Hearing him talk about his home with such fondness brought a smile to my face. I began to wonder whether I could
persuade my husband to allow his cousin to stay, since it was evident that the castle meant a great deal to him.

  “However, before I go,” Mervyn continued, “I’ll make sure to tell you all the best stories about the Castle. Have you figured out how it got its name yet?”

  “From the Withy Chamber, presumably,” I guessed. “I haven’t seen a single willow tree nearby, so I can only assume the name comes from the décor there. What I haven’t figured out is why the chamber is painted that way.”

  “Ah, that’s out Norman ancestors for you,” he said, stretching out his legs so his feet were practically in the fire. “I beg your pardon, you don’t mind my being so informal? No? Very well then, I thank you. You’ve probably read that the Chastains came to England with William the Conqueror and made our way north until we settled here. The first was Peregrine de Chastain. According to the stories, he only set off with the Conqueror because he had lost his love – she went mad and committed suicide. He took the willow branch as his standard in battle, it was supposed to be a sign of his eternal mourning for her. When he arrived in Derbyshire and built the castle, he commissioned the Withy Chamber as her monument. Even the village that he founded, the one that no longer exists –

  “Osier?”

  “That’s right. It’s an old French word for willow.”

  “I see,” I allowed myself a small smile. “How thorough.”

  “Quite,” said Mervyn. “But he’s not the really interesting ancestor. The best of the bunch lived a couple of centuries later. If you’ll excuse me for a moment I’ll find you a picture of him.”

  He crossed the library swiftly and returned with an oversized book that I had not yet read, containing images of his forebears. I recognised the long face and thin nose that both Sir Montague and Mervyn shared in many of the faces that I saw as he flipped backward through the pages.

  “That’s Sir Carvell Chastain,” Mervyn informed me. “He held the Castle during the War of the Roses and married this lady here.” He turned the page to show me a portrait of a stunningly beautiful woman. “Angela Sydall. Her origins are a bit of a mystery, but legend has it that she was a low-born local beauty whom Sir Carvell met when she was on her way to a convent to begin life as a nun. They fell in love so madly that they eloped at once, kidnapping the local priest and bringing him back to the Castle to marry them straight away. You see? By the standards of Chastain brides, you actually had quite a long engagement. Anyway, the people of Osier and Castleton were outraged and surrounded the Castle, demanding Angela’s return, but she came out and told them that she had married the man of her choice and the only way they would get her to leave was in her coffin. Presumably the mob just shrugged its collective shoulders and went home, because she stayed.”