Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  Clementine’s hands had grown cold. For the first time ever, a flash of fear flickered in her eyes as she glanced at the door. ‘I cannot think such a thing of her.’

  ‘Her bible will prove it, I am sure.’

  Beatrice turned towards the door, and both of them waited for Jean to return. It did not take long.

  Jean stomped into the room.

  ‘Give it.’ Beatrice held out her hand and, casually, as if it meant nothing to her, Jean dropped her bible into Beatrice’s palm.

  Beatrice tore through the pages, searching out the book of Genesis, until she found the teachings.

  Both of them were in the book. It was completely intact.

  Clementine let out a long breath and snatched the book out of Beatrice’s shaking hands. She returned it to Jean.

  ‘Prepare Beatrice’s milk and honey.’

  Beatrice couldn’t meet Jean’s gaze. She examined the bed sheet as the maid left the room.

  ‘I was sure …’

  ‘I understand you want to blame someone, my love. But Dougal did this to himself. It is no one’s fault.’

  ‘She doesn’t want me here.’

  Clementine stroked Beatrice’s loose hair, snuggled close, then brushed away a stray tear on Beatrice’s cheek. ‘It doesn’t matter what she wants. She is only a maid, remember?’

  Beatrice had been so sure of her theory! She tried to remember her logic – if only she could make Clementine see it too – but her thoughts were jumbling up with exhaustion.

  ‘Stay with me tonight, my love.’ Clementine kissed Beatrice’s lips, but the intimate contact made Beatrice flinch. Clementine kissed her again, and Beatrice tasted the sweet pudding on her tongue, the sharp zing of brandy. ‘Forget about him and be with me.’

  Beatrice pulled away – Clementine had not been listening to her. When would she realise Beatrice could not simply forget about her husband? Especially when she was sure something about his death had not been right.

  ‘I need to rest.’

  Clementine sniffed. ‘Fine.’ Her voice was hard again. She shrugged off her robe and slid between the sheets, then picked up the book on her bedside table. She directed her attention to the words on the page. ‘I’ll send Jean to you with your drink. Goodnight.’

  Beatrice dragged her feet to her room, hugging herself against the chill and the darkness of the empty corridor. Inside her chamber, the moon shone white light over her bed and over Dougal’s luggage. Strolling to the window, she looked out at the snow-covered world, the frozen black lake, the pinpricks of gold from the village in the distance. She stared at it all until it began to blur, and she blinked to clear her vision, but it was no use.

  She fell onto her bed. Her calf muscles ached, her back was sore, and her neck clicked as she rolled her head from side to side. She had been defeated by the day.

  Perhaps Clementine was right. Perhaps she was just too exhausted and shocked to make sense of anything.

  She peeled the pages out of her pocket and read the Bible passages one last time. The words meant something, she was sure. They were a warning. They were a reminder. They were a punishment. But for what, she could not be certain. She slipped them inside her drawer then rested back on the pillow.

  She wanted nothing more than her drink and to wriggle underneath her covers. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to sleep deeply, without dreams, and to forget everything, if only for a few hours.

  What was taking Jean so long?

  By the light of the moon, she made out the hands on the clock above the mantelpiece. Half an hour past midnight. She had not been awake so late for weeks. Her eyes stung with tiredness, and she rubbed them until she saw stars speckle her vision.

  There was a light knock on her door.

  ‘Come.’

  Jean entered, holding a cup and saucer. Her skin glowed almost silver in the moonlight, and her hair and eyes were rendered black. She hesitated by the door and met Beatrice’s gaze boldly. A shiver rippled down Beatrice’s spine.

  ‘I know you planted those pages for Dougal to find.’

  Jean did not flinch. It was confirmation for Beatrice, and the shock that she had actually been right made her gasp. She drew herself up and forced herself to have courage, though the room now felt very small and a very long way away from the safety of Clementine.

  ‘Why?’ Beatrice made her voice level. She waited for a response, but of course Jean could not speak.

  ‘You wanted to scare him, was that it? You wanted us to leave because you hate me. You hate me being with Clementine.’

  Jean glanced at the cup in her hands and fiddled with the delicate china handle.

  Ice gripped Beatrice’s insides as she watched the maid watching the cup. Something was in there – something was in her drink! All the nights she had passed in a confused delirium, her sleep filled with terrors and nightmares. Her body had been so heavy she could not lift a hand, could not raise her head off the pillow, could not stop the room from spinning in the mornings.

  Jean had been poisoning her!

  And if Jean was capable of poisoning, what else was she capable of?

  ‘Where were you the night Dougal died?’ The accusation was thick. Jean glared at Beatrice, and despite willing herself to be strong, Beatrice reeled back.

  Of course, it was a silly idea – Jean killing Dougal. The woman would not have had the strength. Would she? She was a hardened workhouse maid. Dougal had been nothing more than a clerk, barely able to lift his own trunk. Beatrice noticed the tautness of Jean’s dress as it stretched across her wiry arms, the sinews pulled tight in her long neck, the ugliness of her big hands. She was stronger than she looked.

  Jean edged towards Beatrice, and Beatrice scurried to the far end of the bed. Jean stopped, her face cold. She held out the cup.

  Beatrice would not take it. She would not go another inch closer to that devilish woman. She gripped her quilt, readying herself to scream, to flee the room, to sprint back to Clementine for protection if Jean attacked her.

  ‘Did you kill Dougal?’

  Jean met her gaze, but, as always, her expression was unreadable. Terror scratched down Beatrice’s spine. Eventually, Jean shook her head.

  ‘I will find out what happened to my husband. One way or another. I will not leave Dhuloch until I have the truth, I promise you that.’

  Jean lowered her eyes, then glanced at the window. Seconds stretched as Beatrice feared what Jean might now do. Would she attack Beatrice? Would she do the same to Beatrice as she had done to Dougal? Beatrice tensed, assessed the distance to the chamber door, and prepared to run.

  Jean set the saucer on the bedside table, then, with the cup in her hands, silently walked to the window. Deftly, she opened one of the panes, and a blast of bitter wind clawed into the room. She poured the milk and honey into the snow before shutting the window once again. She faced Beatrice.

  Beatrice held her breath.

  Jean set the empty cup back in its saucer. She turned to Beatrice one last time and nodded, then left the room as quietly as she had entered it.

  The air rushed from Beatrice’s mouth. She darted from her bed and turned the key in the lock, then crashed onto her mattress. Her pulse throbbed in her ears, and the chill dampness on her skin made her shudder as she gazed at the ceiling above, trying – and failing – to make sense of what had just happened.

  She stared at the ceiling as the minutes turned into hours. Each time she blinked, it felt as if hot sand were being flicked onto her eyeballs, but she could not sleep. As she lay there in the darkness, she thought of Dougal in his grave, alone in the endless black of the earth like Effie.

  When her fingers and toes had grown numb with the cold, she heaved herself up. Through the window, clouds were building and blotting out the starlight. She crept towards the clock and squinted at its face. Three in the morning.

  Suddenly, she remembered the chiming of the clock in the cottage the night Dougal had disappeared: three thuds in the middle of th
e night, an empty space beside her, the rain pattering on the windowpanes, the sickening worry and fear tumbling in her stomach.

  If only she had stopped him from going! If only she had woken when he had returned and kept him inside!

  She tiptoed to the window and felt the latch which Jean had opened. The metal was piercingly cold and rough under her fingertips. She wiggled it a little and gave it a shove, but the window did not move. There was a knack to opening it, so it seemed, and the fact that Jean had managed to do it so easily and silently only made Beatrice more suspicious of her.

  Through the glass, she could see the hole in the snow on the ledge where the hot milk had melted it away. If Jean really was as dangerous as Beatrice thought, and if she was poisoning her, why would she pour the drink away? Perhaps there never was any poison, and Jean was just being cruel. Beatrice tried to understand, to find the logical answer, but as she put each theory forward, another question came until in the end she couldn’t find her way back to the start.

  She pressed her throbbing forehead to the cold glass. Her eyelids began to droop as she leaned into the solidity of Dhuloch’s walls.

  If only she could sleep – and sleep well.

  With her bleary gaze falling on the courtyard outside, something started to prick her attention. She blinked hard and trained her eyes on the faint, dark shadows in the white snow below. Overhead, a giant black cloud was beginning to encroach on the full moon and the light was receding, but she was sure there were footsteps in the snow. A single set of footprints – yes, they were becoming clearer now – skirted the courtyard walls from the main castle around to the far tower where, at the foot of a squat wooden door, they stopped.

  They hadn’t been there earlier when she had looked out.

  She dragged her quilt off her bed and wrapped it tightly around herself. Then she sat in the chair, snuggling her chin and nose into the warmth, and watched the tower.

  If it really was Alfred in there, as Clementine had said, why would he go in the middle of the night? And at Christmas? If it was only his belongings in there, surely he had taken most of them back to the cottage where he was now living again?

  No, it was not Alfred in there. Really, she had never quite believed Clementine’s story; it had been too vague, too dismissive. Someone else was in there. She could not say why it seemed so important to find out who, but whatever the reason, she promised to stay there watching until she saw whoever it was come out.

  Chapter 16

  The morning of New Year’s Day was bright and clear. The sky was blue, the sun was a watery yellow and low over the white hills, and in the courtyard below, the snow glistened like melting crystals. Unlike the last seven mornings, there had been no snowfall in the night to cover the footprints, but still there was no evidence – the prints had been brushed over so that all appeared as immaculate as usual.

  But Beatrice knew a woman had been entering the tower every night.

  Ever since Jean’s peculiar visit, Beatrice had not drunk the hot milk. As a result, her mind felt sharper. She was not as exhausted as before. She kept watch each night, and when she did finally let her head rest upon the pillow (after she had seen the figure glide into the tower), she fell asleep easily and slept deeply.

  Now, with the clock not yet struck nine, she made her way downstairs. Despite the sunshine outside, the corridors were as gloomy as ever. She quickened her pace. What was behind all these doors? Who was behind all these doors? Suddenly, the grandeur of the great castle didn’t feel so awesome; it felt suffocating.

  She flew down the stairs, her boots skipping over the bare stones, her eyes focused on the never-ending kaleidoscope of turning steps, until she bowled into the hallway. And into Clementine.

  Her knee crashed into the floor as she fell. She cried out with the pain as she looked up to see Clementine, Alfred, and Jean all staring at her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Clementine helped Beatrice to her feet, gently brushing off Beatrice’s skirts as she struggled to contain another gasp of pain. ‘Can you stand on it?’

  Beatrice placed her right foot on the floor and transferred her weight, but her knee buckled. It was probably nothing more than bad bruising, but it felt as if her kneecap had been smashed. With tears smearing her vision, she nodded – she would not let Alfred or Jean see her weakness. She raised her head, forced the best smile she could muster, and only then realised Clementine was in her cloak and furs.

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  Clementine returned to fixing her stole about her neck. The red fox fur draped over her shoulders and tickled her porcelain cheeks, making the grey of her eyes sparkle. ‘Yes. The church.’

  Behind Clementine, Jean held a wreath of holly and bay, the leaves glistening and waxy, the red berries as bright as fresh blood. Alfred set his cap on his head and, with a grunt, strode out of the door and to the waiting carriage at the foot of the steps.

  With the door open, the bracing cold jarred against Beatrice’s skin. For a moment, she could not get her breath. Beyond Dhuloch, the world loomed too large and vast, its eyes fixed on Beatrice, daring her to step into its jaws.

  ‘Beatrice?’

  Beatrice pulled her attention back to Clementine who was now looking at her in that familiar way: head cocked to one side, a slight smile on her lips.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  Beatrice shook her head.

  ‘I said we shan’t be long. Would you like me to take anything to put on Mr Brown’s grave?’

  Mr Brown. The formality was so absurd that it made Beatrice laugh, but when she recognised alarm in Clementine’s face, she stopped short.

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You haven’t been out for weeks.’

  ‘Exactly. It will do me good.’ But she said it without conviction as she glanced at the steps leading down to the carriage.

  Clementine edged closer and squeezed her arm. ‘My love, I think it is best if you stay here. What about your knee?’

  Beatrice glanced behind her into the dark, almost misty, space of the corridor. ‘I can’t stay here alone.’

  ‘You won’t be alone. Jean will be here.’

  Jean twisted her lips but did not raise her eyes. The wreath she held highlighted the red scratches on her white hands where the holly had caught her, perhaps, but Beatrice did not see it that way. Beatrice’s mind was growing feverish with fear and frustration. In her mind, Jean had blood on her hands! She did not trust the woman one bit. What was she hiding in that tower? Beatrice was sure it was Jean who slipped out each night, cloaked and shuffling, a lantern concealed by her cloak, a cunning glance cast over her shoulder before she crept through the tower door to make sure no one was watching. What was it that she didn’t want anyone to see?

  ‘No!’ The word echoed in the cavernous space. Beatrice took a deep breath to calm herself. It would do no good to go voicing unsolicited fears to Clementine – they hadn’t helped her case last time. Clementine did have a soft spot for the woman, no matter how much she might deny it. Beatrice had caught Clementine whispering to her too many times for her liking. ‘I said I wanted to see Dougal’s grave. Now is as good a time as any. Where is my cloak?’

  ‘Beatrice, I really do not think it is a good –’

  ‘My cloak, Jean. Go and get it.’

  To Beatrice’s astonishment, Jean did as she was told.

  Clementine shook her head. ‘Fine. Perhaps you’re right. The fresh air will do you good.’

  When Jean returned, Clementine snatched the cloak and swung it around Beatrice’s shoulders. She snapped the buttons together under Beatrice’s chin, slapped a fur hat on her head, then grabbed Beatrice’s hand and pulled her through the door.

  Limping, Beatrice followed as quickly and as carefully as she could, keeping her attention trained on the ground beneath her. Now was her time to prove herself, to prove her strength. If she could hold it together today, all would be well.

  She told hersel
f this over and over again as Clementine snagged the key into Dhuloch’s door, locking it with a shaking hand, then bowled Beatrice down the steps and into the carriage. Clementine thumped the carriage roof with a manic smile spread wide across her face.

  ‘Off we go, then!’

  The horse lurched into a trot and then broke into a gallop as it made its way down the path, the wheels of the carriage slamming into the potholes and smashing the frozen puddles within them. It was no longer just fear which made Beatrice feel nauseous.

  She pushed herself back in her seat, gripped the handle, and closed her eyes just in time to avoid seeing the barren oak tree as they careered out of Dhuloch’s parkland.

  Beatrice swallowed thin saliva as the carriage pulled up in front of a snow-topped lychgate. Though they had now stopped, she felt as though she was still moving, roiling backwards and forwards, side to side, bouncing out of her seat. She pressed her elbows into her thighs, squeezed her eyes shut, and breathed in deeply.

  She should not have come. The journey had been treacherous and wild, and the roads practically impenetrable in places but for Alfred’s sheer determination to cross them. She had had to close the carriage curtain so that she did not see the crumbling drop into the lake, though she was sure the carriage had begun to slide off several times – even Clementine had blanched then.

  ‘Beatrice?’

  Beatrice dug her fingers into her legs, trying to force them to stop shaking, and rolled back up to face Clementine.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Clementine’s earlier irritation had faded. Now her voice was soft, and she gently cupped Beatrice’s cheek. ‘You don’t look well, my love.’

  Beatrice swallowed again. Her sickness was slowly beginning to ebb, but the tension in her muscles was as prevalent as ever. She looked past Clementine and at the church at the end of the long, icy path. It was a quaint building; the stone was golden in the silky winter sun and the plain glass windows reflected the light as dripping icicles hung off their ledges. Gravestones lay haphazardly in the ground, rising out of the flood of snow, and leaning slightly forwards or backwards. Every so often, a flurry of small wings would dart between them and come to rest on top of one. Against the whiteness, the red of the robin’s breast was vivid.