The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel (4 page)

3
The Night of Horror

I

had not imagined, upon seeing the imposing shape of Willow Castle for the first time, that I should ever feel at home there. Indeed, as the days crept by I did not settle in entirely, but I found a few places where I could see myself becoming truly comfortable. The library was my favourite place. It had suffered less than the other rooms from the passage of time and want of maintenance, and I spent many happy hours working my way through the Chastains’ immense collection of hefty leather-bound tomes.

Amongst those books I found several hand-written volumes of the Chastain family history, evidently assembled by one generation after another. They were hard going, requiring me to decipher the hand in which they were written, so although I made a valiant attempt to learn what I could about the family and the castle, I frequently abandoned these books in favour of novels. However, I learned that Willow Castle was of Norman origin and had once been surrounded by a small village named Osier. While the Chastains had been resident in the castle since shortly after the Conquest, the village had apparently been abandoned by all who lived there some time during the 16th century and was eventually demolished. The reason for the villagers’ desertion was unknown.

I longed to wander all over the castle and roam the surrounding countryside, but Mama insisted that I stay indoors and keep to particular rooms.

“
Once you have lived here for a while,” she informed me, “you’ll find that you enter very few rooms in a home like this. At Greycrags we had an entire wing that my brothers and I never set foot in, and for all I know no-one had set foot in since the house was built. The ballroom was opened up once, perhaps twice a year and there were many bedrooms which were all but forgotten. I have warned you before that a surfeit of curiosity is unseemly in a young lady. You had much better channel it into learning how to read the household books and plan menus.”

“
But Mama, you have trained me in these matters all my life!” I replied, biting back my exasperation as best I could.

“
I have given you a general training,” she said implacably. “Now you must learn the particular pleasures and displeasures of your husband. Mrs Chapman and the cook will be able to tell you everything you need to know.”

“
Since they already know how Sir Montague likes the house to be run, should I not just allow them to continue as they are? Surely no-one will want me to be meddlesome?”

“
It is an absolute necessity that you make some small changes as soon as possible. A lady should be guided by her housekeeper, not ruled by her.”

So I spent my mornings conferring with Mrs Chapman, learning about the routine of the castle. Or at the very least, I tried. I asked every question I could think of about Sir Montague’s habits, pursuits and dietary preferences, but she had little information to share. I wondered whether I had made a mistake and she was in fact new to the castle, but when I asked how long she had been there she informed me that she had been in service there from the age of twelve. However, Sir Montague had seldom been at the castle, ever since he had departed for school as a small boy. He had spent a good deal of time travelling in Europe until his father had died, prompting his return. Mrs Chapman, it seemed, was as much a stranger to his tastes as I was – or if she was not, she was determined not to impart any of the information she had to her new mistress. The longer we spent with our heads bent over menus, the more convinced I became that she was not lacking in knowledge, she simply did not want to assist me. She had dominated this house for longer than I had been alive. I promised myself that I would persevere until I finally won her round and could learn about my husband through her. A tedious process, but all part of the price of security.

*

Before I knew it, six days had passed and it was the eve of my wedding. As the sun set I rang for Mrs Chapman to draw a bath for me and while I bathed, Mama came to my room and laid out my wedding clothes. The white lace dress was draped over the back of a chair like an exhausted ghost. The moment I saw it, my stomach began to churn. I stared at it as I dried my hair, almost expecting it to rise up and pursue me all the way back to London. Trying to banish the image from my head, I half-listened to Mama’s attempts at conversation and tried my best to reply until at last I was too preoccupied with nerves to continue.

“I am sorry, Mama,” I said. “I am no company for you this evening. It’s just…”

“
My child, I quite understand,” she smiled at me. “It is natural for a bride to feel nervous. If you prefer I can simply keep you company in silence?”

“
Would you mind, Mama, if I spent this evening on my own?”

“
If that is what you want, Rebecca. Will you come down to dinner, or shall I ask Mrs Chapman to bring you a tray?”

We agreed that I should have a tray, provided I agreed to keep it well away from my splendid white dress. Mama departed, and I tried to read. It was useless. My mind was a whirl of hopes and fears, so much so that I could not concentrate on the page in front of me. Instead I sat before the little arched window and gazed out at the dark valley, trying to make out the shapes of the hills on the other side. It was a vain endeavour. The night was too dark, the sky moody and pitch black as if preparing for a storm, and the neighbouring peaks were completely obscured. I hardly noticed Mrs Chapman slipping in to turn down my bed and light the lamp. I sat and stared into the void until the oil in the lamp had burned low and its light began to dim, forcing me at last to go to bed. I stretched out across the mattress, trying not to think about the fact that I would be sharing my bed the following night, but unable to resist. At length I succumbed to exhaustion and let sleep claim me, the deep and dreamless sleep of the truly terrified.

I was awoken by Mama gently shaking my shoulder.

“
Rebecca!” she cried. “Wake up, child! This is the day we have waited for! Wake up, my daughter, your wedding day has arrived.”

Dutifully I rose and allowed myself to be dressed and fussed over. Mrs Chapman brought me a pot of chocolate and I tried a few sips. Usually I loved the sweetness, the luxurious thickness, the warmth and taste and comfort of it after so many years of the cheapest of tea. Today, though, I could not bear it.  I sent the pot back almost untouched.

“You are a most beautiful bride, Miss Lennox,” Mrs Chapman complimented me as I stood before the mirror. Her tone was grudging, but the look on her face told me that she was telling the truth. I admitted even to myself that I was a credit to my Mama. I looked pale but composed, my slim figure neatly corseted and encased in lace, my thick dark hair piled on top of my head. I looked straight into my own blue eyes as Mama pinned the veil into place. I looked like a stranger to myself.

*

Mama and Mrs Chapman led me down to the parlour as if I were a sleepwalker. I saw nothing, heard nothing, merely walked where I was bid until I entered the room and an unknown voice caused me to snap back to attention. My eyes flickered in its direction and I caught sight of a gentleman, a stranger – a very handsome stranger. He was tall and dark, his hair slightly curled and his face suffused with a permanent expression of sardonic amusement. I liked him at once, before we had even exchanged a word. I liked him a great deal.

“
Ladies,” he acknowledged us with a bow. “Pray forgive the lack of proper introduction. I am Mr Mervyn Chastain, cousin to Sir Montague. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Lennox, Miss Lennox – or Lady Rebecca, as you shall shortly be known.”

Mervyn Chastain kissed Mama’s hand then mine. My heart skipped a beat as he took hold of my fingers. The touch of his hand was warm and welcoming compared to that of his cousin. Our eyes met and I felt the rest of the world fall away. Was I imagining it, or did smile he bestowed on me speak of more than simple politeness? I murmured some courteous nonsense about being charmed.

“My cousin has asked me to act as witness, as I believe you know,” Mervyn said as we sat down to await the appointed hour of the ceremony. “However, he has also made me aware that you have no male relation to give you away. I know it’s a little unusual, Miss Lennox, but perhaps you would allow me to escort you down the aisle? I do not presume to take a place to which I am not entitled, but people tell me that brides are often a little faint and feel the benefit of a gentleman’s arm to lean on. If I can be of service to you there…?”

He left the question hanging. Nerves had tied my tongue in knots, I could do nothing but nod mutely and give him a trembling smile. Then we sat in silence but for the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Presently it struck noon. I jumped as it chimed.

I had never been in the chapel before. It was a tumbledown affair that had once been a magnificent miniature of a full-sized church. My journey to the altar was a short one, past only three rows of pews. An hour before I would have considered that a blessing since it would have left me less time to be nervous,  but now, as I clung to Mervyn’s arm, I could not help but with the aisle a little longer, for it would have given me more time to be close to him.

What a treacherous mind you have, I chided myself. Today of all days your thoughts should be of nothing but your husband and the joy of being a good wife to him. And yet here you are dreaming of his cousin after ten minutes’ acquaintance!

I directed my gaze at my groom and pinned a bright smile on my face. Sir Montague returned it politely, but I thought I detected a hint of boredom, as if he had somewhere else he would rather be. I dismissed the thought as I arrived at his side and Dr Bagshawe began to rumble his way through the ceremony.

*

Without a congregation of guests to sing hymns and recite prayers together, the service was over swiftly. In what felt like a mere few moments, Sir Montague and I had repeated our vows, my finger had a chilly band of gold upon it and my new husband was raising my veil for our first kiss. His slender fingers pinched at the lace as he pulled it up and over my head, and for a fleeting moment I was reminded of childhood terrors, the monster that I had been convinced lived under my bed, my absolute certainty that only the valance stood between me and the creature underneath and that I must never, never allow that thin piece of cloth to be raised…

His hands were on my arms, gripping them tight, pulling me towards him, then his lips were on mine, hard, cold, then he released me and I reeled back. He supported me, a hand on my back, offered me his arm and walked me out of the chapel to the scant sound of applause from Mama and Mervyn.

Our wedding breakfast followed in the castle’s room of state, which I had not seen before. It was known as the Withy Chamber, and when I set foot in it I learned at last why Willow Castle was so named. The Withy Chamber was an immense, pentagonal room, right in the centre of the castle, with a high, arching ceiling. The walls were covered in an intricate pattern of willow branches, not reaching down as if to find water the way a willow tree should but snaking and curling up towards the roof as if they would burst their way out through the dark rock and devour the whole building. It was oppressive one moment, fascinating the next.

We seated ourselves around a long table in the middle of the room and I smiled mechanically as Dr Bagshawe said grace. Mervyn, acting by default as Sir Montague’s best man, stood and said a few words of congratulation to my new husband, wished me joy and proposed a toast. He was seated at my right hand side, and as he resumed his seat I had a fleeting vision of the rest of the party fading away, leaving only Mervyn and me at the table, taking our first breakfast alone together as man and wife.

I shook my head, dismissing the image, and hoped that my face was not flushed. My mouth was dry, so as soon as the toasts were done I reached for my glass of water.

“
Water, Lady Rebecca?” Mervyn asked in teasing tones. “Not champagne? I should have thought you would be in the mood for a more celebratory beverage, now that you’re blissfully allied to my dear cousin.”

He shot a glance at my new husband, who was exchanging pleasantries with Mama. The look Mervyn gave him did not speak of cousinly affection.

“In truth, Mr Chastain,” I replied, “I would much rather drink tea. I tried champagne for the first time on my first evening here and I cannot say I cared for it. Champagne at this time of day… I think I would much prefer tea.”

“
Then tea you shall have, my dear cousin!” Mervyn exclaimed. I raised a feeble hand in an attempt to prevent his making a fuss, but before I could dissuade him he was calling out “Montague!”

My husband turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

“What’s the matter with you, man?” Mervyn teased. “Can’t you see your wife is almost faint for tea? Says she can’t drink this filthy stuff.” He drained his own flute of champagne.

“
My dear wife,” Sir Montague said. “You should have said. Mrs Chapman!” He summoned the housekeeper over and within minutes I had a fresh pot of tea in front of me and a raging crimson blush across my face. My husband turned away from me and resumed his conversation with my mother. Her face was calm, but I could tell by the expression of her eyes that she was furious at the solecism I had committed.

“
Thank you, Mr Chastain,” I whispered to Mervyn, my head bowed to conceal my feelings of shame. A lady may feel embarrassed, but Mervyn was my guest therefore I shouldn’t allow him to see it in case he felt embarrassed too.