‘People can be cruel.’
‘I am not against cruelty.’ Clementine levelled her eyes at Beatrice. ‘Some people deserve to suffer, don’t you think?’
The warmth of the room felt as if it was draining away. Suffering … How Effie had suffered. The walking stick, the bloody handkerchiefs … Beatrice tried not to think of all that suffering. ‘Some people, perhaps, but not all.’
‘Not innocents.’ Clementine turned back to her hound and caressed his angled stumps of ears. ‘We must defend the innocents, those who cannot defend themselves. Or else avenge them.’
Suddenly, Clementine pushed out her chair. ‘I have taken up enough of your time, Mrs Brown.’
Beatrice rose quickly. The dogs jumped up and trotted around their mistress, their claws pattering against the stone floor, their tails gaining momentum. Clementine rushed into the hallway and threw on her cloak.
‘Thank you for the tea and biscuits. You really are the perfect little wife, aren’t you?’
Beatrice did not know whether she should have taken the comment as a compliment or not, for she could not observe Clementine’s expression – the woman was already out of the door and pulling her hood over her head. The dogs galloped past her into the downpour.
‘Will you and Dougal come for dinner tomorrow night?’ Clementine shouted against the pounding of the raindrops, squinting at Beatrice over her shoulder. ‘I should like the company.’
Beatrice nodded, though Clementine was no longer watching her. Clementine marched over the grassland and made her way home, her hounds running beside her and throwing their heads back against the driving wind.
Always, Beatrice had hated herself in red. It made her skin seem translucent, the veins too blue at her temples. If only she had completed the sleeve of the violet gown back home, she would have had something far more elegant to wear for dinner tonight.
She could not wear the black – that colour was Clementine’s, for mourning. The blue seemed too bright for such a dreadfully dreary evening. So, the red it had to be.
She stared at herself in the long looking glass in the bedroom, brought over by Alfred some days ago on Clementine’s instruction. In the candlelight – for the dusk had long since fallen – she cringed at the sight of herself. Her attempts at styling her thin hair were pitiful. The dab of rouge upon her lips made her look as if she had a mouthful of blood. The angularity of her features made her seem too sharp to be beautiful.
She turned away from her reflection with a sigh. Best not to look at all, for there was no way she could change herself. She only pitied the people who had the misfortune of looking at her for a whole evening.
She found Effie’s golden chain in a latched box inside one of her drawers. She stroked the single teardrop pearl on it before gently taking it from its box and fixing it around her own neck. The pearl nestled in the hollow between her collarbones and grew warm against her skin, and as it did so, her shoulders eased and the nausea in her stomach ebbed. The reflection in the glass no longer seemed quite so horrific.
‘Beatrice, we shall be late. Hurry yourself.’
By the sound of his voice, she could discern that Dougal was at the foot of the stairs. She imagined him tapping his foot and checking his pocket watch.
He had not wanted to go to dinner at all. Yesterday, when he returned home in the dark, she told him she had agreed to dine with Clementine, and he had trudged to his study, sulking and muttering something under his breath. She went to bed alone and woke at some point in the middle of the night to find Dougal beside her, his back turned and as far away from her on the bed as he could get. This morning he had said little to her, his only words being spoken in derision so that she would know he was displeased with her.
She found her best pair of satin gloves, pushed on her shoes, and grabbed her cloak. Once he saw her coming, he did not wait. He pulled his top hat tighter on his head and made for the door, a lantern in one hand.
The wind gushed into the house as Dougal opened the door. Outside, it was impossible to see anything. The moon and stars were hidden by the clouds, and the light from the lantern extended less than a foot, illuminating only the raindrops which fell like golden spears out of the blackness. Dougal shivered and wriggled inside his coat.
‘A marvellous idea of yours, Beatrice.’ His voice was acidic. ‘Come on.’ He stepped outside.
She peeked out, looking right. In the distance, she could see the dots of light from the castle’s thin windows, though it seemed further away than ever it had done before. She cursed herself for agreeing to the dinner – Dougal was right, of course. She glanced down at her feet and saw the tip of her cream shoes and did not want to go outside.
‘Beatrice, come on.’ Dougal’s hat was already shining with the wet, his face wrinkled against the weather.
‘Let’s not go.’
‘You agreed.’
She glanced again at the castle and saw that the light had dimmed; the distance had increased.
She pulled her cloak away from her throat, for it was restricting her breath. Or was that the corset? She had pulled herself especially tight tonight. Either way, she could not get a good lungful of air. She needed to sit down for a moment to collect herself, to wait until the rain, at least, had abated. She edged backwards.
‘No. We’ll have none of that.’ Dougal clutched her hand and pulled.
She stumbled through the door, and her feet splashed into a puddle, sending icy water splattering up her legs. She gasped and the air stuck in her throat, but she had not a moment to gather herself, for Dougal was dragging her along before she could stop him.
His grip burned against her wrist. She tried to twist out of it, but the more she struggled, the tighter it became.
More than once, she tripped on the hem of her gown and would have fallen into the mud had Dougal not tugged her upright, sending a stab of pain shooting up her arm. Her toes squelched in the wet. Her cloak flapped open, for she had not managed to fasten it properly, and the rain pummelled against her dress. She grasped the rim of her hood with her free hand, but she was weak against the wind; the hood kept falling. She felt the slime of her hair against her face and knew that whatever elegance she had achieved inside was now lost.
And still Dougal marched onwards.
The edges of her vision were darkening. She could no longer feel her feet or fingers. Her tongue tingled, growing numb. Her pulse throbbed. She tried to focus on the swaying lantern as her body swept away from her.
And then there was too much light. She put a hand across her face to shield her eyes as a dark figure blurred before her, and then she fell.
Chapter 4
She woke in a room she had never seen before. Blinking until things became clear, she was finally able to make out the thick spines of leather-bound books which lined every wall, their gold letters glinting like tongues of fire. To her right, heat poured from the burning logs popping and spitting every now and again in the fireplace, and as she gazed down at her outstretched body, she could see steam swirling in the air above her. She touched her face with a gloveless finger and felt the peculiar tackiness of wet skin dried by the fireside. Her hair was damp and brittle but no longer sopping, and sitting up, she realised her feet were bare of shoes and stockings.
Her gown was darkened where it still held the water, and so she got up, tiptoed closer to the fire, and let the heat wash over her. She rolled her head from side to side, sighing as the muscles stretched across her shoulders and down her back but wincing at a sharp pain in her neck which must have been caused by her lying awkwardly.
The door opened quietly. Expecting to see Clementine, she turned with the best smile she could muster but found the maid instead. In her arms, she carried fresh stockings and gloves, a pair of shoes, a towel, and a hairbrush. She did not look at Beatrice as she set the things on the table before the settee.
‘Are these for me?’ Beatrice asked, her voice croaky.
The maid nodded, then took a stocking
and knelt before Beatrice.
‘You have a kind mistress. She should not have gone to the trouble for me.’ Beatrice held still as the maid jabbed the silk over her toes and dragged it up her leg, and she tried not to gasp at the hardness and coldness of the maid’s fingers.
Stockings done, the maid manoeuvred Beatrice to the settee and began taking the pins out of her hair and towelling it dry. Then she brushed it. She did it tersely, pulling the brush through the wet knots without hesitation, ripping the strands and making Beatrice flinch, but there was something about the maid which made Beatrice bite her tongue. Finally, she shoved the shoes onto Beatrice’s feet.
‘Thank you,’ Beatrice said, trying to catch the woman’s eye.
The maid rose, piled the towel and brush in her arms, and walked to the door in silence until, just moments before she disappeared through it, she turned to Beatrice with a scowl on her face.
‘Is she awake?’ A muffled voice from the other side of the door made the maid break her stare. The woman nodded, then walked out.
Clementine poked her head into the room and, on seeing Beatrice, smiled. ‘How are you?’
‘I must apologise, Mrs Montgomery. I don’t know what happened.’
Clementine crept inside, closing the door behind her. She sat beside Beatrice, her eyes roaming worriedly over her features. ‘You fainted, Beatrice.’
‘I am sorry …’
‘You must not apologise.’ Clementine’s eyes flashed with anger, but she inhaled deeply. As she breathed out, she appeared to relax. ‘I do not think dinner is a good idea tonight.’
‘No, of course.’ Beatrice flushed – she had made such a scene! And now the night was ruined and over before it had begun. ‘We shall go home.’
‘Stay for some drinks, won’t you? You are not strong enough to return just yet, I fear. We can remain in here, in the warm. A little sherry will do you good, I think.’
Beatrice eased back against the settee, wishing she could once again lie down and have the heat cocoon her, but Clementine was calling Dougal inside, and in a moment, he was sitting before Beatrice, glaring at her as Clementine poured their drinks. Beatrice focused on the prettiness of the cut glass rather than see her husband’s scrutiny.
‘It is my fault,’ Clementine said as she sank into the space beside Beatrice. ‘I should have sent Alfred with the carriage.’
‘It is not far enough to warrant a carriage,’ Dougal said.
‘In this weather, it is.’ She looked out of the window, though there was nothing to see but their own selves reflected in the darkness, and shuddered. ‘It is a dreadful night. I should have known better.’
‘Please, do not blame yourself,’ Beatrice said.
‘No. Don’t.’ Dougal’s comment was aimed at Beatrice. She felt it like a blow to the stomach.
‘Anyway, no one is hurt.’ Clementine smiled. ‘And we can enjoy a drink together, can’t we, and get to know each other a little more? I have been dying to know, Dougal, just what it is you have been doing these last ten years since you’ve been gone from Dhuloch.’
Dougal sipped his brandy. ‘I have been working, Mrs Montgomery.’
‘As a bank manager!’ Clementine laughed and shook her head. ‘I would never have thought it, Dougal. You, of all people, a bank manager. How clever you must be now.’
Beatrice glanced between the two of them. Clementine smiled, though her eyes were sharp as she observed Dougal. Dougal shrank inwards, blushed, and swirled his brandy in its glass. A thrill rippled through Beatrice to see him so uncomfortable.
‘I was taught well.’
‘By whom? You had a tutor or something like that?’ Clementine turned to Beatrice, grinning. ‘Poor Dougal could barely hold a pen when he arrived, isn’t that right, Mr Brown? How old were you then? Fourteen or so?’
Dougal coughed. ‘Sixteen.’
‘Oh. Had a face like a cherub back then, didn’t you, Dougal? You have grown into a fine man, if you don’t mind my saying. Hamish would have loved to have seen you all grown up.’
Dougal stretched his neck, scratched his nose, and blinked hard. ‘We must return home. Beatrice needs to rest.’
‘Of course.’ Clementine finished her drink and rose.
Beatrice wished to grab Clementine’s hand and beg to stay. She longed to remain in the safety of the castle, in the warm. Let Dougal go home if he must, but let her stay!
‘You will need the rent book and what-not, won’t you, Dougal? Everything is in the study. I tried to make some sense of it myself but I’m afraid …’ She waved her hand next to her head and laughed. ‘I am only a woman, after all. That is why I need you.’ She stepped to Dougal quickly and, before he could dodge her, took his hand. ‘I am so grateful you are here.’
‘Yes. Well. I will do what I can.’ A smile forced itself onto his lips before he retracted his fingers from her grip.
‘Alfred has the carriage outside so you might as well take some things with you now, then you can start work in the morning. I wonder what it is you have been doing these last few days, Dougal? Beatrice says you have taken the parlour as your study, but you have had no work to do in it as yet. I thought you would like some time to settle in, you see, but I should have known – you are an active man, are you not, Mr Brown? You do not like to be idle. So let us go to the study.’
The words confused Beatrice. What had he been doing in the parlour if he’d had no work? She had assumed he would be getting on with work of some importance. She had heard him shuffling about in there, a pencil scratching, drawers being opened and closed. Surely he had not been locking himself in there just to get away from her?
‘It is getting late, Mrs Montgomery. You can send Alfred with everything in the morning.’
‘Nonsense. You might as well take something with you. Alfred is not a pack mule, Mr Brown. He has other duties to be getting on with. This way now.’
The floor was unsteady beneath her, but Beatrice managed to shuffle along behind her reluctant husband.
Waiting by the door, Clementine ushered Dougal out. ‘You know the way, Dougal – through the great hall.’ She turned to Beatrice, holding out her arm, and Beatrice took it desperately, sure that if she did not have someone to hold her upright, she would fall once again.
In the corridor downstairs, the dogs found them and danced around Beatrice, sniffing and licking her bare hands. The little one with the one eye jumped up at her skirts, showing its teeth as if it were smiling at her.
‘They were worried about you,’ Clementine said. ‘Simeon, down! Let Beatrice alone, won’t you? He loves you the most, you know.’
The little dog’s claws tapped the flagstones as it tried to contain its excitement, and Beatrice was just about to stretch down to stroke it when Dougal came to a halt before a door.
‘That’s it, Dougal, through there.’
Dougal gripped the handle, but the door did not open. Clementine and Beatrice waited. The dogs grew more and more impatient until Will howled and Dougal pulled away.
‘Is the door stuck? Terrible things, these old doors, forever swelling and shrinking.’
Clementine extracted herself from Beatrice’s grip and went to the door. For a moment, Beatrice lost her balance and swayed precariously, and she had to push against the stone wall to keep herself erect. Clementine twisted the handle, and the grating of old metal made Beatrice’s skin tingle, then with a shove, Clementine opened the door.
‘It doesn’t get much use anymore. The hinges need oiling. Come along now.’
The dogs raced past Clementine as she came back to help Beatrice again. Dougal remained in the corridor, face averted from the great hall, as the two women hobbled inside.
The sight of it took Beatrice’s breath away. It was ghastly. A vast space – two floors high with two empty fireplaces set into the stone walls big enough for her to stand in and a whole army of dead animals. She felt her jaw drop as she gazed at the many faces staring blankly at her with their black eyes. Hardly a
n inch of wall was bare, and the floor, too, was filled with animals stuffed into various positions.
A tiger tugged at her attention first. It faced them, mounted on a plinth of wood, its lips pulled back to show its teeth, its ears flat against its head, its body impossibly long and lithe. She had never thought when she saw them in photographs that they could ever grow so big.
Behind it, a pride of lions, including a cub, looked as if it had just paused as it wandered through the castle. Above both fireplaces hung guns and ivory tusks like the ribs of a great whale. Some creatures she recognised: deer with their horns like crowns, red foxes behind glass cabinets crouching over mice carcasses, even the huge, grey, armoured face and spike she could name as that of a rhinoceros. Many, however, she could not clearly identify, but she saw the sadness in their faces as they hung all around her, and she thought of the awful suffering they must have endured.
‘A room of death,’ Clementine whispered, her voice low and scratchy.
When Beatrice glanced at her, she saw how Clementine’s jaw worked beneath the smoothness of her cheek, the tip of her nose reddening slightly as if she was struggling to contain herself.
‘I put them all in here when Hamish died. They were everywhere about the house, do you remember, Dougal? Every single wall had a head upon it.’
A tear slipped from Beatrice’s eye, but she wiped it away before anyone noticed. ‘There are so many.’
‘Hamish liked to travel. Africa and India, mainly. He’d be gone for months. Took you with him a couple of times, didn’t he, Dougal? I wonder which of these creatures might have been your kill?’
They turned to face Dougal and found him standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on the floor.
Beatrice shook her head as she stared around the room. ‘How …?’ She could not understand how anyone could want to do something so barbaric.
‘My husband could be a cruel man, Mrs Brown.’
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