Nachtstürm Castle (21 page)

The trip back took considerably more time than the journey downwards, so it was just faintly dawn when they finally came upon the last bend to the castle. They were by this time both nearly asleep – keeping each other awake only by the occasional familiar quip – and so neither one clearly saw the faces of the two people toiling their way up from the hermitage towards them. (Indeed, even if our heroes had been alert and the light better, they still would not have recognised one of the faces.)

“Ho!” Henry called out, “Name yourselves!”

The couple, who seemed as nearly exhausted as the Tilneys, looked up. A familiar voice replied, “Sure an it’s Colin, sir!”

“Colin!” both Catherine and Henry exclaimed, to which Catherine added, “Whoever is with you?”

“The missus!” Colin answered, proudly.

By now, they had all come quite near each other and so our heroes could more clearly see who travelled with their man. The face was cheerful, if plain, and undoubtedly English.

“Betty?” Henry guessed.

“M’missus,” Colin corrected.

“Congratulations, Colin,” said Henry. “But might one ask what precipitated such a happy event?”

“Ah, well, sir, y’see, me an the missus, well, we went down a ways to yon chapel – just like y’asked, sir – and, well, I thought to m’self, ‘M’self!
 
Here we have a bride and groom an a priest....’ ”

“Will and Lucia married?” Henry cut in.

“They weren’t there for sommat else!”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Well, as I was saying, sir, I thought to m’self, ‘M’self, here’s a right fine ‘portunity to get tha self settled, far sure an there’s none as like to tha missus.’ An so, soon’s was decent, we had Fr’Andreas hitch us up, whilst Mr and Mrs Wiltford served us
our
witness, so!”

Henry could think of nothing more to say to this than, “You might have waited, Colin. I would have been glad to marry you!”

“Begging yur pardon, Rev Tilney,” Colin said, grinning, “but when you left I had no idea when you’d be a–coming back. An as all were set up right there…!”

“Congratulations to you again, Colin,” Catherine intervened. “And to you too, Betty.”

“Thankee ma’am,” Betty curtseyed.

Colin coughed into his hand. “Which…er…which bring me t’nother bit of news.”

“Which is?” Henry prompted.

“I were a–hoping you’d be willing to let me out of tha service.”

“To stay here?”

His man sighed lustily. “I’ve grown fond o’ this place. It’s near as caught m’fancy, as m’missus has. But,” hastily, “y’may be sure that I’ll miss you both something awful. It’s been an honour serving thee, sir.”

“And a pleasure travelling with you, Colin,” Henry said. Then, “Here, take this poor horse. It’s a steep way up to Nachtstürm.”

So saying, Henry reached back to loose the tether of the second animal and pass the reins over to Colin. With a nod of thanks, Colin rode the mount over to his new bride and swept her up before him. The sun rose as the newlyweds galloped up the slope to Nachtstürm.

“They make a fine pair,” Catherine said, as Henry urged their gig on.

“I had no idea he could ride that well,” Henry opined.

The remainder of the journey was made in companionable silence and at a comfortable pace. They found young Will and Lucia within their chamber waiting excitedly for them and – having finally foisted off the grateful pair’s exuberant thank you’s, kisses, well wishes, and obeisances – they all managed to relate the events of that night. And if Henry realised that Edric’s singular conflagration most likely corresponded with the final vows of the rightful Baron and Baroness, he kept it to himself. And if none of them mentioned the numerous times of mistaken identities, how can we fault them? Should we not have done much the same in their singular situation? And if, during the course that morning, as servants packed up the Tilney’s bags and loaded them onto the carriage, Catherine chose to misconstrue Henry’s promise to Will to speak to the Baron of Branning on his behalf in order to assist the smooth return of the Brandenburg title to its rightful heir, now that all the papers – save only the will – were in the young man’s possession, as the finishing touches of a master–storyteller rather than as sincere reality, let us examine our own fortitude and see whether we would not ourselves prefer a pleasant fiction to a harrowing truth?

Only one incident served to shake Catherine’s regained confidence that Henry had arranged everything: Helga. The dour chatelaine met them around noon by the door, the candle held just under her chin, despite the fine morning hour and the high stained windows.

“Donna Fortuna,” said she, inclining her head to our heroine. Then, in very clumsy English, “You will be come again hier, ja?”

“No,” said Henry, decisively.

Helga ignored him. “You forget not Nachtstürm, ja? You forget not Helga?”

“No,” Catherine said with a white face. “No, I don’t think I
could
quite forget you – or,” with a nervous laugh, “any of this!”

“Gut. You will be need serve? Mit deine serve hier, ja? Mit deine Colin hier, you will be need Helga? Und,” sidling right next to our heroine, “Helga serve Frau Tilney sehr gut.
Helga serve alles Brandenburgs sehr gut.
 
Helga habe das Testament.
 
Ja, Donna Fortuna?”

“
No
,” Henry said, coming between them and snatching away the precious will from her hands. “I’m afraid, madam, that we’ve had quite enough of adventuring without adding whatever mystery
you
might possess!”

“Oh!” Catherine cried, from the warm safety of her husband’s arms. “
Have
you a mystery?”

“No more mysteries, Catherine!” Henry cried.

“But with that horrid actor gone, now, Henry – and I’m sure that we can afford a little more for this generous and gifted troupe….”

“No more mysteries!”

They made their farewells – Henry giving the will directly into the new Baron’s hands, making sure that many witnesses saw him do so – and with no further incident to detain them, they set off at once down the long, winding road and back towards Italy, with no more mention of Nachtstürm and all those they left behind.

One last pilgrimage must be made before our heroes could journey home to England: to the Umbrian Valley they must go to complete Mrs Radcliffe’s course; more precisely to a particular castle there where tours were given. The progress to the castle was uneventful, although the owners attempted to amend this with the grotesquely garbed guards stationed without the open portcullis. Their guide, a hunching man with a thick accent, took especial care to point out the various instrument of torture on display in the front hall, as well as the massive collection of dust upon the rotting dining table.

“The ghosts’ feast!” the guide gleefully cried.

“Shocking,” Henry opined, as they passed by this and into the tangled garden. “One would think ghosts would have far better taste.”

“Terrifying,” Catherine agreed with a laugh.

“But perhaps ghosts prefer wooden eggs and apples to the real thing.”

“You might know, dearest.”

“Having not yet been a ghost, I cannot say.”

From the garden, they passed to the library and from thence to the portrait gallery.

“I say,” Catherine whispered while their guide rhapsodised about the cursed Counts of that castle. “Doesn’t that miniature remind you of someone we know?”

“Who, my heart?”

“The one just there. Hidden behind the fifth count’s bust. Looks rather like that horrid actor, Edric, does it not?”

With a shock, Henry turned and pulled Catherine away. Laughing, “And you are Lucia’s sister!”

The tour finished with the grand announcement that they would now see something to chill the bone and curdle the blood! “For behind this very door, signore, signora, you shall see something no mortal eye has ever witnessed!”

“Then it’s a wonder he knows what it is,” Henry murmured.

“For behind this black veil...”

“Oh, Lord,” moaned our hero. “Not
Udolpho
!”

“I thought you liked Mrs Radcliffe’s work, Henry!” cried our indignant heroine.

“Indeed,” hastily, “I do, my dear. But I had thought perhaps it hadn’t reached quite this far south.”

The poor guide continued despite the rude lack of interest his customers were paying. “This veil you shall see the tomb of a monk...”

“Not
that
, too!”

“Not what, Henry?”

“Nothing.”

“...the
tomb
of a monk who chiselled into this wall a
secret passageway
!”

“Does it lead to a doorless room?” Catherine wondered.

“We could hardly be so fortunate twice,” Henry replied.

“Although they might be the fashion. Like wine cellars.”

“Those are a necessity, love.”

“Then why not secret passageways to the wine cellar? Merely because the English possess no imagination in its architecture does not preclude our neighbours from doing so!”

“Merely because the English write novels does not mean the subject of the same need re–enact them.”

“And I was under the assumption that you loved me!”

“With all my heart,” came Henry’s feeling reply. “I merely have a sudden aversion for secret passageways at the moment. A passing phobia, I’m sure. Good man, do show us this horror. There is nothing we more desire.”

And so, his entire speech ruined, the guide threw open the creaky door to reveal a
memento mori
in very bad condition, within which several birds had nestled in the skull and besides which some servant had carelessly left her duster.
 
The guide closed it quickly thereafter when our heroes could no longer contain their hilarity.

But as our heroes made brief diversion, we might as well.
 
Thus far, we have admirably restrained ourselves from commenting, both philosophically as well as morally, upon the queer events that have taken up this small and frivolous book. But as no story is truly complete without a moral, let us consider what lessons we might gain from our heroes’ example.

Naturally, those who are disinclined to
like
this staple of literature may, as they no doubt already have, close this volume altogether or skip down until they find – please God – the one well–turned phrase within the following pedagogy. I certainly cannot stop such a casual reader, nor, I fear, would all my coaxing incline them towards a contemplative state about such a sliver of ivory. Indeed, it should not at all surprise me were the only readers to savour the necessarily didactic nature of an epilogue were starving scholars who – having slothfully begun their reading in the back of the book ten minutes before class – hope that the last two pages may sum up the entirety of the story and, if truly fortunate, may even comment upon those same events, thus providing the lazy student with profound insight into something they have no intention of knowing anything about.

O!, my casual readers, who have stayed so faithfully with me during the harrowing adventures upon stormy mountaintops, I beg you – if you will not satisfy me with the reading of this chapter – to at least spurn the pleas of those casual students and offer them no recourse beyond joining Catherine and Henry from the beginning of our tale! And, O!, my casual students – should ever you exist – I pray you do not inflict the faithful with your insipidies, nor – worse yet! – ascribe to this trifling tome nuances it does not possess! And at last to both, for the love you bear to me, and more, to the love we bear the originator, do you a kindness and close this flimsy chapter in favour of its far more worthy predecessor, whose name we all well know.