The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel

by Burns, Nathaniel

  Within moments I had Lady Cynthia fluttering round me. “Whatever is the matter, Lady Rebecca?” she twittered.

  “It’s my… comb!” I flannelled. “Sir Montague gave me the most beautiful little tortoiseshell comb, I had it in my reticule when we were on our way here and now I can’t find it! Oh, I hope I haven’t lost it – I think it used to belong to his Mama, he will be so angry with me… I’ve had it such a short time, he only gave it to me before we came here…” I gave the rest of the group a glance of despair.

  “Oh my dear!” Lady Cynthia responded at once to the threat of marital discord. “Of course we must find it. Where did you last have it?”

  “Just before we went into the caves,” I groaned. “Mr Naismith, I am terribly sorry to impose, but would you mind lighting my way for a moment while I look for it?” I smiled apologetically at the rest of our party. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mr Marsden suggested that he should go in and look on my behalf, or that we should all go back and look together. I quickly dismissed both suggestions. “I’m sure I shall find it easily,” I said, “since I know what I am looking for. If we all go back in then we shall be searching amongst shoes and skirts and it will be easy to miss – perhaps it shall be swept off the path and never found at all! No, I am sure that it will turn up within a few minutes. If not, I promise I shall not spend too long looking for it. I shan’t delay our departure too long.”

  I ducked back under the lintel and shuffled into the darkness, sticking close to Mr Naismith as he followed me with the candles. I turned around, all set to continue my pretence of searching for a fictitious comb, but the old man was grinning at me, his eyes alight with mischief.

  “Lady Chastain,” he enquired, “would I be right in thinking that we might have some difficulty finding this lost item of yours?”

  I smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps a little,” I admitted. “I am sorry.”

  “I understand,” he smiled. “The Cavern called you back, did it not? It does that to many people. They visit here once and become fascinated. I was one of them – my eldest brother brought me to see this place when I was only up to his knee and I never could resist an opportunity to return.”

  “Will you keep my secret and let me have another look round?” I asked.

  “Of course I will.” He held up the candelabra and we made our way back to the stone bridge over the underground river. I reached into my reticule and pulled out two half crowns.

  “Mr Naismith,” I said, pressing the coins into his palm, “These are for you if you will be so kind as to give me a few moments here alone. Would you?”

  “Be careful, My Lady,” he replied, but he did not say no. He set the candelabra on the ground and plucked a single candle from it to light his way as he vanished into the next chamber. “Call if you need me,” his voice drifted back over his shoulder. “I shan’t go far.”

  As darkness spilled into the space where Mr Naismith had been, I felt gloriously alone. I closed my eyes and let the roar of the river surround me. The urge to let myself fall, to plunge into the icy water and let it carry me wherever it would, rose up in me. I came close, so close… I fought it down with the greatest of difficulty, forcing my eyes open.

  The rock glowed where the candlelight hit it and receded into unending darkness where it did not. I longed to know what lay beyond these walls, where the river went and what might be found in the chambers beneath. I plucked a petal from the corsage on my dress and held it out over the dark river, then let it go, following it until I could no longer make it out. I wondered how long it would take to be carried underneath Willow Castle. Fancy took hold of me and I wondered whether sound made in Poole’s Cavern would travel all the way to the castle. I threw back my head and sang a wild cadenza. Each note rang out clear and pure in the blackness. Perhaps Mama would hear it all the way back at the castle, a faint vibration on the quiet air!

  The longer I stood upon the bridge, at one with the darkness, the deeper I felt the chill of the cavern sinking into my bones. I could not bear the thought of ever leaving this place, yet it felt as if an icy hand was taking me in its grasp, reaching into my lungs and robbing me of breath. I gasped for air, short, panting breaths, but all I could feel was my chest tightening and my vision fading. I felt as though I was being absorbed into the cave, never to emerge, and as I sank to my knees upon the cold stone I was overwhelmed with a sensation of serene acceptance. I would become part of the cavern’s history, my ghost would wander here. I heard the cavern itself reassuring me that I could succumb, it would take care of me. Nothingness closed in around me.

  *

  When I opened my eyes I was back in the dingy daylight, laid out upon the seat of Lady Cynthia’s conveyance while she fluttered a fan in my face and Miss Fairfax pressed my hand limply between hers. I sat up with a start.

  “Lady Rebecca, you’re awake!” Lady Cynthia exclaimed. “You gave us all the most terrible fright. Mr Naismith said you simply passed out in the cavern – we heard him calling and Mr Marsden went in to help bring you out, even though all the candles out here had gone out! Can you imagine? How brave of him! You were so pale and you would not come round, even when Lady Frith dabbed your temples with eau de cologne. I was so worried! Whatever would I have said to Sir Montague if I had had to tell him that you had been taken ill? He would never let you join any of my excursions again! Tell me, are you quite well? Do you still feel faint?”

  I did not, and I reassured her that I felt perfectly well while I glanced around for Mr Naismith. He was hovering near the carriage, watching me anxiously. When he saw that I was sitting up he approached and held out a little silver flask to me.

  “Lady Chastain, forgive me,” he said. “I am sorry that you were taken ill within the cavern. It happens sometimes, particularly to ladies – they find it difficult to breathe and are prone to fainting. I should never have let you go back in if I had realised that you were susceptible, but since you had no trouble earlier…”

  “It’s no fault of yours, Mr Naismith,” I said, accepting his flask. I took a tiny nip of brandy, screwing up my face at the harsh, burning sensation. “I shall be well directly. I was a little dizzy, that is all.”

  “The stories that I grew up with would say that you belong to the cavern now, My Lady,” Mr Naismith said in a jocular tone, but with a look of strange sincerity in his eyes. “It has always been said that there are those to whom these caves choose to reveal their secrets. Members of the Chastain family, particularly new brides, are believed to be unusually privileged in this respect. The caverns have a liking for you, one might almost say.”

  7 Death

  I

  arrived back at the hotel to find our bags packed and carriage summoned. Sir Montague was waiting in our room.

  “Ah, Rebecca,” he said, “I was beginning to wonder whether to come and find you. We must return to Willow Castle at once. We’ve had a message, your mother is unwell.”

  I felt the colour drain from my face. Mama unwell! And I had left her all alone!

  “When do we leave?” I asked.

  “Immediately,” he replied. “The carriage should be waiting outside.”

  I had not even had time to remove my hat and gloves. I turned on my heel and marched straight back down the stairs. Sir Montague caught up with me and laid a hand on my back, guiding me towards the carriage that was waiting for us.

  The journey that had seemed so short on the way there seemed interminable on our return. There had been heavy rain on the hills the night before and the roads were muddy. We crawled along in silence. I could hardly believe that just a short while earlier I had been in the company of new acquaintances, visiting a more spectacular place than I could ever have imagined. I hardly noticed Sir Montague’s taciturn disposition, so caught up was I in my own thoughts and prayers that Mama would be well by the time we got back.

  *

  “My Lord, My Lady!” Mrs Chapman called out as she ran out to meet the carriage. “Oh, I’m so glad y
ou’re here. Your mother has been asking for you, My Lady.”

  “Where is she?” I asked as I climbed out of the carriage. “Is she in her room? I shall go and see her at once.”

  “I should wait if I were you, My Lady,” Mrs Chapman counselled. “She’s quite worn herself out this morning and fell asleep not long ago. I believe you should let her rest just now. I’ll wake her for tea and you can see her then.”

  “What is the matter with her, Mrs Chapman? Has a doctor been called?”

  “No, My Lady, there’s been no doctor. Under the circumstances I thought it best to consult the Master before sending for one…”

  I saw a strange glance pass between Mrs Chapman and Sir Montague and my temper flared.

  “No doctor?” I demanded. “My mother is sufficiently unwell that you call us home from Buxton but you do not think to call for medical attention?”

  “Calm yourself, Rebecca,” Sir Montague’s steely voice warned me. “If Mrs Chapman thought it best not to call anyone, I am sure she knew what she was doing. Let us go inside. Standing out here with you shrieking like a banshee is downright uncivilised.”

  We went indoors and habit dictated that I went to my room to remove my hat, coat and gloves. My new maid, Sarah, a girl so quiet she might have been mute, whisked them away and asked me if there was anything I required. I asked if she had any intelligence regarding my mother’s condition, but she merely shook her head and lowered her gaze to the floor. With a sigh of vexation I swept out of the room and headed for the library.

  To my surprise, Sir Montague was there when I arrived, pouring himself a whisky and soda and talking to Mrs Chapman in an irritable tone.

  “And you say there is nothing to be done about it until Monday fortnight?” he snapped at her.

  “Quite so, My Lord,” she replied imperturbably. “I can find no-one to do the work sooner. The ceiling has been propped up to prevent any further collapse and I have locked the room above to prevent anyone from entering and having an accident, but that’s the earliest that any repair will be possible.”

  “Damnation!”

  I closed the door behind me, the noise causing my husband to turn and see me.

  “Ah, Rebecca,” he muttered. “Mrs Chapman has bad news.” Sir Montague stalked over to the easy chair by the fire and threw himself down in it, leaving Mrs Chapman to fill me in.

  “It’s the Blue Dining Room, My Lady,” she said, referring to the room where we usually took our meals. “There’s been an accident. The ceiling collapsed. There’s a hole all the way through to the guest room above.”

  “Oh,” I replied mechanically. “How dreadful. And it cannot be fixed for some time?”

  “Not for more than two weeks, My Lady. It happened the night before last, just hours after you had left. I heard the crash and ran to investigate, and when I got there I found the hole and the room in disarray and your mother…” Mrs Chapman trailed off. I could have grabbed her shoulders and shaken her.

  “What about my mother?”

  “Well, your mother… I think she saw it happen. It was coming up for dinner time and she had said she would take dinner in the dining room even though she was alone, so she would just have arrived as it happened. When I found her she was staring at the hole and shrieking like an express train. I couldn’t get her calmed down by myself, I had to call Sarah and between the two of us we got her back to her room and put her to bed. She was fighting and flailing all the way, but by the time we got her upstairs she had stopped screaming, at least. She hasn’t said a word since other than to ask for you, My Lady. She won’t be left in the dark, though. We had to keep the lamps in her room burning all through the night. When the oil ran out she started screaming again and wouldn’t stop until it was refilled and lit. I don’t know what it is that’s given her such a fright, My Lady, but she’s acting very strangely. When I went into her room this morning she had torn down the curtains – not just pulled them back but ripped them off the rail, hooks and all. She wanted us to keep the window open, too, she keeps leaning out of it and pointing but she won’t say what she wants us to see.”

  I listened with an increasing sense of dread. On the one hand I was glad that Mama had not been hurt by the collapse, but on the other I could not imagine what would possess her to act in such a bizarre manner. I thanked Mrs Chapman for her information and counted the minutes until teatime when I would be permitted to go up and check on Mama for myself.

  *

  At 4pm I heard the clock on the library mantelpiece chime. At once I closed my book, discarding all pretence of reading, and went straight upstairs. As I rounded the corner into the corridor leading to Mama’s room I heard a commotion, Mama’s familiar voice raised in an unfamiliar sound of distress. I ran to her door and threw it open.

  Mama was in her nightgown, her bedsheets strewn across the floor and lamps burning in the afternoon gloom. She was leaning precariously out of the window, reaching for something, sobbing as she called out to it. I tried to make out what she was saying but it was no use. As swiftly as I dared, I edged my way across the floor, trying not to make any noise lest I startle her.

  “Mama?” I whispered softly. She spun round. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw both her feet on the floor. I held out my arms, but she recoiled from me. “Mama…” I said, shocked by the expression on her face. “What on earth is the matter?”

  Her face crumpled. “Everything is ruined, Rebecca,” she wailed. “Everything.”

  “Ssssshh, Mama,” I soothed. “You have had a terrible shock. You mustn’t think about it. Please.”

  “When it collapsed, when everything fell… I saw his face, Rebecca,” Mama felt her way along the wall and climbed onto her bed, huddling in the corner. I reached out to her again, but she shrunk away from me.

  “Whose face, Mama?”

  “His face! He was responsible for it all – for the fall! For us being in this awful place, where things like this can happen… If it weren’t for him… I wish we were at Greycrags, Rebecca. Things like this would never have happened at Greycrags.” Mama crawled to the foot of the bed and for the first time I saw her face clearly in the sunlight. She was ashen, her eyes sunken as if she had not slept in days, and one eyeball was bloodshot, all its whiteness turned to a gruesome red. Suddenly she lunged forward and pulled me into a tight, choking embrace. I felt her body shake, wracked with sobs, until she pushed me away with equal suddenness and stared intensely at me. “I am so sorry, my darling girl,” she whispered. “I should never… I am sorry.”

  Then she lunged for the window. I was almost beside her when she fell. I was close enough to feel the linen of her nightgown brush my fingertips as I sprang forward to catch her, but my fingers closed round empty air. I was never sure which horrific scream was hers and which was mine.

  *

  Mama did not survive the fall. I remember little of what happened afterwards, but I recall that I nearly fell myself as I leaned out after her. I recall the shape of her body on the distant ground, battered and mangled, the lush spring grass tinged with her blood. I could not see her face. I felt arms around me, pulling me back from the window, and then I remember nothing but blackness.

  I lost two whole days to the horror of my grief, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep. Cold, unfamiliar hands prodded at me and an unknown voice spoke softly to me, presumably that of the doctor. After that there was laudanum. My mind dissolved into a drowsy haze of opiates as my dreams carried me down a terrible black river that rushed endlessly away from Mama into the daunting prospect of a world without her.

  On the third day I was aware of someone, presumably my maid, applying a cold, cologne-scented compress to my temples. As the cooling sensation washed over me, I felt my dreams beginning to change. The dark, enclosed river of fear opened out, giving way to a vast landscape of craggy mountains, plunging valleys and incredible monoliths of pale rock that glowed beneath the moonlight that lit my dreamscape. I was no longer the frightened girl pining for her
Mama. Now I saw myself striding proudly through a world that was mine for the taking, unconstrained by Mama’s ideas, no longer responsible for her security and happiness. I flung my arms wide, drinking in the moonlight, swallowing deep lungfuls of pure, cold air. My dream-self began to gather speed, breaking into a furious, uncontrolled run. I shook my hair loose from its pins and let it cascade madly down my back, a wild peal of laughter spilling forth from my lips.

  I jolted awake, realising that the laugh had been genuine, had been mine. At once I was consumed by guilt. Mama had been dead no more than a few days and I was able to laugh? That seemed so wrong, so painful. I buried my head under a pillow and let the tears flow until I had fallen asleep again, and this time I was back in the comforting pain of the black river.

  By the time I felt able to venture downstairs, Mama had been dead for five days. I had no mourning garments of my own, but Mrs Chapman had made alterations to a dress that had belonged to my husband’s mother. It was a little outmoded, but I hardly cared. Indeed, I hardly cared if I wore black at all. Surely my grief was written on my face? It required no special clothes to trumpet it to the world. Still, I put them on. It was what Mama would have wanted. As I let Sarah fasten the black crape, that thought was some small comfort.

  The library had always been my favourite room in the castle, and now it felt like even more of a refuge as it was a place I did not associate with Mama. She was everywhere in my mind, but it was a relief to step into a room where I did not see her ghost in every corner. I rang the bell for tea then settled myself in my favourite place by the fire.

  I had not expected Sir Montague to join me. I was too tired and upset to conceal the look of surprise that must have crossed my face as he appeared in the doorway. Perhaps this grief of mine will change things between us, I thought. I have read about such things, men whose hearts are softened by the sight of a woman’s tears. Perhaps he is here to comfort me.