I also had pen, paper and a small bottle of ink, which I kept carefully concealed in the pockets of my heavy winter garments. I would not need those clothes for months yet, so there was little danger of the servants stumbling across my secrets. I wracked my brains, trying to think of a way to get a message to Mervyn. He was my only friend in the outside world and, I was sure, my only way of escaping this place. First, I reasoned, the letter must be written and ready to be sent at the first opportunity.
My dearest Mervyn,
I am in urgent need of help, and I believe you are the only person who can come to my aid. My husband has imprisoned me in the tower room and threatens to have me declared mad. I am not mad, it is vital that you know this. I am desperately unhappy, I am frightened and alone, but I have not lost my wits. I fear, though, that this is my husband’s object in keeping me so confined.
I implore you, by the love I have for you, by the love you have declared for me, come back to Willow Castle. You are my only hope of escape. I am sorry to make this demand of you, but I believe you are the only one who can reason with your cousin or, should it prove necessary, overpower him.
I am lost, Mervyn. I do not know what to do. I wish I knew how to fight back, but I do not. I did not believe that my husband would go this far, I did not see it coming. I found him strange but I did not see the viciousness in him until the night before you left. By then it was too late. Events overtook me, and now I must be extremely cautious in everything I say and do, for he has not only imprisoned me, he has threatened that if I displease him he will cause you to suffer. He would attack you simply because I care for you. It seems that nothing will content him save the misery of those around him.
You must not give him any clue that I have summoned you, but find some pretext for a visit – that pretext I must leave to you to decide. My ingenuity is already overtaxed as I try to figure out a means of escape. Should I find one, I shall somehow make my way to you and hope that you are willing to give me shelter. You are the only friend I have in the world, my love. I pray that you will forgive me for bringing such bad fortunate into your life and for the disjointed nature of this letter, which I cannot redraft in case I exhaust my limited supply of notepaper.
I am, now and always, most devoted and unswervingly
Yours,
Rebecca
I considered my options for dispatching my message. Since I had no regular correspondents, there was no-one I could write to and enclose the letter addressed to Mervyn with a plea that it be sent on. I wondered whether I could entreat Celine to do it for me, to write to some acquaintance of hers. Then I recalled what she had said about how Sir Montague had guarded her jealously, keeping her to himself, and I wondered whether she might have been just as isolated as me. I ruled out the possibility of asking Mrs Chapman to help me, since she seemed to be unalterably in my husband’s pocket. Sarah might have been persuaded, I thought, but I was not certain. If I had had anything to bribe her with I might have risked it, but I had nothing of value in my little room. My treasure trove was still in the library, and although I knew that no-one else made great use of that room, my heart still raced when I considered the possibility of anyone finding the pouch of jewels.
I folded the letter and sealed it, then I unfastened the buttons at the front of my blouse. I tucked the paper into the top of my chemise, held in place by my stiff corset, feeling it lie safely against my flesh. Even if my room were turned upside down, no-one would find the note.
My next priority, I decided, must be exercise. It would be too easy to succumb to lethargy and idleness, trapped up here, and if the opportunity for flight came I must be ready for it. I paced the length of the small room again and again, counting as I went, continuing until I had crossed the floor fifty times. I summoned up music in my head and danced with an invisible partner, trying to avoid collisions with the furniture just as I had done in the tiny parlour in Lisson Grove. I must look a madwoman indeed, I thought as I laid my hand upon an imaginary shoulder and began a waltz to an unheard tune. If I am forced to do this for long enough, I certainly shall be.
Once I had taken my exercise I lay upon my bed and read. I trawled through my books, seeking out any references I could find to hidden passageways within the Castle. Even if they were just stories, perhaps some of them might prove to be real just like the trapdoor in the Withy Chamber. There might, I hoped, be something I could access from here in the tower. If I could find a way out, I would not hesitate to take it. I would rather risk being lost in a maze of subterranean tunnels and never find my way out than be trapped in here until five years pass and it pleases my husband to find a way to be rid of me, I promised myself.
I had no clock, but I learned to judge the time by the position of the sun, the quality of the light and the changing sounds of the Hope Valley. I grew adept at hiding my books before I even heard the servants’ footsteps on the stairs as they brought me my meals. They never appeared individually, it was always Sarah and Mrs Chapman together. In theory, Mrs Chapman was the one who delivered my food and Sarah came to see whether there was anything I needed – hot water, a fresh chamber pot, help with dressing (for I still insisted upon changing my clothes at the appropriate times of day, so determined was I to act as if I was still a free woman). In reality, I suspected that it had crossed my husband’s mind that I might dare to attack a lone servant in the hope of escaping, so he sent two to make me put that thought out of my mind.
The final part of my plan to retain my sanity was to keep track of the days. I knew that I could not afford to let myself be swallowed up by time so that I did not know how long I had been imprisoned. In the back of my Bible I kept a tally, adding a new notch first thing in the morning. When I felt my grasp on the passage of time slipping I would check that page. The date of my incarceration was written at the top, April 22nd, and I would count the marks to work out what the current date must be.
That was how I knew that it was the 13th of May when Mrs Chapman made an unexpected appearance in my room one afternoon. Her footsteps on the stairs startled me; I slammed my book shut, shoved it under my pillow and leapt off the bed so that I was standing idly by the window when she opened the door. Sarah was waiting on the stair behind her.
“Good afternoon, My Lady,” she said, bobbing her usual curtsey. “The Master sends his compliments. He hopes that you are doing a little better today after so much rest, and bids me take you to him at once. If you would be so good as to follow me, My Lady.”
She spun on her heel, not waiting for a response, and I followed her out. While there was a part of me that longed to resist, to send a message to my husband informing him that I would never obey his wishes again… I knew that I could not. I would never forgive myself if a moment’s petulance on my part caused ruin for Mervyn.
When we got to the bottom of the staircase I expected to turn right, towards Sir Montague’s study. Instead Mrs Chapman led me to the left, along the passageway that led to the master bedroom. My blood began to chill in my veins. Surely it is not possible, I thought. That is for night-time only, no respectable man would ask it of his wife in broad daylight! He cannot be planning to… I could not let myself complete the thought, but as the bedroom door swung open and I saw the expression of callous amusement on my husband’s face, I knew my fears to be justified. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I stepped into the room and heard the door slam shut behind me.
*
Once it was over, Sir Montague dressed and left. He had hardly spoken a word to me throughout the whole unpleasant procedure, but as he departed he flung a few words back over his shoulder, ordering me to join him at dinner. I rang for Sarah and asked her to fetch my evening clothes, but first to draw a bath for me. If I had to do as he demanded, at least I would do it well scrubbed of his scent.
*
The clash of the dinner gong resounded through the corridors of the Castle. Sarah had just finished smoothing down the ruffles of my slate silk skirt over my crinoline. My hair was newly w
ashed and dressed, and my skin smelled of lemon-scented soap rather than my husband’s lust. I threw my lace shawl around my shoulders and made my way to the Withy Chamber.
As soon as I set foot in the room, it felt like it was welcoming me back. The atmosphere was as strange as ever and the light still made dingy by the relentless grey-green hues of the mural, but it felt like home. This room and I had a secret, and at present my secrets were all I had.
Celine was already seated at the foot of the table in what should have been my place. I saw her eyes light up as she caught sight of me and her hand twitched as she checked the desire to raise it in greeting. I took care not to smile at her, since Sir Montague was at the sideboard pouring himself a glass of amontillado. The last thing we needed was for him to turn round and catch us behaving warmly towards each other.
Honestly, I was surprised to see her there. During my sojourn in the master bedroom earlier I had been speculating as to the cause of my husband’s renewed interest, and I could only assume that he had tired of his mistress and possibly rid himself of her. Either that or she had displeased him in some way and he was lashing out at her by turning his attention to me, in which case I would have expected her to be banished from the dinner table.
The three of us sat in awkward silence as we waited for dinner to be served. Sir Montague paid no more attention to either of us than if we had not been there at all. Celine dared not say a word for fear of saying the wrong thing and bringing down some further undeserved punishment upon me, and after more than a fortnight’s isolation I found that I had nothing to say. At least, nothing I cared to share – while Sir Montague might well have been interested in my attempts to formulate an escape plan and my research into the Castle’s hidden tunnels and passages, I knew better than to give him the slightest hint of my clandestine reading.
I saw Celine’s face turn pale as Mrs Chapman ladled White soup into her bowl. She picked up the spoon and submerged it in the thick liquid, but as the scent of veal and blanched almonds hit her nose she could not bring herself to put it to her lips. She pushed the dish away untasted. Since White soup had always been one of my least favourite dishes on the Willow Castle menu, I took a few polite spoonfuls then left the rest. Sir Montague, whose partiality to the dish had kept it part of Mrs Chapman’s meal plans even when I had suggested its removal, ate with relish.
When the fish course, skate in liver sauce, arrived, Celine’s complexion moved from pale to slightly green. I did not see her eat a thing until the main course arrived. The plain chicken with croquettes of rice appeared to be more to her liking, as did the simple blancmange that followed it.
It was not until we had picked at a little of the cheese and fruit that Sir Montague finally made his intention known. I had decided that we had been sitting for long enough and that it was time for us to retire and leave him to his port, so I rose. Celine followed my lead.
“Stay here, if you please,” Sir Montague said smoothly.
“I had thought you would wish to be left to enjoy your port and cigars, husband,” I replied, as if we were a perfectly normal couple where neither was holding the other a prisoner in their own home.
“Not this evening, wife.” He got to his feet, fetching the port decanter and bringing over a bottle of sweet ratafia. He served me then went to pour some of the dessert wine into Celine’s glass. She put a hand over it and shook her head. With a firm grip on her wrist, he pulled her hand out of the way. “I insist”, he said. Celine watched in dismay as her glass brimmed with the deep yellow liquid.
“Now, Rebecca,” Sir Montague began, resuming his seat. “You are probably wondering why, after all this time, I have sought out your company again. You were probably quite happy shut away up there in your tower, weren’t you, little mouse? But now I have some news for you, and some instructions which I expect you to follow. Listen well.
Mademoiselle Palomer is expecting a child. My child. An heir for Willow Castle if it’s a boy, or a useless occupant of an orphanage bed if it is a girl. We anticipate that it will be born some time in December.
Obviously, in order to be accepted as part of the Chastain line, my son must be seen to be legitimate. It will be necessary for the world to believe that you have done your duty and borne me a child. I have already been putting it about amongst the servants that the reason for your confinement is that you were having a difficult time in the first months of pregnancy. You shall remain up there, seen by no-one but Mrs Chapman and myself, until Celine is delivered of the child. As far as the world knows, the boy shall be our legitimate son. Unless it’s a girl, in which case it will be a tragic loss for the young mother.”
“Do you not think that the servants will notice that my supposed companion, whom I am never permitted to see, is coincidentally expecting at the same time as me?” I asked. I knew I should have held my tongue, but the stupidity and presumption of his plans enraged me. “They know she is not married. There will certainly be gossip. Someone is bound to piece everything together.”
He shot me a glare that could have frozen fire. “How right you are,” he hissed. “That is why your companion will shortly announce that she has been summoned home to France by an urgent family emergency. A sick mother, perhaps, prone to headaches and hallucinations? Celine will disappear, and she will not return to her position as companion until after the child is born and enough time has passed to allay suspicion. In reality, she will be residing in the old gamekeeper’s cottage in the grounds, so she can remain close by and the baby can be brought to us as soon as it has been born.”
Adjacent to me, Celine’s head was bent and I could see fat tears dripping onto the napkin in her lap. I longed to reach out and take her hand, to reassure her that it was not her fault that the man she loved had transformed into a monster.
“His name shall be Godfrey, after my grandfather,” Sir Montague announced. “Now, Rebecca, I trust that you can be relied upon to cause no difficulty in this scheme? You will accept the child as your own and do all that is required to render that version of events convincing?”
I nodded. What choice did I have? I could see that Sir Montague was becoming ever more dangerous and increasingly drunk, and I did not wish to risk him hurting me, Celine or Mervyn.
“Very good.” He got up from the table and walked round it to where Celine was sitting. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her, a kiss that looked soft but somehow threatening. I saw her body tighten slightly as she perceived the threat, then relax as she recalled the familiarity of her lover. I saw the complexity in their relationship and did not envy it.
I had hoped that Sir Montague might allow us to retire then and that I might use the occasion to pass my note to Celine and beg her to send it on. However, my luck was out. Sir Montague continued his lustful advances towards her, pushing her backward so she was sitting on the table. He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to force her down into a lying position.
“Montague!” she cried, resisting him. “In company, really?”
He silenced her, trailing kisses down her throat and onto her breasts. I cleared my throat, but he paid no attention. Celine threw me a glance, half pleading and half apologetic, then allowed him to push her down. She flung her arm above her head in an attitude of abandonment. Her hand landed inches from me, a tightly-folded note between her fingers. Snatching it up, I pushed my chair back and got to my feet.
That stopped him.
“Where are you going?” he barked at me.
I gave him a withering glare. “Sir Montague, I am obliged to go along with your strange schemes in many respects. You keep me a prisoner, you deny me friends, you plan to force another woman’s child on me. These things I must bear. But you will not force me to watch you commit your infidelities right in front of me. You are already trying to take my liberty and my honesty. I will not give you my dignity.”
He watched in silence as I stalked out of the room, where Mrs Chapman waited in the corridor to escort me back to my prison where, ironi
cally, I would have the freedom to read Celine’s note.
Ma chere Rebecca,
If you are reading this, then I thank God and all his saints for furnishing me with a way to give this letter to you. I know what Montague intends tonight and now I must beg your forgiveness again. I would not injure you, my dear friend, for the world.
Please be assured, I do not intend to allow Montague to carry out his scheme. I will not have my child taken from me and be forced to spend my life denying that I am its mother. I will not have it brought up as another woman’s child, even if that woman is you. As much as I love Montague I cannot allow him to treat you, me, or my infant this way.
I do not yet know how I shall achieve it, but at the first opportunity I intend to leave. As soon as I can think of a place to go and a means of supporting my child, I shall be gone. Perhaps I shall not have the chance to say farewell to you properly, my dear, but I shall try to let you know where I have gone and hope that you too will find a way to escape. If my child is a girl I shall name her after you in the hope that she will share your fortitude.
Celine
12 The Child
“Darling Lady Rebecca!”
I forced myself not to wince as Lady Cynthia Talbot made a beeline towards me, trilling my name. She and her husband were the first of our guests to arrive, and as soon as she set foot in the Withy Chamber she flung out her hands and dashed towards me.
“Oh, it is so delightful to see you again!” Lady Cynthia chirruped. “Sir Montague, my dear, how kind of you to have us! And what a charming room! Quite original. I have never seen anything like it. One hears stories about the wonders of Willow Castle, of course, but it has been so long since anyone kept company here.”
“Indeed,” Sir Montague said. “We Chastains tend to keep ourselves to ourselves, here in our remote seat. It was good of you to travel so far, Lady Cynthia.”
The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel Page 12
