Jean did not seem to feel the insult, nor did she move from the doorway. Beatrice was losing the battle.
‘Clementine will hear of this,’ she whispered, and finally something passed over Jean’s eyes – a hesitation – but it was too late. Beatrice grabbed her skirts and stomped over to the track. Anger had thickened her blood. Anger and indignation carried her to the castle without breaking a sweat.
‘I do not like her.’
Clementine laughed. A brush stroked the canvas. Beatrice bit her fingernail as she stared at the black water.
‘What can she do?’ Clementine said.
‘She can tell Dougal.’
‘How?’
Yes, thank goodness the woman was a mute. But then, ‘Can she write?’
‘Nothing but a cross.’ A tin rattled, and Clementine squeezed paint onto her palette. ‘Won’t you sit? I need to finish your face.’
Beatrice stomped to the chaise longue. Gripping her fur stole around her neck, she resumed her pose, though she had lost patience with her new occupation as a model a while ago. The cold was ridiculous up here in the tower; no longer did the space hold any romanticism. She had come to resent the bird excrement on the floor, the dampness that clung to her skin, the way the windows screamed in their stone casements.
‘Have you nearly finished?’
Clementine’s pursed lips stretched. ‘Have you so little patience?’
Clementine’s amusement irritated Beatrice. She rested her cheek on her arm and clamped her jaw tight. She let the breeze scratch against her face, let her corset bite into her hips, and let her hand grow numb for another ten minutes until she could take no more. She stretched out her shoulders, and the bones of her back cracked. Clementine looked up at the sound.
‘I think that is enough for today.’ Clementine regarded her painting as she stood, head to one side. She pecked at the canvas with the tip of her brush one last time, then strolled over to Beatrice. ‘You are my best work yet, I do believe.’
‘May I look?’
Clementine caught Beatrice’s arm and stayed her. ‘Not until it is complete.’
Clementine’s warm fingers trailed over Beatrice’s face, tidying away some strands of loose hair, smoothing the space between her brows, and coming to rest under her chin. ‘Stop worrying about Jean.’
‘I don’t trust her.’
Clementine kissed her softly, slowly. Instantly, Beatrice’s stiffness dissolved.
‘Leave her to me.’ Clementine’s kisses continued. Her hands cradled Beatrice’s face, pulling her closer. Their breathing came quicker.
‘Can we go to your chamber?’ Beatrice said, breaking away. ‘It is too cold up here.’
‘Delicate thing, aren’t you?’ Clementine picked up her skirts and clutched Beatrice’s hand eagerly.
It was only as she was being dragged across the room and she caught sight of the tower outside that Beatrice happened to remember the light from last night.
‘I saw something over there in the middle of the night.’
Clementine halted before the door. Her smile, which had been wild, was now fixed. ‘Saw something where?’
‘In the tower.’ From this room, there were no visible windows in the tower, only its grey stone face. The window she had seen the light in was on the other side of the castle walls.
‘There is nothing in there.’
‘I saw candlelight.’
Clementine’s damp palm slipped out of Beatrice’s hand. She made for the window and stared at the tower. ‘When was this?’
‘I didn’t check the clock.’
‘It must have been Alfred.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘His things have been in there since you moved him out of his cottage.’
Beatrice flinched, but when Clementine faced her, there was no animosity in her features; her smile had returned as bright as ever.
‘It was only Alfred, my love. Nothing to worry about. He is odd, I grant you, but he is a good man for all his peculiar ways – he has been my only friend for years. You know he came with me from England. Even my father could not stop him. He used to look out for me back there – no one else did. I do not know what I would do without him now.’
‘I have not seen him for a while.’
‘He does not like to be seen if he does not have to be.’
Clementine scooped her arm through Beatrice’s and navigated her to the stairwell. Descending, their footsteps echoed on the stone, and their voices rang out hollowly in the stale air.
‘I have been meaning to apologise to him but I …’ What? Never found the time? Never found the courage, more like, for there was a wildness about the man, as if he had not ever been properly civilised, which made him unapproachable.
‘What have you to apologise for?’
‘Taking his home.’
‘Oh.’ Clementine waved her hand. ‘Do not trouble yourself. Alfred goes where I tell him. His home is where I make it for him.’ They emerged from the stairwell and entered Clementine’s chamber where the four dogs were sleeping piled on top of each other on the bed. ‘Like them.’
On their mistress’s return, the dogs flung themselves to the floor and galloped at her, tails swinging back and forth. Clementine sank to her knees to embrace them all, shrieking with laughter as they licked her. The dogs’ excitement swelled until Will let out a howl. The others soon joined in, howling and barking and jumping all over Clementine until both she and Beatrice were crying with laughter on the floor, batting the dogs away from them. The smell of the creatures was somewhat sickening, but Beatrice had developed a soft spot for all of them and allowed them to stand over her, enjoying their smiling faces, their sheer happiness at life, until they finally calmed.
Clementine helped her to her feet. They each looked the other up and down and laughed at the state of themselves. Dog hairs were stuck to their fine dresses, grey paw prints were stamped on their skirts, and their hair had been pulled loose and now dangled around their flushed faces.
Clementine stepped towards Beatrice. She popped Beatrice’s top button open, then the next and the next, working her way down. ‘I am sorry, Mrs Brown, but I cannot possibly let you return to your husband looking such a mess.’
Dusk had fallen by the time Beatrice made her way back to the cottage. It was an uneasy time of the day, this dim, shadowed world. Everywhere was too blue and grainy. Everything was out of focus.
She walked quickly, her hands like claws around her furs, her eyes wide as they darted about, thinking they had seen movements. The moon hung as a pale sliver in the sky above, its light of little help, its whiteness only mirroring the white crunch beneath her feet. With her attention on the moon, her heel slipped beneath her. She caught herself before she fell and turned back to see what had threatened her – an icy puddle, a black hole in the frost. She cursed it before quickening her pace.
A horse brayed to her left. The sound was muffled, for the creature was shut tight in its stable, but it made her start, nonetheless. She began to run, her skirts catching on the tall grass which had become brittle in the cold. She squinted at the cottage door and sprinted for it, and by the time she arrived, the warmth and comfort of Clementine had vanished from her skin. She was cold and wet with sweat, and her muscles quivered.
Inside, she leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. With each breath, her cold gown sank onto her sticky chest and made her skin creep.
She thought of her afternoon and tried to return to those happy memories. Screwing her eyes tightly shut, she could feel Clementine’s soft hands against her, the silk sheets, the sweet wine on her tongue, and a smile tugged at Beatrice’s lips.
She removed her fur stole, and her hand trembled only a little as she set her cloak on its hook. She was about to remove her boots and find her slippers when a peculiar noise drew her attention to the kitchen.
In the room, one single candle burned in the middle of the table. Dougal sat on the far c
hair, curled in on himself, his features indistinct – he was out of the light’s reach. Silence wrung the air dry as she tiptoed a little further until that odd noise came again – a sob.
‘Dougal?’
He did not move. Edging closer, she saw his hands over his face, the skin of them mottled white and pink as he pressed them against himself. He was so still – like a waxwork. She extended a finger, thinking she would poke him, test him, when suddenly his body quaked with another sob.
She took the seat beside him and gently put her hand on his shoulder. ‘What has happened?’
He dragged his fingers down his face. His eyes, once revealed, were wet and bloodshot, the lashes stuck together, the lids greasy.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered beneath his hands, and his face contorted again as he wept. Tears bled down his cheeks.
She prised his hands away from his face, urging him to look at her. He struggled against her grip for a moment, his head turning left and right, but she held him fast.
‘What have you to be sorry for?’
‘I have tried,’ he said, his voice breaking thick and thin, cutting off here and there as he choked on his words, ‘to be good.’
‘You are good.’
He shook his head. Mucus dripped from his nose.
‘You are a good man, Dougal.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ She grasped his face and pressed her forehead against his. For a moment, he stilled, and they stayed like that as his ragged breath blew between them.
‘I cannot stay here,’ he whispered.
‘Fine. We will go. I promise.’
It was a promise she did not think she could keep, but she made it anyway. She could not bear to see him so tormented, not after what Clementine had told her. She had never witnessed him so low, so broken. He was a man who never showed his emotions, who never let anyone in, and his sudden collapse was alarming.
Now was not the time to be selfish – her husband needed her more than he had ever needed her before. The idea was something of a comfort as she thought of leaving Clementine behind.
She hugged his head to her chest, hoping he could not smell Clementine on her, and his sobs burst out of him. His arms snaked around her waist, and he pulled her close. The heat of him seeped through her gown until her skin prickled with it, but she did not break away. His grip tightened, and he rested against her as if she were a rock in the ocean and he was clinging to her for his life.
‘Will you tell me what is wrong?’
His forehead pressed into her neck. When he spoke, his breath dampened her collarbones. ‘I never meant to hurt anyone.’
‘You haven’t hurt anyone.’
‘I didn’t mean it … I was just so … angry.’
Despite the heat of their bodies, a chill rippled through her. She stroked Dougal’s hair and wiped away his fresh tears.
‘God forgive me …’
‘What did you do?’
‘For all my sins.’
‘Dougal?’ She pulled his face up towards her.
Blinking, he met her gaze, but it was as if he were looking straight through her and seeing someone else. ‘I am so sorry.’ He cupped her cheek. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’
She could not bear to look at him. Pulling his head against her chest once more, she shushed him, rocked him back and forth, and kissed his head. ‘It is all right, Dougal.’
‘Forgive me,’ he muttered, over and over, as he let himself be rocked like a child.
Looking down on her husband as she held him, the candlelight caught the gold wedding band around her finger. She was bound to him forever. She would do her duty. She would heal him.
She lifted her gaze to the window. Outside, the world had gone black. Beyond the shadows, Clementine would be dining now. Beatrice did not want to think of her reaction when she told her.
‘We will leave on Monday.’
Chapter 11
She packed their things in the morning after Dougal left for church. Their cases now waited on their bed upstairs whilst the rest of the chamber was returned to its bare state. In the kitchen, she had boxed the remaining food – she would have Alfred take it to the castle so it did not go to waste. She had swept and dusted, though the place was spotless anyway. In truth, she had tried to be busy every minute of the day so she would not have to think about Clementine, of the words she would have to find, of the hurt she was about to inflict and endure.
She had not called this cottage home, but she would miss it – the view of the castle, the reassurance that Clementine was so near. The smallness of the space meant less room to rattle around in, and she found the confines of it oddly comforting. Though it made her ache to see Dougal so distraught here in this little house, they had grown closer in the last few weeks than they had ever been in the previous two years. When they returned to England, would he revert to what he had been? Would she?
She would not think about it.
Finally, the time came for her to go to the castle. Peering through the window, she saw that the clouds were heavy, almost black. The grasses slanted sideways, their tips quaking against the wind. She fastened her cloak and boots and ventured outside.
The strength of the gale took her breath away. The smell of the water – clear and sharp – blew up her nostrils, and pinpricks struck at her skin. The first drops of rain were pelting from the sky. The hills around the loch glared white against the grey; the whole world was in monotone.
And yet how she relished it all. She turned her face to the sky and let the rain stab her. She did not fight the wind, but let it buffet against her. She studied the hills, then closed her eyes and imagined them, promising herself that she would not forget their sheer vastness, their majesty, which was unlike anything she had ever seen before.
If only she could capture everything and put it in a jar and take it home with her! She could put it on the mantelpiece and jump inside whenever she wanted to return to this fairy-tale land and to Clementine, its queen.
She lowered her face and squared up to the castle. Away on the track, Jean was walking towards her. As tall and skinny as a bean, the maid looked as if she might be blown over at any moment, and her brown skirts flapped and slapped like boat sails. She held her long arms rigid by her sides so that her walk was stilted and determined against the gale. Some of her red hair had been tugged from her cap and stuck out horizontally; every so often she swiped it out of her eyes.
They met in the middle of the parkland, halfway between the castle and the cottage.
‘What happened yesterday?’ Beatrice shouted, though her voice was snatched away by the wind.
Jean glared at the floor. Beatrice closed the space between them.
‘How was Dougal when you left him?’
Jean shrugged. The flesh over her collarbones was pimpled with the cold.
‘Was he upset?’
Jean made no gesture, but she started to shiver. There was something about the way her shoulders hunched in and the way she was reluctant to make eye contact; the bluster from yesterday had vanished. Sullen, yes. Miserable, certainly. But there was something else today – the anger in her was no longer as strong.
‘Did you do something?’
Jean’s fingers picked at a small hole in the sleeve of her gown.
Guilt. Beatrice recognised it now – Jean felt guilty.
‘What did you do?’
Jean’s long, white throat moved as she swallowed. She pushed her arms to her sides again and strode out, but Beatrice caught her.
‘We have no need of you anymore.’ Beatrice’s fingers pinched the woman’s arm.
They stood like that, eyes locked, assessing the strength of each other until Jean shrugged out of Beatrice’s grip and marched back to the castle. Beatrice was close behind.
What had gone on between Jean and Dougal yesterday? Images of them on the kitchen table burst into her mind, however ridiculous the idea might have been. What else could they have done, though? What else coul
d a maid, mute and illiterate, have done to have distressed Dougal so much?
Jean knew something. Something which Beatrice was ignorant of. The thought that a maid knew more about her own husband than she did was sickening; the fact that the maid would not tell her was infuriating.
Entering the castle, Jean turned left, but again, Beatrice caught her arm. The fight between them lasted all the way up to Clementine’s chamber. Both of them were panting, their hands and faces were stinging, and their hair was pulled loose by the time Beatrice had dragged the maid inside.
‘What on earth?’ Clementine rose from her bed in nothing but her robe. The dogs circled the newcomers, oblivious to the anger between them, their tails wagging as usual.
‘She did something, and she won’t tell me.’
Jean snagged her arm free. She made for the door.
‘Wait!’
Jean stopped at her mistress’s command and reluctantly faced the room.
‘What do you mean, she did something?’
‘To Dougal. He was distraught when I returned yesterday.’
‘Your concern about Dougal’s emotions never ceases to amaze me. I do not think he pays the same attention to you.’ Clementine sauntered towards the window to peer down at the cottage below.
‘He was … Worse than usual.’
‘And you think Jean knows why?’
Beatrice nodded. ‘He was fine when I left.’ She was like a child in front of the headmaster. Embarrassment at her own pettiness suddenly struck her.
Clementine turned to the maid and raised one black eyebrow. ‘Do you know why Dougal was upset, Jean?’
Jean met Clementine’s gaze steadily. Seconds stretched. She lowered her eyes and shook her head.
‘She’s lying,’ Beatrice said.
‘Jean would never lie to me, surely?’ Clementine’s tone was mocking, amused, uninterested. She returned to her bed and patted the space beside her for her dogs. Dante and Will rested their muzzles in Clementine’s lap as she stroked them. ‘What on earth could Jean do, anyway? Really, I don’t know what to say, Beatrice. I don’t think it takes much to upset your husband, does it?’
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