How many hours had passed in this carriage? Dougal stared at the space beside her, frowning and silent. It was as if she were a ghost for all the attention he paid her.
The carriage dipped to one side. She put out her hand to stop herself from sliding to the right. They had come to a halt. Dougal opened the door.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Stuck.’
Buttoning his coat and cursing, Dougal slipped out of the carriage. A wisp of icy air spun around her face before he closed the door again. She heard the two men, their accents thick and confusing, as the carriage jiggled left and right and up and down as they tried to free the wheel. Their foul language came loud in the stillness of the night, their breathing rasped as they laboured, and the mud fought hard to keep its prey. All the while, she held herself upright by pushing against the side of the carriage, fearing she might slide all the way out of the door and be gobbled up by the mud.
Finally, the wheel came free, the horse lurched forward, and the men fell silent. Then the door opened again. Under the moonlight, she could see the dirt on Dougal’s clothes, the specks of it on his silvery skin. Behind him, mounds of black rose from the ground, and in the sky, the stars shone so brightly – like a million white gas jets – that she had to blink to make sure it was not some kind of delusion. But then the sight was gone. Dougal shut the door, grimaced at the state of his filthy fingers, and raised his eyes to her.
‘We will be there soon.’
She drew her furs tight around her neck as the carriage came to a stop. Dougal inhaled deeply, parted the curtains of the cab, and looked out of the window. It was hard to see his features in the darkness, but she was sure she saw him baulk. He tucked his chin into his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, then his hand was on the door and he was striding out of the carriage, leaving Beatrice behind.
With the door open, the cold clutched at her. She felt it climbing up her legs from under her skirt. She shuddered. She would have spent the night in this very carriage rather than step outside into the frozen wilderness.
She edged forward in her seat to peek out at what awaited her. Nothing but blackness. After blinking and trying to understand what it was she saw – or rather did not see – she realised there was a wall before her. She could just make out the jagged line of the roof a long way above and, beyond that, the stars which littered the sky. She stared at those stars as Dougal paid their driver. She heard his brusque tones and his disgust at having to pay anyone so much money, and the stars began to wobble and distort and encircle her as if she were falling into their abyss.
She pulled herself back, shut the cab door, and closed her eyes. She could hear nothing but her own pulse in her ears and felt only her own fingers pinching her forearms.
‘Come on!’
A great thump to her left made the cab shake. She screamed, but quickly pressed a hand over her mouth. She kept her hand there, feeling the wet heat of her breath coming and going against her palm as she listened to Dougal muttering outside. Then a different voice. An English accent, from the scarce few words she could discern. A low voice, gruff – an older man, she thought.
‘She’s waiting for you,’ the voice said.
Beatrice peered out of the window. A man a few inches shorter than Dougal, with long, wiry hair and a beard down to his chest, stood at the foot of a flight of steps. There was something in him, a coldness he had towards her husband, which made her uneasy and yet, at the same time, made her smile.
Dougal waited a few feet from the carriage, glancing up at the house before him. How small he looked in the dim glow of the Englishman’s lamp! He seemed to cower and shrink, and he was just turning to Beatrice when a golden line of light pierced the darkness of the house wall.
A silhouette appeared at the top of the stone steps showing a thin waist, straight shoulders, and a long neck. Shoes echoed as the silhouette stepped into the night to greet Dougal, and finally, as the silhouette neared the Englishman’s light, a woman came into focus. Her dress was made of fine black satin. Coils of thick, dark hair were arranged pristinely on her head and something gold glinted around her neck. The woman smiled at Dougal, and faint lines crinkled around her eyes – eyes which seemed obsidian in this light.
‘You made it,’ she said in an English accent too. Her voice was as soft as a purr. By her feet, there was something like a shadow – several shadows, in fact – morphing and circling and swirling about the woman’s legs. Then the shadows’ eyes caught the light, and Beatrice recognised them as dogs – of all shapes and sizes – sniffing out the stranger who had just arrived.
‘It is so nice to see a familiar face,’ the woman continued, touching Dougal’s arm, her grin widening. ‘I have prepared a room for you upstairs in the family quarters.’
Dougal kicked his toes into the hard ground – the leather would be scuffed, and he would curse himself for it in the morning, Beatrice thought.
The woman opened her arms and gestured to her home, but Dougal remained where he was. He would tell the woman of his wife, Beatrice thought. Any moment now, he would open the carriage door and introduce Beatrice, for it was clear the woman did not know that anyone remained inside the cab.
Beatrice pinched her fur close under her chin. She must not make a fool of herself tonight. There was, what …? Twenty feet of open space between her and the front door. If she moved quickly without looking about herself or looking up at the stars, she would be able to make it. If she remained focused on the door, on the reassuring pressure of her cloak around her neck, she would make the distance easily, with Dougal by her side.
Dougal crushed his toe into the earth again. The woman remained open-armed, smiling, her hand on Dougal’s shoulder as if he needed a guide. And then Dougal walked towards the house.
Beatrice had been abandoned.
The light from the Englishman’s lamp was dimming. The space was growing vast, too black. The carriage was still – where was the driver, the horse? Not a single movement. The only sound was of footsteps retreating.
She would be alone in the dark, outside. She would be food for the animals in the dead of night. She would not see the morning.
She shoved open the door. Bursting out of the cab, she ran for the house, for the light, for the safety of brick walls. The sound of her startled the trio whom she nearly collided with as they stepped over the threshold.
Inside, the light was bright, glaring. She noticed, briefly, the painting of a man above Dougal’s head, then the chandelier with its mass of candles, their wax bodies drooling and oozing. Something wet and cold pushed between her fingers and made her gasp. She looked down to see a little creature jumping up her legs, its one and only eye staring up at her, its muzzle open in a smile, its tail frantically swiping left and right.
‘Beatrice,’ Dougal said, sounding surprised – had he forgotten he was married?
Beatrice pulled her gaze away from the dog. The door to the house – not house, she now realised, castle! – remained open. Outside, the carriage looked terrifyingly small in the vast expanse of dark, empty land as the driver took the reins in his hands and the horse kicked its hooves, eager to leave.
She turned her head the other way and found the woman to her left gazing at her, horrified. Beatrice looked at Dougal again, fierce this time, prompting him to speak, for humiliation was searing her cheeks.
‘Yes … this is my wife, Beatrice. Beatrice, this is Mrs Montgomery, the lady of the castle.’
Mrs Montgomery took her time examining Beatrice. In the brightness, Beatrice studied the woman too. She was older than herself, older than Dougal, but the lines around her mouth and eyes were only very faint in the creaminess of her skin. Her brows and lashes were as black as coal, and her eyes, when they finally rose to meet Beatrice’s, were clear grey.
‘I did not know you were married,’ Mrs Montgomery said, addressing Dougal as she stared at Beatrice. The intensity of her gaze made Beatrice drop her eyes to the flagstones.
‘Alm
ost two years now,’ Dougal said with little enthusiasm.
Mrs Montgomery stepped forward and pressed her hot cheek against Beatrice’s. Her lips brushed the skin close to Beatrice’s ear, and her fingers gripped Beatrice’s hand.
Skin against skin … it was so intimate! And with a stranger! Beatrice had not had contact like that for so long. She broke away.
The woman flinched briefly – anyone who was not watching her so closely would have missed it – but recovered in an instant. A smile crept onto her face, but it was not the same smile she had given Dougal. This one was tentative, unsure.
‘Please call me Clementine. Mrs Montgomery is far too formal.’
Dougal coughed loudly, and one of the dogs jumped up at his legs. He glared down at it until it backed away.
‘We have had a long journey, Mrs Montgomery. My wife needs rest.’
Beatrice felt the heat return to her cheeks. In that instant, she could have struck Dougal for his arrogance, for his assumption that she needed anything at all, for trying to pretend that her needs had ever meant anything to him, but she pushed her hands into the folds of her skirts instead.
‘Of course. Alfred will take your bags.’
The Englishman brushed past Beatrice to grab their suitcases, shoving as many under his arms as he could manage. Dougal insisted on carrying his own small case, a gesture – so Beatrice thought – to show he was not quite as incapable as he appeared. Alfred let Dougal do as he wished and silently made his way to the far end of the hallway with Dougal behind him.
Beatrice lingered beside Clementine. The dogs – there were four of them, she could now see – lay by their mistress’s feet, their heads resting on their paws, their eyes beginning to close.
‘Thank you for staying up to see us,’ Beatrice said, after the silence had stretched for too long.
That smile again, the gleam in the grey eyes … ‘I wouldn’t have missed your arrival.’
Alfred was opening a door in the corner of the hall. He turned and waited, and Dougal was forced to wait also.
‘I am glad you are here,’ Clementine whispered, then blinked, and the gleam vanished. ‘Sleep well.’
She turned her back on Beatrice, and in a moment, she and her dogs had disappeared into a different room. Beatrice followed her husband.
Alfred led them up a spiral staircase. Beatrice ran her fingers over the bare stone as they went, noting the cold hardness and comparing it to the tenderness of Clementine’s skin. She felt as if she had been branded by her.
‘This way.’ Alfred marched along the corridor. The floor was wooden here, though the boards were covered with rugs. A few lamps burned and illuminated the tapestries and paintings which hung from the walls, and the smell was of oil and smoke and a mustiness which she surmised was damp. At the end of the hallway, Alfred opened the door to his left.
Dougal stopped outside the room, his gaze on the opposite door.
‘Are you all right?’ Beatrice whispered, keeping her voice low so that Alfred would not hear them.
Dougal dragged his eyes from the door and walked into their designated chamber.
Inside, the room was smaller than she had imagined it would be. Alfred piled their cases in the corner next to a monstrous press, then brought in an oil lamp from the corridor.
In the dim light, she could make out the room better. The four-poster bed took up most of the space, and though the air had been calm outside, there came a rattling from the windowpanes as if a breeze was gaining. There was no fireplace, and compared to the warm, claustrophobic nature of the hallway, the chamber was bitter.
Alfred straightened, brushed off his shirt, and nodded. ‘Goodnight.’
Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself. Through the window, she could see specks of light in the distance a long way off. In the foreground, just beyond the shadowed courtyard garden, the moon shone over something which she couldn’t comprehend – something silver and flat. She would find out in the morning.
Dougal slumped onto the bed, his shoulders falling into his chest with exhaustion. Yawning, he lifted one leg onto the other and began to untie his shoelaces.
Beatrice noticed the door rattling in its frame. She pushed on it, hoping it might click into place, then let go. Still it moved in the draught. She opened it wide to check the locking mechanism, and the blackness of the corridor shocked her. The lamps had been extinguished. The silence was deafening. It was as if they were in the bowels of the earth.
‘What are you doing?’ Dougal said, startling her.
‘The door is making a noise.’
‘Just lock it.’
She did as she was told and hurried away, focusing on the light in the room.
Dougal was now under the covers in his shirt and trousers, and his eyes were closed. He was ignoring her as he usually did.
Her nightgown was in one of the suitcases. Dougal would not help her find it, and the thought of rummaging through their things at this time of night was too much to bear, so she unfastened her skirt and her bodice, untied her bustle, unhooked her stays, tiptoed over the bare floor in her stockings and petticoats, and slipped into the bed. She cringed at the dampness of the sheets.
‘Would you like the light on, Dougal?’
His eyes opened, as if startled. He threw the covers off and searched for his bag. From it, he retrieved his bible and read to himself as Beatrice shivered and listened to the buffeting door.
Eventually, sleep gave her some peace.
‘Wake up.’
Something hard nudged the fleshy part of her arm. She winced and turned over, her eyelids refusing to open.
‘Beatrice, she’ll be waiting for us.’
She. Who was she? Beatrice fought through the fog in her mind … the train, the soot and smoke, the carriage, the black of the night, so many stars … She was unsure where the line of reality met her dreams. The image of a woman had drifted over her throughout the night. The sensation of her skin against Beatrice’s …
‘Beatrice!’ The curtains screeched against their rails as Dougal threw them open. Light filled the room, and she turned her face into the hard pillow to find the darkness again.
Dougal was muttering grumpily as he readied himself – something about the creases in his trousers, the stench of his clothes. Peeling away from the pillow, she blinked until her eyes adjusted to the morning. Through the window she could see nothing but blue.
‘Get dressed.’ He threw her bodice and skirt on the bed and turned his back on her, regarding his reflection in the looking glass above the chest of drawers.
She dressed quickly, her flesh quivering at the chill of her clothes. Her shoes lay on the floor by the window, and finally she could see what the expanse of silver had been last night. A great swathe of water. The sun rippled along it now like a million gold fins across its surface. It stretched ahead of the castle all the way to the horizon. Infinite. It made something in her chest tighten to think of the vastness of it. To the left, there was an island in the middle of the water where some trees sprouted amidst the foliage; beyond the island she could see the shoreline on the other side of the lake and the faint outlines of a village.
Directly below the room, inside the castle walls, there was a courtyard arranged into neat quarters. The planting in each corner was trimmed into a swirling pattern, and in the centre, where four gravelled paths met, a marble statue rose from the ground. The statue was of a woman, her face tilted to the sky, her lips parted, her body perfectly naked but for a drape of material which fell from her shoulder, over her breasts, and around her hips. Sunlight glinted off the waves of her hair, and Beatrice found it hard to look away from her.
‘Come on.’ Dougal caught Beatrice’s arm and dragged her towards the door.
In the corridor, the lamps were once again burning. Weak daylight came from two slits in the stonework at each end of the corridor where dust motes floated thickly in the air.
Dougal paused outside their chamber as he had done the previou
s night, and stared at the opposite door. His fingers reached for the handle, and Beatrice saw him tremble before he laid his palm flat against the wood.
‘Should we go in?’ Beatrice stepped forward, about to turn the doorknob, when Dougal slapped her away.
‘The dining room is downstairs. That is where she will be.’ He stalked past Beatrice.
She faltered. How she wanted to see behind that door! But Dougal was nearing the staircase and she did not wish to linger alone in the corridor where she could feel tiny fingers crawling up her neck, so she ran after her husband.
Not once did he appear lost. He led her downstairs, twisting and turning through corridors and past endless closed doors until he stopped. He turned to Beatrice, checked her appearance, and smoothed back some hairs that had fallen onto her forehead. The touch of his skin on hers made her gasp – there was an understanding between them to have as little contact as possible. He tensed, his fingers still resting above her brows, his lips pursed and slightly wobbling as if he was struggling to find some words. Then he dropped his hand and opened the door.
The first thing she noticed was the fire – the size of it! A great cavern inside the inner wall, the grey stones streaked black, the flames tumbling and spitting out of the confines of the iron fire dogs. The heat enveloped her as she entered, close behind Dougal, and as she stepped to his side, she saw Clementine at the end of a long, polished table.
‘Good morning,’ Clementine said, standing to greet them. A place was made either side of her. The crockery was of fine porcelain, the teaspoons gilded, the napkins starched and white. Dougal went left. Beatrice went right.
Beatrice felt Clementine watching her as she approached. Another kiss on the cheek awaited her, though this morning Clementine’s skin was cooler, and her lips did not touch Beatrice.
‘Sorry we are late.’ Dougal shook out his napkin and glowered at Beatrice above the tableware.
‘It was my fault; I must apologise.’
Clementine clutched her hand. ‘Do not apologise. You had a long journey. You need rest.’ Her fingers pinched a little too hard. Beatrice saw the white of Clementine’s knuckles as she held on. ‘Would you like some tea? Coffee, perhaps?’
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