by Alicia Hope
The condescending detachment of youth melted away, and she was engulfed in mortified anguish at the hurt she’d inflicted upon someone who cared for her. When she could galvanise her limbs into action again, she hurried over to the window, and saw Kris yank open the door of his sports car and get in, before roaring away with a squeal of tyres.
‘Anyway,’ Sally was saying, ‘with the father gone, that left Kathryn and her son and daughter to carry on by themselves. Apparently she and her son are devoted to the castle, but the daughter doesn’t share their passion. There are whispers she’s pushin’ for them to sell up.’
Claire-Rose swallowed and shoved the distressing memories of Kris back into their carefully locked compartment in her mind. Blinking away the moisture in her eyes, she forced herself to focus on what she was being told. ‘Did you say sell up?’ At Sally’s nod, she murmured, ‘Well, that’s interesting....’
Just then the dining room door creaked open and the butler came in, wheeling a trolley from which he began serving soup in gold-rimmed white bowls. Tantalisingly aromatic steam arose from the bowls, which were accompanied by platters of warm pumpkin damper and dishes of whipped New Zealand butter. The diners’ appreciation of this first course was obvious from the silence that fell as soon as bowls were placed before them. Some were so preoccupied with spooning the creamy mushroom soup into their mouths, they barely noticed the butler filling their glasses with a pale yellow and delightfully woody chardonnay to accompany the dish.
After a suitable interval during which conversation resumed around the table, the empty soup bowls, most wiped clean with chunks of soft damper, were collected. Main course arrived not long afterward. Its appearance was met with hushed ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’. The slow-baked joint of roast lamb in all its glistening red-brown glory was carved expertly at the table by the multi-talented butler. He’d removed his gloves and donned a starched white apron for the task, along with an appropriately serious and purposeful attitude.
Claire-Rose watched him from under her lashes, wondering idly how much he was being paid. She decided that however much it was, he was worth more. Not only for his butler skills, but also for his ability to charm and entertain. This combination made him a valuable commodity in the hospitality industry.
Running her eyes around the table, she noted all the diners were guests, with Kathryn the one exception.
I guess she’s the only family representative here tonight. Unless....
She looked over at the butler again, who was busy laying out the roast lamb’s accompaniments, and watched him distribute platters of golden-brown individual Yorkshire puddings and roasted vegetables, along with bowls of steamed button squash and sugar snap peas. He’d already placed an ornate gravy boat brimming with creamy red wine gravy in the table’s centre, and had scattered small dishes of freshly-made mint sauce around it.
When he leaned over her shoulder to set down a platter, she caught a hint of his scent, a woody tang that rose freshly above the other delicious, warm aromas. As soon as the food was served, he made his way around the table, unobtrusively pouring crimson New Zealand shiraz into each diner’s red wine glass.
Claire-Rose sampled the meat, and couldn’t remember having tasted such succulent lamb before. She said as much to the others.
‘Of course you know New Zealand is famous for its lamb?’ The beaming Indian, Mandeep, seemed to know his food and rapped out his compliments in quick, staccato English.
Claire-Rose couldn’t help chuckling to herself when he introduced his wife, Randeep. And when Alan leaned over to whisper, ‘What a fine pair, Mandy-n-Randy,’ it was all Claire-Rose could do to stop herself from laughing out loud. She quickly turned her face away from the ‘fine pair’ and put a cautious finger to her lips. Alan just chortled wickedly.
Peter and Jill, the British tourists, were sitting beside Thomas and Selena from Germany, and Claire-Rose caught the punch line of a story Jill was having trouble finishing as she was giggling so much.
‘... and then he said—,’ and her words were lost again in a bluster of choked mirth, ‘he said, “Das ist not eine booby!”’ to which her listeners all threw back their heads and laughed.
Claire-Rose smiled with them and wondered if the Germans were laughing at the joke, or at Jill’s hilarious mangling of their native tongue. In any case, they all looked to be enjoying themselves.
This time the interval between courses was a little longer, so when the velvety baked custard and delicately caramelised pears were served, everyone was ready for this course to begin drawing the meal to a delightfully sweet close.
‘We like to offer our guests meals that might’ve been on the menu during the castle’s heyday,’ Kathryn explained.
By this time they were all in the gentlemen’s drawing room, seated in deep lounges or elegant wing chairs, lingering over freshly brewed coffee and a deep garnet port.
‘And to serve them in a manner appropriate for the day.’ Kathryn glanced at the butler, adding, ‘By the way, may I introduce our marvellous butler and part-owner of the castle. My son, Byron.’
Ah ha! I was beginning to suspect as much.
Claire-Rose beamed at them. ‘Thank you for going to all this trouble, Kathryn and Jeeves ... er ... Byron.’
Her comment met with a smiling nod from Kathryn and a grin from Byron, who didn’t miss a beat in serving another diner the cream and sugar.
‘And I’m glad you do,’ Claire-Rose added. ‘’Cos the opportunity to experience traditional castle-style life is what first attracted me to stay here.’
That, and a powerful yearning to spend time in the castle I’m sure holds answers to an age-old family mystery….
Chapter Three
A Perilous Night
Claire-Rose collapsed onto the big bed and sank into its feather quilt, feeling pleasantly weary and replete after the delightful dinner. When her eyelids drooped, she roused herself to change for bed. Unfastening her trouser suit, which slid easily off her body, she stepped into her pyjamas. Their brilliant whiteness contrasted with the soft tan of her skin and the heavy honey-gold tresses that tumbled over her shoulders. She gave a contented sigh as she slipped beneath the smooth sheets and thick quilt, and snuggled into their warm embrace.
When she felt something leap lightly onto the end of the bed, she looked down to see her new friend, the cat, nestling into the quilt’s folds. He gave his coat a quick lick-wash before finally curling into a purring ball.
‘Well hello again,’ she yawned, adding sleepily, ‘I thought you might come back, that’s why I left the window slightly ajar. You choose your subjects well, Sir Purralot, I’m a sucker for a friendly puddy.’ With another deep sigh, she burrowed further into the bed’s softness.
* * *
The clock on the bedside table read four forty-seven am. Without opening her eyes, Claire-Rose kicked off the quilt with an impatient murmur that was instantly lost in the black void of the room. The bedclothes’ comforting caress had grown claustrophobic, and even the light fabric of her pyjamas felt heavy against her skin.
A welcome drift of early morning air ran its cool fingers across her body. The room was quiet, the night peaceful, but Claire-Rose couldn’t settle. And when she finally fell back into a restless sleep, she found herself in the throes of a dream that held her tightly in its clammy grip….
The oil painting beckoned her. She was drawn to it, but her movements felt peculiar, like she was trapped in a sort of slow-motion replay, walking through fog without moving her feet. The hard floor felt cold and damp. Glancing down, she saw she was barefoot and wearing a floor-length Victorian nightgown. Its soft folds billowed around her legs and its whiteness glowed eerily in the gloom. She raised her head again and her pale hair floated weightlessly around her head like a gossamer halo.
An opening appeared in the dimness to her right. It was a window, set deeply in the thick stone wall. Through it she glimpsed a pool of still water outside, with a castle’s battlements reflected in
its mirror-like surface. In the dream, she continued her trance-like progress toward the painting, drawn to the scene on canvas of a stately ship floating with ease above the ocean’s swell. Lifting her gaze to take in the ship’s image, resplendent in textured oils and encased in a gilded frame, she extended a pale, elegant hand to touch the painting. Her eyes caught the glint of an unfamiliar gold wedding band possessively encircling her ring finger.
As her fingertips brushed the oil painting’s grainy surface, she heard the creak of marine timbers, the harsh cry of gulls, and the heavy slap of salt water against a wooden hull. Her nose picked up the scents of fish and seaweed on the air, and she caught sight of movement on the ship’s oily and salt-sprayed deck. The strains of a conversation floated up to her.
She could just make out the figure of a tall man standing commandingly on the deck. In one hand he held a cheroot, from which he took occasional nonchalant puffs, while the fingers of his other hand were casually hooked into the pocket of his tailored waistcoat. He seemed impervious to the flapping of his heavy coat tails in the rising wind….
‘Captain!’ His voice bellowed above the snarling tempest. And louder again, ‘Captain!’
‘Ay?’ The captain, a stocky man dressed in oilskins, strode over to stand beside him on the blustery deck.
‘Why are you furling the sails, man? With this gale we would make good time.’
‘But sir, the approaching storm—’
‘Storm be damned! Is this ship not capable of withstanding a blow?’ From his impressive height, the well-dressed man glared at the ship’s captain.
In response to the obvious challenge, the captain rose to his full height and raised his voice to announce proudly, ‘That she is, sir. I’ll have you know that since being launched in eighty-five she has made over a dozen trips to many parts of the world, and safely rounded the infamous Cape Horn a number of times.’
‘Well then, she is surely capable of maintaining good speed in this.’
‘But we are entering a bad stretch sir, with treacherous reefs....’ The captain’s pride in his ship was tempered with caution, but it was apparent the other man did not share his qualms.
Putting his face close to the captain’s as though to ensure he would be heard clearly, he growled, ‘I will have you understand this. It is a matter of urgency that I return to New Zealand. I have business of the utmost importance to attend to, and cannot – will not – be delayed by a patch of bad weather. So you will unfurl the sails and take us there with good speed.’
The captain stared uncertainly at him. It was clear this was not a man used to having his orders disobeyed, or for whom disappointment was an acceptable state. Despite the squally conditions buffeting all who braved the ship’s deck, he appeared unaffected. He stood confidently on the pitching surface, and his proud stance, impeccable grooming and fine clothes reeked of money and good living.
The captain tugged on his dripping beard. ‘There’s not many would have the effrontery to override a captain’s wishes.’ He was thinking hard. ‘But if anyone has the right, it be you, sir. My ship’s hold is full to bursting with your timber, a diminishing cargo for tall ships now merchants increasingly favour the new steam ships for transporting their goods. And a Pacific Ocean storm should pose no serious threat to the ship. She has proven herself capable on numerous encounters with the most challenging nautical routes known to man.’ He paused before saying resignedly, ‘Very well, I will give the order—’
Just as the wind snatched the words from the captain’s mouth, Claire-Rose’s eyes were drawn to a growing swell on the storm-dark horizon. She saw the surge curl and sprout an angry white crest. Her eyes widened in fear. The wave was gaining height and ferocity as it tore its way toward the ship, which was once more under full sail and perilously at risk. The enormous swell sucked the ocean from beneath her hull, exposing the ship’s underbelly to the jagged reef below, while the towering wave threatened from above.
Claire-Rose’s slumbering muscles twitched and jerked involuntarily.
In the dream, she tried to shout a warning but no sound issued from her dry throat. She stepped abruptly back from the painting, but to her horror, she could still see the deadly surge approaching from all directions, its grey, frothing threat building and building. The sound of its relentless advance roared in her ears as it bore down on the ship.
And on her.
Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to flee, but it was as though terror had cemented her where she stood. An unfrozen part of her mind registered the earthy taste of blood on her tongue. She’d bitten through the delicate skin of her lower lip.
Sucking in a ragged breath, she looked on, aghast, as the fuming head of deep ocean water reached the ship. A ravenous black mouth opened in the foamy mass. The sinister aperture hung suspended for an instant over the doomed ship, before descending with a crash and swallowing its prey as if it were an insignificant piece of flotsam. Screams from many throats pierced the wave’s howl and tore at her ears, to be swallowed as the monstrosity advanced.
When it reared above her, she cowered and turned away, preparing to be engulfed in its dark threat.
And felt the first lethal droplets stinging her face....
Claire-Rose awoke sucking in a desperate gasp and jerking upright. Throwing up her hands as though to ward off the crashing wave, she jammed her eyes shut against the murderous torrent.
But empty air caressed her quivering fingertips, and her face remained dry. Relief trickled into her veins and she dared to open her eyelids. Filtered morning light and the pleasant décor of her room in the Lodge greeted her.
It was only a dream.
She fell back against the pillows. Exhaling with a thankful ‘Oh’, she released the air her lungs had instinctively drawn in and held as she prepared to be tossed into the stormy Pacific like a sliver of worthless driftwood, there to share the ill-fated Polly Brown’s destiny.
She was certain the ship in her dream was the same one depicted in the painting she’d admired in reception, the one Edward Lorienne was travelling on when it was shipwrecked.
I even dreamed Lorienne persuaded the captain to continue through a storm. She ran a hand through her hair. Mum’s right, I do have an overactive imagination.
Her adrenalin-charged body relaxed. The thump of her heart slowed and its reverberation in her ears faded. Normal sounds drifted into her consciousness again, birds stirring sleepily in the garden outside, the whoosh of a plane overhead, and the faint sounds of early morning human activity. And her nose picked up the first hint of sizzling breakfast bacon on the air.
She closed her eyes again, savouring the delectable euphoria of relief.
Oh wow, I haven’t felt such distress for a long time, not since.…
But this time she wouldn’t let her mind go there. That wound was still way too raw.
Chapter Four
A History Lesson
When Claire-Rose got up, she made herself leave the lingering visions of her dream behind, under night’s dark cloak. Eager to take in the morning’s beauty, she reached down to carefully retrieve her dressing gown from under a warm ball of slumbering feline. He opened his eyes briefly before curling more tightly into the snug spot on the quilt. Grinning, she wrapped herself in the gown’s velvety folds and padded over to the French doors. Opening them with a flourish, she stepped onto the small balcony. It was a fine morning with just a bank of clouds on the horizon to break the cerulean backdrop. Her eyes drank in the clear vista of open ocean, rolling hills and harbour.
This has to be what bliss feels like.
She closed her eyes and lifted her head to take a deep breath of crisp sea air. Her loose, tousled hair tumbled down her back as she raised both arms toward the sky, and stretched her fingers as though to grasp the new day’s freshness and funnel it into herself. Gentle rays of morning sunlight caressed her skin and hair, and she glowed under their warm touch.
Opening her eyes to look into the clear sky, sh
e spotted a large bird coasting on thermals high above. Resting her hands on the balcony railing, she watched the bird’s graceful orbits for a while, musing on whether it was a Royal Albatross from the peninsula’s famous colony. She thought with pleasure of the wildlife tour she planned to take.
I might be seeing you in person soon, my winged friend.
She stood for a while longer in the bracing air, while strange images resurfaced from the dream she’d had right before waking.
That’ll be an interesting snippet to tell Mum, and will make a change from all the tourist blurb – even though the blurb is what she specifically asked me to pass on.
Claire-Rose didn’t notice a pair of eyes watching her from the garden’s outer reaches. If she had, she might have been more careful to close the front of her dressing gown, which had fallen open when she’d lifted her arms. The observer’s eyes roved over her, taking in her sleepwear and the tantalising shape and shadows beneath the fine fabric.
She shivered and pulled the gown tighter around herself. Taking one more look at the view, she went inside to dress.
After breakfast, she noticed the bank of clouds had moved in to join the one hovering ominously above the castle. A good day for indoor activities, she decided, like exploring the castle and taking a city tour. After phoning the tour company to book, she dressed in practical clothes – soft-soled pumps, comfy but well-fitting three-quarter pants, and a pale pink polo shirt. She tied a soft cardigan around her shoulders, in case of nippy breezes or overly enthusiastic air-conditioning.