Come to Castlemoor (2 page)

During all this time I had become immersed in the Celtic tribes, and while I could hardly have been called an authority, I was more than well versed in their customs and religious ceremonies. Their exotic pagan rites were fascinatingly bloody and bizarre, some so graphically erotic in nature that I couldn't obtain books on them. Such studies were clearly not suited for proper young ladies, the librarian informed me, shocked that I had even asked for such scandalous volumes. I seethed with frustration and did the best I could, all the time waiting for Donald to send for us.

He never did. Three weeks ago his body had been found on the moors. He had apparently tripped and fallen down a crevasse, his body battered on the rocks below. He died instantly. The body was shipped to London. My world collapsed; the funeral was almost unbearable. The minister spoke of golden youth and lost dreams and eternal rest, his voice solemn and monotonous. I could hardly stand by the graveside when they lowered the casket and began to shovel the dirt over it. Bella stood by me, holding my arm, a pillar of strength for me to lean on.

Aunt Clarice wanted me to come back with her. It wasn't at all proper for a young woman to be living alone, she claimed, not at all. I told her it was out of the question. Donald had left everything to me, of course, and I needed neither charity nor sympathy, particularly the kind I would find at the large gray mansion. I had money in the bank, an annual income, and owned a house in Wessex. Nothing could have induced me to accept her offer.

The apartment where I had known such joy became intolerable. It held too many memories, each one painful. I could see Donald striding through the rooms, his hair spilling over his forehead, his shirt opened at the throat, his eyes blazing with intelligence and curiosity. I could see him with a pen in his hand, scribbling furiously at his desk, then pacing up and down expounding his theories, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. There was the fireplace where we had sat and talked, and there was the table where we had eaten bread and cheese and drunk the hearty ale he loved so well. It was too much to bear, and I realized I would have to leave.

Though I was bowed with grief, I knew I couldn't go on this way. Donald had liked to see me full of life and vitality, busy with some project, lively, gay, amusing. The woman with tearstained cheeks and shadowy eyes would not have pleased him at all. I had to find something to tear me out of my lethargy. I decided I would go to Wessex. My brother had left a half-completed manuscript. I might be able to finish it. At any rate, the house was mine, and I thought I would like to live there for a while until I could find some kind of purpose for my life.

Aunt Clarice protested violently, as expected. I needed a husband, she declared, and she reeled off a list of young men she knew who would be only too glad to take my hand in marriage. Though not really wealthy, I was nevertheless an heiress, and London was full of suitable men who would find such a match eminently desirable. I wanted nothing to do with them. The money was mine, and I didn't see why I should turn it over to some man who would spend it as he pleased and relegate me to kitchen and bedroom to obey his orders and satisfy his whims. I was stubborn and independent, and when I decided to marry I would choose my own man. Aunt Clarice took it as just another sign of my barbaric upbringing.

“If you carry on this way, no man will have you!” she exclaimed.

“I'll take that risk,” I replied calmly.

“Impudent! Always were! You go running off to those moors like this, and you'll regret it, mark my word! It isn't decent. Reading about those filthy pagans with their stone circles! I couldn't hold my head up in public when my own nephew published a
book
about them—”

“I see you read it,” I said.

“With horror!” she retorted. “No God-fearing Christian would have such garbage in his home—”

I didn't argue with her. I managed to break the lease on the apartment and arranged to sell the furniture. Now Bella and I stood in the empty room. It was not yet noon. In a few minutes the carriage would be here to take us to the hotel. Our trunks had already been shipped to Wessex, where they would be waiting for us. We each had only a small valise for the journey the next day. I stared at the barren walls, remembering those days when they had surrounded happiness. Bella sensed my mood. She took my hand and squeezed it.

“You know Mr. Donald wouldn't have liked to see you lookin' so sad and gloomy,” she said.

“I know, Bella.”

“He liked you best when you were laughin' and carryin' on. Remember those parties when he'd have his friends come up and you'd be the only girl and they'd all flirt with you, 'n' you'd let 'em tease you? Mr. Donald was mighty pleased when he could show you off.”

“I remember,” I said quietly.

“They were a wild bunch—all them students. Some of 'em mighty handsome, too. Not as handsome as Mr. Donald, though, not by a long chalk! They were all in love with you, Miss Kathy.”

“I never noticed,” I replied.

“Sure they was, every last one of 'em. They were afraid to be too brassy 'cause they knew Mr. Donald didn't want 'em givin' you any ideas. They were brassy enough with me, I can tell you! I was black and blue for days after every one of those parties. Such cheek! No wonder he wouldn't let any of 'em take you out!”

“I never wanted to go out with any of them,” I told her.

“'Course you didn't. You had too much sense. Mr. Donald always said you were going to marry a real gentleman, someone fine and good and worthy of you. He wanted you to have the best. Maybe you'll meet someone in Wessex, Miss Kathy.”

“Maybe,” I said, humoring her. Bella was incurably romantic.

“Someone tall and dashin',” she elaborated. “Rich, too! He'll sweep you off your feet, and he'll be madly in love with you. I'm not just sayin' this, Miss Kathy, and it's God's truth: you're the prettiest girl in London, and if you think I'm lyin', just look in the mirror.”

“Nonsense.”

“Those gorgeous high cheekbones and deep blue eyes, that coppery gold hair! So elegant and refined—”

“Oh, hush!” I scolded.

“It's going to be grand,” she said, “a real adventure! New places, new people! The past is over and done with, Miss Kathy. The future's the thing! I have a feelin' it's going to be lively for both of us.”

“Maybe so,” I said.

“I'm countin' on it!” Bella exclaimed.

CHAPTER TWO

The road was a long, twisting ribbon that stretched for miles and miles, and the mail coach rumbled along at an easy pace. I had never seen such emptiness, such space. The plains were vast, covered with short green grass, rolling in gentle slopes and hills to touch the horizon. Sometimes we would see a farmhouse in the distance, a barn, a round red silo, and cultivated fields, but mostly there were just the hills, green and brown, with a few enormous gray boulders occasionally breaking the monotony. We had left the regular coach hours ago, for it did not come to Castle-moor County, and we had had to wait for the mail coach to carry us to Darkmead, the village on the edge of the moors.

“I'm as sore as sore, and that's a fact!” Bella complained. “Aren't we
ever
going to get to that place?”

“Patience, Bella,” I said. “Just a few more miles—ten or so.”

“It's at the end of the earth!” she protested. “I've never seen so much grass, so much
sky
. I'll bet we haven't passed five farms since we left the regular coach.”

“There are several farms this side of Darkmead,” I told her. “It's a rich agricultural area. They even raise sheep.”

“Sheep!” she cried.

“And wheat and barley. Darkmead is famous for its pottery, too. They have huge kilns there, and clay pits, and glassblowers. Their dishes are shipped all over England.”

“Bully!” she said. “Sounds like a lively spot.”

“Where's your sense of adventure, Bella?”

“I lost it about thirty miles ago,” she said contrarily. “I haven't seen a single man since we left the main station.”

“There'll be plenty in Darkmead,” I replied.

“Lot of good that'll do
us
. We'll be passin' right through that place and headin' for the moors.”

“The house is only a few miles from the village,” I said. “We'll be going there often for food and supplies. Cheer up, Bella.”

“I
am
eager to see that castle,” she informed me. “Imagine people livin' in a castle in the middle of a moor. Must be mighty peculiar folks! And they're going to be our neighbors!”

I nodded, thinking about the letters my brother had written about the mysterious Rodds. Dorothea Rodd was a widow, living in complete seclusion, and her son, Burton, owned the local pottery factory. He had been to Oxford and spent some time on the Continent, cutting quite a figure in society, but now, in his thirties, remained at Castlemoor, a strange and enigmatic figure. Donald had found him extremely unfriendly and wrote that Rodd was both feared and hated by the local people. There was also an Italian girl, seventeen or so, Dorothea's stepdaughter, and a distant cousin, Edward Clark, who had published an authoritative book on the Celts and was now collecting Celtic folk songs. Donald had sent me a copy of Clark's first book and said the man had been most interested in his own project.

I wondered about these people, wondered if I would meet them, if they would be as bizarre as they sounded. Why would people choose to live in isolation, completely cut off from the world?

The coach rolled on and on. Bella was silent, eating chocolates and peering out the window. The empty plains began to take on a more cultivated look, still stark, brown and green, but now we passed fields with rich, loamy earth plowed into neat furrows, some of them already covered with the jade-green crops that would grow tall and turn gold. There were more farms along the way, some quite impressive, with large stone houses surrounded by oak trees. We saw men working behind plows and pitching hay from the lofts of barns. The land grew richer, greener, with trees and wildflowers and a river that flowed sluggishly along its banks. The sky stretched blue and white over everything, but the sun was already sinking, and soon it would be dark. I hoped we'd reach Darkmead soon. I wanted to get to the house before darkness shrouded the moors.

The coach had gone over the road for miles and miles without passing a single cart, but now there were more signs of life. We passed a farmer with a wagonload of fertilizer. Bella coughed and made a face, and I lifted a handkerchief to my nostrils. The farmer cracked his whip, waving his hand at us. Farther down the road a smart rig passed us, coming from the direction of Darkmead. The handsome dappled gray trotted briskly, pulling the neat black surrey with its fringe swaying and its wheels spinning. A woman in a pink dress sat beside a man in black broadcloth, and two flaxen-haired children peered around them. I guessed they were a family who lived in one of the prosperous farms. We passed two farmboys who were walking home from the fields with their rakes and hoes. Bella sat up, all attention now.

We passed a slope covered with sheep, a black-and-white dog barking as they chewed the grass, the sheepherder in leather jacket leaning against a stunted tree and whittling a stick. The sheep spilled down to the edge of the road, baaing and looking at us with placid faces. The coach moved at a faster pace now that we were getting nearer Darkmead. There were many small houses now, and, in the distance, great cavities in the earth that I assumed were the clay pits. The earth was reddish brown, and there were several wooden buildings with tall black chimneys surrounding the pits. I saw men pushing wheelbarrows, tiny from this distance and silhouetted black against the darkening sky.

As we drove into Darkmead, Bella rubbed the smudge of dust off her cheek and patted her long brown curls. I smoothed the folds of my skirt and took down our valises. The coach stopped, the driver opened the door for us, and we climbed out, eager to see the village, eager to stretch our legs. We were in front of the post office, a tiny building on a street lined with stores and shops. The street was unpaved, the sidewalks wooden; the stone fronts of all the buildings were brown and gray, gritty with soot. I could see the small square at one end of the street, oak trees growing around it, and at the other end, a bleak yellow-brick church lifted a tarnished bronze steeple up to touch the dark sky. A wagon of hay stood in front of the feed store, two farmers standing by the horse and talking in subdued voices.

“It isn't London,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

“That's for sure,” Bella replied, tapping her foot.

“Look at the oak trees. I've never seen them so enormous.”

The whole village was surrounded by these gigantic trees, and we could see the mighty limbs projecting up behind roofs and chimneys. A river circled the village, small stone bridges spanning it, and I supposed the water caused the trees to grow so tall. The new leaves gave a greenish cast to the air, and the smell of mud and water and moss permeated the village. It was a pleasant smell, completely different from the oily odors that rose from the Thames.

“I think I'm going to like it,” I said.

“I'm not so sure
I
will,” Bella retorted.

The driver swung the sack of mail out of the coach and heaved it over his shoulder. I asked him where we could hire someone to drive us out to the moors.

“Best try the inn, miss,” he said. “It's down the street a ways. Old Rufus can tell you 'bout anything you want to know.”

“Thank you, driver,” I said.

He nodded his head. “Luck to you, ma'am,” he replied.

Bella and I walked along the sidewalk. It was crowded with people, but none of them paid any attention to us. They studiedly ignored us, although I suspected they were taking in every detail of our dress and manner. I was wearing a lilac-colored dress with a purple velvet bodice and a purple bonnet trimmed with pink and white ribbons. I felt highly conspicuous, but I held my chin firm and lifted my skirts to keep them from trailing in the dirt. Bella sauntered beside me, openly eyeing every man we passed. Most of them were tall and husky with sullen eyes and dark beards, wearing dirty clothes and smelling of the farmyard, but occasionally there was a blond giant with the native Saxon features of this part of the country. Bella was delighted, her feet fairly dancing.