The Mistresses of Wistmere: A Neo-Gothic Novel

by Rachel Secor

  The Mistresses of Wistmere

  A Neo-Gothic Novel

  BY

  Rachel Secor

  Copyright © 2019 by Belinda Barrett & Leona Seaver

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book or any portion thereof may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or authors except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and where permitted by law.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN 978-1-7340316-0-7 Paperback

  ISBN 978-1-7340316-2-1 Ebook

  Above-the-Hollow Press

  Morrisonville, NY 12962

  Email: rachelsecornovels@gmail.com

  To our family, past, present and future

  “Remember those you came from”

  - Ossian, Scottish poet, 3rd century

  Chapter One

  1863 Wistmere Manor, Scotland

  The matching grey horses guided the carriage up the drive, into the courtyard, and stopped before the manor house.

  High in the southeast wing, dark angry eyes peered through the dirty glass and watched a young man descend the steps of Wistmere to greet the arrivals. Focusing on the disembarking travellers, the observer from above concentrated first on the raven-haired woman, then on the darker-skinned lady. Her angry whisper clouded the glass in a hiss, “There was to be only one!”

  The onlooker pushed the attic casement open and strained to hear the conversation below, but she was too far away. She eased the window closed again and backed into the shadows to await the chance at changing her future.

  * * *

  Edinburgh, Four days earlier

  “You’re dead,” Katherine St. Pierre spat, “and not one utterance of sorrow will I breathe for you, Robert Craig! You’re gone and there’s little in me that cares. I shall never mourn your passing.” Bitter words from a bitter heart.

  The announcement of Sir Craig’s death had come to her at her place of employment. She read the letter again, “Robert Andrew Craig died January 17th, 1862.” The letter didn’t go into the details of her benefactor’s death. It simply stated “at sea.” Neal Jameson, Esquire, requested her presence at the reading of the will. A numbness coursed through Katherine’s heart.

  She sat on the bed and wept, not out of grief, but for the carrion of hate that her heart and mind had fed on throughout the isolated years of her life.

  Wiping the tears from her face and refolding the letter, she crammed it into her handbag. There was still the question of whether to respond to the solicitor’s summons or not. Katherine hated the menial attitude people had toward her as a governess. Could acting on what the letter promised bring about a change in her life? Could acting on the letter bring about a change in her heart? Would it resurrect the past… or settle the future? The more she considered her position as a governess, the easier it became for her to decide.

  After arranging to be released from her duties, Katherine donned her brown wool dress and stood before her vanity to study her reflection. She frowned at her plain tawny complexion and her sedate green eyes. She had never been one to primp or dress with much care. But now she had to mingle in with a part of the city that demanded fashion, more fashion than a governess could afford. Katherine had longed to wear the kind of elegant clothing that the women of genteel birth wore. But as she leaned closer into the light that fell across the mirror, she knew that she lacked the courage to be anything other than what she was. And no amount of makeup or fine garments could cover her half Scottish, half Jamaican physique. With a resigning sigh and her habitual curse to Robert Craig, Katherine pushed a thick wave of her brown hair beneath an unobtrusive bonnet and left her room.

  * * *

  The gentle sway of the carriage induced Katherine to close her eyes. Entombed memories grew restless for their resurrection. The crack of the coachman’s whip seemed to say ‘Sir Robert’. Even the wind swishing past the window murmured ‘Sir Robert’. Her mother’s voice reached out from the grave and whispered his name, as if it were sacred, ‘Sir Robert’. Katherine tried to still her mind, but it wouldn’t be quiet. She remembered.

  “Sir Robert will be sending you to school,” came her mother’s voice.

  As a child of eight, Katherine nestled against her mother’s soft body and never questioned why she was being sent away or why she and her mother lived in a cottage at the edge of the estate. She simply accepted their life there, never seeing the pain behind her mother’s liquid green eyes or the etched look of sadness on her face. It was a face that refused to wrinkle even in the cold harshness of Scotland.

  “You have to be learned,” Cora told her daughter, “so that Sir Robert will be pleased to let us go on living here and one day perhaps you will live in Wistmere.”

  The carriage made its way through a tangled intersection as the image of the Craig manor passed through Katherine’s mind like the massive sail on one of Sir Robert’s ships. She whispered its name: “Wistmere”. She wasn’t allowed to play beyond the scrubby yard that spread its tendrils from the front of her cottage to the edge of the golden fields, for there was Wistmere, the sacred kingdom. And like Camelot or Aachen, it too sat as a stone monument to a time of idyllic happiness when love of family and professed loyalty reigned in men’s hearts and created great power in those who were pure enough and strong enough to be worthy of it.

  “Worthy indeed,” Katherine uttered, pushing the memory away.

  Above the clop of horse hooves and the sing-song commands of the driver, Katherine heard deep within her heart yet another sacred word: Jamaica. It was her mother’s birthplace, the land of damp warmness, where the endless sun urged a bounty of flora to blossom the year round, where the sea was so lucid that it held no secrets either to the pristine life beneath its surface nor to the bacchanalian life that floated on the edges of its blueness. Jamaica, where darker-skinned happiness tolerated the bland white conformity of European merchants. But Katherine knew naught of her mother’s Jamaica. She knew only of Scotland.

  It seemed like an eternity before the carriage stopped at the lawyer’s address. Katherine stared out of the window at the grey brick building and felt a sudden surge of apprehension. She disembarked, climbed the steps, and read the plaque on the door. For one indecisive moment, she stood with her hand on the door knob.

  “I could hail another carriage and return to work,” she uttered, “and I’d be none the worse for it.” But then she would never know why she was summoned and nothing in her life would change, and she desperately wanted something to change.

  So squaring her shoulders, Katherine entered the solicitor’s office.

  * * *

  An uneasiness consumed May-Jewel Belwood. She looked past the swaying velvet tassel of the carriage which, as it maneuvered through the sinuous thoroughfares of Edinburgh, transported her to an unknown future. A dense fog hunkered down over the city, shrouding the buildings and coating the streets until they were slick with moisture. As she shifted about on the cracked leather seat, May-Jewel wondered at her quick decision to leave her homeland and to cross the ocean unescorted, to meet with a solicitor named Neal Jameson. Her mind filled with doubt. Should she have waited for Jeremy? Perhaps he was righ
t. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave Boston, the concrete and the physical, for a dream as intangible as the mist that now swirled around her vehicle.

  “No, Jeremy,” she whispered, frowning, “it was not a mistake to come!”

  Adjusting the silky folds of her lavender skirt, May-Jewel yielded to a sudden sense of guilt over the lovely shade of her dress. A strange mourning dress, she thought. But why does society dictate that one in mourning must wear black? I look dreadful in black and Robbie would have me present myself in my loveliest frock, not in some drab, colorless rag. A slight pout formed on her full lips as thoughts of Robert Craig’s demise forced tears through thick, dark lashes. But as teardrops might stain her dress were they to fall, she dabbed her eyes. May-Jewel put Robbie’s death from her mind and withdrew from her satin handbag the lawyer’s letter inviting her to Scotland. Her capricious violet eyes scanned the words she had all but memorized. But it was the last line, “for purposes to be disclosed upon your arrival”, that electrified her young heart with excitement. She had given much thought why she was summoned, but each happy conclusion was over-shadowed by Jeremy’s words because he hadn’t wanted her to go to Scotland.

  Sweeping a raven ringlet from her face, May-Jewel closed out the surrounding scene, remembering their last meeting and the heated discourse that forged her decision to leave her home. Though Jeremy Dumond was her guardian, she was more than aware of his possessiveness toward her and of his fierce temper. He would, if she let him, turn her into a fine respectable lady and mold her into a polite, but dull Bostonian, as unbending as the pillars that supported the porch of his grand home.

  “Poor Jeremy,” she sighed, “he took his charge over me so seriously. That’s why he was always so angry. Well, my leaving made him understand that I’m a grown woman capable of making my own decisions.”

  But Jeremy’s last words on the eve of her departure weren’t words of understanding.

  “You get a letter from a man you don’t know,” his face was crimson with anger, “asking you to come to a country that you’ve never been to, half way around the world, and off you go. You cut ties with anyone here who has ever meant anything to you just because the attorney of one of your mother’s lovers sends for you. That’s gratitude! For the past two years, since your mother’s death, you have been my first consideration. My only consideration! How can you leave?” Grabbing her shoulders, he forced her to face him. “What about my compensation?”

  May-Jewel’s cool, impervious eyes met his steamy green ones in silence before she spoke. Half attempting to appease his wrath and ignoring the tight set of his jaw, she flatly stated, “I’ll be back.” But her weak promise didn’t loosen his bruising grip on her. She looked at him through anger-slotted eyes.

  “Robbie meant a lot to my mother and to me,” she squirmed against his hold. “I loved him. And if he wished for me to go ‘half way around the world’, then that is exactly what I intend to do!”

  “Not if I say you can’t!” He released her. “I’m still your guardian, at least for another year, and you’ll do as I say.” He stared into her passionate eyes. She was a spirited young woman. But her youth was his enemy. He knew that she saw happiness in terms of wealth and adventure, not a duty. If only she would wait until he was free to go with her, then they could get married in Scotland. But once she received that letter, he knew it was too late. There was no room in her mind or heart for him now. Robbie’s wealth was all she was thinking about. A renewed anger surged within him.

  “So, you think you can become a lady, a social novelty because a rich, old man puts you in his will? Well, you’ll soon see what heights the illegitimate daughter of a high-class harlot can reach in Scottish society!”

  His cruel words cut her as if his teeth had met her vulnerable flesh.

  Jeremy seized her hand before it could reach his face. “You’ll come back all right, Madam,” he continued with a curled lip, “but not to my care nor to my protection!” He released her hand and stormed across the room.

  “If you were any kind of guardian, you would escort me over there… now,” she cried, hoping to change his mind.

  Not turning to face her, Jeremy clenched his fists and walked out of the room.

  “I’ll never come back!” she screamed as the door slammed behind him. That was her vow, a vow she whispered again and again on board ship and in that present moment, in the carriage’s dimness.

  The coach came to a halt at 12 Leith Way. The horses, eager for rest, jerked and shuddered as their passenger disembarked. Standing on the narrow sidewalk engulfed in the gloomy city mist, May-Jewel looked at the grayness of the brick building before her. It mimicked her mood. She read the names edged in the bronze tablet in the center of the door: Jameson, Northrup and Abbott. Gathering her dress to clear the mud splattered steps, May-Jewel entered the solicitor’s office.

  * * *

  The North Atlantic

  The creaking of the Billy Khay, as the wind pushed it through the rough ocean, awakened Selina. She stretched her dark hand up to the side beam of the ship’s skeleton, reassured that she was on her way. Nothing would stop her ambitions of claiming the estate that rightfully belonged to her; if not her, definitely her baby. Black eyes scanned the dim interior of the cabin as she searched for her young servant. Not seeing Mayeya, Selina twisted her own long hair into a bun and pinned it in position. Pouring the last of the fresh water into her hand, she washed her face and dried it with her sari. The patter of approaching feet made her frown.

  Selina’s constant aggravation was evident by the marks she left on the young servant girl. As a wife of the wealthy owner of the Craig Shipping Lines, Selina flaunted her right to treat others as she pleased. Mayeya had been given to work at the Craig household in exchange for a monthly supply of food for her family. It was a cheap enough bargain for the rich man and his new Indian wife. As a personal maid, Mayeya’s duties were only to attend to her mistress’ demands. But those demands were so stringent as to affect the twelve-year-old. Her frame was stooped and her limbs so frail that anyone who watched her wondered how she remained upright. During the day Mayeya sometimes made her way into the kitchens where she was given added morsels from the cook to try to keep up her strength. If she didn’t have nine siblings at home, Mayeya would have run back to the poverty of her parents. But living at home was precarious at best, so she stayed with the Craig’s, even though she was hit if she didn’t move fast enough or think ahead in order to please her mistress. But hope dawned one day when she was told to pack the mistress’ trunk and gather her own “miserable belongings” because they were to embark on a trip, a trip that Mayeya saw as a means out of her miserable life in India. Once she was in Scotland, she planned to run away. Life there couldn’t be as bad as living under the hand of Mistress Selina.

  As her mistress’ hair was already up, Mayeya realized that she misjudged how long she had been up on deck to retrieve the water. She thought her mistress would sleep longer but was woefully wrong.

  “Lazy mule!” Selina cursed, her hand striking the child’s cheek. “If I did not need you now more than ever, I would push you into the sea! Do not anger me again!”

  “Yes, Mistress!” Ignoring the stinging of her face, Mayeya tentatively took hold of Selina Craig’s sari. She then wrapped it about her mistress’ shoulders and her bulging belly. Once that was complete, Mayeya poured some water into a cup and handed it to Selina.

  Not expecting it, the slap that came caused Mayeya to fall to the floor.

  “You stupid wench! Why did I bring you? Can you not tell salt water from fresh?” Selina raged. “Leave me!”

  This time Mayeya avoided her mistress’ quick hand as she dashed from the cabin.

  Selina allowed herself a groan, something she’d never do in front of her servant. But as of late, groaning was the only release for the anger and frustration she was feeling. She worried that she might have waited too long to venture across the ocean. But she hadn’t wanted to put any more tim
e between the death of Robert and the claiming of his estate, even to wait until the birth of their child. There wasn’t any doubt that she had done the right thing in staking her claim to the home of her husband. She had always done the right thing, the smart thing. She had been smart enough to use her mother’s wisdom to bewitch Sir Robert into marriage, even though she found him repulsive. His womanizing and drinking disgusted her. Now, how convenient of him to have died! She recalled his last words to her, “I’ll send for you when I get back to Scotland and the time is right. I can’t take you with me as I must go to the America’s first. It’ll be a long time before I reach home, and such a trip is too dangerous for the baby.” His speech sounded rehearsed and impersonal, but that didn’t matter, for she was thinking only of Wistmere Manor and the inheritance. She tolerated his farewell kiss.

  Selina Suhla Craig had watched her husband’s ship disappear over the horizon. As she stood on the wharf, she conceived her plan. It may take him a year or more to get to Scotland, but I will go there first and be well established before he arrives. Another ship will be leaving in two months’ time. Such a venture would surely be worth any of the trials that I might encounter along the way. And I cannot trust him to send for me. Yes, she reaffirmed her decision, how clever, how smart I am. If she hadn’t been resourceful and aggressive, she wouldn’t have been educated in the Queen’s school, wouldn’t have been chosen to be the secretary for the Craig Shipping Lines, nor would she have succeeded in gaining the wealthy ship owner’s attention, becoming his wife and the vessel for his child.

  She considered it a blessing when she received word before she left that he had died. The report stated that he had succumbed from head injuries received during a storm at sea. Now as heir to his estate she planned to, on behalf of her unborn child, lay claim to the ships, his manor and the jewels. Yes, he had told her of the emeralds, each the size of an eye, concealed, the story went, somewhere in the mansion. Story or not, she believed in them. Hadn’t everything else about Robert been true? Why not the gems?