The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel

by Burns, Nathaniel

  There was a rap on the door. Sir Montague let me go and went to open it. Mervyn stood upon the threshold, ready to join us in venturing down to the dining room.

  “Ah, Mervyn,” my husband said jovially. “I’m afraid I shan’t be joining you for dinner tonight. Perhaps you would take care of my lovely wife for me this evening.”

  I rose to leave with Mervyn, but as I passed Sir Montague he caught me round the waist and kissed me hard, one hand on the back of my head to ensure that I could not pull away. My cheeks burned scarlet with shame and I could not look Mervyn in the eye as I took arm to go downstairs.

  Despite knowing what awaited me that night, I was determined to enjoy my unexpectedly intimate dinner with Mervyn. We spoke of books and music, of the stories he had told me, of my previous life in Lisson Grove, studiously avoiding the topic of his impending departure. The minutes flew by all too rapidly, and although I took as long as I possibly could over every course, I could not prevent the candles from burning down and the meal from coming to an end.

  “Rebecca,” Mervyn whispered as we drank the last of the wine. My head jerked up and our eyes locked. He had never used my Christian name without my title before. “I know we shouldn’t, but please… let’s take a turn in the gardens.” Seeing my hesitation, he ploughed on. “We won’t be alone, we’ll need a linkboy to light our way for us.”

  I could not say yes, but I allowed him to lead me out of the dining room, out of the hotel. I felt him wrapping my shall around my shoulders and guiding me across the road towards the Pavilion Gardens. Mervyn flipped a coin to a small boy carrying a lantern on a pole and bade him walk ahead of us to supplement the glow of gaslight from the streetlamps.

  We walked in silence. What was there to say? The night air was chilly, but I did not care. I wanted nothing more than to steal these final moments with Mervyn.

  *

  The next day, after a sleepless night, Sir Montague and I saw Mervyn off at the station. I longed to weep for him, but of course I could not. Fortunately Sir Montague was as good as his word and kept me busy. First we visited the Crescent, a building so elegant and beautiful that it took my breath away when I entered. It was a light, airy space filled with exquisitely dressed people and the sound of harps playing in the background.

  Sir Montague, though still aloof, appeared to thaw a little and troubled himself to be affable towards the people who approached us to greet him. He introduced me to one person after another – gentlemen, ladies, baronets, peers, even an earl. I did my best to commit their names to memory as we were introduced, then stood back and allowed them to offer their condolences on his father’s death and congratulations on his accession to the title. I gathered from this that whatever my husband did when he was away from the castle, he did not mix with these people.

  Amongst our new acquaintance was Lady Cynthia Talbot, a bubbly, enthusiastic young lady perhaps three years older than me. She was married to an elderly whiskered gentleman, apparently a viscount, and she seemed determined to strike up some kind of hasty, effervescent friendship with me.

  “My dear, you are simply delicious!” she cried, hanging on my arm and toying with one of the loose curls framing my face. “Sir Montague, wherever did you find this delightful young lady! You must bring her to town terribly often, I can tell we shall be great friends.”

  I looked to Sir Montague in the hope that he might save me, but it was a forlorn hope. He was standing several feet away, allowing a young man to make small talk. All I could do was stand and smile politely as Lady Cynthia went into paroxysms of joy over me.

  “Darling Lady Rebecca!” she rambled on, without ever seeming to stop for breath, “You shall join us for the concert this afternoon, shall you not? I haven’t the faintest idea what’s being played, but the chamber orchestra is terribly smart and you must see the Master of Ceremonies – a most handsome man! Not that you’ll notice anything about that, I’m sure, being a new bride… You are a new bride, aren’t you? You can’t have been married long, I know I would have heard. Of course when I was a new bride I was already more than ready to notice handsome men, but Sir Montague is so much more attractive than my Toby. Oh, don’t tell anyone I said that, will you? It’s true, though, you’ve been terribly lucky by the looks of it.”

  I wondered whether all feminine friendships were like this. The stream of inconsequential babbling seemed overwhelming. Nevertheless, I did my best to go along with it. She did not seem to want conversation, merely a receptive ear and an arm to cling to. She dragged us along to that afternoon’s concert – a light programme of Haydn, beautifully played – and extorted from Sir Montague a promise that we would attend that evening’s ball. I breathed a sigh of relief that Mama had insisted on my having that forest green silk gown that set off my eyes so, and when I appeared in the ballroom Lady Cynthia and her friends cooed over my fashionable attire.

  I was much in demand that evening. Apparently the Chastains were known for their reclusive ways, tending to stay shut up in Willow Castle much of the time, seldom venturing further than Castleton, so an opportunity to dance with the new Lady Chastain was one to be seized while it presented itself. Soon my feet ached and the faces of my many dance partners blurred into one. I did not have a single dance with my husband. Sir Montague preferred the company of the other gentlemen in the smoking room, so he was not there for me to consult when Lady Cynthia declared that I should join a party making an expedition to a local landmark named Poole’s Cavern the following day. Giddy with too much dancing, perhaps a little too much punch and with my social success, I gave my word that I would attend and that I would let Lady Cynthia give me the name of her dressmaker and arrange all manner of further introductions next time Sir Montague and I were in town.

  6 Poole's Cavern

  “Yoo-hoo! Lady Rebecca!”

  Lady Cynthia’s trilling voice sliced through the hubbub of the Old Hall Hotel’s lobby. I glanced round to see her waving furiously from an open-topped landau outside, her pink frills and blonde ringlets bouncing as she flailed her arm. I hurried out to join her, allowing her footman to help me up the steps into the carriage. There were two other ladies whom I had met the previous day, clad in equally frou-frou gowns and wielding pastel parasols to guard them from the feeble April sun. I reached into the depths of my memory for their names.

  “Lady Frith, Miss Fairfax,” I greeted them.

  “Have you not brought your charming husband with you?” Cynthia pouted. I admitted that I had not. Sir Montague had refused to attend, saying that he could imagine nothing more excruciating than traipsing round some dripping cave with a gaggle of silly women. He had, however, congratulated me on finding a way to amuse myself and ingratiate myself with the local ladies while he did as he pleased elsewhere. Of course I did not tell Lady Cynthia this, saying instead that he had business to attend to and sent his most sincere apologies.

  “Ah well, no matter,” she said, in a tone of voice which made it clear that it mattered very much indeed. Then she replaced the pout with her usual bright smile and chattered on. “Well, we shall be a merry party anyway. Lady Frith and Miss Fairfax you already know, and when we arrive at Poole’s Cavern I shall introduce you to Mr and Mrs Marsden, who are travelling in their own Tilbury and will meet us there. You simply must know them. They are the most delightful people, Lady Rebecca!”

  *

  Fortunately it was only a short ride to Poole’s Cavern, which lay just beyond the outskirts of the small town. I hardly realised that we were there – when the carriage pulled up I wondered why we were stopping when there was nothing to be seen but hillside. Then as I looked a little harder, I saw what looked like a small, dark crack in the lush green grass and a stooped gentleman emerging. Lady Cynthia squealed as she caught sight of him walking towards the landau.

  “Welcome, my ladies!” The old gentleman bowed to us as we all climbed out. “Pray allow me to introduce myself. I am Marshall Naismith and I have been engaged as your guide to this mysteriou
s place.”

  I gazed at him in curiosity. He was a sweet-faced gentleman with eyes that sparked with mischief set deep in his wrinkled face. They reminded me a little of Mervyn’s. His beard was long and well-combed, and he leaned heavily on a study stick to help him walk. I found myself wondering what secrets might be kept by this intriguing old man who could appear from gaps in nature itself. .

  The rest of our party arrived and I submitted to Lady Cynthia’s gushing introductions, all the while watching Naismith out of the corner of my eye. He withdrew for a moment to a little shack, so thoroughly concealed by the shrubs and plants that I had not noticed it at first, and when he emerged he held two large candelabra.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, drawing us in round the crevasse from which he had appeared. “Welcome to Poole’s Cavern. The place you are about to enter is very dark and the path is narrow. I would ask you to stay close to me, where you may see by the light of these candles. Sir,” he referred himself to Mr Marsden, “I would ask you to be so kind as to take the other candelabra and bring up the rear of the party.”

  The candles lit, we were ready to venture into the Cavern. My heart began to pound as I felt ducked my head to pass through the narrow rock archway and plunged into the darkness.

  The first thing I noticed was the sound. I had expected silence apart from our echoing footsteps, but instead I could hear a distant roar. I drew a deep breath of dank, cold cave air. Little by little, my eyes began to adjust and I found that I could make out the faint glow of the pale rocks around me. We followed Naismith with tiny shuffling steps, afraid of coming off the narrow path that he had mentioned. I was aware of the mass of the hill around me, bearing down oppressively until suddenly the atmosphere changed, the roaring sound filled my ears and despite the blackness I could tell that we were out of the entrance tunnel and into a vast, majestic palace of whitish stone. The candlelight bounced off the rough walls, casting dim light throughout the cave, and I gasped at the ethereal beauty of it. To one side was a sheer rock face, to the other a steep slope that plunged down towards a surging underground river.

  “One of the sources of the Wye, that river is, Madam,” Naismith informed me, seeing me gaze at it. “It’s that water, landing on the hillside and working its way through the rock drip by drip, that gives these stones their peculiar shape. All that you see around you, the water has hollowed out over countless years. And it has built rocks anew, for you’ll see the stalagmites rising up from the ground as we move further in.”

  I listened spellbound, overawed by this place. The air was so still. The sound of rushing water reverberated and surrounded me in such a way that I felt like it was lifting me off my feet and carrying me along in its current. If I closed my eyes, I could easily believe that nothing beyond this cavern existed or ever would. Despite the dangers of which I had been warned, I felt an inexplicable sense of safety.

  Then Lady Cynthia screamed as a drop of water fell from the damp stone and landed on the back of her neck. The moment was shattered. Once the entire party had dedicated its efforts towards calming her down, we moved on. We headed deeper into the cave, reaching a twisting, winding stretch of the path where we were surrounded by stalagmites, their pale stone shot through with tinges of red and orange as if they burned inside. They ranged from tiny stumps, barely the size of molehills, all the way up to thin towering pillars that came up to my shoulder. I looked up, fascinated by the way each one had its partner stalactite overhead, never to touch, neither able to exist without the other, reaching towards one another like God Creating Adam.

  The crowning glory of the Cavern lay in its deepest chamber. At the centre of a spectacular tower of water-hewn rock sat a monolith, a standing stone that glowed an eerie white in the candlelight. I stepped towards it, drawn by the strongest fascination, and laid a hand upon it. It was like no stone I had ever touched before. It was as smooth as polished metal beneath my fingers, cold and inviting. I felt as if it might come to life beneath my touch.

  “The legends of Poole’s Cavern are many,” Naismith told us, his voice echoing uncannily in the cathedral-like space. “Hundreds of years ago it was home to the robber Poole, after whom it is named. This fascinating place was his base of operations, used to rob travellers who passed on the nearby road. One can only imagine what dark deeds took place in these chambers when they played home to a gang of thieves.”

  “Yet long before Poole set foot here, the Romans used the Cavern for metalworking. They knew the magic of this place, shaped by very water that bubbles up warm from the ground. They believed the water to be warmed by the goddess Arnemetia, after whom they named the town – Aquae Arnemetiae, you see? – and here they made the coins and jewellery that they would give as offerings to their goddess.”

  “But legends change. The goddess Arnemetia was eventually forgotten, and after the memory of her had faded it was replaced by a darker, more sinister tale. Stories are told of the robber Poole setting up home here and calling upon the Devil himself to grant him protection from justice for as long as he remained here. Time and again, he escaped the law by retreating into these chambers where, it is said, the atmosphere was so demonic that no good man dared follow. Perhaps they perceived the flickering glow of cooking fires against the stone as they hovered in the entrance, afraid to venture further lest those flames proved to be the entrance to the underworld. Perhaps their spines were chilled as they felt the drop in temperature, for the cave remains cold in both summer and winter, unaffected by the weather. Perhaps they heard the roar of the river and fancied they heard the bellow of the Beast himself. Standing here today, I am sure you can imagine how terrifying this place could be if you were planning to enter alone, unaided and in pursuit of a gang of desperate men who might be waiting with cudgels and knives just around the bend.”

  “In later years a few intrepid souls plucked up the courage to explore the cave, discovering the source of the roaring, the strange light and the constancy of the climate. Having established that there was nothing to fear save the occasional bat, they spread the word of this hidden wonder of the Peaks. Sure enough, people came to see for themselves, but further dark deeds were waiting to be done. Their guides, who had become familiar with this place, would lead them to the very place where you find yourselves now… then they would extinguish their candles. The visitors would be left in darkness to find their own way out, risking a deadly plunge into the river, unless they handed over all their possessions to their erstwhile guides. This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I give another candelabra to one of you as a gesture of good faith.”

  A nervous titter ran through the group. All through Naismith’s tales I had kept my hands on the white standing stone, enjoying my connection to it for as long as I could. Now Naismith announced that it was time to retrace our steps, so we followed him back along the path, following the route of the river.

  “May I ask a question, Mr Naismith?” I piped up. He stopped and turned to me, nodding his assent. “Where does the river go?”

  “Towards the Wye eventually, My Lady,” he said. “No-one knows its exact route, for it flows into chambers that we cannot access.”

  “Other chambers? How far does the Cavern do?”

  “Who knows, My Lady? We can only speculate. There are some who believe that this system of caves runs all the way to the end of the Hope Valley and that this tributary river does not meet the Wye until after Castleton. It is said to run all the way under another place where the Devil has been summoned – Willow Castle, with its infamous Withy Chamber.”

  Lady Cynthia let out an excited squeak. “Oh, Mr Naismith!” she exclaimed. “What an extraordinary coincidence! You are speaking to the lady of Willow Castle at this very moment, for this is Lady Rebecca Chastain!”

  Mr Naismith looked closely at me for a moment, then cheerfully congratulated me on my marriage into the Chastain family. “It is probable that your home sits above an unknown collection of caves, my Lady,” he said, “although they would be
hard pressed to rival the magnificence of Poole’s Cavern. Perhaps someday we shall discover a route through the chambers as far as Willow Castle.”

  “Then we shall be neighbours,” I smiled, “and we can meet halfway and take tea beneath the stalactites.”

  One by one we bobbed under the low lintel of the entrance and stepped back into daylight. The sky was the same dingy grey as it had been when we went in, but it seemed both painfully bright and distressingly mundane after the compelling weirdness of the cavern. I stepped aside and watched the others emerge, squinting at the brightness. My heart began to beat faster, my breath grew short and all of a sudden I felt tears pricking the backs of my eyes. I could not be back outside. I could not leave yet. I needed to be back in the cavern. I felt it dragging me back as strongly as if the underground river had risen in a great wave to sweep me off my feet and haul me away. As Mr Naismith appeared at the rear of the group I tore open my reticule and began searching frantically through it.

  “Oh dear,” I muttered as if to myself. “Oh no, where is it? I simply must find it!” I pulled its contents out one by one, trying to decide what item I would claim to have lost.