Nachtstürm Castle (6 page)

“But my master did, oh, most completely.
 
Often they would sit here in secret conversation and bar the door against me.
 
In those last days, the Baron grew madder yet, thinking that he saw the ghost of the woman that he loved everywhere.
 
So long are the shadows of the gypsies in Nachtväl, they can cloud a man’s memory, even to his death.

“The last night I saw my master – how could I know that night would be his last? – he sat just there, just where you are now, and this intruder, this imposter sat beside him telling him stories – oh, such stories! – enough to poison my master’s mind against me, that the Baron banished me from his sight.
 
But that very night, crazed by ghosts and charlatans, my master stood up from his chair, opened wide this window, and threw himself into the chasm far below.
 
We found his body, broken, two days later.
 
Wilhelm found his body, feasted on by crows.
 
A gory fate for the last of the Brandenburgs, for the lords of Nachtstürm Castle.”

“Well!” Henry said with perhaps too much cheeriness.
 
“I hope that story should sate even your appetite, dearheart!”

Catherine expressed herself well satisfied and clapped enthusiastically, which caused Edric a moment of confusion in which he bowed several times and found himself accepting a few coins – which, under other circumstances, would have insulted him mightily.
 
With that, the old servant bade them good night and left them as mysteriously – although rather more mystified – as he’d come.
 
In silence, Henry and Catherine prepared themselves for bed – carefully avoiding the chair in which the late Baron had sat and looking glancewise at the window that had been the Baron’s doom.
 
Set with new glass, as though the Baron had been pushed and not taken his own life, Henry noted.
 
But by whom?
 
That he could not divine.
 
But the desk was heavy and could be dragged before the door just in case.

The rain had subsided to a patter, a lullaby, that sang our heroes to their eventual rest, and that kept them in deep slumber, so they neither woke as an impossible trickle of lamplight filtered through a portion of the wall that had not seemed previously to contain a door, and a pale face glanced within to utter a longing, sorrowful moan like the wind spun off from the storm.

It was a charitable thing for Old Edric to have promised breakfast at the Tilney’s convenience, for the newlyweds, exhausted from travel and harrowing stories, slept well into the morning. The day had broken poorly behind a wall of clouds and a shield of rain that jealously hid the sun from the earth.

Catherine woke first, still unused to her husband’s slight snores. Her dark hair hung in curious shambles around her shoulders since she had not bothered to take out the various pins, although a few had worked their way free in the night. Sitting up, stumbling over Henry’s boots in the half–light, she made her way to the window and pulled aside the heavy velvet drapes. Their room, she discovered, overlooked the steepest part of the cliff, peering down to the village below. The height was nearly dizzying and more than once she reached up to check that the window was clasped securely. To the left, she could just make out – if she strained her neck, eye, and imagination – the natural bridge across the chasm that separated Nachtstürm from the dangerous town of Nachtväl.
 
Catherine smiled, turning to gaze at the sprawled form of her sleeping husband – Henry really was so thoughtful. Even the view from the window was charming.

Since Henry appeared to have no intention of rising, and she found nothing so delightful as snuggling in bed with a novel, she returned to join her groom once more.
 
But by some mystery,
Udolpho
had been misplaced.
 
A frantic search ensued – furniture rearranged, clothes littered the floor, bedclothes pulled aside (despite Henry’s sleepy protestations), even the perilous window was unlatched for a moment as Catherine stuck her head out to look at the fatal rocks so far below for a trace of her beloved Radcliffe. Finally, throwing herself disconsolately in one of the cheery chairs (although not the one that Edric had said was the Baron’s favourite), she saw the volume wedged between...the wall?

Catherine blinked.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed quietly to herself, bending down to touch the book but not remove it – for she could see that it acted as a doorstop for a most peculiar door.
 
Memories of the Abbey flashed through her mind and were immediately discarded. Henry would never plan any true danger for her; she might go through the door with no trepidation.

Two hands pulled and strained against the weight and spring of the curious wall, finally heaving it wide enough for Catherine to jump through before it swung heavily back and was stopped by the book. Pulling her dressing gown around her, satisfied for the moment that
Udolpho
would hold her place, she turned to see what lay beyond the wall.

Naturally, the stairs led down – they could not do otherwise, for the Tilneys’ room was on the highest floor but one. Therefore the stairs also led up, presumably to the servants’ quarters. Upwards held little interest – but down? Catherine shuffled her feet deeply into her slippers, gathered her skirts, and began the descent. Her hand strayed along the wall, gratified that its side was all but freezing. Sconces with extinguished torches in them dotted the curvature, and every hidden door was marked with an iron ring. The sliver of light from her room faded quickly and soon Catherine was walking along quite blind.

The bottom of her stomach clenched and roiled upwards to jitter her heart and make ragged her breath. Her shoulders quivered and her fingers no less as her knees stiffened and refused to bend for the steps. For a few minutes she thought about running back up the stairs, but she screwed her courage to the sticking place and continued her trek downwards, her side pressed against the wall.

She circled forever, groping for the heavy rings that might provide her escape, her heart grown fearful each time she found a door, her throat grown dry as she pushed herself downward rather than open that door. Still she circled, stairs and stairs down she circled, feeling nervously for each step, until her eyes became accustomed to the queer darkness and she fancied she could see the edge of light upon the steps.

Her pace quickened, her lips regained some of their colour, and very soon she completed her spiral to be greeted with the near blinding light of a flaming torch held by a damp and shaggy figure. She threw her arm over her eyes and fled, biting back a scream. The creature pursued her with four feet, pulling on her nightrobe and tearing the hem. Another torch followed behind, bobbing up the stairs slowly, stately, held by a pale disembodied arm. Catherine
did
scream then, which scream echoed through the interminable staircase, fleeing upward to her room as she could not. The creature and the torch advanced, as Catherine – her eyes still smarting from the sputtering light – fumbled for an iron ring.

Horrible moment! The creature raised its head to reveal haunted human eyes, the arm became embodied to a girl like enough to be Catherine’s reflection, and the ring was found, door pushed, and Catherine fallen through to an unknown chamber with a crash and a shout as the exit locked.

The pounds against the door and the creature’s enraged cries were nothing to Catherine’s heart.
 
In her distress, she fancied she heard Henry calling down the stairs – but she must have gone down too far for him to hear, surely? No matter. She was safe now.
 
She would find her way back to her room which must be above her. She would find a more usual staircase and climb that.

A better plan had never been conceived – except for one small inconvenience to the chamber our heroine occupied. Search as she might, the room had no doors. Oh, she might have thrown herself from the window, the adventuresome reader will remark. And so our courageous heroine well might have done, except that the chamber was shockingly deficient in that regard as well. Fortunately, someone had seen fit to light a votive candle beneath a great portrait that covered the most part of the far wall.

Since the room was arranged with very little else to do, boasting only a long table, a few writing utensils, several chairs and, curiously enough, a bowlful of fresh grapes, Catherine did the sensible thing and examined the portrait.

The artist, long forgotten, was thorough, Catherine must admit.
 
She had never seen more beautiful beaded embroidery on satin. The sash, too, was a lovely rose and gold print. But the face was lost in the shadows of the ceiling. Dragging over a chair, Catherine clambered up, raising the candle far above her head to see the mysterious woman’s face.
 
Yes, there her arms, there her modestly bared shoulder, there her chin... Catherine strained but could reach no higher. But this had been a man’s room and the furniture was sturdy and plain. She could balance on the arms. Fearing that she might slip if she attempted the deed in her slippers, she discarded these and climbed upon the arms in bare feet. Ah,
now
she was high enough, now the face was visible! Yes, there the stately neck, there the gentle curve of the jaw, there the broad heart–shaped face, there the sweet turn of the lips, and there dainty nose, coral ear, and dark joyful eyes.

There, in fact, was Catherine.

What a picture was this! The one dressed like a haunt, the flair of her nightrobe fluttering from her shaking hand, her face blanched, and her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders – illuminated by the same light that illuminated her portrait in the strange garb of a bygone era!

A patter and a clatter sounded from somewhere outside, but Catherine so taken with shock and astonishment could only stare at her own foreign likeness. She lowered the candle, and looked at the portrait’s arm, as though expecting to find a torch within its painted palm. Her toes curled downward as she leaned forward to touch the portrait’s face, thus fortunately steadying herself when the hidden door burst inward.

“Catherine! Frau Tilney! Missus Tilney!” were yelled simultaneously by Henry, William (who was very shaggy and soggy), and Colin. Behind them followed the pale girl with the torch, who stared sombrely at Catherine and the portrait as though she knew that her own likeness made a third in their small mirror.
 
She said with a respect Catherine had not heard before, “Donna Fortuna.”

“Oh, enough of that,” Henry muttered, striding to his bride and helping her down. As she passed the candle to Colin, though, they all saw the portrait and suspicious glances passed between Catherine, the girl, and the lady.

“Coo,” Colin whispered.

“Quite,” Henry agreed, looking again at the portrait.

“Prego.
 
Scusi!” the girl cried, as the travellers with one accord turned to face her. She cast a worried, sorry look at William – who was soaked through, Catherine noticed – and fled down the stairs. William hesitated long enough to thrust the latch to the door into Colin’s hand, and then with a short bow, hurried after.

“He’ll catch pneumonia,” Henry observed.

“Breakfast,” Colin agreed, staring wide–eyed at the weird room. “M’stomach’s rumbling. I must need sum breakfast.”

The thought of food was agreeable to them all and they were about to leave that strange room when a bit of red ribbon caught Henry’s notice. Excusing himself, he strode to the table, picked up something white, and returned with the most curious expression on his face. “Letters,” he said briefly, turning the package over and over in his hand. His sober tone lasted a minute longer as they began their ascent, before he laughed and asked, “I don’t suppose, Catherine, you found a wealth of diamonds, or something equally valuable down there?”

“Nothing, dearest,” she said, stepping over
Udolpho
and into their comfortable quarters. She hesitated a moment, glancing at the winding steps below, and pulled the book out from the wall, gratified to hear the lock boom shut.

Colin at once set out in search of breakfast for all of them, leaving Henry and Catherine to examine the letters. A few candles had been lit casting a warm glow around the bed and hearth and shrouding the strange wall in shadows. The abrupt change from the corridor to the half–lit room was startling, like stepping from the undiscovered country to an afternoon tea.