Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  Dougal cleared his throat. ‘I thought our point here was to go to the study.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Let us not grow melancholy. This way.’

  Clementine led them through the jungle of stuffed creatures. Every so often, Beatrice stretched out her fingers to feel the fur of one of them, then shivered and pulled her hand away. At the far end of the hall, there was a small door through which Clementine led them. Again, Dougal waited in the doorway, but this time his skin was paler than before, and the weak candlelight made his forehead shine where it sweated.

  ‘I have not changed a thing, as you can see.’

  The room seemed tiny compared to the expanse of the great hall. Even so, it contained columns of books, a few leather armchairs, a vast mahogany desk, a globe, and a set of drawers. The place smelt stale, and Beatrice assumed that was from lack of use these last weeks after Mr Montgomery’s death. Like their chamber on the night they had arrived, every surface seemed grey from the dust, the air too thick with it, and the window was too small in its deep recess in the stone to be of any use even when the sun was shining.

  ‘Everything is exactly as Hamish left it. As it had been for decades before that.’ She held out a key. ‘For the drawers.’

  Dougal remained in the doorway. The key dangled from Clementine’s fingers.

  To Beatrice’s right, there was another door. It rattled ever so slightly as the wind outside gusted against the castle. ‘Where does that door go to?’

  ‘The tower staircase. And straight to Hamish’s bedchamber – the room opposite where you slept last night. It has two entrances; Hamish liked to slink about the house so I couldn’t pester him.’ She laughed sharply. ‘Dougal was forever in and out of there, weren’t you?’

  There was a clatter behind her. Beatrice turned to find Dougal had vanished. She heard his footsteps pounding through the great hall, the dogs running behind him thinking it some kind of game. Clementine placed the key on the desk and sighed as if she was disappointed.

  ‘What is wrong with him?’

  ‘He is your husband.’ Clementine’s voice was bitter, but when she raised her face, she was smiling. ‘Perhaps you should ask him.’

  ‘He will not tell me. He doesn’t tell me anything.’

  Clementine walked to Beatrice, offered her arm. ‘I hate this room, to tell the truth.’ She led Beatrice into the great hall and walked quickly through the animals. ‘I find it’s best not to look at them.’

  Clementine slammed the great hall door shut. In the corridor, Alfred emerged, his coat wet and dripping, his beard glinting with water.

  ‘He’s gone, ma’am.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  They followed Alfred to the main door of the castle where he pointed outside. At the foot of the steps, a horse stood in the rain strapped to a small carriage, and behind it in the distance, Beatrice could just make out a dark figure running over the parkland towards the cottage.

  Dougal had left her.

  Clementine rubbed Beatrice’s arm. ‘You could stay here for the night?’

  Beatrice thought of Dougal alone in the cottage. Though she was not looking forward to spending time with him like this, she did not wish to abandon him when he was so distraught. She was his wife, after all.

  ‘I should go to him.’

  ‘Of course. Alfred will take you in the carriage.’

  Beatrice swallowed. It was a long way down the steps. She hesitated.

  ‘Would you like me to accompany you?’ Clementine’s voice came in a whisper; Beatrice felt her breath against her neck.

  ‘I do not want to trouble you.’

  Clementine ordered the maid to get their cloaks. She helped Beatrice fix the ties, and then with a firm and reassuring grip, she guided her out of the castle and into the carriage where Beatrice could breathe once again. The rain beat loudly on the roof, and Clementine nudged closer to Beatrice as the horse drove them over the track.

  It took only minutes to arrive at the cottage. Behind the glass of the parlour window, the curtains concealed the candlelight. The rest of the place was in darkness.

  Beatrice wavered. She really did not want to go in. Beside her, Clementine was warm, soft, and gentle. Clementine’s hand held Beatrice’s – neither of them had relinquished each other throughout the journey.

  ‘I don’t want to go in,’ Beatrice whispered.

  Clementine smiled and finally pulled her hand away. Beatrice felt the absence of it too keenly. ‘He will be glad to see you.’

  Clementine did not know Dougal at all if she thought he was ever glad to see his wife. Resignedly, Beatrice unlatched the door, but before she dismounted, she could not help but ask, ‘What was he running from?’

  Clementine’s smile faltered. She licked her lips before she spoke and inhaled deeply. ‘Memories.’

  Chapter 5

  She heard hooves and wheels. Outside, Alfred had arrived on a cart loaded with boxes and chests. Clementine and her dogs followed behind.

  The clouds had cleared this morning, blown away through the night by the gales which still ravaged the landscape. Now she saw how Clementine’s hair struggled against the wind and how her gown was blown taut across her legs, though she shimmered in the sunlight.

  Beatrice did not wait for Clementine to knock. She opened the door and let the dogs amble inside to their favourite spot beside the range, patting little Simeon when he jumped at her to be fussed.

  ‘Beatrice? What’s going –’ Dougal emerged from the parlour. He was a terrible sight: hair uncombed, stubble speckling his chin, clothes untidy. When he saw their visitors, he tried to smarten himself up, to no avail.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Brown. Alfred has brought the paperwork for you.’

  Alfred clomped into the cottage, his face hidden behind a stack of boxes. Dougal had to dodge out of his way.

  ‘See he puts them where you want them.’

  Dougal nodded uncertainly as he followed Alfred into the parlour. Clementine made her way into the kitchen, slipping off her gloves and touching her bare hands to her scarlet cheeks. She shuddered.

  ‘It is cold out there.’

  She went to the range to warm herself as Beatrice closed the kitchen door to keep the draught out.

  ‘How are you this morning?’

  With a sigh she could not contain, Beatrice slid into her chair. ‘A little tired. I did not get much sleep.’

  ‘And Dougal? How was he last night?’

  Beatrice shrugged. She had passed the point of sympathy, and now she was merely at a loss. ‘He did not let me see him. He did not come to bed. I gave him breakfast this morning, and he barely said a word.’

  ‘He will come round.’ But Clementine’s voice lacked conviction. ‘And what have you been doing all morning? Sitting in here? Cleaning? Cooking?’

  Beatrice did not try to deny it. ‘What else should I do?’

  A light burned in Clementine’s grey eyes. ‘Why don’t we go out, just you and me? The sun is shining for once. We might take the carriage somewhere?’

  Beatrice could not think of anything she would rather do less, other than spend the rest of the day in this kitchen, alone. Her face, when she looked at the window, must have betrayed her thoughts.

  ‘Come to the castle, then. I have not shown you around, have I?’

  ‘You must be busy, Mrs Montgomery. You do not need to worry yourself with trying to occupy me all the time.’

  ‘Busy!’ Clementine threw her head back and laughed. ‘You are a most welcome distraction, Beatrice. And if you call me Mrs Montgomery one more time I shall set Simeon on you and have him lick you to death.’

  At the mention of his name, the dog raised his head and his tongue lolled out of his mouth.

  ‘Come on.’ Clementine picked Beatrice’s hand up from the table and rubbed it between her palms. ‘Come to the castle with me. What else will you do with yourself?’

  It really was maze-like. Beatrice would not be able to find her way out on her own. So ma
ny doors had been opened to so many rooms, and just when she thought Clementine had led them back to the same corridor, Beatrice soon discovered it was a different one.

  Each passage had its own quirks; some were wide and echoing, some so narrow her skirt grazed the walls. Each room had its own character; some had the bare stonework showing between the swathes of centuries-old tapestries, others had wooden panelling, others had been plastered and wallpapered. The whole place was such a mix of styles and colours that it was altogether overwhelming.

  Now, Clementine was climbing another set of spiral stairs. It made Beatrice dizzy to be constantly turning round and round on herself, and she was glad when the stairs ran out and opened on to the upper-floor landing.

  ‘This is my floor,’ Clementine said over her shoulder.

  It was colder up here and again, like the floors below, had only two windows in the walkway, both set deeply into the far walls. Yet it was more comfortable here; it had a feminine feel to it, with walls papered in pretty pink patterns and dozens of candles glowing. Thick rugs muffled their footsteps as Beatrice followed Clementine into a room on the left of the corridor.

  ‘My parlour.’

  The windows were large in this room and were hung with thick curtains. Sunlight poured into the room, catching the threads of gold on the chairs and settees, bouncing off the polished tabletops and, with the help of the low fire, warming the room so that Beatrice’s skin finally lost its gooseflesh.

  She wandered over to one of the windows and gazed out at the view. The water stretched silkily from the rocky shoreline at the base of the castle all the way over the horizon. There was a faint mist in the air so that the houses on the other side of the water were invisible; it was as if they were on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

  ‘It freezes, you know,’ Clementine said, close behind her. ‘In the winter. You can walk all the way over to the village when it is really cold. Ever so pretty. I used to skate on it years ago.’

  ‘Not anymore?’ Beatrice felt her skirt move as Clementine stepped closer.

  ‘Perhaps this year, if you would like to come with me?’

  Beatrice could not imagine herself out there in the cold, only inches of ice separating her from the water. The thought of it made her shiver. She heard the cracking of it, felt the crushing of her lungs as the water sucked her under … She had always had too much of an imagination.

  ‘It is a pretty courtyard.’ Directing her attention to the wilting flowers, Beatrice took her time observing the space. The courtyard was surrounded by thick, grey stone walls, and round towers rose up in the two far corners. ‘What is in the towers?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Clementine turned away from the view. ‘They used to be lookout holds, that is all. Useless now.’

  ‘They are pretty.’ They reminded Beatrice of the towers found in Grimm’s fairy tales, with their pointed, tiled roofs. Everything here was like a fairy tale.

  ‘Sit, please.’ Clementine went to a tray of drinks near the wall. ‘Jean will be bringing tea soon, but we can sneak a sherry in the meantime.’

  Beatrice sauntered towards the settees, tracing her fingers over the room’s many surfaces, enjoying their smoothness, their softness, their luxuriousness, so unlike anything she had in her own home. As Clementine poured the drinks, Beatrice sat and felt her feet tingle as the weight was lifted from them, felt her hips ease. She had not walked so far in a long time, and she had only been walking inside the castle!

  The paintings on the walls drew her attention. So many of them! She recognised some, but was not able to name them. A plethora of beautiful women looked down on her; they were surrounded by water and flowers, their golden hair flowing freely.

  ‘You like them?’ Clementine handed Beatrice a glass, then sat on the opposite settee. She nodded at the painting above the fireplace. ‘That is my favourite.’

  Two women in Grecian gowns sat in a garden embracing each other as a pair of doves rested above them. The image was beautiful, the colours sedate and warm, but there was something about it which made Beatrice turn away from the gaze of one of the women – an openness, a challenge.

  ‘Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene, it’s called. Not a title which rolls off the tongue, but …’ Clementine smiled as she looked upon it, cocking her head to one side. ‘The artist was arrested in seventy-three.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Love.’

  Beatrice had to look away. She focused on the glare of the sun on the windowpane as her pulse quickened. She changed the subject.

  ‘I want to apologise for Dougal last night.’

  ‘You should not apologise for your husband.’

  ‘I fear he will not do it for himself.’ She sighed as she thought of his stubbornness. If she had acted in such a way, she dared not think about the punishment she would have faced. ‘I wish I could explain his actions, but I cannot.’

  ‘As I said last night, Hamish could be a cruel man.’

  ‘You think he was cruel to Dougal?’

  Clementine put her glass to her lips, shrugged.

  ‘In what way?’

  Clementine swallowed. ‘I do not know, nor do I wish to.’

  ‘Was he … cruel to you?’

  Clementine was rubbing the rim of her glass, her eyes cast down, her lower lip trembling as if she was about to say something, when the door opened. The maid entered carrying a tray of tea. Both of them focused on the maid, watched her pour, watched her stir the sugar with a gilded spoon, watched her place one cup silently on the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ Beatrice said, and again, the maid did not reply.

  ‘Jean is a mute, aren’t you, Jean?’ Clementine took her cup and saucer straight out of the maid’s hands. ‘Do not be offended if she does not use her tongue, Beatrice. She never has.’

  A blush, almost imperceptible, spread over Jean’s face. She turned away from her mistress to tidy the tray.

  ‘Hamish found her in a workhouse somewhere by the east coast after he’d been on one of his travels – he said he wanted to find me someone I could mould, someone who might cheer me. Poor little thing, she was. No family to speak of. She was utterly alone in this world, and still is now, apart from me, of course. Isn’t that right, Jean? Lord knows what would have happened to her if Hamish had not brought her here. She had not a bit of flesh on her bones. But look how she has blossomed. She’s like my very own Lady Lilith, aren’t you?’

  Jean faced her mistress. The colour in her cheeks had now faded, and her skin was once again as white as a pearl. She clasped her hands neatly by her waist, her head down.

  ‘That is everything, Jean. You may leave us.’

  Jean dipped into a curtsey and silently exited the room.

  ‘I should like to paint you, Beatrice, if you would not object?’

  The change of subject stunned Beatrice for a moment, then she laughed. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

  ‘You have an interesting face.’

  Her cheeks burned. Interesting was a new way to describe her looks. She didn’t know whether she preferred it any more than her mother’s description of her – reassuring. A reassuring face. What did that mean? Reassuring for a husband, perhaps, for no other man would challenge him for it.

  ‘It is meant as a compliment,’ Clementine said, and when Beatrice met her eyes, she found the woman was gazing at her as she had been gazing at the painting above the fireplace – intensely, her head cocked to one side. ‘You know I only paint things which I consider to be beautiful.’

  Chapter 6

  ‘I thought you had changed your mind,’ said Beatrice. She followed Clementine up the spiral staircase, enjoying the sight of the woman’s black silk skirt, the scent of her, her company once again.

  ‘I have been busy these last few days,’ Clementine said. ‘I should have sent a note; I am sorry.’ They reached the landing. ‘And I have been readying the studio. I haven’t used it for a while.’

  Clementine led Beatrice
down the corridor. They did not turn left into the parlour but continued onwards to the far end and came to a door on the right. ‘I am afraid you might think it a little … eccentric, but I like it.’

  The door opened into a grand bedchamber. Decorated with swirling green wallpaper, the room was filled with coloured canvasses which leaned against the walls, the chairs, the tables. All were frameless as if they had only just been finished or were waiting to be tweaked. The bed in the centre of the room was unmade, the sheets crumpled, and the pillows dotted about the mattress as if Clementine had been fighting with them. Dressing tables – two of them – were littered with jugs and wash bowls, jewelled rings, hairbrushes, cold cream jars, and perfume bottles. The mirrors were draped with golden necklaces and worn gloves, and gowns spilled uncontrollably out of the wardrobes.

  The room was like a blow to the senses. So much chaos! Yet there was an abundance of life. Beatrice could clearly imagine Clementine in here, flitting across the floor, wonderful in her extravagance. And Clementine said nothing as Beatrice gawped. She did not apologise for the state of the room. She did not blush. She stood proudly in her domain as Beatrice absorbed it all.

  ‘The studio is through here, in the tower.’

  Clementine led her up another short flight of spiral steps. The circular space was certainly eccentric. It had bare floorboards splattered with old paint. Windows all of different sizes speckled the round wall, offering various views of the castle grounds – including the cottage which Beatrice shied away from – and over the water. Ripped armchairs spewed out their insides, and a tattered chaise longue took centre stage amongst canvasses and old, scratched tables. Brushes and tubes lay on these tables, all well-used with dried paint clinging to them. From above, a draught whistled into the room, and looking up, Beatrice saw old birds’ nests in the beams of the turreted roof, the birds’ grey-white droppings streaking down the wood.

  ‘You like it?’ Clementine said, grinning wickedly as she took a seat on her stool beside a waiting canvas.