Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  She moved forward, quickening her pace as much as was possible whilst trying to remain silent. A flicker of golden candlelight appeared on the far wall before her where the corridor snaked round to the left. She hobbled on. She thought of hopping on her good leg, for it would have been quicker, but decided against it in case she put out her candle.

  The gold light was dimming, but if she held her breath, she could just about make out the almost-silent tread of someone else’s footsteps.

  She reached the end of the corridor, turned left, and saw a door closing a long way ahead of her. Scrambling as quickly as she could, she finally made it to the door. Hesitating for only a moment – long enough to force the courage back inside her – she opened the door and peered into the darkness.

  She could just make out bulky objects dotted in the space: vast tables lining the walls, a deep tin sink. She had reached the scullery, and at the far end of the room there was another door where silver moonlight bled through the cracks in the wood. And although there was now no candlelight other than her own, she was sure she was not alone here.

  ‘Where are you?’ Her voice was too loud, though it was little more than a whisper. Her pulse quickened, but all else remained silent.

  She peered over her candle, squinting into the darkness with the dreadful sensation that a face might suddenly appear out of nowhere and lunge at her.

  ‘I know you’re here.’

  To her right, perhaps a sniff or perhaps a hand brushing carelessly over a skirt grabbed her attention. She whipped her head in that direction and held up her candle.

  ‘What is in the tower?’

  Out of the shadows, a whitish globe started to form. Biting her teeth together and forcing her feet to stay rooted to the spot, Beatrice waited as Jean appeared in the hazy light, her expression unlike any Beatrice had seen on her before: questioning, filled with doubt. She could see Jean’s chest rising and falling rapidly, her hands bunching tightly before her waist, an openness in her eyes which bordered on … what? Hope?

  ‘Beatrice?’

  Beatrice registered the absolute terror on Jean’s face before she registered the voice. Jean dived behind a great chest, crouching so that she was completely hidden but for her eyes which caught a speck of light as she stared at Beatrice.

  Beatrice turned and found Clementine several feet behind her, an oil lamp in hand. Clementine’s black robe and long black hair made it look as if she were just a white face floating in the air.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  ‘I …’ Beatrice swallowed, though her mouth was dry. She glanced quickly into the darkness again and spotted those two wide, pleading eyes. ‘I was looking for the kitchens.’

  A tight smile bit into Clementine’s lips. ‘Why?’

  ‘I spilled my milk earlier.’

  Clementine grunted, the faint line between her brows still visible.

  ‘I can’t sleep without it.’

  ‘No.’ Clementine’s eyes rolled down Beatrice’s body slowly, then came up again, and when they finally met Beatrice’s, they were softer. ‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’

  ‘I got lost.’

  Clementine glided towards Beatrice – no wonder she had not heard her coming; she made no sound whatsoever! She pulled the door to the scullery shut without looking inside, then fixed her warm arm around Beatrice’s shoulder.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘Do you want me to stay?’ Clementine finished plaiting Beatrice’s long hair.

  ‘Not if you don’t want to.’ Beatrice lay back against her stack of pillows. Underneath her right leg, there was another pile of pillows to ease the swelling of her knee. She had been under strict instructions to remain in bed these last three days and would only be set free once her knee was back to normal. ‘There’s not much room in here for the two of us.’

  She said it with an apologetic smile, but in all honesty, she did not want Clementine here. She wanted peace. Clementine had been by her side for nearly the whole day, watching over her, reading to her, helping her eat. Instead of devotion, the attention felt more like observation; Clementine’s gaze had been guarded, hawk-like even, since Beatrice’s expedition to the basement. When Beatrice had fallen into a light doze this afternoon, she had woken to find Clementine hunched over Dougal’s cases, her back to Beatrice. When Beatrice has asked what she was doing, she had replied in a breathless whisper that she had only been moving a spider.

  Clementine brushed her lips against Beatrice’s ear. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I think we both need to rest,’ Beatrice said.

  Clementine pulled back. She got to her feet quickly, then hesitated by the bedside table. She lifted the cup of hot milk and held it before Beatrice. ‘To help you sleep.’

  Beatrice waited, her eyes trained on the innocent-looking white liquid. Clementine brought it closer to Beatrice’s face.

  ‘Drink.’

  It was not a request. Beatrice took the cup, sipped, and smiled as best she could. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘All of it.’ Clementine stared down at her coldly.

  Ever since the visit to the churchyard, Clementine had been different. Or was it Beatrice who had been different? Had she been seeing things differently? These last couple of nights, ever since drinking the milk again, she had become groggier, her sleep deep but tortured, her mind foggy in the mornings. In her gut, there was something akin to dread – how it must feel when an animal suddenly realises it is in a trap. But she did not want to admit this to herself. So she pushed that fear away and drained the cup.

  ‘That’s better.’ Clementine smiled, and she patted Beatrice’s head as if she were one of her dogs. ‘Goodnight.’

  The door clicked quietly. Beatrice remained still. Everywhere was silent. Both of them, so it seemed, were listening out for the other. The seconds ticked on. She watched the long hand on the clock turn twice. Still, there was no movement from the other side of the door. She blew out her candle so that only a thin slice of moonlight cut through the small gap in the curtains.

  She waited again, and after what must have been several more minutes, she could just make out the muffled pad of bare feet over the rugs, then the almost imperceptible opening and closing of a door down the hallway.

  She threw the covers off, dragged her legs out of the bed, and stumbled for the windows. She opened the curtains and, with some difficulty, eventually managed to prise the window open without making too much noise. Leaning into the icy night air, she pushed her fingers to the back of her mouth. It did not take long for the warm milk to gush up her throat.

  Looking up at the sky, thick clouds were building, and she hoped there would be snowfall so there would be no evidence on the window ledge come morning.

  She did the same the following night after another day of observation. Her head now clearing, she found it impossible to sleep. Too many thoughts tumbled through her mind. Too many living nightmares. Questions spurted into her brain, raising new doubts and fears which she hadn’t before contemplated. Most of all, she questioned how it had got to this stage. It felt like only moments ago that she was letting Clementine kiss her, soothe her, comfort and protect her. How was it now possible that Beatrice could not bear to be touched by her? What had made her keep her mouth shut when she had wanted to ask, yet again, what exactly was going on in the tower?

  She could not be certain, but something had changed between them. She was sure that even Jean could sense it. The maid lingered longer in the rooms now, her face not quite so sour, but more … intrigued? Perhaps she was just nosey. Perhaps she was just happy that a rift was growing. Perhaps she hoped it would not be long before Beatrice was on her way.

  And Beatrice had been thinking about it – leaving. Why was she here anyway? It had not been the proper thing to do, to stay on, widowed and alone. She should have gone home whether she had wanted to or not. What would everyone think when she did eventually return to Shropshire, m
onths after her husband’s death? She dared not imagine the kinds of questions which she would be faced with, nor the silent accusations she would see in the glances of her neighbours. Of course, everyone would be wrong in their suspicions. They would never imagine Beatrice to have had a love affair with Clementine. No, the scandal – when it spread – would be bad, but not that bad.

  It was as all these terrible thoughts were somersaulting through her mind that she detected the faintest of sounds from the other side of her chamber door.

  She strained to hear more, but there was nothing. Perhaps she had imagined it. Her imagination really was beginning to run wild … to run mad, even.

  She waited, holding herself as still as she possibly could. Her pulse was too loud, and each time she drew in the smallest of breaths, the rising of her chest made the sheets crackle loudly.

  After hanging on for ten minutes – she watched the clock hands in the moonlight – she peeled her covers away. Her knee was feeling much better now, though Clementine still insisted on keeping her in bed. Only a slight twinge struck the space directly behind her kneecap when she put all her weight down. At least she could hobble better, almost silently.

  She hooked her fingers over the doorknob. She hesitated another moment, listening, until she could bear it no longer. She opened the door a crack and peeked through.

  Blackness greeted her as usual. Looking left, there was no candlelight seeping from under Clementine’s chamber door across the corridor. Looking right, there was no tell-tale gold tinge on the stairwell.

  Her imagination, then, after all.

  She stepped back a little to close the door, and something pale caught her attention. A small bundle lay on the floor at her feet. She nudged it with her toe first, for in the dimness she was not sure exactly what it was. Her feet brushed softly against paper, then felt the rough texture of string.

  She bent to pick up the bundle and, after once again checking there was no one watching her, closed the door. Before she allowed herself to examine the papers, she retrieved the set of iron keys from her table and locked herself in. Something about this bundle told her she did not want to be disturbed.

  Moving to the chair next to the window, she brought the bundle into her lap and saw they were letters. Even in the silvery light, she could tell they were old. The corners felt furry and dog-eared. The plain brown string was thin and tight where it had been tied and opened, and tied and opened again. She brought them to her face and breathed in deeply; ink and soap swarmed her senses, and she pushed the letters back into her lap quickly, startled by the sudden resurgence of Dougal’s familiar scent.

  The very top letter had one word written in an elegant, looping hand, though the ink had faded slightly. Nevertheless, the name was clear: Dougal.

  Chapter 19

  December 24th, 1862

  Dear Dougal,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I understand none of this will make sense to you yet, but in time, these words will become clear.

  I have taken it upon myself to educate you. Already you have proved yourself capable of hard work, but your intellect is wasted in the stables. I would like you to think of yourself rather like an apprentice. I will teach you arithmetic and to write, for your brain is clearly capable of such things.

  I should like you to think of this as a Christmas gift. The gift of knowledge. For without knowledge, without education, we are nothing but beasts.

  Lessons will begin in the new year, and I will continue to write to you on a regular basis. In time, I expect you to reply and provide a regular report on your progress.

  Christmas wishes,

  Mr Montgomery

  She folded the first letter back into its creases and placed it on the nearby table, not knowing how to interpret this oddly quaint note.

  The chill of the night seeped through her nightgown; she retrieved her robe, found her slippers, and placed another log into the dying grate. The wood caught after some minutes, and a burst of orange flashed into the room.

  Her eyes were growing itchy and beginning to ache from straining to read by the moonlight, but she would not chance lighting a candle. Instead, she moved to the fire and sat on the rug, holding the next letter close to the flames.

  This one, like the following three, was written at the end of the month. The language was as formal as in the first letter, yet Hamish was pleased with Dougal’s progress, and in the letter dated March, he talked about their plans for India.

  If only she had Dougal’s responses! She so wished to see the young, vulnerable part of him. It was almost impossible to think he had ever been illiterate, had ever been told what to do by anyone. The Dougal she had known had never been one to take kindly to help or guidance.

  From April to September, the letters were written on different paper. Beatrice was certain, too, that as she unfurled each one, a faint scent of spice emanated from their creases. The writing within was bland enough, only now and then mentioning the beasts they had killed, the trophies they would bring back, how Dougal took to the sport exceptionally well for one unaccustomed to holding a gun. That part had made her squirm. She thought of the tiger downstairs with its yellow eyes and lips set back in a permanent snarl. Had that been Dougal’s kill? Had he come face to face with such a creature and killed it as he looked straight into its soul?

  She folded those letters quickly – they contained nothing she needed or wanted to know. In truth, nearly all the letters were dull. Hamish could not be said to have been charismatic. His tone remained forever imperious, and every so often he would conclude with a verse from the Bible to illustrate some dreary point he was making. Not once did he mention his wife. Perhaps he would not talk about such things with a servant.

  But then, in December 1863, the style of letter changed. The tone was different. The formality that had seemed to forever keep their relationship as strictly master and pupil altered.

  December 24th, 1863

  Dear Dougal,

  I must say I am finding it difficult to bring forth the right words. I have been sitting here in my study staring at this paper for the last half an hour, and even now I fear I am writing words of little consequence, only because I do not know how to say what I feel.

  Perhaps I should begin with my own experience. My father and I also had a difficult relationship. He was a man full of pride. He yearned for excitement and adventure, and I believe it is from him that I get those traits. I hope, though, that I am a humbler servant of God than him.

  Do not think I despise him; that is certainly not the case. He was a good man in many ways, but fatherhood never seemed to sit well with him. I believe it was only my mother who lamented the sudden loss of my brother to typhus when he was not even eleven years old, and then the death of my sister to consumption before she had married her betrothed.

  What I am trying to tell you is that I, too, understand perhaps a little of what you have suffered, and I thank you for confiding in me.

  Men want to do well in the eyes of their fathers. We want to prove ourselves to those whose opinions matter most, but really, the only one who matters is God.

  I do not want you to be embarrassed by what you have told me. Understand, it is not you whom I blame for your father’s temper. Some men allow violence to define them when it was God who told us to love and forgive each other.

  You have no need to be afraid any longer, Dougal. I will not allow any harm to come to you. Dhuloch is your home now, and I would understand – wish it, even – if you never returned to your family.

  You are progressing here, my boy. Your brain is sharper than mine, I believe. If your own father could never be proud of you, understand that I am.

  It has been exactly one year since I first wrote to you. I did not know at the time if I had done the right thing. I confess, I did not believe in you as much as I should have done. You have proved yourself worthy of education and, indeed, my attention.

  I would prefer it if we did not mention the contents of this let
ter again. I do not believe it is necessary to torment ourselves with the past. Rather, let us move on and continue the good work we are doing.

  Lessons, as usual, will recommence in the new year.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mr Montgomery

  She read the letter several times. It explained why Dougal had never talked about his father to Beatrice. It had been too painful for him. Perhaps it also explained his recent behaviour towards his mother and brother – did he blame them for what his father used to do to him?

  What was even more perplexing, was what had happened to prompt Hamish to write such a thing to Dougal in the first place? Had there been an altercation? Surely, the Dougal she had known would never open his heart to anyone, as this letter intimated he had. Why would he have spoken about his past, his family – and the damaged relationship he had with the members of it – to his employer – to his abuser? Had he once trusted Hamish? Had he once been soft and open?

  The vulnerable Dougal these letters addressed was not the hard man she had married.

  The realisation hit her hard. Of course, she had changed after everything that had happened with Effie, and she had changed since marrying Dougal, but never before had she thought that other people might be capable of such change too. Her ignorance was embarrassing. She had always imagined Dougal as a tight, closed bank manager, suited to dealing with numbers and ledgers and not the intricacies of feelings and emotions. To picture him as a child, a weak boy yearning for his father’s love and acceptance, was an almost impossible task.

  But something had happened to change him, to make him the man she had known. She hoped these letters would tell her the truth.