But what if Hamish had not sat for it? What if Clementine had painted it out of her imagination, perhaps even once Hamish had died? Was that why he seemed so formidable, so intimidating, so … cruel? Because he was cruel in Clementine’s eyes. Because she could see him as nothing but a monster.
Beatrice raced down the stairs in her nightgown and slippers. She stood beneath the painting, feeling the breeze spit through the cracks in the front door, and stared at the man who she had always thought had brought nothing but terror to Dhuloch. The image which looked down at her was not the man she had found in the letters. The man above her was neither merciful nor loving nor one to have his hopes dashed by a boy who once worked in the stables.
The painting was a lie.
She stumbled back against the stone wall. She needed to find out what had really happened when Dougal was here. What had really happened to make Hamish turn him away? For it was Hamish who had sent him to England, not Clementine. And why would Clementine need to lie about that and about saving him?
The letters from Hamish had been in Dougal’s case, Beatrice was sure of that. The scent which emanated from them was undoubtedly Dougal’s. Had he kept them in his case all these years, constantly by his side? It seemed the only explanation. And if so, why had they not been in his case when Beatrice had sorted through it?
Jean. It was the only explanation. Jean had brought over the cases. She would have had time to go through his things. Jean had put the letters outside Beatrice’s door, in the middle of the night, when Clementine would not be around to find them. It had been important that Clementine would not see them because they proved she had lied to Beatrice.
What other secrets were stashed away within Dhuloch’s walls waiting to be revealed?
Silently, Beatrice padded to the great hall – the animal room. She twisted the doorknob, but it did not budge. She recalled Clementine helping Dougal that time and gave the door a shove until it eventually creaked open.
The curtains were drawn, the daylight blocked out. She found an oil lamp on one of the hall tables, and in the dimness, the eyes of the creatures were picked out by the flame and flashed alive. The tiger, as before, made her gasp with fright, but this time she forced herself to walk towards it. She poked the tip of one of its long teeth, felt the cold leatheriness of its pink nose, then stroked its silky neck. It remained as still as ever, as dead as always, and her fear diminished. Only sadness remained.
With the weight of death pressing in around her, she walked between the other stuffed creatures, reaching out to touch them gently, her light glinting off the ivory tusks and hunting rifles on the walls. She hesitated for only a second before entering Hamish’s study.
It was dark in here too. The room was still gloomy after she opened the curtains on the single window. She lit another oil lamp with her flame, then sat in the comfy old seat at the desk. The desk was bare but for the large globe. The books which lined the shelves were not novels but vast encyclopaedias, tomes about farming and shooting, books by Dr Livingstone and his many expeditions to Africa. There were no paintings to be seen, only maps of Africa and India and the Americas on curling, yellow paper.
She opened the desk drawers before she had time to change her mind. They were empty. Presumably Alfred had not put the estate’s documents back inside after taking them over to the cottage for Dougal. Still, she tested each drawer, and finally in the bottom left-hand one, she heard something thud as she yanked it open.
A bible. It was a beautiful book, far grander than Dougal’s and much bigger. Taking it out, she realised it weighed as much as Simeon and had thick gold clasps and gilded edges. She set it carefully on the desk and wondered how often Hamish had sat in this very chair, at this very table, reading the Lord’s teachings.
She snapped open the clasps. Cigar smoke hit her as she leafed through the pages, marvelling at the beauty of it.
Until she came to the book of Genesis.
It would have been easy to miss. It would have been easy to flick to the next page and pass over the thin strip of paper close to the spine where a page had been expertly cut out. But Beatrice did not miss it. The story of Sodom and Gomorrah was not there. Neither was the story of Dinah.
She closed the bible and fixed the clasps again, then leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and inhaled. If she did not calm herself, she would vomit, and what good would that do? So she stayed like that, inhaling and exhaling and swallowing down the sickness which washed over her in waves. The minutes passed into hours as she tried to make sense of it all and until she could open her eyes again.
Jean was standing in the doorway directly in front of her.
Beatrice was too on edge to hold in her scream. Only when Jean’s eyes opened wide in alarm and the woman thrust a finger to her lips did Beatrice manage to silence herself. Hands shaking, she brushed some loose hairs off her forehead and cleared her throat.
‘What do you want?’
Jean did not respond, only looked at the bible on the desk.
‘You tell Clementine I’ve been in here, and I’ll tell her about you going to the tower every night.’
Beatrice’s threat did not work. No panic swept over Jean’s face as she met Beatrice’s gaze.
‘I said, what do you want?’
Jean walked towards Beatrice. Beatrice edged back in her seat. Jean looked down at the open drawer and pointed.
Beatrice had not noticed it before – she had been too busy with the bible to see the letter just peeping out from the rear of the drawer. Jean bent down and plucked the letter free, then set it before Beatrice on the desk.
She blinked a few times, re-reading the name and address and the familiar handwriting.
This was a letter from her mother, addressed to Beatrice and sent to Dhuloch Castle.
But it couldn’t be. Her mother had not replied, or at least her reply had not been deliverable over the mountain passes, had it?
Numbly, Beatrice emptied the already-opened envelope. Her mother’s neat, unremarkable lettering told her this had been sent at the beginning of December, not long after Beatrice had written to tell them the news of Dougal’s death. Her mother had received that letter, so it said here, and she expressed her great sadness at the loss of Beatrice’s dear husband. Her mother wanted Beatrice to know how stricken they were by her news, how much she herself grieved for her daughter for yet another tragic loss. The words ran on to the next page, an outpouring of sympathy, a wish for Beatrice to come home and be taken care of.
Beatrice wiped her wet face with her nightgown and, slightly embarrassed, met Jean’s gaze.
‘I don’t understand. Clementine said there had been no reply.’
Jean’s eyes hardened. The maid nudged forward another letter. This one was addressed to Dougal, and like the other, had been opened. Inside, there was a small note from her father saying he was forwarding on post which had only recently arrived at their old house.
She removed the enclosed letter. It was dated the twentieth of October. The date seemed familiar, important somehow.
It was the date they had left for Dhuloch. It must have arrived only hours after they had ridden away in the carriage.
Barland and Sons Solicitors, Glasgow
Dear Mr Brown,
I am writing to inform you that Mr H. M. S. Montgomery died on 15th October this year following a carriage accident. It was Mr Montgomery’s wish that after his death you should return to Dhuloch Castle where you will become the guardian of Master G. D. Montgomery until his twenty-first birthday, upon which date he will inherit the Dhuloch estate.
This is a matter of urgency. You are required to come to Dhuloch Castle at your earliest convenience, but be swift. Once the winter arrives, the roads will be impassable.
Yours sincerely,
Mr Alastair Barland
Jean cleared her throat and nodded at the clock. When Beatrice did not move, Jean folded all the letters and set them neatly inside the drawer, then placed the bible over
the top of them.
Again, Jean cleared her throat and then jabbed Beatrice in the arm. Beatrice yelped and rubbed the sore patch as Jean marched to the clock on the mantelpiece and tapped the glass.
Clementine would be home soon.
Chapter 21
‘Stay with me tonight.’ Beatrice moved Clementine’s long hair over her shoulder and rubbed her soft skin. Her muscles felt hard and tight as Beatrice’s thumbs worked into them.
‘I am tired,’ Clementine said.
Beatrice had not failed to notice the dark circles shading Clementine’s eyes, nor the way Clementine had dragged herself into the room, feet scraping over the rugs before she slumped into a chair. They had eaten dinner in Beatrice’s room by the window, as they had every night this last week, chewing in silence and finding more interest in the frozen world outside than in each other. After, they had read beside the fire, their legs turned towards the heat.
Beatrice had not asked about Clementine’s churchyard visit. Clementine had not asked what Beatrice had done with her day. The hours passed slowly until the clock chimed eleven and Clementine was struggling to keep her eyes open.
‘I am sorry for saying I wanted to leave,’ Beatrice whispered against the back of Clementine’s neck. ‘I did not mean to upset you.’
Clementine rolled her head to one side, leaning in to where Beatrice’s fingers massaged her. ‘Are you not happy here?’
‘It has nothing to do with happiness.’
‘Duty.’ Clementine laughed hollowly. ‘What is the point of it? You could be happy here with me for the rest of your life. Surely that means more?’
Clementine faced Beatrice. They were inches apart, and Beatrice could smell the sweetness of the sponge pudding on Clementine’s breath, could see the tiny red veins laced across her eyeballs. The openness in Clementine’s face, the nakedness of her stare and the hopefulness contained within it, made Beatrice’s chest ache.
‘Hey,’ Clementine breathed, and she wiped a fallen tear off Beatrice’s cheek. She cupped Beatrice’s face and kissed her. ‘We don’t need anyone. I love you.’
Another tear burst over Beatrice’s lid. Again, Clementine wiped it away.
‘You love me too, don’t you?’
Beatrice met Clementine’s desperate stare and nodded. Of course she loved Clementine. She kissed her, softly and slowly, and wrapped her arms around her.
They huddled together, clinging to each other, listening to each other’s breathing. Beatrice did not want to let go. She wished to stay like this forever, holding the woman she had given her body and her heart to, feeling the rise and fall of Clementine’s chest against hers, smelling the perfume laced through her hair, cocooned in Clementine’s warmth. Denying the truth of what Clementine had done to her.
‘Stay tonight,’ Beatrice whispered, and finally Clementine disentangled herself from Beatrice’s grip.
‘Of course.’
Beatrice forced a smile to her lips, then leaned over and rang the bell. Jean arrived within a couple of minutes, head bowed low, eyes to the ground, refusing to look at the pair in bed together in nothing but their nightgowns.
‘Shall we have a drink? Brandy?’ Beatrice asked.
‘You are feeling better tonight?’
‘I don’t feel like sleeping just yet.’
A grin brightened Clementine’s face. ‘Neither do I.’ Beneath the sheets, Clementine started stroking Beatrice’s leg, her eyes growing keen, hungry.
‘Brandy it is then, Jean.’
Jean’s eyes flashed up to meet Beatrice’s. Beatrice hoped her stare made it clear. If only Jean could read her mind! But Jean’s face was as blank as ever as she slipped out of the room.
Clementine was on Beatrice the moment the door clicked shut. Ravenous after so many weeks of nothing, Clementine’s teeth bit into Beatrice’s lip, her hands dragged Beatrice’s nightgown up, and her knee shoved Beatrice’s legs open.
‘We should wait until Jean has brought the drinks. She won’t be long.’
Clementine’s mouth trailed down Beatrice’s neck, her kisses lowering onto Beatrice’s chest.
‘I can’t.’
Beatrice did not fight it. She lay back and let Clementine consume her. She moaned as heat rushed over her skin, as her breath came quick and sharp, as she clutched the bed sheets.
But she was right. It was not long before Jean was tapping on the chamber door again.
Clementine threw the covers back over her head and groaned with frustration. ‘Come in!’
Desperate to conceal her nakedness, Beatrice pulled the sheets over her body, just about covering Clementine as well before Jean entered the room. What must they both look like? Sticky skin. Wild hair. Lips as red as cherries. But Jean did not falter. Her blankness, like disappointment, only made Beatrice flush even more.
‘Hurry up,’ Clementine growled at the woman, holding her hand out for her glass, snapping her fingers when Jean took too long.
Jean handed Clementine the brandy, then gave the other glass to Beatrice, meeting Beatrice’s gaze briefly as she did so.
Clementine threw the drink back in one, then slammed the glass on the table.
‘Get out, Jean.’
By the time the clock struck one, Clementine was sleeping. Deeply. Too deeply.
Jean had understood.
The moonlight drowned Clementine in a pale silver light, making her skin shine like pearls, making her lashes thick and as black as coal against her cheeks. Her lips were parted, and her breath came in and out, long and slow, blowing gently across Beatrice’s arm.
Beatrice placed her hand on Clementine. Nothing.
She tightened her grip a little. Nothing.
She shook her slightly. Still nothing.
‘Clementine?’ The word was too loud in the silence, though it was only a whisper. She repeated herself, again and again, until finally she was convinced that whatever drug had been used before on her was now working effectively on Clementine.
Her skin was still hot from sex, and as she peeled back the sheets, she felt the cool air wash over her soothingly. She slipped her stockings over her feet and fastened her robe tightly around herself. After coaxing on her boots, which she had hidden under the bed, she tiptoed to the door.
The doorknob twisted silently. She had managed to work it with some grease before Clementine had returned from the church. Without a light, she slid into the black abyss of the corridor, closing the door behind her.
She made her way by feeling the walls either side of her. In the distance, the whitish slit of the window was the only thing visible. She kept her gaze trained on it, her arms stretched out either side of her so that she wouldn’t stub her toe on any tables against the walls. Each time she imagined something behind her, a ghost or a demon lurking in the shadows waiting to grab her legs and drag her to her death, she pushed the silly image from her mind. Now was not the time to have such foolish thoughts. Now was not the time to lose her nerve.
She took the stairs carefully, finding each step with her toe before putting her weight down. If she was to fall here, she would surely crack her skull open, and Clementine would wake groggily in the morning to find Beatrice in a crumpled, bloody heap on the ground floor.
Once downstairs, she continued in the same vein – feeling her way through Dhuloch’s long corridors until she was sure she had passed the great hall and would be arriving at the servants’ door at any moment. She could just make out the slight grey tinge of light seeping through the opened door in front of her, and she headed for it. Jean must have left it open for her.
As she descended into the basement, the light began to grow. Jean had set candle lamps along the corridors to guide the way, and Beatrice was thankful for it, for now she was down here, she was once again struck by the number of corridors and side doors – it was like a rabbit warren. She followed the golden light until she found herself in the scullery. Straight ahead of her, the back door was open, and the white light of the full moon aga
inst the snow was so dazzling that Beatrice’s eyes began to water.
Wrapping her arms around herself – holding herself together, for she was beginning to panic at the prospect of stepping outside – she crept into the snow.
She emerged somewhere below the courtyard and mounted the short flight of steps which brought her into the walled garden. The statue stared up towards the main castle accusingly, towards her room where Clementine slept. She fixed her gaze on the snow and concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other until she reached the tower door.
She touched the icy latch, then waited.
Did she really want to know what was inside? Already, she’d had so many terrible surprises today. Could she face yet another? It would be so easy to return to her room and bury herself next to Clementine. Perhaps she could forget all about Clementine’s betrayal over her mother’s letter, push away the need to discover the truth about Dougal and what those cut pages from the Bible really meant, and pretend she had never seen Jean slinking to the tower each night. Indeed, perhaps she could leave all sense of duty behind and be happy here at Dhuloch forever, as Clementine had said.
But she knew that would never happen.
As quietly as possible, she opened the door. Stairs greeted her and spiralled up to the top of the tower. She ascended slowly, keeping her heels off the stone so that she made no noise. Through the gaps in the wooden door at the top, a golden light glimmered, and taking a deep breath, she entered.
With only one candle burning, it took some moments before the space became clear. The room was the exact same shape as Clementine’s studio, though there were fewer windows – there were only the old arrow slits built into the stone, now filled with thick glass. It was just as cold up here as it was outside, and nowhere could she see any grate set into the wall. The floor was made of bare wooden slats, and the chill seeped up from underneath and snaked up her legs. The smell was peculiar: the smell of snow – cold and damp – and a mustiness, a faint whiff of something slightly sour and unclean.
Convenient Women Collection Page 78