10 Celine
T
hus began our new routine. I no longer broke my fast in the Withy Chamber, preferring to keep to my room and allow my husband to enjoy his mistress’ company in peace. If I was lucky, I could spend the day in the library or the music room undisturbed, taking tea on my own, and would not have to trouble myself with the happy couple until I joined them for dinner. Sir Montague insisted on this, for appearances’ sake, and I could only claim that I was unwell every so often. Too many headaches would give my husband all the more reason to have me declared mad and locked away.
If I was not so lucky, Sir Montague would have business to attend to and when Celine got bored of being on her own she would come in search of me. She would insist that she had been brought to Willow Castle as my companion and that although we had reason to be enemies, she would prefer that we were friends. She would sit and chatter to me while I was trying to read, quizzing me about my life in London and attempting to tell me about her years in Lyon. I would answer her, admittedly not with the best grace I had promised that I would not actively give her offence, but I saw no reason to indulge her fantasy that we were destined to become genuine friends.
One afternoon I was at the piano, picking my way through the fingering of a complicated Beethoven sonata. I ran through the phrase a few times, working the music into my hands, then returned to the start of the piece and played it through, letting the melancholy music soothe my prickly nerves. I stopped when I heard the door click gently open behind me and Celine’s light footsteps pattering into the room.
“Rebecca?” she cooed. I bristled as I always did at the way she addressed me, as if we were equals. She glided over to the piano and laid a delicate hand upon it. “I am sorry to disturb you,” she said. “May I listen? You play so beautifully.”
“If you like,” I replied, and started again from the beginning of the piece. I got the fingering on the tricky section wrong and repeated it over and over, stealing a sidelong glance at Celine to see whether she had grown bored yet. I hoped that once she realised that I was doing technical work on the piece, not giving a performance for her benefit, she would lose interest and find some other way to occupy her time. She did not. She pulled up a stool and watched intently, listening with apparent pleasure every time I ran through the piece again.
When I reached the point of being unable to do any more useful practise on the Beethoven, I went to close the lid on the piano.
“Oh, please don’t stop!” Celine cried. “I would like to hear you play something else. Do you play anything by Chopin?”
A little reluctantly I admitted that I knew several of Chopin’s waltzes by heart.
“Oh, play one, please,” she wheedled. “Any of them. I should love to hear some Chopin. He is my favourite composer of all.”
I played the first that came to mind, E flat major, the Grande valse brillante. Celine gasped with joy and said something in rapid French, too quick for my ear to catch apart from the words ‘Les Sylphides’. She rose from the stool and began to dance, floating lightly round the room, her arms sweeping gracefully as she improved the choreography. Much to my surprise I found myself smiling, infected by her zest.
“Thank you,” Celine beamed, dropping back down onto the stool with the last beat of the music. “It has been so long! I yearn to dance more, but there is so seldom the opportunity. Montague is only rarely available to take me, and he has not permitted me to dance on stage since he brought me to England.” I saw an expression of mild horror flit across her face as she realised what she was saying. “But I am sorry, dear Rebecca. I should not be speaking of him to you.”
“I suppose not,” I replied. In truth, it was hard to associate the man Celine spoke of with the man I had married. Somehow I could not see Sir Montague as the great romantic, risking his father’s wrath for an unsuitable love and willing to ride roughshod over me to have his paramour near him. I had seen how he could be motivated by possessiveness, but not yet by love.
“Do you play duets?” Celine asked, leafing through the stack of sheet music lying on top of the piano.
“I used to play them -” I broke off, unwilling to recall the image of myself playing alongside Mama. “I think there is one in that pile. May I?” I took the music from her and found the piece I was looking for. “Ah, yes. It is also by Chopin – the Florence duet, do you know it?”
“I do!” Celine cried, clapping her hands. She ran lightly round to join me on the piano stool, taking the left hand while I took the right. She waited obediently for me to count her in, and we began.
She was a good pianist, I had to admit. Her touch was delicate and sensitive. She followed my lead perfectly, neither of us thrown by the other’s occasional errors as we sight-read the complex score. By the time we neared the end, I found I was rather enjoying having a partner for duets.
“Oh, I enjoyed that!” Celine said. “Do you sing, Rebecca? May I hear you?”
I shook my head. “I used to sing,” I told her, “and I am sure that I will again in time. But at present I find that grief has robbed me of my singing voice. I could accompany you, though, if you care to sing.”
She took me up on the offer with great enthusiasm, handing me a score and positioning herself in the curve of the piano.
“Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me!”
Her voice was sweet, a little tremulous and affected perhaps, but her enjoyment of the activity was obvious.
“List while I woo thee with soft melody!”
Encouraged by Celine’s exaggerated style of performance, I yielded to the temptation to ornament the accompaniment a little, throwing in odd flourishes here and there.
“Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day, lulled by the moonlight have all passed away…”
*
Celine and I continued at the piano until it came time to dress for dinner. I returned to my room, expecting to find Sarah waiting to help me, but instead I found her and Mrs Chapman packing my belongings into tea chests.
“What on earth?” I gasped. “What is going on here? Mrs Chapman, what are you doing?”
The two servants turned and dropped perfunctory curtseys. “Begging your pardon, My Lady,” said Mrs Chapman, “ but the Master instructed us that you are to be moved to the tower room. He said that you had requested it.”
“He said that I…” I trailed off. Sir Montague is moving me to the tower room? I thought. But why? What have I done?
“Yes indeed, My Lady. He said that you had been experiencing more headaches than usual of late, and that you wished to exchange this room for one with smaller, narrower windows because, if you’ll excuse my saying so My Lady, you are still haunted by what happened to your Mama.”
Then it is true, I thought. It has begun. My husband is trying to pass me off as a madwoman.
Mrs Chapman continued. “He said that we were to move your things now so that we are done before dinner, that way you can have your tray brought to you up there instead of in here.”
I said nothing but noted that for today at least, I was not required to dine in company. I wondered whether this was to be my lot from now on. Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, I decided to go directly to my new room. I paused only to thank Mrs Chapman for her information and collect my Bible from its place on the bedside table, then I made my way up the narrow spiral staircase the room which could be either my refuge or my prison.
*
In truth, I found that I rather liked my new room. There were ominous hoops on the walls, obviously designed to anchor chains, but I pushed the dresser and chairs around until I had adequately concealed them. My bed did indeed have thick leather straps, giant belts that could stretch across the chest and legs of a distressed lunatic in need of restraint. However, I only found these with a little searching. At present they were safely tucked under my mattress and no particular threat to me.
The tower room was the highest in the whole Castle, meaning that from the narrow slit windows I coul
d see the whole Hope Valley stretching out into the distance. The views were spectacular, and although the windows were not glazed, May had arrived and the air was cool, not cold. I loved waking up with the taste of crisp, fresh air in my house, and as the days grew warmer I would lie upon the rug and bathe in the sliver of sunshine that spilled in.
It was over a week before I saw anyone other than the servants again. My meals were all brought to my room now, but I while continued my usual visits to the library and music room, I saw no sign of Celine. Occasionally I would hear her rippling laughter echoing through the corridors as my path nearly crossed hers and Sir Montague’s, but she did not seek me out. Considering how strongly I had objected (and indeed still objected) to our enforced companionship, I was surprised at how keenly I felt the lack of her.
*
After more than a week of solitude, I was stunned to hear someone tapping on my bedroom door one evening. It was not the quick, functional tap of Mrs Chapman or the slow multiple knock of Sarah, but something altogether more tentative. I opened the door.
“Rebecca, my dear!” Celine was on the other side, her tone hushed and furtive. “May I come in?”
I stepped aside to admit her. I expected her to walk past me, but instead she leapt on me, flinging her arms around me in a crushing hug.
“I am so sorry!” She cried. “It is my fault that you are trapped in here. Please believe me, this was never my intention.”
She obviously wanted to talk, so I detached myself before she could accidentally choke the life out of me. The evening shadows were starting to lengthen, so I busied myself lighting candles while Celine sat upon my bed and prepared to explain.
“Sir Montague has gone to town for tonight,” she informed me. “There is some important event at his club. The servants will not tell that I am here?”
“I honestly do not know,” I said. “I am not sure how far they can be trusted, but I find it safest to assume that they are loyal to my husband, not to me. But why should they not know? Sir Montague told me that we were to make this charade of his convincing.”
“Ah, Rebecca,” she sighed. “That afternoon that we spent at the piano – Montague heard us playing, and chatting, and he did not take it well. He was so angry at dinner that night, so pale and furious! He told me that I seemed to be mistaking illusion for reality, and that I must remember where my loyalties lie. He has always been a jealous man, but this – I thought he was going to kill me! I had bruises all down my arms where he gripped them too tightly… He said that he would not share my attention with you, that I was not to make the mistake of trying to be a true friend to you and that I should be nothing more than an actress playing a part. I will not have her trying to curry favour with you, he said, or trying to turn you against me. You and she must only see each other when I am present to prevent my wife from attempting to practice any kind of manipulation upon you.”
“I told him that this was ridiculous, of course,” she ploughed on, throwing her hands up in a dramatic gesture, “and that there was nothing untoward in our little music session. That sent him into an even greater fury, and he slapped me across the face – I have always known him to be a passionate man, Rebecca, but he has never hit me before! I cried, and he soothed me and told me not to weep but simply to stay away from you unless he was there too. Oh, he cannot bear to think of anyone being loved but himself! Don’t think I do not know that, my dear. I know of Montague’s failings. Perhaps you do not know the feeling of love, but let me assure you, it is not blind. It is just not sensible. Anyway, Montague told me he was having you moved to the tower and that I must stay away from you in future, but I had to come and ask your forgiveness. Say you forgive me, my dear? Please?”
Of course I did. While Celine had played a part in bringing me to this unfortunate moment in my life, it was through no scheme of hers. Besides, as much as I tried to hate her, there was something so genuine lurking beneath her affected, theatrical mannerisms that I could not help but like her. Her response to the music had been so pure and unsullied. Her voice truly warmed when she spoke Sir Montague’s name, the way I imagined mine must when I spoke of Mervyn. Even her complete informality, which had infuriated me so much at first, was beginning to grow upon me as part of Celine’s charm.
With the air of a child about to revel in a forbidden treat, she produced a box of chocolates that Sir Montague had given her the day after she was told of my banishment to the tower. She had, she told me, kept them specially for us to share, determined to bring them to me by way of an apology the very next time Sir Montague was away from home. For the first time in my life, I perched like a schoolgirl on the end of my bed, Celine sitting opposite me, tucking into the sweets and chatting without a thought for decorum or etiquette.
She told me how she and Sir Montague had met in Lyon, where she had been dancing, and how she had fallen head over heels in love with him. He had promised her marriage, so they travelled as man and wife as he brought her back to England. It was only when they arrived at Buxton that she realised it would not be such plain sailing after all, for he left her in rented accommodation while he returned to the Castle to break the news to his father. When his father refused his permission and blessing, Celine had urged him to marry her anyway, insisting that they would find a way to reconcile him to their union later. Sir Montague refused and Celine, hundreds of miles from home and with no way of getting back, found herself in the position of long-term kept mistress, entirely dependent on her benefactor.
When it became clear that they could never be married, she had reconciled herself to her fate. She would remain the mistress, but Sir Montague assured her that his heart would always be hers. That much, at least, appeared to be true. Her initial reaction, when he suggested moving her into the Castle, had been one of horror. As much as she longed to be close to her lover, she had anticipated my reaction – indeed, she had imagined that it would be much worse. She had refused, stating that her position would be miserable and mine more so, but Sir Montague had brooked no refusal. He had informed her that he had given notice on the little suite of rooms in which she lived, and that come the end of the month she would be moving out one way or another; either to join him at Willow Castle or to beg her way back to France.
All through her story Celine kept staring intently at me, scanning my face as if looking for reassurance that I believed her. She need not have worried. I had now been on the receiving end of enough of Sir Montague’s manipulations to recognise his style.
“And now,” Celine reached the climax of her story, her blue eyes round and wide with indignation, “Montague declares that he does not wish to have you wandering the Castle all the time. He claims that your music can be heard from his study and it wearies him, and that you are overtaxing your imagination with your visits to the library and that is why you suffer from so many headaches.”
“But I don’t!” I cried. “Those headaches are a fiction of his to make you and the servants think I am going mad.”
Celine nodded her head vigorously, her golden ringlets bobbing. “Yes, yes! But there is nothing to be done. Mrs Chapman has orders that when she takes away your breakfast tray tomorrow morning, she is to lock the door behind her. If you cause a scene, he says he will have you restrained.”
My head reeled at the prospect. I liked this little room, but to be trapped in here all day, every day, all alone – it would be unbearable! Even the Lady of Shalott had been granted a mirror and a loom to occupy her.
“Then I shan’t make a fuss,” I promised. “I shall give him no reason to do anything worse. But Celine – can you do something for me?”
“Anything! You have only to name it.”
“On the table in the library there is a stack of books. I have been using them to learn about the history of Willow Castle. If I am to be confined up here, I should be grateful to have them. Could you bring them to me, please, and perhaps pen and paper as well? I shall find somewhere to conceal them.”
“I shall f
etch them at once,” Celine said, leaping to her feet. She was out of the door in a moment and I heard her pattering off down the staircase. She must have had a clear run, avoiding encounters with any of the servants, for she returned swiftly bearing the requested books, writing equipment and a little bundle of delicacies filched from the kitchen and wrapped up in a napkin.
“Thank you, Celine,” I hugged her with heartfelt gratitude.
“It is nothing, dear Rebecca,” she said. “I must go now, but I shall miss your company. Perhaps some time when Montague next stays at his club, you and I shall be able to repeat this. For I wish more than anything that I had someone to talk to. It has been lonely, these last years, waiting for Montague and having to keep my existence a secret, unable to form anything beyond casual acquaintance. And now, when I am beginning to see a side of him that I never imagined existed… I do not like to think of either of us being on our own with these dilemmas. Let us hope that his next trip is soon, and that one or both of us has thought of a way to improve our lot by then.”
With a final emphatic hug, she slipped out of the room and was gone.
11 The Secret Note
I
cannot deny that I found my captivity a torment. Although I was accustomed to being cooped up indoors, I had never before been deprived of the liberty to move from one room to another. I made a determined effort to bear it with grace and fortitude, but with each day that passed I became increasingly aware that it would eventually drive me mad – which, no doubt, was exactly what Sir Montague intended.
At least I had the secret stash of books that Celine had so helpfully purloined for me. I took care to hide them each individually, behind the dresser, beneath and on top of the wardrobe, in the slats on the underside of my bed, beneath a floorboard that I had worked loose with my buttonhook. That way, I reasoned, if Sarah or Mrs Chapman found a single book and took it away, I would still have the others. I could not bear the idea of being stuck in here without reading material. As beautiful as the view from my window was and as much as I loved to watch the light change and the day pass, I could not do that every day. I desperately needed to feel that I had some form of contact with the world beyond.
The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel Page 11
