The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel (12 page)

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 fetch 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.

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 washed 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.