Castle of Secrets

by Amanda Grange

  If you are reading this letter, I must have had to spend longer here than I expected, but rest assured, I will write again soon if I am delayed, otherwise I will see you in Manchester before long.

  Affectionately yours,

  Helena

  She sanded the letter, then folded it and put it in the pocket of her gown, glad to have it near her, for it reminded her that Caroline was not too far away.

  The faint sound of chimes from a far-away clock reached her ears. It was five o’clock. She had an hour before she had to see Lord Torkrow. Her stomach began to growl, reminding her that she had not eaten since that morning, and she resolved to find the kitchen and ask for something to eat. She removed her pelisse and bonnet and then, straightening her shawl, she picked up her candle and went out into the corridor.

  The cook is Mrs Beal, she reminded herself, as she went in search of the stairs down to the kitchen. Mrs Beal and her aunt had been friends, and she hoped to learn something of use.

  The cold from the stone floor bit into her feet, even through the soles of her shoes, and icy draughts lifted the hem of her gown. She walked briskly, feeling some welcome warmth creep into her body with the exercise, and was relieved when she saw the top of a back staircase. She went down the stairs, finding them narrower than those in the hall. Being used by servants, they had no need to be imposing.

  She had never been in such an old building before, and the size of it was daunting. Down, down went the steps, and the walls were shrouded in shadows. Her footsteps had an eerie sound in the vastness, and she had to tell herself that the tap tap following her was nothing but an echo of her own footsteps. Even so, twice she glanced over her shoulder, convinced that someone was following her. The second time, she thought she saw the hem of a gown pulling back into the shadows, but when she turned round and lifted her candle high, there was no one there.

  Unnerved by the incident, she ran down the rest of the steps, but at the bottom she was forced to stop, because she was not sure which way to turn. She peered ahead into the gloom. In the distance, to her left, she saw what appeared to be the top of another flight of steps. She went over to them and descended once more, lifting her skirt in one hand and treading carefully, for the stone was smooth and slippery. She emerged in another corridor, and the smell of damp that had pervaded the stairwell was replaced by the smell of baking coming from a door in front of her. The warm, inviting scent put new heart into her, and as she opened the door she felt her spirits rise.

  The kitchen was clean and well cared for. The table was scrubbed, the floor was gleaming, and copper pots and pans glowed red in the firelight.

  Mrs Beal knows her business, Helena thought. Her eyes ran over a large woman of ample girth, who was standing at the kitchen table. She was wearing a clean dress protected by a floury apron; her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and she was busy kneading some pastry.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Beal, looking up, ‘so you’re here at last! I’ve set the kettle over the fire. I knew you’d be cold.’

  ‘How did you know I’d arrived?’ asked Helena.

  ‘Effie saw you,’ she said, glancing at the scullery maid who was peeling potatoes in the corner.

  She spoke cheerfully, and Helena felt that here, at last, was someone who might be able and willing to help her discover what had become of her aunt.

  ‘You’ll be wanting something to eat,’ went on Mrs Beal, knocking her hands together to remove the flour before wiping them on her apron. ‘Leave those, Effie, and set the cups out on the table,’ she said.

  Effie did as she was instructed, and the cook said: ‘I’m Mrs Beal. I’m pleased you’re here. We’ve been without a housekeeper for far too long. A place like this quickly gets disordered when there’s no one to see to it. The pie’ll be out of the oven in a few minutes and it’ll do you good. You’ve had a long journey, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been travelling all day.’

  ‘And you’ll have walked from the stage. It’s a fair step, especially in the winter, with the wind whipping across the moor and the ground hard underfoot. You’re lucky it didn’t snow.’

  Helena shivered, and Mrs Beale looked at her critically.

  ‘You’re even colder than I thought,’ she said. ‘Never mind tea, you’d better have some mulled wine. There’s nothing like a mug of mulled wine to put new heart into you.’

  She took a pitcher from the dresser and put it on the table, where the scents of cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg soon mingled with the scent of the wine. Taking the poker from its place by the fire, she plunged it into the wine and then poured the steaming drink into a mug. Helena took it gratefully, cupping her hands round it and feeling it warming her fingers. She took a sip, and felt the aromatic drink beginning to revive her.

  As she began to relax, she wondered if she should take Mrs Beal into her confidence, and reveal that she was Mrs Carlisle’s niece, but then she decided against it, for Mrs Beal might feel obliged to tell Lord Torkrow.

  ‘It seems a strange household,’ said Helena, as she watched Mrs Beal work. ‘Lord Torkrow took me up in his carriage and then, when we arrived at the castle, he opened the door himself. He led me upstairs and told me where to find my room, and he means to instruct me in my duties myself. Has it always been this way?’

  ‘There’s usually a footman to open the door, but today’s his afternoon off. We used to have a couple of maids, but they left soon after Mrs Carlisle had gone. They didn’t like to be upstairs without a housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’ asked Helena.

  ‘There’s things said about his lordship in the village. Stuff and nonsense, it is, all of it, but girls will be girls, and if they’re not hearing noises, they’re seeing things out of the corner of their eyes. Their fathers didn’t like it, either, having their daughters here without a housekeeper. Always thinking something’s going on, are people in a village.’

  From Mrs Beal’s demeanour, it was clear that she did not think there was anything going on, and remembering Lord Torkrow’s cold manner, Helena could not imagine it, either.

  ‘Of course, it was different in the old days, when his lordship’s father was alive. Then the castle was full of servants: footmen, maids, valets, page boys, kitchen maids, hall boys . . . ’ She looked around the table as if seeing it surrounded by servants. ‘Jolly it was, at mealtimes. It’s much quieter now.’

  ‘Did his lordship dismiss the servants?’ asked Helena.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Mrs Beal, suddenly less forthcoming. ‘Things change.’ She got up and went over to the oven. ‘I’m ready for a bit of something myself,’ she said, as she took out the pie.

  Helena looked at it longingly. The crust was a golden brown, and it smelled savoury.

  Mrs Beal was about to sit down, when she appeared to remember herself and went on: ‘But perhaps you’d prefer to eat in the housekeeper’s room?’

  Helena looked round. With its cheery fire and its air of wholesomeness, the kitchen was an inviting place. Besides, she hoped to learn something of use.

  ‘No, I would far rather eat here with you.’

  ‘It’s nice to have a bit of company,’ said Mrs Beal comfortably.

  ‘Did the last housekeeper eat with you?’ asked Helena, reminding herself that she was not meant to have known Mrs Carlisle, and that she must speak of her aunt only in the most general terms.

  ‘Sometimes. She liked to take her breakfast in the kitchen with me,’ said Mrs Beal, cutting the pie and putting a generous slice onto Helena’s plate. Steam rose from it, and gravy ran round the plate, whilst large chunks of beef fell out of the pastry casing, with pieces of carrots and turnips.

  ‘It must have been difficult for you since Mrs Carlisle left,’ she said, sitting opposite Mrs Beal and taking up her fork.

  ‘I won’t deny it,’ said the cook. ‘I’ve had to do all the ordering and planning myself. Not that I didn’t do a lot when Mrs Carlisle was here, but we shared it, and it was always useful to have someone t
o ask about the menus.’

  ‘She left in a hurry, I understand,’ said Helena, as she put a mouthful of the pie into her mouth. The pastry was light and feathery, and the meat was tender. She felt her spirits rise, for Mrs Beal was a very good cook.

  ‘Yes, poor lady. It was her sister. She was taken ill. What could Mrs Carlisle do but go and look after her? One night she was drinking chocolate by the fire with me, the next morning she’d left the castle.’

  ‘She left overnight?’ asked Helena, putting her fork down in surprise.

  ‘It was on account of the letter that came,’ said Mrs Beal as she, too ate her meal.

  ‘A letter came late at night?’ queried Helena.

  Mrs Beal looked surprised. ‘That does seem odd, now you mention it. It must have come earlier in the day, of course, but likely she didn’t have time to read it. There’s always a lot of work in the castle, and she was kept busy.’

  ‘It must have been a comfort for her to be able to talk to you about it,’ said Helena.

  Mrs Beal shook her head. ‘She never mentioned it to me. I would have comforted her if I could have done, but I never saw her. She left before daybreak. It was his lordship that told me about it.’

  Helena found the story more and more disturbing.

  ‘She must have had a long walk over the moor. It can’t have been pleasant for her in the dark. I hope she didn’t miss her way,’ she said, hoping to lead Mrs Beal to say more.

  ‘His lordship ordered the carriage for her. He sent her to Draycot, so she could pick up the stage coach from there.’

  ‘That was very good of him.’

  ‘There’s things said about him in the village,’ said Mrs Beal, between mouthfuls of pie, ‘and of course there was . . . yes, well, least said soonest mended . . . but I’ve never had anything but kindness from him. There’s many a master would have washed their hands of a housekeeper, once she’d decided to leave.’

  Helena did not like the sound of yes, well, least said soonest mended but for the present she was more interested in her aunt.

  ‘Did she have far to travel?’ she asked, trying to sound as though hers was a casual interest.

  ‘I don’t rightly know. He didn’t say. “If I’d known, I’d have packed her up a hamper,” I said. “I could have put her up some bread and cheese, and a piece or two of chicken, and some of my apple pie.” I’d made one that morning, and it would have helped her on her way,’ she told Helena. ‘But the poor lady went off with nothing. I’ve often wondered about her, and how she’s getting on.’

  ‘She has not written to you to let you know that she is all right, and to tell you how her sister is?’

  ‘She won’t have time for writing, any more than I have time for reading. Although she did write letters now and again.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Helena, her pulse quickening.

  ‘Yes, to her niece. “She’s all I have in the world,” she used to say to me. A nice girl, by all accounts.’

  ‘That was a strange thing to say, if she also had a sister,’ said Helena.

  Mrs Beal looked surprised. ‘So it was. She must have meant, all I have in the world beside a sister.’

  Helena said nothing. It was becoming clear to her that, although Mrs Beal was very friendly, she did not have an enquiring mind. Thoughts of where the housekeeper had gone and what she was doing had not troubled her. She simply accepted what she had been told.

  ‘And she did not tell you she was leaving before she went?’ asked Helena. ‘How very strange.’

  ‘Folks do strange things when they’re upset,’ said Mrs Beal sagely. ‘My sister once took the cat with her when her daughter was knocked down by a carriage. She meant to put a cushion in the basket, but she took Pussy Willow instead.’

  It was clear to Helena that she would learn nothing more from Mrs Beal. She ate her pie and finished her wine, feeling, first of all her limbs, and then her fingers and toes grow warm.

  The conversation turned to more practical matters. Mrs Beal told her about the castle, and gave her instructions on how to find the main rooms. As they talked of the housekeeper’s room, Helena learnt that, although Mrs Carlisle had taken breakfast and dinner every day with Mrs Beal in the kitchen, she had had her lunch served in the housekeeper’s room.

  ‘I think I, too, will take lunch in the housekeeper’s room,’ said Helena.

  She would be sure of one hot meal on the morrow, before she had to face the moor again.

  ‘If you want a dish of tea at any time, just ring the bell. Effie will answer it.’

  The scullery maid looked up briefly at the mention of her name, and then went back to peeling the potatoes.

  ‘You’ll have a bit of apple dumpling?’ asked Mrs Beal, when they had finished their conversation.

  Helena readily accepted, and by the time the clock struck a quarter to the hour she was feeling almost cheerful.

  ‘I ought to be going to the library. I have to see his lordship there at six o’clock, and it may take me some time to find it.’

  ‘Effie can show you the way.’ Mrs Beal turned round, but Effie was no longer there. ‘Never here when wanted,’ said Mrs Beal, though her tone was not unkind. ‘She must’ve gone to mend the fires. But you’ll soon find the library. Just go up to the hall as I said, and it’s on your left.’

  Taking up a candle, Helena ventured out into the cold corridor once more, but as soon as the kitchen door closed behind her, some of her confidence began to leave her. She felt the cold bite into her, and she was glad of her shawl. After the light of many candles and the glow of the fire, the corridor seemed darker and colder than ever. She hurried along, tripping once on an uneven flagstone, and afterwards not knowing whether to watch her feet, or look at the way ahead. She had an urge to do neither, but instead to look over her shoulder, for she felt sure that someone was following her, but every time she turned round, there was no one there.

  It is just my imagination, she told herself, I must not succumb to fancy. But the shadows danced beyond the light of her candle flame, and seemed to mock her with their shifting presence, assuming monstrous shapes before diminishing as she passed.

  She came at last to the end of the corridor and went up the steps, and was soon crossing the hall. She stopped outside the library door as the clock chimed the hour. She smoothed her hair, arranged the folds of her skirt, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

  Chapter Two

  There was a moment’s silence and then the earl’s voice called, ‘Come in.’

  Helena opened the door and found herself in a large room, its stone walls decorated with hangings and its stone floor was covered with a rug. Two candelabras on the mantelpiece and another one on a large desk in the middle of the room did their best to provide light, but the walls were lost in darkness, save for glints of gold coming from the shadows that hinted the room was lined with books. There was a leaping fire in the grate, and in front of it stood the earl, holding a letter in his hand. He looked up as she entered.

  ‘When I ask to see you in future, I expect you to arrive before the last chime has been struck. I will not tolerate tardiness,’ he said.

  Helena said nothing, not knowing what to reply.

  ‘Well, come in,’ he said.

  She closed the door and stepped forward.

  ‘So. Mrs Elizabeth Reynolds,’ he said, looking down at the letter. ‘You have three years’ experience of housekeeping, two with the Right Honourable Mrs Keily, and one with the Rev Mr Plumley. Mr Keily was in business, I see.’

  An expression of fastidious distaste crossed his face as he said it, and she was forcibly reminded of the fact that he was an aristocrat. He had never had to earn his living, never known the fear of having nowhere to live, nowhere to go. She imagined a long line of ancestors stretching out behind him, reaching back through the centuries, governing the land and living in the castle. How long had he and his family lived there, she wondered, maintaining tradition, keeping the peace, ruling the neighb
ourhood? A hundred years? Two hundred years? Or even longer?