Castle of Secrets (2 page)

He turned left
and led her along an ice-cold corridor, and then stopped abruptly at a door
that blocked their way. It was forbidding, made of blackened oak and studded
with iron.

‘Your room is
through the door and at the end of the corridor,’ he said. ‘You will wait upon
me in the library at
six o’clock
, when we will discuss your previous experience, and I will
instruct you in your duties, after which you may return to your own room and
rest. Tomorrow you will start work in earnest.’

Helena
opened her mouth to
reply, but before she could say anything, he turned on his heel and disappeared
into the shadows.

A drop of hot
wax fell onto her hand, returning her thoughts to her own situation, and she
was glad she was wearing gloves, for if her hands had been bare it would have
burnt her.

It was a very
irregular household, she thought, as she opened the door. There had been no
servant to open the door, no footmen waiting in the hall, and no maid to show
her to her room. Even more irregularly, his lordship had shown her the way
himself, and seemed to be intent on giving her her instructions. There was no
lady of the house, then. Feeling the chill from the old stone, she was not
surprised. What lady would want to bury herself in a dank, dark castle on the
moors, with a dark and brooding man for a husband? Earl or no earl, he was the
sort of man to strike terror into the heart, rather than any softer emotion.

She went
through the door, knowing at once she was in the servants’ part of the house,
for there were no tapestries hanging on the wall. She was in a narrow passage
with windows to her left, looking out on to the side of the castle, whilst to
her right was a row of doors. At the end of the corridor was a final oak door
which, gathering her courage, she opened. It was heavy, and it creaked as it
moved, making her shiver. As she went in, ghostly shapes loomed out of the
darkness, and, through the window she saw the moor looking bleak and dour. She
had never seen such darkness before. In her rented room in
Manchester
there had always been a
candle in a neighbouring window, or a glow from a nearby inn, or a flambeau on
the street below. But here there was nothing; nothing but impenetrable
blackness, unalleviated by a star or a sliver of moon.

Feeling
suddenly afraid, she dropped her valise and quickly pulled the heavy curtains
across the window, then hurriedly lit every candle in the room. As the flames
sprang to life, the ghostly shapes resolved themselves into pieces of furniture
that sat, squat and heavy, in the darkly panelled chamber. There was a four
poster bed with dark red curtains, a large oak cupboard, a carved washstand, a
cheval glass and, over by the empty grate, a table and chair.

She went over
to the table and put her candlestick down. Was this where Aunt Hester had
written her letters? she wondered. The surface was scored and pock-marked; it
looked very old.

Overcome with
a sudden loneliness, she took paper, ink, sand and a quill from her valise and
sat down at the desk. Pulling off her gloves, she dipped the quill in the ink,
and began to write.

My dear
Caroline,

I have
arrived at
Stormcrow
Castle
, but something unsettling has happened. I have discovered
that my aunt is no longer here, and, even worse, Lord Torkrow has mistaken me
for the new housekeeper. I cannot think where Aunt Hester has gone. Lord
Torkrow says she left to look after a sick sister, but she does not have a
sister. Why did she lie to him? And where is she?

I, too,
have lied, for I have allowed him to think I am the housekeeper he was
expecting.  I am not easy about it. It does not sit well with my conscience,
but I wanted to find out more about Aunt Hester’s strange departure, and I
could think of no other way. I hope to question the other servants, and, having
done so, I will return to
Manchester
.

I will
probably not post this letter. There do not seem to be many servants in the
castle, and I might be able to speak to them all tomorrow, returning to
Manchester before you could receive it, but I wanted to write because it makes
me feel you are near, and I need to feel I have a friend. The castle is cold
and dark, and it is taking all of my courage not to be afraid.

But enough
of me. I hope you had good luck with Mrs Long, and that you are now her new
companion. You certainly deserve the position, but positions, alas, do not
always go to those who deserve them. What a trial it is for us both, to be
constantly having to seek work!

But perhaps
it is better than the alternative. I cannot decide whether I should accept Mr
Gradwell or not. He is a good man, but is that enough? Are my dreams of love
just that, dreams? Should I put them aside, as I put aside my dolls when I
outgrew my childhood? Is a fantasy of love just another aspect of childhood?
Should I accept a marriage with a good and worthy man as reality? Or is there
more to life than that? Is there really love in the world, the sort that poets
write about, and the kind that troubadours sing about? And if there is, will I
ever find it?

I need Aunt
Hester’s counsel more than ever, but she is not here.

I am
worried, Caroline. Aunt Hester is all I have in the world, except you, my dear
friend. Where can she have gone? Why did she lie to Lord Torkrow? And why did
she not write to me, in order to tell me where she was going? It is
bewildering, but I hope to learn more by and by.

I am sorry
this is such a strange  letter. It must be the atmosphere of the castle that is
unsettling me, for as you know, I am not usually prone to these anxieties. But
it is a strange place, full of shadows and darkness. Lord Torkrow, too, is
strange. And Aunt Hester’s departure is stranger still . . . But perhaps I am
just cold and tired. Perhaps, after a hot meal, everything will assume a more
normal appearance.

If you are
reading this letter, I must have had to spend longer here than I expected, but
rest assured, I will write again soon if I am delayed, otherwise I will see you
in
Manchester
before long.

Affectionately
yours,

Helena

She sanded the
letter, then folded it and put it in the pocket of her gown, glad to have it
near her, for it reminded her that Caroline was not too far away.

The faint
sound of chimes from a far-away clock reached her ears. It was
five o’clock
. She had an hour before
she had to see Lord Torkrow. Her stomach began to growl, reminding her that she
had not eaten since that morning, and she resolved to find the kitchen and ask
for something to eat. She removed her pelisse and bonnet and then, straightening
her shawl, she picked up her candle and went out into the corridor.

The cook is
Mrs Beal
,
she reminded herself, as she went in search of the stairs down to the kitchen.
Mrs Beal and her aunt had been friends, and she hoped to learn something of
use.

The cold from
the stone floor bit into her feet, even through the soles of her shoes, and icy
draughts lifted the hem of her gown. She walked briskly, feeling some welcome
warmth creep into her body with the exercise, and was relieved when she saw the
top of a back staircase. She went down the stairs, finding them narrower than
those in the hall. Being used by servants, they had no need to be imposing.

She had never
been in such an old building before, and the size of it was daunting. Down,
down went the steps, and the walls were shrouded in shadows. Her footsteps had
an eerie sound in the vastness, and she had to tell herself that the
tap tap
following her was nothing but an echo of her own footsteps. Even so, twice she
glanced over her shoulder, convinced that someone was following her. The second
time, she thought she saw the hem of a gown pulling back into the shadows, but
when she turned round and lifted her candle high, there was no one there.

Unnerved by
the incident, she ran down the rest of the steps, but at the bottom she was
forced to stop, because she was not sure which way to turn. She peered ahead
into the gloom. In the distance, to her left, she saw what appeared to be the
top of another flight of steps. She went over to them and descended once more,
lifting her skirt in one hand and treading carefully, for the stone was smooth
and slippery. She emerged in another corridor, and the smell of damp that had
pervaded the stairwell was replaced by the smell of baking coming from a door
in front of her. The warm, inviting scent put new heart into her, and as she
opened the door she felt her spirits rise.

The kitchen
was clean and well cared for. The table was scrubbed, the floor was gleaming,
and copper pots and pans glowed red in the firelight.

Mrs Beal
knows her business
,
Helena
thought. Her eyes ran over a large woman of ample girth, who was standing at
the kitchen table. She was wearing a clean dress protected by a floury apron;
her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and she was busy kneading some
pastry.

‘Well,’ said
Mrs Beal, looking up, ‘so you’re here at last! I’ve set the kettle over the
fire. I knew you’d be cold.’

‘How did you
know I’d arrived?’ asked
Helena
.

‘Effie saw
you,’ she said, glancing at the scullery maid who was peeling potatoes in the
corner.

She spoke
cheerfully, and
Helena
felt that here, at last, was someone who might be able and willing to help her
discover what had become of her aunt.

‘You’ll be
wanting something to eat,’ went on Mrs Beal, knocking her hands together to
remove the flour before wiping them on her apron. ‘Leave those, Effie, and set
the cups out on the table,’ she said.

Effie did as
she was instructed, and the cook said: ‘I’m Mrs Beal. I’m pleased you’re here.
We’ve been without a housekeeper for far too long. A place like this quickly
gets disordered when there’s no one to see to it. The pie’ll be out of the oven
in a few minutes and it’ll do you good.  You’ve had a long journey, I suppose?’

‘Yes, I’ve
been travelling all day.’

‘And you’ll
have walked from the stage. It’s a fair step, especially in the winter, with
the wind whipping across the moor and the ground hard underfoot. You’re lucky
it didn’t snow.’

Helena
shivered, and Mrs Beale
looked at her critically.

‘You’re even
colder than I thought,’ she said. ‘Never mind tea, you’d better have some
mulled wine. There’s nothing like a mug of mulled wine to put new heart into
you.’

She took a
pitcher from the dresser and put it on the table, where the scents of cinnamon,
cloves and nutmeg soon mingled with the scent of the wine. Taking the poker
from its place by the fire, she plunged it into the wine and then poured the
steaming drink into a mug.
Helena
took it gratefully, cupping her hands round it and feeling
it warming her fingers. She took a sip, and felt the aromatic drink beginning
to revive her.

As she began
to relax, she wondered if she should take Mrs Beal into her confidence, and
reveal that she was Mrs Carlisle’s niece, but then she decided against it, for
Mrs Beal might feel obliged to tell Lord Torkrow.

‘It seems a
strange household,’ said
Helena
, as she watched Mrs Beal work. ‘Lord Torkrow took me up in
his carriage and then, when we arrived at the castle, he opened the door
himself. He led me upstairs and told me where to find my room, and he means to
instruct me in my duties myself. Has it always been this way?’

‘There’s
usually a footman to open the door, but today’s his afternoon off. We used to
have a couple of maids, but they left soon after Mrs Carlisle had gone. They
didn’t like to be upstairs without a housekeeper.’

‘Oh? Why not?’
asked
Helena
.

‘There’s
things said about his lordship in the village. Stuff and nonsense, it is, all
of it, but girls will be girls, and if they’re not hearing noises, they’re
seeing things out of the corner of their eyes. Their fathers didn’t like it,
either, having their daughters here without a housekeeper. Always thinking
something’s going on, are people in a village.’

From Mrs
Beal’s demeanour, it was clear that she did not think there was anything going
on, and remembering Lord Torkrow’s cold manner,
Helena
could not imagine it, either.

‘Of course, it
was different in the old days, when his lordship’s father was alive. Then the
castle was full of servants: footmen, maids, valets, page boys, kitchen maids,
hall boys . . . ’ She looked around the table as if seeing it surrounded by
servants. ‘Jolly it was, at mealtimes. It’s much quieter now.’

‘Did his
lordship dismiss the servants?’ asked
Helena
.

‘Ah, well,’
said Mrs Beal, suddenly less forthcoming. ‘Things change.’ She got up and went
over to the oven. ‘I’m ready for a bit of something myself,’ she said, as she
took out the pie.