Castle of Secrets (8 page)

Whatever the
case,
Helena
determined to lock her
door every time she left her room in future. She wanted no more unwelcome
visits.

Simon, Lord Torkrow, arrived in
York
and then made his way to
the office that had sent him Mrs Reynolds. He went in.

‘May I help
you?’ asked the man behind the desk.

‘You supplied
me with a housekeeper, a Mrs Elizabeth Reynolds. I would like to speak to the
person who interviewed her and recommended her for the post.’

‘If I might
have a name?’ enquired the young man.

‘Lord
Torkrow.’

‘I will
apprise Mr Wantage of your visit,’ said the young man, bobbing into an inner
office and returning a minute later to usher him in.

‘Lord Torkrow,
this is a pleasant surprise – an honour, an unexpected honour. I hope all is
well at the Castle? Mrs Reynolds suits, I trust?’

‘Did you
interview her?’ asked Simon, taking the seat that was offered to him.

‘No, that was
my colleague, Mr Brunson.’

‘I would like
to speak with him.’

‘I am afraid
he is not here, he was taken ill on Monday with a putrid sore throat, but if I
may be of assistance?’

‘You met Mrs
Reynolds?’

‘No, I did
not. I read her references, however, and they appeared to be in order. We have
recommended her for positions before, and she has always given satisfaction. I
hope there is nothing wrong?’

‘I would like
to speak to Mr Brunson as soon as he is well enough. You will write to me, and
let me know when he is fit to be seen.’

‘Yes, my lord,
of course, my lord.’

‘Good.’ He
thought for a moment, and then said: ‘Your boy in the outer office. He met Mrs
Reynolds?’

‘Alas no, my
lord. He has only just joined us. His predecessor is sadly demised.’

‘I see. Very
well. Inform me when I might speak to Mr Brunson.’

‘Yes, my lord,
very good, my lord.’

He took his
leave, with Mr Wantage bowing him out of the office, then set about paying
attention to business.

The following morning,
Helena
was awake early, and was
already dressed when Effie entered the room. She wanted to question the girl,
and find out what she had discovered in the drawer in the housekeeper’s room.

‘Good
morning,’ she said.

Effie grunted
a reply, and set about seeing to the fire.

‘I wonder if
you can help me,’ she said. She considered asking a direct question, but
suspected it would produce nothing but anxiety in the girl, as it had when she
had questioned her about the mail, and so she decided to lead up to it in a
roundabout manner.

‘I would like
to make an inventory of the drawers in the housekeeper’s desk – that means
making a list of everything that’s inside them,’ she explained, as Effie turned
and looked at her blankly. ‘I need to know which of the things belong to the
castle, and which belong to Mrs Carlisle. She might want to claim her
belongings when her sister is feeling better, and I do not want to use them by
mistake.’

‘No, missus.’

‘Can you
remember what you saw there when you looked for some string?’

Effie turned
back to the fire hurriedly, knocking the fire irons over in the process. They
fell with a clatter. Effie jumped, picking them up nervously and trying to hang
them back in place, with hands that shook so much she had to make several
attempts before succeeding.

‘Can you
remember what there was?’
Helena
prompted her.

Effie shook
her head.

‘Was there,
perhaps, some writing paper?’

Effie jumped.

‘There was a
letter, perhaps?’

Effie’s mouth
clamped together, and her hands shook as she raked the grate.

‘Do you
remember anything at all?’
Helena
asked.

Effie shook
her head, and concentrated vigorously on her task.

It was clear
Helena
was going to get nothing
from the girl, at least for the moment, so she complimented her on her ability
to lay a clean fire. Her praise went some way towards relaxing Effie, who
picked up the empty bucket and hurried out of the room.

One avenue of
exploration had led nowhere, but she hoped she might have better luck with
another. After taking breakfast with Mrs Beal in the kitchen, she went out to
the stables, for she had remembered something overnight: Mrs Beal had mentioned
that the coachman had taken her aunt to Draycot to catch the stage.

The stables
were situated behind the castle, and the block was well tended. The noise of
horses snuffling came from the stalls, and a glossy chestnut head looked out.

The black
carriage, which
Helena
had ridden in on her journey across the moor, was standing in the stable yard,
and the coachman was polishing the brass lamps.

‘Good
morning,’ she said.

He looked up
briefly and acknowledged her presence, before returning to his work.

‘I wanted to
thank you for driving me across the moor on my arrival here,’ said
Helena
.

‘His
lordship’s orders,’ said the coachman.

‘Quite so. It
was good of him to take me up. It is not every earl who would make room in his
carriage for his housekeeper.’

He grunted a
reply and went on with his work.

‘He seems to
be a good master to work for,’ she said.

He grunted
again.

‘He set you to
drive my predecessor to the nearest town, so that she could catch the stage
coach a few weeks ago, I understand.’

‘Aye.’

‘It was a very
kind thing for him to do. Poor lady, having to leave in such a hurry.’

‘Ah.’

‘And so late
at night. Was it not difficult for you to harness the horses?’ she asked. He
looked at her as though he thought she was a half wit. ‘I’m afraid I know very
little about horses. I have never learnt to ride, and I have ridden in a
carriage only once or twice. But don’t horses sleep, as we do? Did you have to
wake them? Or had they not yet gone to bed?’

‘Horses work
here, same as everyone else,’ he said.

‘Even late at
night?’

‘Whenever his
lordship commands.’

‘It must be
difficult driving across the moor in the dark,’ she said. ‘I am surprised Mrs
Carlisle wanted to venture out in the middle of the night. Did she not think it
would be better to wait until morning?’

‘No.’

A horse
snorted.

‘Was there a
stage coach to take her on when you left her? I hope she did not have to wait
in an isolated spot, all on her own.’

‘I left her at
the inn,’ he said.

‘What a
distressing thing for her, to have to make such a long journey.’

She paused,
hoping he would reply, but he was a taciturn individual, more used to dealing
with horses than with people, and he said nothing, just continued with his
work.

‘Where do the
stage coaches go from here?’ she asked.

‘North.
South,’ he said.

‘And west and
east, I suppose,’ she said in disappointment.

‘Most ways,’
he agreed

‘That is very
convenient.’

He did not
reply. It was clear she would learn nothing more from him, and reluctantly she
left the stable yard. She bent her footsteps towards the castle, but she was
disinclined to go back inside. She feared she would be overcome by the
oppressive atmosphere, and her lack of progress in discovering her aunt’s
whereabouts. Instead, she decided to take a walk. It was a bright morning. The
air was fresh and the sun was shining. There was even a little warmth in its
rays.

She began to
walk across the lawns that led to the outer wall. To her right the drive led
through the arch and out on to the moor. Directly in front of her was a set of
stone steps leading up to the top of the wall.

As she took
the steps, she wondered if the coachman had really taken her aunt to Draycot,
or if he had simply said so on Lord Torkrow’s orders.

In the fresh
air, with the solid feel of the stone steps beneath her, it was easy to dismiss
such suspicions. Why would his lordship make his staff lie? There could be no
reason for it.

She reached
the top of the wall. It was windy, and she pulled her cloak tightly round her.
She looked out across the moors. The landscape looked gentler than it had done
the previous day. The colours were brighter, and the air softer. Far off, she
saw a gleam of yellow. The cheerful colour stood out against the muted greens
of the moor, and she saw that a few early daffodils were in flower, nestling in
a sheltered hollow.

She descended
the steps and went out of the gate, making her way towards the bright flowers,
which were nodding their heads in the breeze. She picked a bunch and then
carried them back to the castle. Taking them into the flower room, she arranged
them in a vase, and then carried them back to the housekeeper’s room.

On the way she
passed the library, and thinking that the fire might need mending, she went in.
She put the vase on the mantelpiece whilst she poured more coal on the dying
flames, then allowed herself a few minutes to look at the books that lined the
walls. She had read a great deal as a child, but after her father’s death there
had been little money for books and she had purchased only two the previous
year. But here was a feast of literature. There were works by Shakespeare,
Marlowe, Chaucer and many more, some in fine covers, and some in books that
were falling apart with age. She took down a copy of
Le Morte d’Arthur
and lost track of time as she became absorbed. She was lost to the world, but
the sound of the door opening shocked her back to reality. She turned round to
see Lord Torkrow standing in the doorway.

‘I have just
been repairing the fire,’ she said, hastily putting the book back on the shelf.

He glanced
round the room, and his eyes fell on the vase of flowers. She was about to
hurry over to the mantelpiece when, to her surprise, his face relaxed. It was
warmer and more open than before, and she felt a rush of some strange feeling
rise up within her. She had not realised he could look so appealing.

‘There haven’t
been daffodils in here since . . . ’ he said.

There was such
a wistful tone in his voice that she held her breath, wondering what he would
say next, but he never finished the sentence. Instead, his voice trailed away,
and
Helena
dare not move. He was
lost in thought, going back to some previous time, and the memory seemed to
please him. But it was made up of pain as well as pleasure, she thought,
because there was a twist to his mouth that cut her to the quick. She was
surprised at the stab of pain that shot through her, because she had not been
prepared for it, and for a moment she saw him not as an enigmatic and
forbidding figure, but as a man of flesh and blood.

What had hurt
him? she wondered. Why did the simple sight of daffodils bring him pain?

He roused
himself, and turning towards her, he said, ‘You have done well.’ He noticed
that she was standing by the bookcase and said, ‘You are interested in books?’

‘Yes,’ she
said.

‘Then you must
use the library. You may choose something to read whenever you wish.’

For a moment
there was a gleam of friendship illuminating the room. It warmed her, as the
unexpected gleam of daffodils had warmed the moor. It relaxed something deep
inside her, something that had long been frozen, but in this strange place and
stranger situation, it started to come to life.

‘Thank you,’
she said.

‘You were
looking at this?’ he asked, going over to the shelf and taking out
Le Morte
d’Arthur
, which she had not pushed back properly.

‘Yes.’

‘Then take it.
I think you will enjoy it.’

He handed her
the volume.

‘It must have
taken generations to assemble a library like this,’ she said, looking round at
the laden shelves as she took it.

‘Yes, it did.’

A sense of
longing welled up inside her. She had no home, and, saving her aunt, no family.
She did not know where she would be in a year, or even a month’s time. She
would have to go where the wind blew her. But he belonged to the castle. He was
lucky. He had his place in the world by right. She sometimes wondered, in the
dead of night, if she would ever find hers.

‘It must be a
wonderful feeling, to have a home, to belong,’ she said.

He looked at
her strangely and she realized that she had forgotten to whom she was speaking.
The gleam of friendship he had shown her had lowered her defences and made her
forget her position, so that she had spoken to him as an equal, but she quickly
reminded herself that she and Lord Torkrow were not equals. They were master
and servant, separated not only by rank but by deception and the disappearance
of her aunt.