Come to Castlemoor

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  “You made quite an impression on Dorothea,” he said. “I’ve never seen her so vivacious. It was almost worth hearing that hideous racket she made on the piano—just to see her so pleased.”

  “I found her quite charming,” I said.

  “She’s a remarkable woman. Incidentally, what did Nicola want?”

  “Why—what makes you ask that?”

  “She seemed so eager to get you alone, so insistent that you go with her to get the bracelet.”

  “She—she wanted to show me her dolls,” I replied cautiously.

  “Dorothea’s famous dolls! Nicola doesn’t give a damn about them, but if you two have some dark secret—”

  “She’s disturbed, Edward. Really disturbed.”

  “Of course she is. That’s why they’re sending her away.”

  “Oh?” I said, very convincingly, I thought.

  “At least that seems to be the plan,” he continued. “I heard Burton discussing it with Dorothea yesterday. One of Dorothea’s old school chums has opened a spa in the south of France. Takes in paying guests, gives them health foods—I think there’s supposed to be a mineral spring nearby. He wants Dorothea to send Nicola there. Personally, I think it’s a grand idea. The girl needs to get away from here, as I’ve told you before.”

  “Edward—” I began hesitantly. “Your rooms are near Nicola’s. Do you ever hear things—in the night?”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Well—noises,” I said inadequately.

  He chuckled, plainly amused by the question. “I hear creaking boards,” he said, “and I hear the wind whistling through cracks in the walls, and I hear all the natural, normal noises of the place—rats in the wainscoting, and creaking of the joints. Rattling chains, stealthy footsteps, anguished moans—I don’t hear those. I don’t doubt that Nicola hears such things—at least in her mind. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered.…”

  “If Nicola’s been telling you tales, forget them. Forget anything she might have said. She’s told me a few whoppers, believe me. I humor her. That’s the only thing one can do—under the circumstances.”

  “She seemed so—so sincere, so convinced—”

  “She always does,” he said firmly.

  We walked on silently. I thought about Nicola and the tale she had related. I thought about the expression on her face, the urgent tone of her voice. In my mind I could see her standing at the top of the staircase. I could see the man coming up—pale face; dark, haunted eyes; golden hair. I could see the shadows swallow him up, hear the shuffling, the blow. It was vivid, and frightening. She had gone down into the dungeons once, she told me that day on the moors, and she had heard something then. She was subject to nightmares, vivid nightmares, and she was under a doctor’s care. The dungeons were horrible, damp and fetid and evil, and no doubt she was obsessed with them. I could easily see why. She would be going away soon. It would be best to forget what she had told me, forget that pale face, those pleading dark eyes that begged me to believe her.

  I couldn’t help Nicola. I could only feel sorry for her.

  We reached the top of the slope. Far away I could see my small house, lights burning in the windows, and all around distant slopes curved black and gray in the moonlight, an occasional boulder projecting up against the horizon. I looked around, finding a strange sort of beauty. I saw a lone tree, a rocky hill, a grassy slope. A faint mist shrouded the land, swirling and parting, and only half-obscuring the scene. Suddenly I stopped. I gave a little gasp of alarm. Edward jumped, startled.

  “What is it!” he cried.

  “There—” I whispered, pointing.

  A figure moved through the mist, running toward the castle. I could not determine whether it was male or female, for it was completely covered with a hooded white sheet. The mist rolled, swirled, the figure disappeared and reappeared, and then clouds passed over the moon, and the moor was black and impenetrable. I saw a spot of white, or thought I did, and then there was nothing but the dark, walls of black surrounding us.

  “What is it?” Edward repeated, calmer now.

  “You saw—didn’t you see—”

  “I saw nothing,” he said, perplexed.

  “But—you must have! It was—”

  “Kathy, what is it? You’re trembling—”

  “You must have seen—” I whispered.

  “There was nothing,” Edward said quietly. “What did you think you saw, Kathy?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “You are tired,” he said. “Nervous, too.”

  “Yes—I suppose that explains it.”

  He laughed quietly. The sound was rich and reassuring. I wondered if I had actually seen the ghostly figure. It had been so real, and yet—so unreal. I closed my eyes. I was extremely tired. My nerves were frayed. I had a throbbing headache. Perhaps Edward was right. Perhaps it had been a figment of my imagination. I had been thinking about Nicola, worrying, and when I looked up I saw the figure. Bella had seen a ghostly figure, too, and she had frankly admitted that she had imagined it after listening to some of Alan’s spooky tales.

  “Describe it to me,” Edward said, grinning.

  “I’m ashamed to,” I replied, still just a bit shaken.

  “A figure in white?” he asked. “One of the famous druid ghosts? The villagers see them all the time. Those ghosts are as common around here as mirages in the desert, and just about as substantial. I’m surprised at you, Kathy. You’ve been listening to too much local talk.”

  “I—I guess I have.”

  “Fear not,” he said teasingly. “I’ll protect you.”

  “It seemed so real, Edward.”

  “So do mirages,” he told me.

  “I feel like a fool—crying out like that.”

  “Nonsense. You just need a good night’s sleep.”

  He was in a good humor as we walked on down the slope to the house. I longed for my soft bed, the solitude of my room, a damp cloth over my eyes. As we strolled across the yard, I peered through the kitchen window. I could see Bella and Alan sitting at the table. Bella would have many questions. I would have to put her off until morning. Edward stood with me at the door. He clearly wanted to say something, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. He finally heaved his shoulders and laughed softly. He doubled up his fist and tapped me gently on the chin, an exclusively masculine gesture that I found endearing. After I told him good night and opened the door, I stood there for a moment, watching him walk away. I doubted that I would have a very restful night. I felt sure my sleep would be filled with many dreams—and nightmares.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The wagon joggled over the moors toward Darkmead. Maud clicked the reins. Two days had passed since my visit to the castle, and I was going to Darkmead to do some shopping. Maud had come for a visit and agreed to drive me to town. I would walk back. The exercise would be stimulating, and it would give me an opportunity to think about my book. Although I had already outlined the first chapter and put my notes in order, I had been unable to begin the actual writing. Every time I took pen in hand I found myself thinking about other things—a face, a gesture, the hang of a jacket, a certain tone of voice. I scolded myself for this lack of concentration and blamed Burton Rodd for haunting me so.

  Maud talked about Bella and Alan, who were currently quarreling. Alan was supposed to have brought a wagon-load of firewood yesterday morning, had failed to show up until the late afternoon, had received a frosty reception from Bella, engaged in a lively argument, and left resolved never to return. Bella had ranted and raved, but I was so engrossed in my own thoughts that I couldn’t show the proper concern. Their arguments were like the bickerings of two small children, and I had no doubt that Alan would come back, sheepish and shy, ready to resume the romance. Maud thought so too, although Bella had told both of us this morning that she had no intention of ever speaking to that one again. Nevertheless, she was busily sewing on the dress she would wear to the bonfire fest
ival tomorrow night, for which Alan was to be her escort.

  “They’re a couple of puppies!” Maud snorted. “Prancin’, yappin’, waggin’ their tails! That big dolt of a nephew—you shoulda seen ’im when ’e came in last night! Big mournful eyes, lip stuck out, ’ead ’angin’ down. A cocker spaniel—to a T! Now, in my day …”

  I listened as she related some of her youthful romantic escapades, but my mind wandered. I looked out over the moors—gray-brown, flooded with sunlight that poured silver-white from a pearl-gray sky. Rocks glittered as though encrusted with chips of mica. It had rained during the night, and I was amazed to see a fuzz of green on the horizon. Maud said there would be wildflowers, purple and white, after a few more rains, when, for a brief span, the moors would be a wonderland, doomed to vanish with the advent of summer. It was hard to visualize these barren acres covered with flowers. I stared out moodily as the wagon jolted along, half-hypnotized by the glittering rocks and Maud’s drawling voice.

  “An’ no one knows where they come from.…”

  “What?…” I had been lost in thought and had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Seven of ’em, there are. Big bruisers—all seven of ’em! Come here two days ago an’ took rooms at the inn, very mysterious. No one knows why, although they say they’re surveyors or somethin’, sent ’ere to study boundaries or some such nonsense. Ain’t logical—seven men! Don’t mean nothin’ good, I’ll tell you that much. Everyone in Darkmead’s wonderin’ just why they’re here. Some say they’ve come to cause contention at the factory. I know for a fact a couple of ’em’ve been hangin’ about there.”

  “What are you talking about, Maud?”

  “The men. Wearin’ suits an’ ties, all clean an’ neat, but disreputable-lookin’ just the same. Saw one of ’em myself as I was leavin’ the farm. ’E was walkin’ along the road, brown suit, yellow tie, a funny instrument in ’is hand. Gave me a start, ’e did, his broad ugly face an’ brown eyes an’ coarse red ’air tumblin’ about ’is ’ead. ’E carried a suitcase, too, ’e did, and from the way ’e looked, there mighta been a body in it.”

  “Nonsense, Maud. The men are probably surveyors, just as they say.”

  “Seven of ’em—all come to town at once? Not bleedin’ likely! I don’t believe a word of it. Strangers don’t come to Darkmead unless they’re just passin’ through. These men’ve taken rooms at the inn, permanent-like, an’ they seem to be waitin’ around for somethin’. Oh, they go out, look over the land with their instruments—four of ’em are out ’ere op the moors today, surveyin’ supposedly. The townsfolk’re nervous, you can bet on it! Somethin’s up. Ain’t no one ’appy about it ’cept the innkeeper’s wife—the hussy in red who ain’t no better than she ’as any business bein’. She’s delighted at ’avin’ all the rooms upstairs filled with great hulkin’ males. I can just imagine the traffic on that staircase.”

  We were passing under the oak trees now, the moors behind us. The wagon rattled over the bridge where I had first seen Edward and Bertie Rawlins. Maud continued to talk about the mysterious strangers. I found her tirade amusing. Every now and then she would turn to me, her lively blue eyes snapping, her lumpy face registering concern. She wore the same sad, drooping black felt hat she had worn the first time I saw her, the same old gray sweater and shapeless blue dress. She smelled of herbs and soil. Her feet were encased in the absurd high-buttoned black boots. I found her thoroughly enchanting, her frankness refreshing, her salty tongue delightful. She was like a character created by Chaucer in his bawdiest humor, brought here to enliven the staid Victorian era.

  She stopped the wagon in front of the milliner’s shop. I climbed down. Maud said, “Ta-ta, luv!” and drove on to carry a packet of herbs to the blacksmith, who hoped to be her next husband. I stood in front of the shop, examining the beribboned bonnets on display in the window. I had had no specific purchases in mind when I decided to come shopping today. I merely felt a need to get away from the house for a while, away from the books and notes and the stack of empty paper that taunted me to get down to work. One of the bonnets looked attractive, and I went inside to try it on. The pink ribbons did not go well with my golden hair. I tried on another one, green satin ribbons festooning a wide black brim, then another and another, and finally decided it was ridiculous to contemplate buying a new bonnet when I would have few occasions to wear it. I examined some material at the piece-goods store, fingering silk and velvet and glazed cotton, buying a bolt of golden-brown linen and asking that it be delivered. I bought a dress pattern, a few yards of ribbon, some hairpins. I left the store, passing the bakery, where delicious smells filled the air, and stepped into the stationer’s shop.

  It was small and quiet, an anemic-looking clerk in shabby brown suit stroking his moustache at the back of the shop. I found some exercise books of cream paper ruled in gray with red margins and decided I must have them. They would be perfect for journals of my progress with the book. I bought some thin orange pencils in an olivewood pencil box and a mahogany ruler with edges bound with brass. I loved the shop—the smell of ink and paper and glue, the boxes of stationery, the multicolored bottles of ink, the table of novels newly arrived from London publishers, their dust jackets sleek and shiny, their pages uncut. I browsed over the table but found nothing of particular interest. The clerk solemnly wrapped my purchases in brown paper, and I left the shop, pausing before the plate-glass window in front to examine my reflection.

  I looked rather drawn and pale, faint shadows under my eyes, skin too tightly stretched over cheekbones, but my hair, pushed back and fastened with pins behind each ear, fell in a luxuriant golden mass to my shoulders. I wore a beige dress printed with tiny brown and yellow flowers, bodice and waist snug-fitting, full skirt turned up slightly at the hem to reveal bits of starched yellow petticoat. Sunlight spilled on the sidewalk as I turned to examine my profile in the dim, smoky glass. I had never considered myself particularly vain, but recently I had been taking extra pains with my appearance. I wondered why. Who did I expect to see me in town today? Had I dressed so carefully for the grim, taciturn men of Darkmead? The thought caused me to smile, and the clerk, behind the window, must have imagined I was flirting with him, for he dropped a whole armload of books, blushing furiously.

  I laughed, turning away from the window. My good humor was restored. It was a lovely day, and I was delighted with my purchases. Why had I felt such lassitude earlier? I must get back and get to work. The long walk back to the house would be invigorating. I looked forward to it.

  I had been so intent on studying my reflection in the glass that I had not seen the two men. They stood a few yards away, watching me. They wore city suits, tight at the shoulders, narrow at waist and thigh, trousers pipestem in cut. Their ties were garish, and both had the broad, coarse faces I associated with the underworld. They looked as out of place here in Darkmead as I myself must look. One man had dark-blond hair and cold gray eyes, a jagged pink scar running across his cheek, and the other had brown hair parted severely to one side, his face pitted with pockmarks. No wonder Maud had been disturbed, I thought. These men had a tough, ruthless look that would have disturbed anyone. I wondered if the others were as brutal in appearance. I had never, to my knowledge, seen a surveyor, but I felt certain a surveyor wouldn’t look anything like this.

  “Hey, now, there’s the first interesting-looking sight I’ve seen since we got here,” the blond man remarked to his companion. His gray eyes were studying me with rude intensity.

  “Not bad,” replied the pockmarked man, “if your taste happens to run that way. Take the innkeeper’s wife, now—there’s a woman.”

  “Too common. Too available. I didn’t know Darkmead produced such tasty morsels as this one here. I wonder if she—”

  “Forget it, Vic. You know our instructions.”

  “Hell, nothing’s going to happen around here for a while yet. I don’t see as it’d hurt anything if I was to just ask her.”

  “Yeah, i
f I thought askin’ was all you’d do. Remember the last time? That little girl in Liverpool and the trouble you got into.…”

  I looked up and down the street, alarmed. Two or three bearded local men stood in front of the inn, smoking pipes and studiedly ignoring the two strangers. A farmer was loading sacks of seed into the back of his wagon in front of the feed store. Three or four young men were examining harness on the porch of the hardware store. Nothing could happen in broad daylight, I told myself, not with all these people around, yet I didn’t like the tone of voice the blond man used. I would have to pass in front of them if I intended to walk toward the square, and that prospect wasn’t pleasing. As I stood there, my heart beginning to pound, the blond man started toward me, his eyes narrowed. The other man gripped his arm, but the blond shook his companion’s hand away. I backed against the stationer’s window. It was only then that I heard the wheels grind to a stop.

  The carriage was a small black victoria with a padded tan leather seat and great gleaming black wheels. A lovely black horse stood in the shafts. I recognized the horse at once. Burton Rodd looked down at me, his fingers curling about the handle of a silky black whip. He glanced at the blond man and shook his head, ever so slightly. It was a simple movement but unmistakably menacing. As the blond backed away, Rodd jerked his head at me. “Get in!” he said sharply, and I hurried around the carriage and climbed up beside him, not daring to refuse. I set my packages on the floor at my feet as Rodd cracked the whip in the air. The victoria lurched forward so quickly I was thrown back against the seat. The harness jangled and a cloud of dust rose behind us as the wheels skimmed over the unpaved road.

  We turned off the main street and drove down a small, tree-shaded road that ran beside the river. I had been busy trying to keep my hair from flying in the wind, but now Rodd allowed the horse to slow to an easy trot. I smoothed the disorderly curls and turned to examine the profile of the man beside me. I saw the touseled black hair streaked with gray dipping forward over the lined forehead, a dark, arched brow, the twisted nose, the pink corners of the mobile mouth, the strong jaw thrust forward a little as he studied the road ahead and carefully ignored me. His fingers still curled about the whip handle. The other hand held the reins loosely yet firmly. He wore tight brown trousers tucked into the tops of his high black boots, and a heavy brown-and-black-checked jacket padded at the shoulders, tight along chest and waist, and flaring at the thighs. His tan silk shirt was rumpled, and his black tie was inexpertly knotted. He was sprinkled with dust all over.