Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘Rest.’ Clementine kissed Beatrice’s forehead and then, with eyes full of worry, crept out of the room.

  Chapter 14

  The scent of pine and bay filled the dining hall. Masses of green foliage hung across the walls, and the tree in the corner of the room was bedecked with dozens of candles and dried orange rounds and brilliant red ribbons. Beatrice had to crane her neck to see the tip of it bending against the ceiling.

  She sat facing the fire, and though her back was to the windows, she could hear the heavy snow thudding against the panes as it fell from the roof. Her face burned from the ferocious heat, and between her and Clementine’s feet, the dogs panted and watched to see if any food would fall for them. Beatrice slipped off a crust of toast which she could not stomach and watched them all dive on it.

  ‘I have a present for you.’ Clementine snapped her fingers but kept her gaze on Beatrice, smiling. She looked truly splendid this morning, bright-eyed and excited, the sparkle and mischief back in her eyes.

  Jean brought forth a little wooden box tied with a ribbon and set it before Beatrice before skulking back into the shadows.

  ‘I haven’t got you anything.’

  Clementine laughed. ‘I know.’ She nudged the box closer to Beatrice. ‘Open it.’

  For the first time in weeks, a tiny thrill rippled through Beatrice’s stomach. Carefully, she unlaced the ribbon and opened the beautifully carved box. Inside, a set of black iron keys stared up at her. She stared back, not quite knowing how to respond. She had never received such a gift before.

  ‘The keys to Dhuloch,’ Clementine explained as the silence stretched. ‘Those keys open every door in this place. I know we hardly ever lock anything anyway, but … I suppose what I mean by it is that I want you to think of Dhuloch as your home, just as much as it is mine.’ Clementine gripped Beatrice’s hand and leaned in closer. ‘I want you to stay, Beatrice. Forever.’

  How clear Clementine’s eyes were. How determined, hopeful, compelling … Beatrice could not help but be lost inside them. She found herself nodding, and then Clementine sprang towards her and kissed her lips with the passion that used to burn between them before Dougal died.

  Beatrice pulled away. Her gaze darted to the shadows in the room, searching out Jean. She did not want the maid to see this, even if the woman could not use her tongue to spread gossip.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Clementine whispered, pulling Beatrice into her embrace again and kissing her harder.

  Over the rasps of their breath, Beatrice heard the shuffling of feet. She opened her eyes and glimpsed the woman slipping out through the door, a look of disgust aimed directly at Beatrice.

  ‘Stop!’ Beatrice broke away from Clementine and scurried from the table. Breathing hard, she wiped her lips, smoothed down her hair, and brushed the heat from her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just – not here.’

  In an instant, Clementine was as serene and controlled as ever. She prowled to the fire, holding out her hands to the flames. ‘All right’ – her voice was scathing – ‘my scared little hen.’

  ‘Please don’t call me that.’

  ‘I will call you that until you stop acting like it.’

  Beatrice glared at Clementine’s back. She clenched her fists. It was not she who was being unreasonable here.

  Movement came from beyond the window, startling her. She jerked backwards with a gasp in time to see the avalanche of snow hurtling from the sky. It came down in great waves of white, splattering against the window ledges, and when she tiptoed closer to the window to look, she saw how it had piled against the bottom of the house in a mini mountain.

  With her gaze fixed outside, her focus shifted to the tree on the edge of the parkland. How black it was against the white, like the claws of the devil sprouting out of the ground! Dougal swayed on the lower branch like a pendulum ticking away the time.

  ‘You needn’t be so frightened,’ Clementine said, startling Beatrice again. ‘It is only Alfred clearing the roof.’

  Beatrice took a long, shaky breath and squeezed her eyes shut. She had not mistaken the hint of amusement in Clementine’s tone.

  Perhaps Clementine was right. She really was scared of everything. Every thought she now had was mired in doom – death seemed to be lurking everywhere. Even those keys, which had been meant as a gift, a symbol of love, had made her shiver – she had thought of how they might lock her inside and trap her.

  She was already trapped, she reminded herself – she was trapped by the boundaries of her own fear.

  She turned her back on the outside world and faced Clementine. As gracefully as she could manage, she glided to the table and scooped up her present. ‘Thank you for the gift.’

  She met Clementine before the fire and kissed her. A fleeting look of guilt passed over Clementine’s features.

  ‘You have done well this morning. You seem better.’ Clementine brushed a curl of hair behind Beatrice’s ear; the scorn from before had disappeared – she was soft again. ‘Would you like to rest before lunch?’

  Beatrice nodded. Truly, she was exhausted from her journey through the castle, the long breakfast, and from being laced tightly into her corset and gown again after so long in her nightdress and robe. She made her way to the door and Clementine followed.

  ‘I shall be fine; stay here if you want.’ Beatrice held up the box with the keys. ‘I need to learn my way around if I am going to live here forever, don’t I?’

  She wound her way through the castle passageways, an oil lamp in one hand, the box of keys in the other. She passed the main door and gazed up at the painting of Hamish on the opposite wall. He had been alive this time last year. How had he and Clementine spent their Christmas then? She did not think they would have had a merry time.

  She turned away from his cruel eyes and crept along the passage. She lingered for a moment outside the great hall – the animal room, the room of death – and remembered how Dougal had been the night they had gone to get the documents. She had never seen him so pale, so terrified. This room, or Hamish’s study, meant something. Something had happened here.

  She curled her fingers around the doorknob. She wanted to know, to understand, but the thought of all those creatures in that vast space made her shudder. She would wait; something so dreadful should not be done on Christmas Day.

  Eventually, she found her way back to her room after taking several wrong turns. After shutting the door behind her, she threw open the curtains to let in the blinding white light, placed the box on her bedside table, and stared at her surroundings. Yes, she was tired, but it was the kind of tiredness which leads to restlessness. She had spent weeks being idle. Now her body itched for something to do.

  She went to Dougal’s cases in the corner of the room and eased herself onto the chair there. With the light from the window falling on them, she could see how the dust had already accumulated over everything in a thickening grey smear.

  She decided to tackle the large trunk first. Unfastening the buckles, she thought how the last person to have touched them would have been Dougal – the shock of the realisation made her snap her fingers back. But it was silly to be frightened. It was nothing more than a trunk. A trunk which needed sorting.

  The scent of him bowled into her as she lifted the trunk’s lid. Ink and soap. His clothes were folded neatly; some were clean, some he had worn a few times. She took out a shirt, held it to her face, and inhaled. She noticed a spot of ink near the top buttons and rubbed it a few times as tears stung her eyes. Folding it back into its creases, she replaced it next to a jacket. It was Dougal’s favourite jacket, the one he wore nearly always, and it called to her. She stroked the wool, then lifted it out and held it up before her. Again, there were ink stains on the garment, though they were less noticeable against the black than on the white of the shirt. She sniffed the sleeves, then the collar, and smelt the faint scent of Dougal’s sweat.

  Tears brimmed over and fell onto her cheeks. She thought of Dougal
in his pit, cold and rotting, and how she would never smell him again, never soak his ink stains in milk before washing them again. He would never write, never sweat, never bother her again.

  She hugged his jacket close, and as she did so, she heard something. A crackle. She hugged it closer, and there it was again.

  The noise, she discovered when she laid the jacket on the bed and inspected it, was coming from some paper. Two tiny, scrunched-up balls of paper had been shoved deep into the inside pocket.

  Gently, she unscrewed them. She gasped when she realised what they were – torn pages from a bible.

  The first was a passage from the book of Genesis. She knew the story well – Sodom and Gomorrah. She shivered as she read God’s words and, despite the cold chill leaching from the windowpanes, felt the burn of sulphur and fire prickle all over her skin.

  With shaking hands, she put that page to one side and unfolded the other. This, too, was from the book of Genesis, and vaguely Beatrice recalled the story of Dinah, the girl who had been taken by Shechem and violated, and whose brothers had sought to revenge her by killing Shechem and the men from his city. She read the account several times, then placed the page next to the other on top of the trunk.

  She stared at the papers. What did they mean? Why did Dougal have two such tales scrunched inside his pocket? And why would he have defiled God’s book in such a way?

  She dragged up his other case – the smaller one, the one he kept by his side always. Inside, she found his pen and inkwell, unused paper, and a letter-opener. She held the long, thin, glinting blade in her palm and realised that this had been the weapon Dougal had used on himself. She studied it closely. In the crevices where the blade joined the handle, she was sure there was the faint trace of dried blood. She threw the knife away from her, scared it might have a life of its own and strike out to cut her.

  She retrieved Dougal’s bible from the case. Leather-bound and with brass clasps, it lay heavily in her lap, waiting to be opened. Taking a deep breath, she unfastened it and carefully peeked inside.

  The pages felt different to the two scrunched sheets. Here, the paper was thinner, more worn, browner in colour, and carrying the scent of age. They turned easily, silently, as if they were used to being pored over.

  She searched the book of Genesis. The tales of Sodom and Gomorrah and of Dinah were still inside and intact. She closed the bible and set it gently back into Dougal’s case.

  Where had those two passages come from if not from Dougal’s own bible?

  A quiet, muffled sound came from the other side of her door – her head snapped up at the noise. On her tiptoes, she crept across the room, holding her breath. How many times had she heard this before? She placed her ear against the wood and listened. Silence. But there was something else there too. She could feel it. No – she could sense it.

  Someone was out there.

  Slowly, she wrapped her fingers around the cold doorknob. She readied herself, rolled back her shoulders, and telling herself she was no longer a scared little hen, she yanked the door open.

  The stale air of the corridor blew into her face. She stared into the empty darkness, blinking for a moment, then peeked around the door frame. Just in time, she saw the brief glow of lamplight flickering against the stone walls of the spiral staircase before it disappeared.

  She slammed her door shut and raced for the bed. The box’s lid screeched as she tore it open. The keys rattled as she forced them, one by one, into the lock in her door until finally she found the one that fit.

  Chapter 15

  Simeon’s head rested on Beatrice’s chest as she lay on Clementine’s bed. Her stomach ached with the food she had shovelled inside her, and her mouth had a layer of sticky sweetness which was making her grow more and more nauseous.

  She watched Jean brush Clementine’s long black hair. Every so often, Clementine caught Beatrice’s gaze in the mirror and smiled, but Beatrice could not return the gesture. She was too intent on studying the maid.

  Her hands were cracked and red. Ugly hands. Working hands. On the little finger which had once been bandaged, there was now a thick, pink line running from the nail to the knuckle. Her hair was screwed tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck, but some strands of it curled out stubbornly. If she were a lady, without scars and rough skin, she would be a beauty. Yet her eyes were as cold as they were blue – their hardness reminded Beatrice of the painted eyes of Hamish Montgomery.

  ‘I suppose we should read from the Bible seeing as it is a holy day,’ Beatrice said. ‘We never made it to church.’

  Clementine unfastened her jar of cold cream. ‘I didn’t think you would be able to face it.’

  Indeed, the thought of midnight mass filled her with memories. Effie had always loved it. Her eyes had always shone so beautifully in the drench of candlelight and her voice had always rung out the loudest and sweetest of all the congregation during the hymns. After Effie, Dougal had made it a sombre affair – a cold, wet trudge to the church where they sat right at the back out of reach of the light.

  ‘You’re right. But I should like to read something to mark the day. Where is your bible?’

  Jean’s hand stilled for a second halfway down Clementine’s hair, and she stared at her mistress in the mirror.

  Clementine smeared white, waxy cream onto her face, seemingly oblivious. ‘I don’t have one.’

  Beatrice shuffled up the bed, holding on to the dog so he didn’t fall off. ‘You don’t have a bible?’

  Clementine shrugged, unfazed. ‘There’s no need to be so shocked. Why should I need one?’ Clementine met Jean’s gaze in the glass, and Jean continued to brush.

  Everyone had a bible, so Beatrice had thought, even if they might not agree with everything in it. New thought was burgeoning, and the idea of evolution was questioning everything and upsetting everyone, especially Beatrice’s parents, but Beatrice had never known anyone to shun the Lord’s book.

  ‘Jean has one, though, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Of course.’ Clementine set the cold cream lid onto the jar, then massaged her hands. ‘She’s a good little Christian – unlike me.’

  Jean quickly plaited Clementine’s hair, tying it hastily with a ribbon before she turned away.

  ‘Well?’ Beatrice said, drawing Jean’s attention. ‘Go and fetch it.’

  ‘Isn’t it late now, my love? It’s almost midnight. You must be exhausted.’

  ‘I should like to read.’ Beatrice was not going to give up, not when she was so close to discovering the truth – Jean was hiding something, as Beatrice had suspected all along. ‘Get your bible, Jean.’

  Clementine flounced towards the bed, her robe billowing elegantly around her. ‘Where is Dougal’s? Have you been through his things yet?’

  Beatrice held Jean’s gaze. She saw the woman’s jaw lock and a faint blush stain her cheeks. ‘I do not want Dougal’s bible.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’ Clementine brushed Will off the bed and took his place. ‘Get your bible, Jean.’

  Without acknowledgement, Jean stormed out of the room. Once she had gone, Clementine turned to Beatrice, her face hard.

  ‘What on earth is wrong with you today?’

  ‘She’s not right.’

  ‘Jean? She is miserable, yes, and far too sullen for a maid, but I assure you she is quite all right. Just ignore her.’

  ‘I cannot!’

  Clementine cocked her head and looked down at Beatrice. ‘Jealousy does not suit you.’

  ‘Jealous?’ she laughed, hollowly. ‘What should I be jealous about?’

  Clementine stroked the dogs and raised her eyebrows. ‘Jean is pretty. You think I am too soft with her –’

  ‘This has nothing to do with that.’ But now the seed had been planted, it started to grow in Beatrice’s mind. Why had Clementine kept the woman on for all these years? Why did Clementine always seem to protect her? Beatrice had never witnessed any gratitude from her. And then, suddenly, a thought hit Beatrice
.

  It was Jean who was jealous!

  All the maid’s sullenness, her angry glares, her rudeness, had been directed at Beatrice. It was Jean who was jealous of Beatrice, not the other way around. And that only proved Beatrice’s theory.

  Jean wanted Beatrice gone.

  ‘I found these in Dougal’s pocket.’ Beatrice brought out the Bible pages from her own pocket and laid them out on the bed before Clementine. Clementine stared blankly at them and said nothing.

  ‘Sodom and Gomorrah, and Dinah!’ Beatrice said, exasperatedly.

  ‘Yes, I can read. And?’

  ‘And,’ Beatrice continued, burning up with frustration at Clementine, ‘they aren’t from Dougal’s bible. They have been cut from another book!’

  Clementine pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘What is your point, Beatrice?’

  ‘Dougal got worse while he was here, didn’t he?’

  Clementine nodded.

  ‘I found him … upset.’ Upset was not the word for it, but she would not go into the cringing details. ‘What if it was Jean who had planted these passages for Dougal to find?’

  ‘They are passages from the Bible. Dougal read the Bible every night. Why would he have found them so upsetting?’

  She levelled her eyes at Clementine. ‘You know why.’ Clementine looked away. ‘I don’t understand Dinah, but Sodom and Gomorrah is obvious.’

  ‘But how would Jean know anything about it? I haven’t told her anything, and she came here after Dougal had already left.’

  ‘Because she listens!’ Beatrice scooped up Clementine’s unresponsive hands and pulled them into her chest. She continued in a fierce whisper. ‘She was outside my door this morning. She was outside my door the other day when we were talking. I have heard noises in the corridor, only faint, as if someone was sneaking around. Who else is there? She waits in the shadows, and we think nothing of it because she is a maid, but that is our folly. She is constantly watching us, constantly listening.’