‘Ready?’ Clementine breathed against Beatrice’s ear and opened the door. Alfred was waiting for her, his hand ready, and once Clementine had dismounted, she turned to wrap her arm around Beatrice’s waist to help her down.
Beatrice landed with a dull thump, and the silence enveloped them. Not the slightest breeze blew. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath.
‘Where is he?’ Beatrice whispered.
‘Round at the back,’ Clementine whispered back. Neither of them, so it seemed, wanted to break the silence.
The back of the churchyard was too far. She would not be able to make it, would she? Not out here, out in all this open space where the bare trees looked as if they were reaching out to snatch her away and deliver her the same fate as her husband’s. The ground began to tremble beneath her. Her aching knee was suddenly agonising. She clutched Clementine’s arm.
‘I’m here.’ Clementine’s grip grew firmer, and she stepped forward out of the shadow of the carriage, tugging Beatrice along with her.
They walked as slowly and as quietly as they could. Clementine guided her to the patches where the snow was thinnest on the cobblestones and kept her upright whenever her foot slid or her knee spasmed.
Beatrice concentrated only on her breath. She did not look at the graves around her. She did not look at the church above her, its face now morphing from golden beauty into angry accusation.
Why had she not come to visit her husband sooner? What kind of wife left her husband without so much as a flower on his grave for weeks on end? What kind of Christian woman would shudder at the thought of venturing onto holy ground?
‘Almost there.’
A quick glance told her they were now at the other side of the church. Beatrice’s back felt suddenly chill – they had stumbled out of the sun and into the shadows once more. Towering above them, a wall of skeletal trees filled the sky with their black branches, and near their feet, there was a mound of snow on the empty, flat land. Dougal did not even have a cross to mark his existence. Alone at the edge of the churchyard boundary, he was shunned by all the other respectable dead.
They stopped at the foot of the mound.
‘It is not right.’ Beatrice rested her face against Clementine’s shoulder as Clementine stiffly rubbed her back. ‘He should not be here like this.’
‘He is in the hands of God.’ Clementine’s voice was dull, lifeless.
‘Do you believe that?’ Beatrice looked up at Clementine through her sticky lashes. ‘Do you really believe in God and heaven and … hell?’
Clementine glared at the ground. After a moment, she said, ‘I don’t know.’
Beatrice sniffed back her tears and returned her attention to the mound. She did not know either. It had been easier to believe when she had been small, when everything was always so clear – right and wrong. Before love. Even after Effie, it had been a comfort to think of her with the Lord in heaven, for truly if anyone deserved eternal paradise it was Effie. But now, what comfort was it to think of Dougal in the Lord’s hands? A self-murderer was a sinner. Dougal would be in hell; he would be burning and screaming for the rest of time. No matter if someone had driven him to it, no matter if Jean had planted those Bible passages to send him to his death – Dougal had killed himself. And before that, with Hamish …
It was easier to think there was no God at all if it meant Dougal was not roasting for eternity. It was easier to think both Effie and Dougal had simply ended, like a candle being snuffed out at the end of a winter’s evening.
Bizarrely, that image gave her some comfort. She wiped the frosting tears off her cheeks and straightened up. ‘I’d like to go back to the carriage now.’
As before, the two of them staggered around the side of the church. Calmer now, Beatrice forced herself to look around. Stumbling between the graves, she let her gaze fall on some of the inscriptions: Angus Barr with his wife Caela, the good man Donal Davidson, Elspeth and Errol Clay who had died together as child twins. Thin wreaths lay on some of the graves, though the berries had long since been eaten by the birds and the foliage was beginning to shrivel under the snow.
And then a great tomb rose up amongst all the other little graves. On closer inspection, Beatrice realised it belonged to Hamish.
She halted and forced Clementine to stop, too, while she read the epitaph.
Hamish Murray Stewart Montgomery
(2nd February 1820–15th October 1875)
Here lies the body of Hamish Montgomery of Dhuloch Castle,
Explorer and Theologian,
Fair and Just Landlord,
Beloved Husband.
‘And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.’
Time stretched as Beatrice read the lines over again. She did not know what to say. Here, represented only by a heavy stone tomb and shallow words, Hamish did not seem as formidable as in his painting. It was hard to hate him as she hated him at Dhuloch – here, he was just another corpse worthy of sympathy, a reminder that death comes to all. Even so, she did not like how his body was in the same hallowed ground as Dougal’s, not after what Hamish had done to him. The epitaph, she thought, was hypocritical.
She looked away and to the small grave beside it. Whereas Hamish’s tomb was clearly new and pristine, this gravestone was more weather worn, though it had been kept clear of moss. A wreath lay at its base, the berries gone but the leaves still bright and green against the snow which dusted them.
Isla Wilson
(24th May 1846–3rd November 1865)
Beloved friend
Taken by the Lord too soon.
‘Sleep on now and take your rest.’
‘I wonder who she was,’ Beatrice whispered, and when the silence continued, she turned to Clementine to find her walking away. Beatrice hobbled to catch her up and looped her arm through hers.
‘We’d best be heading back.’ Clementine’s voice seemed strained as she helped Beatrice into the carriage and shut the door on her.
‘Alfred will turn the carriage around.’ Clementine reached for the wreath which was on the seat beside Alfred before heading back into the churchyard.
Beatrice watched her through the window. Clementine’s shoulders were unusually rounded as she strode towards Hamish’s tomb – she looked small, cowed, sad perhaps. Her head was bent low, and her fingers fiddled with the leaves as she hesitated at the foot of her husband’s grave. The horse had already begun to move off and the carriage was making its turn, so Beatrice’s view was cut off and she did not see Clementine lay the wreath.
By the time Alfred had made the circle and had stopped again, Clementine was waiting at the lychgate. When she emerged into the sunshine and lifted her gaze, Beatrice could see the striking red veins in her eyeballs and the sheen of tears that had wet her lashes into an even deeper black.
Beatrice reached for Clementine’s gloved hand and kissed it as she settled into her seat. She smiled bravely, met Beatrice’s gaze briefly, then turned her head towards the churchyard. Beatrice did the same and watched it all slipping into the distance. She looked quickly at Hamish’s tomb one last time before it was snatched from view. She was sure there was no wreath there.
Chapter 17
The journey back to Dhuloch was long, but not quite as manic as the ride to the church – Alfred was more careful manoeuvring around the sudden dips and jutting rocks this time. Inside the carriage, it had been a silent couple of hours. Clementine had turned her attention to the view, biting her lips, her eyes never losing their moisture, as Beatrice tried to maintain her composure by reassuring herself they would soon be home.
Again, Clementine helped Beatrice dismount and took most of her weight as they climbed the short flight of steps to the castle, then dropped Beatrice as she unlocked the door. Once inside, Jean appeared out of the darkness to take her mistress’s furs and cloak, and the maid seemed sharper than she had done before. Beatrice was acutely aware of the way Jean seemed to step very carefully and
hold her breath as her gaze darted between Clementine and Beatrice in a bold, searching way.
‘It’s been a long day.’ Clementine took a deep breath which made her whole body shudder. The brightness in her face from earlier had vanished. Now, shadows circled her eyes and her skin was grey rather than luminous. Beatrice did not remind her how it was only lunchtime. ‘I should like to rest.’ She turned into the corridor and, with some difficulty, began to walk away.
‘Might I join you?’
Clementine hesitated. ‘If you wish.’
It was not exactly an enthusiastic invitation, but Beatrice took it anyway. She limped behind Clementine and took the stairs one step at a time. Clementine had reached the top long before Beatrice emerged into the empty corridor.
Not seeing Clementine, Beatrice first checked in the parlour. Empty. She knocked on Clementine’s chamber door, and when she was met only with the wet, snuffling sounds of the dogs, she crept inside. Little Simeon jumped up to greet her, his claws ripping down her bad leg. She pushed him away sternly, but as he sat by her feet smiling up at her, his one and only eye wide and excited, his stumpy tail twitching from side to side, she could not stay mad at him. She perched on the edge of Clementine’s bed and let the dogs jump all over her, licking her ears and panting in her face, until she heard a bump from upstairs in Clementine’s studio.
Slipping through the door into the tower and climbing the steps, she could hear Clementine shuffling about, her dress swishing over the rough floorboards, the occasional sigh.
The cold, once again, took Beatrice’s breath away. She had not been up here for well over two months; now the windows had ice on the inside, and the chaise longue was so chill it felt wet. Clementine was sitting on her stool, a canvas before her, frowning. She snatched a paintbrush, jabbed it into a brilliant blue paste, then stabbed it into the canvas.
‘Clementine?’ Beatrice edged closer.
Clementine did not look up, but the mist was building in her eyes. She glared at the lumps of slimy paint on the palette. ‘I can’t get it right. It’s not working.’
Beatrice tiptoed around to see the canvas. Against a black backdrop, a lady in a blue dress stood forlornly looking out of a window. Studying it more closely, she realised it was her, though she had never posed for this painting. Clementine had made her prettier – her hair was neater and darker, and her features in profile were dainty rather than angular.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Beatrice whispered, for it certainly was. But there was something else about it. Something unsettling. The expression of sadness and fear … the great expanse of black entombing her …
Clementine slammed the brush onto the nearby table. ‘I’ve ruined it.’
Beatrice was going to protest, but before she had the opportunity, Clementine flew out of her seat and strode to the window where she stopped, hands folded tightly across her chest, and stared at the lake.
‘It was a hard morning,’ Beatrice said to fill the awkward silence.
‘You love him.’
Beatrice paused. Had she heard Clementine correctly? Clementine had said the words so quietly, so venomously, that it was difficult to be certain.
‘Sorry?’
‘After all he did. You still love him.’
‘Dougal?’
‘Who else?’ Clementine gripped the window ledge.
‘I don’t.’
‘Do not lie to me, Beatrice. You would not weep for someone like that otherwise.’
‘You know why I weep like this. Because I blame myself. Do not mistake my guilt – my compassion – for love.’
‘You wish he were still here.’
‘No.’ She said the word too quickly. ‘Yes … What I mean is … It is not that I wish he were here, only I wish he were not dead. Don’t you see?’
‘You would be back with your parents by now if he were alive. You would not be with me.’
‘I know!’ She sighed. Truly, trying to reason with Clementine was straining at times. ‘And you know, too, that is the last thing I would have wanted. But he was my husband, Clementine. And he died. Or he was …’
‘What?’ Clementine swivelled to face her, and her eyes were raw. ‘Or he was what?’
Beatrice shook her head. She did not want to fight. How had the day turned into this? She could see it was only emotion making Clementine so volatile. It was like the time Beatrice had told her they were leaving – fear and sadness had made Clementine lash out; she did not mean it. Beatrice would not help the situation by enflaming her passions, so she did not answer the question.
‘Sit down, Clementine, please.’
Reluctantly, Clementine conceded, and the two of them rested on the chaise longue. As if she were a puppet who had had its strings snipped, Clementine suddenly crumpled against Beatrice and wept.
‘I miss you,’ Clementine breathed and wrapped her arms around Beatrice’s waist.
‘I am here.’
Clementine shook her head. ‘Come back to me.’
Beatrice rocked her gently, stroked her head, and wished that she could comfort her better. She hated to see Clementine – someone who represented strength and power – so weak and low. She blamed the visit to the graveyard, seeing her recently deceased husband’s grave, the grief of everything. She wiped a cold tear off the tip of Clementine’s nose, but still Clementine cried. It was the kind of cry that children make when they are exhausted: silent, staring, hopeless.
‘Come back to me,’ Clementine whispered again. ‘Come back to me, my love.’
The pain in Beatrice’s knee was keeping her awake. Huddled under her quilt and blankets, she stared into the blackness and thought of the day. She was sick with exhaustion, but whenever her body began to slacken, something would rouse her: the ache in her leg, the memory of the heavy snow over Dougal’s unmarked grave, the thought of Hamish and the girl beside him … What was her name? Isla? Beloved friend. The freshness of her wreath, the tidiness of her gravestone, the way Clementine had turned away so quickly …
Beatrice pushed her palms against her closed eyes and saw bright colours flash in the blackness. A dull, throbbing sensation was already building from the base of her neck and spreading.
It was no use. She could not sleep. And she could not spend the next six hours lying here with only her troubled thoughts for company.
She eased the covers away and shivered against the cold. She reached for her robe, pulled on some stockings and slippers, and hobbled to the window. The moon shone brightly. The statue in the courtyard smiled up at her, its marble looking like a thousand squashed stars in the silver light, calling to her.
Tonight, she would have the courage. She had made it all the way to the church, all the way to see Dougal’s grave; she was strong enough to slip into the courtyard now.
As quietly as she could, she twisted the doorknob. The old metal quivered and groaned before it gave way.
The corridor was pitch black. She ducked back into her room, retrieved the stumpy candle from her table, and lit it on some dying embers from the grate.
It was difficult to keep the flame burning as she struggled down the landing. Each time she stepped on her right foot, it felt as if the bones inside her knee were snapping and an agonising pain would shoot up her thigh. She bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself moaning, but even without that, she was making too much noise: tripping over the edges of the rugs, stubbing her toes on table legs, landing heavily on squeaky floorboards.
She hesitated halfway to the stairs to compose herself. She pulled her robe tighter, took a moment to rub her knee and push her hair out of her face, and told herself now was not the time to be weak. When she began again, she had more control of her limbs and found it was easier to walk if she placed her whole foot flat on the floor and didn’t bend the knee at all. In this slow and lopsided manner, she reached the stairs, and finally, after what seemed like hours of exertion, made it to the ground floor.
She took a moment to catch her breath, but she di
d not rest for long; she did not like the way her single burning candle illuminated so little of the space and made the paintings on the walls full of shadows and sneers.
She went deeper into the castle. In the darkness, she was aware of the smell of the place: a damp mustiness, wood smoke lingering on the rugs and in the stone walls, the earthiness of wet dogs, the sharp and sweet zing every so often of the festive decorations beginning to dry out.
The only sounds were her own uneven, thudding footsteps and short breaths, quickly snuffed out by the close, thick walls as she meandered into the bowels of the house. She passed the door to the dining room, then later the door to the animal room, until she reached the door to the servants’ quarters. There was a way out into the courtyard through the great hall, but she would not go through all those animals, so she opened the servants’ door and descended into the basement.
She did not know how it was possible, but it was even colder down here. Her breath puffed before her in the weak candlelight as she padded quietly between the thin, bare walls, her feet tripping on the jagged stone floor.
Just as upstairs, the whole place was in darkness. She walked with caution, not able to see more than a few feet ahead, her eyes wide and searching. Doors started appearing alongside her. She lowered her candle to read the lettering on some of them: Mr Dray, Mrs Brody, Boot Room. She assumed Dray and Brody must have been staff who used to work here back when there was a family, back when there was an abundance of life, now long gone. Those gold letters made her shudder as if they were ghosts, haunting the passage.
The corridor made a right-angled turn. Blinking, she saw something black on the wall, a monstrous thing just forming out of the shadows with legs like a giant spider and what looked like massive eyes. Holding her breath, she edged closer and then laughed. It was the bell system. She lifted her candle, and the golden light was reflected in the brass bells, each with a room name neatly printed below. It was during this inspection that she heard a soft clunk and a gentle swoosh of something – a skirt?
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