A Place of Secrets (36 page)

“How did Rapunzel get to the desert?” Darcey asked, confused.

“Same way she got up into the tower in the first place,”
Jude answered. “Magic.

“‘The prince came and waited as usual, but when the witch did not visit Rapunzel at the set time he shrugged and went to stand under the window and called up. The silken rope of hair snaked down and he grabbed it and started to climb. But when he came to the window it wasn’t the beautiful face of his beloved he saw, but the wizened, warty old features of the wicked witch.
“I curse you to see beauty no more,” shrieked the witch and she let go of the plait so that the young man fell. He landed in a bramble thicket where the nasty thorns, obeying the witch’s curse, scratched out his eyes.’”

Aware of the girls’ own horrified eyes upon her, Jude glanced ahead to the next paragraph. No, it was going to be all right.

“‘The prince wandered blind in the wilderness for
many years, relying on the kindness of people he met to feed and clothe him, and searching for his lost wife. Eventually, he stumbled through a desert and found her, living in a humble hut with their twin children. She recognized him instantly and embraced him, and her tears of pity at his blindness and his rags fell upon his face. His eyes were healed and he saw her, worn by sorrow and hardship,
but still, to him, his beautiful Rapunzel.’”

She put the book down and they all sat quietly in thought for a moment.

“Come on, it’s time to snuggle down now,” Jude said. The bed, with its soft mattress, was made up with sheets and a duvet with a cover in a patchwork pattern that complemented the paintwork. “This is so lovely, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” said Darcey, who snuggled down straightaway.

Summer lay on the nearer side of the bed, quietly looking up at the ceiling, her eyes shining in the dusky light. “I’m so glad Rapunzel and the prince found each other,” she murmured.

“And that he was made better,” Jude agreed. “It’s really a story of how love wins through over everything, isn’t it? Things weren’t just happy ever after, though, they probably had some difficulties to overcome first,
but at least they were all together … Now, how are we going to manage things here? Will you two be all right if I shut the door? You’ll still get some moonlight in, but it’ll be warmer.” There were insect nets nailed over the window openings, and a curtain above the doorway, so everything could be adjusted for comfort. “I’m going into the cottage for a very little bit to chat with Euan and your
mum, Summer, but then we’ll be sleeping in the tent, so you’ll know where to find us.”

Summer nodded sleepily. Jude so hoped she wouldn’t have bad dreams tonight.

* * *

When she went into the cottage, she knew at once that something had happened. The atmosphere was charged with tension. Claire and Euan both glanced up at her unhappily. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, we’re fine,”
Claire said quickly, and looked away. It was bewildering. Jude didn’t know whether her presence was welcome or not.

“Have some more wine,” Euan almost ordered her, so she perched on the edge of his new sofa and made small talk.

When the mood failed to lighten she left half the glass undrunk on the coffee table and said, “Anyone mind if I use the bathroom? I’m off to bed.”

“Me, too,” said Claire.

She and Claire crept out to the field together ten minutes later. Claire peeped into the caravan, then went straight into the tent without a word. Jude looked, too. Both girls seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Jude changed quickly into pajamas and bedsocks and got into her sleeping bag, then lay listening to her sister settling herself. “Good night,” she called and Claire mumbled a reply. Feeling
surprisingly warm and comfortable Jude lay thinking over the day’s events, and less comfortably about Euan and Claire, though she couldn’t make sense of that. She tried various hypotheses, then pushed the matter away. Her thoughts moved on to the final part of Esther’s memoir. She hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone about it yet; she hadn’t really assimilated it herself, it was so awful and astonishing.

I rose early the next morning, dressed myself in my black, and was breaking my fast alone when a letter came. Seeing from the familiar hand that it was from Mr Bellingham, I returned to the dining room and opened it eagerly. The message it contained put me in such confusion I had to sit down. The news was just as my father had hoped. Bellingham was interested enough to make representations to the Astronomical Society about the strange comet we had seen and intended to visit us a few days hence. We should be recognized for our discovery! But how terrible that it was too late for my father! I read the letter once more and paced the room, considering. Eventually, I decided. I would not give up our quest. I would stand in my father’s place and present our findings with confidence, no matter that I was just a girl. Nor would I apprise the Pilkingtons of his visit, not yet. With luck my inheritance might be proved and they departed for home disappointed by the time he came.

I heard footsteps in the hall and hurriedly concealed the letter in the drawer of a console table. Not a moment too soon for the door opened and Augustus came in. He stopped, hand resting on the door knob, embarrassed to find me there alone.

‘Isn’t my mother downstairs yet?’ he asked awkwardly.

‘I have not seen her,’ I replied. I felt suddenly sorry for him, this tall, skinny ghost of a boy, caught up in the whirl of his mother’s ambition. He had admired my father. Had anyone ever asked what he wanted in this matter? I thought not.

The day passed in a haze of grief. We all shivered through the funeral itself and the lowering of the coffin into the cold earth, then pretended to be civilized and sociable together over a cold collation in the dining room. It was surprising how many relatives my father still had—mostly elderly cousins or their bedraggled relicts who came out of either curiosity or some vestige of family feeling, or because they were glad of a free dinner. It was a dismal affair, coloured only by the livid glances that Alicia shot me every time I crossed her line of vision.

After the last carriage departed with its last drably dressed occupant, I slipped away to the library to be quiet and alone. There I found the latest of the observation journals and passed an hour or two marking up the relevant passages ready for Bellingham’s visit. It struck me as I did so that it would be useful to sweep the skies tonight for the object in question. It might have moved into Gemini from Taurus, where we’d seen it last March. Suddenly it seemed important to find out. Last night, I’d noticed from the sanctuary of my room, the skies had been cloudless and the wintry stars burned bright, their colours clear. Tired as I was, I was fired with a desire to try tonight.

Supper consisted of the remains of the funeral breakfast. Only Uncle Adolphus ate with appetite, breaking open a bottle of the best port from my father’s meagre cellar. The rest of us picked at our food in stiff silence. I wondered whether Alicia had received communication from her Mr Atticus today, but if so she wasn’t saying. Father’s Mr Wellbourne had attended the funeral, of course, but for some reason he had not come on to the Hall afterwards and there had been no opportunity to speak with him. My future depended on a struggle over a legal document. No one had suggested what might happen to me should Alicia’s side win. I did not think I could stay on at Starbrough Hall, even if she would allow it. But where else could I go? I took another gulp of my port for warmth and courage and excused myself, saying I was going to the library to read and from thence to bed.

Once safe in the library I made my final preparations. Quite how I was to carry the specula, instruments I needed, the journal and a lantern, I did not know, but then I remembered a small handcart, generally kept in the stables to carry firewood and straw and the like. I waited for time to pass, and when ten o’clock struck and the house gradually settled into silence, I crept out into the dark. I threw the yard dogs some bread so they should not bark. My little cat rubbed up against me in the moonlight. The warmth of her fur and the stamping and snorting of Castor and Pollux in their stalls and the sweet smell of their manure were all so familiar and comforting I almost wept at the thought that I might ever have to leave.

The cart had side rails to which I could secure my packages with string, and was so light I could half carry it round to the side of the house and thus avoid trundling it noisily over the stable yard, though my hands near froze on its metal handles. Thick gloves and cord were two more items I must fetch.

One by one, I brought out the astrolabe and the box containing the specula and tied them firmly into the cart. A bag containing a lantern, some smaller instruments and the journal fitted neatly on top. I felt for the key to the tower, deep in the pocket of my dress. It was time to depart.

By this time skeins of cloud had started to drift across the nascent moon, telling me to hurry, for thicker might follow and the night be wasted. I set off, dragging my little cart, squeak, squeak, squeak, across the park, down a slope across the ha-ha, bumping it over the rougher ground towards the woods. The task proved awkward, the cart’s cargo rattling alarmingly over every hummock, and once I gained the narrow path up through the wood, the wheels caught on brambles and bracken. What seemed like hours later, but was probably half of one, I reached the tower, unlocked the door and lit my lantern. Then came the task of transporting everything up to the top. Twice, I had to mount those steps, then to climb the perilous ladder and push open the trapdoor to attain the platform. All this I managed without slipping or dropping any part. This done, I set off down the steps for the last time to fetch the last package.

It was when I was walking upstairs again that I heard a rumbling noise below and stopped, alive to a sudden terror. Before I’d decided whether to race down or retreat up, there came the slam of the door and the clink of the key turning. I was locked in. Was the danger within or without? The shriek of metal on metal told me someone had slid the outside bolt. Without. I ran down the stairs and dashed straight into the cart. Bruised and shaking, I picked myself up and banged on the locked door with my fists and shouted. Then waited. And shouted again. And waited. There was nothing and nobody.

And that had been the end of Esther’s memoir. It was so frustrating. There had been only one more piece of paper, tear stained and crumpled. On it Esther had written in an uncharacteristically untidy scrawl just three short sentences. Jude had read them
several times in the library and now, as she lay in the dark, she tried to remember them. Yes, that was right:

I have been here three days and three nights without food or water or fire. No one comes. I fear to die here alone.

It was as though she heard Esther’s voice in her head.

And drifting into sleep now in the warmth of the tent the same thing happened as had that time when she’d read
about the creation of the library; it was as though she were there with Esther, experiencing what happened next … as in a dream …

On the first night, Esther told herself that it would be all right in the morning. Whoever it was who’d imprisoned her here would be back to explain and let her out. It was a jape, perhaps, or an accident, or done to scare her. She wondered who could have followed her here. The gamekeeper, perhaps, thinking with the master dead that it could only be an intruder. Most likely it was something to do with Alicia. She considered the matter over and over. They’d be looking for her. Susan would search. So would Sam and Matt. Someone had to.

Finally, for courage, she forced herself to continue in her purpose. With some difficulty she wound back the canopy, fitted the specula to the telescope and searched the skies for the curious object she’d found. But tonight there was no sign. It was too late in the year, she decided; a gibbous moon was rising, dimming the stars, and as the night progressed a curtain of thick cloud blotted them out altogether. It began, very gently, to snow. Esther pulled off her gloves to catch the flakes in her upturned hands and lick them up thirstily. Then she climbed down the ladder, shutting the trapdoor, and went to curl up on the small mattress her father kept there. It was damp, but she laid a piece of oil cloth over it and wrapped her cloak around her. She slept fitfully.

The morning was drear and cold, the air smelt of metal. She climbed to the top of the tower, but all she could see was a thick mist. She cried out for help again and again, but her voice sounded small and dull, and when she listened there came no answering call. She half-crawled all the way downstairs and tried the door once more. It was still locked, and all her kicking and shaking barely disturbed its great oak solidity, nor was there any gap to insert a lever, even if she could find something to lever with. She retired upstairs once more.

Next she pulled the journal out of its bag and tore out several pages. On each she wrote a message, then she found two small lumps of flint her father had collected and kept, and a bit of brick, wrapped a paper round each one and dropped them from the roof, praying she’d not be unlucky enough to hit any person or animal. If she was still there this evening—she hardly dare think of that—she could light a candle, but there were only a couple left, together with a collection of stubs, so she wouldn’t waste them now. She paced the room, hardly knowing what to do with herself, panic rising and ebbing, only to rise again, as she struggled to master her fears. Twice she gave way to bouts of sobbing, but when she was calm again she told herself, ‘This will not do.’ She would survive this. Whoever had left her in this plight would not prevail. Her mutilated journal lay on the table. There was a bottle of ink and several pens in a cupboard. As it had many times before, as they’d sat out on the roof together, she and her father, the ink had frozen. Now she warmed the bottle in her hands, then seized a pen, dipped it in and drew the book towards her. Like Sir Walter Raleigh and John Bunyan when they were prisoners, she would keep her sanity by writing. And if she were found too late, then all could read her story. It would be the story of her life.