The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel

by Burns, Nathaniel

  “How romantic!” I breathed. “And were they happy together?”

  “Presumably they were, as they quickly produced two sons. Carvell had a reputation for being a gambler, but there’s nothing on record to say what Lady Angela thought of that. He was quite a successful gambler, by all accounts, so perhaps she didn’t mind. However, it was his gambling habit that gave rise to the best of the Castle’s legends – he is said to have grown so tired of his easy victories and so obsessed with playing for higher and higher stakes that he challenged the Devil himself to cards.”

  “Really?” I found myself sitting forward, rapt as a little girl. Mervyn leaned closer, obviously enjoying his role as the teller of ghostly tales by the library fire.

  “Why, yes. They say that on Midsummer Eve, the shortest night of the year, he locked himself in the Withy Chamber. Alone and in perfect silence, he set up the gaming table, just as a young girl might prepare a dumb supper to learn the identity of her future husband. On the first stroke of midnight he took his place at the table, poured the wine, picked up the pack of cards and began to shuffle. On the last stroke, he looked up and saw the Devil appear in the seat opposite him. They bowed to each other and the challenge began.

  For the first game the stakes were long life against Carvell’s soul. Carvell won, but it was too easy and at once he felt disappointed by an anticlimactic victory. The Devil, seeing an opportunity, offered to play again. This time Carvell bet the family jewels – a handful of finely wrought rings and bracelets encrusted with jewels, a few medallions and a spectacular gold pendant containing an emerald the size of a goose egg – against the promise of equally long life for Angela. This time, for the first time in years, he lost. As he pushed the velvet bag containing the jewels across the table and saw the Devil’s clawed hand close around it, he suddenly lost his nerve. Faced with the prospect of explaining to his wife and children that he had gambled away the gems that were his sons’ birthright, he knew he had to win them back.

  At first the Devil seemed reluctant, claiming that he had answered Carvell’s summons and won the jewels fair and square. But Carvell persisted, and eventually the Devil suggested that since Lady Angela and her good opinion meant so much to Sir Carvell, they should play for her. Carvell refused, so the Devil amended his offer – he would stake the newly-won jewels against a single night with Angela. This made Carvell nervous, but he was a confident man and believed himself a good enough card player that it was worth the risk.

  They played their final round. They were well-matched, and for a long time they were locked in stalemate, taking and losing hands at an equal rate. The wine was drunk, the night was coming to an end and they both knew that the game must end with the first rays of the dawn. Here the various versions of the story differ. Some say that Carvell uttered a prayer in his wife’s name, begging for her to be spared and not shamed as a result of his folly, and that’s what gave him the moment’s luck he needed to win the game. Others say that in his desperation he cheated his way to victory, but the Devil could not tell how. Either way, Carvell won at last.

  The Devil was enraged. Bound by their agreement to return the jewels, he swore that he would not place them in Carvell’s hand but would conceal them somewhere within the Castle. That way he would not have taken them, but nor would Carvell simply have them back. He also vowed that since he had not won Lady Angela, he would wait until she came to Hell of her own accord.

  Carvell laughed and told him that would never happen, for Angela was the most virtuous woman he knew. Yet within six months, Lady Angela had gone mad and one stormy night, she threw herself from the ramparts to her death. Carvell was left to live out a very long life, blaming himself for his wife’s death.”

  His story concluded, we sat in silence for a long moment. I traced a finger over the image of poor Lady Angela, wondering how one who looked so serene could lose her mind and take her own life.

  “Did they ever find the jewels?” I asked.

  “No,” Mervyn said. “They never reappeared. My uncle thought the whole story was some drunken fantasy that Carvell concocted to cover up the fact that he had either lost the jewels or sold them. We have a few pieces that belong the family, but they’re kept in a vault in our bank in London. You should ask Montague about them, they should be yours now. Nothing so resplendent as a huge emerald, but there’s a nice little opal pendant that I remember my aunt wearing.”

  “Were you close to her too?”

  “Not especially. She died before I came to live here, so I only saw her on visits. Sadly she fell victim to the same carriage accident that claimed my parents, they were all travelling together.” His slight smile never wavered, but for a moment I thought it was tinged with sadness.

  “I am sorry,” I said softly. “I did not mean to bring up painful memories.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said bracingly. “You weren’t to know, and it was a perfectly reasonable question. I suppose it’s all part of the curse.”

  “Curse?”

  “Ha, yes – ever since Lady Angela’s death, there’s supposedly been a curse on Chastain brides. They don’t enjoy particularly long lives, and the beautiful ones die by their own hand so the Devil can claim them for his own in revenge for being cheated of Angela in that card game. You’d best hope it’s not true, my dear cousin – with a face like yours, he’ll be after you in a heartbeat!”

  He laughed, and I attempted to join in, but a slow shiver was creeping its way up my spine. I tried to keep my voice as light and amused as possible as I asked “You don’t think it’s true, do you?”

  “What? No. Certainly not. It’s true that there have been some members of the family who have died young and that some of them have been attractive women, but there has always been an explanation. Illness, childbed, unfortunate accidents – all the same things that afflict all normal, uncursed families. As far as I know there were a couple of ladies who were suicides, but whether they were particularly attractive, I don’t know. It’s always easy to remember people as more beautiful than they were, especially when it fits in with a dramatic story.”

  At that moment the door creaked open, cutting our conversation short. Mervyn leapt to his feet and in a moment was on the other side of the room, idly browsing the shelves, and I immediately concentrated on the book in my lap. As Mama entered, having risen from her nap, I took a moment to wonder why Mervyn and I had reacted as if we had been caught out in some clandestine activity when all we had been doing was talking. Then I saw Mama sweep the room with her disapproving gaze, unhappy to see that I was unchaperoned in the same room as a man, and I knew. I realised how little my life had changed, even though I was now married. I wondered for a second whether I would ever be free to do as I pleased and talk with whoever I wished, but I dismissed the thought. We had a home and security. That was more important than anything else, and I knew I must not allow myself to get caught up in romantic notions as if I were a fictional heroine in a modern novel. I gazed down at the face of Lady Angela and promised myself that whatever happened, my fate would at least be happier than hers.

  5 Mervyn

  O

  ver the following weeks, as the Castle was deluged with almost incessant thundery rain, I found my head full of strange fancies inspired by Mervyn’s story. As I roamed the halls I jumped at every shadow, wondering whether I had perhaps caught a glimpse of the shade of poor Lady Angela. Every time I heard my solitary footsteps echoing in the flagstoned passageways, I thought I heard her delicate gait pattering beside me, behind me, disappearing round corners ahead of me. And every time I heard a rumble of distant thunder my heart leapt into my mouth, half-expecting the Devil himself to appear and demand a new opponent for his games.

  Sir Montague’s routine continued as before. He kept to his study, sat taciturn at mealtimes, frequently disappeared on business for days at a time, and occasionally he came to my bed at night. I continued to read voraciously, delighting in my unrestricted access to unlimited supplies
of books, and I took my sketchbook to one window after another to draw the stormy landscapes. I was even able to resume my piano practise. The castle had rather a fine instrument, which Mervyn had made a brave attempt at tuning for me. Sitting in the music room with Beethoven for my companion, I could lose myself for hours.

  The only unfortunate circumstance was Mama’s health. She seemed to be suffering increasingly from headaches – something to which she had always been prone, but which had become more and more frequent. As much as I felt sympathy for her and did not wish her to be in pain, I could not help but enjoy her absence. Whenever she retreated to her darkened room, I got to spend time alone with my husband’s cousin. We spent many afternoons together, our heads bent over that book about his ancestors while he told me all the tales he had grown up with. Had it not been for the fact that he never came to my bed, I could have believed that it was in fact Mervyn rather than Sir Montague who had married me that day. In the privacy of my own mind I allowed myself to imagine such a thing. When Mervyn’s fingers accidentally brushed mine as we turned a page, I imagined how his touch might feel. His hand upon my waist, caressing my cheek, stroking my hair… It was only when he addressed me as “Lady Rebecca” that I found myself mercilessly thrust back into reality.

  Yet this gentle, enjoyable state of affairs was not to last. Mervyn had warned me that he would have to leave as soon as a suitable position came up, and when I slipped into the library one day to be greeted by a morose expression rather than his customary smirk, I feared the worst.

  “Well, Lady Rebecca,” he said, giving me a rueful grin. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  “On what?”

  He held up a folded letter. “On my great good fortune,” he said. “I have a position. You may or may not know it, but the Chastain family has a number of business interests in Liverpool. I shall be involved in the running of our shipping line. Not a major strand of the family’s income, and not even a particularly senior position, but what’s a poor relation to do?”

  “What indeed?” I replied, feeling my cheeks grow pale. “Shall you like it?”

  “I hope so. I shall try.”

  I glided across the floor and took my place in the seat adjacent to his by the fire, ready to continue our reading, controlling my emotions with every ounce of restraint that Mama had ever drilled into me. I wanted to tell him I would miss him, implore him to stay, fling my arms around him and forbid him to leave me. I was tormented by visions of Mervyn beginning a life in Liverpool while I languished forgotten at Willow Castle. He would meet new people, share his stories with other friends, and eventually he would meet some other girl who would capture his heart and sooner or later Sir Montague and I would be invited to dance at his wedding. I could not bear the thought, but nor could I escape it.

  *

  For the next two days I wracked my brains, but I could think of no way of keeping Mervyn close to me. I did not know enough about the family’s business interests to have any idea where else he might be useful. Instead I concentrated my efforts on finding a way to spend as much time with him as possible before his departure at the end of the week. At last I hit upon a way of winning an extra day, even if it would be under less than ideal circumstances. That was how I found myself standing outside the door to my husband’s study, taking deep breaths as I prepared to knock.

  “Enter.”

  Composing myself, I made my way in. I had never set foot in the stud before. It was a small, dark room, piled to the ceiling with papers and unshelved books. A large bureau and captain’s chair took pride of place, and the air was dank, musty and laden with cigar smoke. Going against all the rules of etiquette I had ever learned, Sir Montague did not rise as I entered.

  “Is there something you require, wife?”

  I faltered as I met his cold blue gaze.

  “I hope,” Sir Montague said, “that you are not planning to make a habit of disturbing me in my study. I have important work to do. If you have nothing to say, perhaps you would be so good as to leave me in peace.”

  “I do have something to say,” I blurted out, recovering myself. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, but there is something I wished to discuss.”

  He said nothing, neither giving me permission to stay nor bidding me leave, so I blundered on.

  “It is about your cousin,” I said. “He is leaving.”

  “At the end of the week, yes. Have you come here to tell me things I already know?”

  “No, no, it’s just – I thought we might… see him off, perhaps? That we could set him as far as Buxton.”

  He said nothing.

  “It seemed such a lovely place when Mama and I passed through it on our way here, and I should like to see it again.”

  He said nothing.

  “Perhaps if you are too busy, Mama and I might be permitted to go? Mr Chastain has been so very welcoming, and I have no family of my own so I should like to…” I trailed off as he continued to stare inscrutably at me.

  “So my cousin has worked his magic on you, has he?” Sir Montague murmured. “I did wonder.”

  My blood froze in my veins. My husband suspected me of impropriety, he would tell Mama, we would be sent away –

  “Well, no matter,” he continued. “He will be gone soon enough, taking his charms with him. If you want to go to Buxton, now is as good a time as any. We’ll have to make the occasional public appearance in local society, I suppose, however tedious it may be. Very well.” He drew his chair back in towards the bureau and took up his pen. “We shall go to the Old Hall for a couple of days.”

  I breathed my thanks and waited for him to speak again, either to plan further or simply to acknowledge my gratitude. He said nothing. Eventually I decided that I had had all the speech I was going to get out of him, so I excused myself and slipped out of the room, my heart a little lighter.

  *

  Although I still dreaded Mervyn’s departure, I was excited to escape the castle for a little while and return to Buxton. It was my first journey in Sir Montague’s carriage, a sombre-looking vehicle but considerably more comfortable than the one Mama and I had hired for our arrival. We made a strange little party as we trundled across the Hope Valley, Mervyn’s box securely strapped to the roof and the three of us inside. Mervyn chatted inconsequentially and I tried hard to strike a balance between my desire to make the most of my time with him, my wish to be polite and the necessity of behaving properly in front of my husband.

  I need not have bothered with the latter consideration, for Sir Montague refused all attempts to engage him in the conversation and behaved as if he were travelling alone. He spent the entire journey staring fixedly out of the window, his eyes glazed in spite of the beauty of the dramatic landscape newly touched by spring. He was so completely wrapped up in his own thoughts that I doubt he would have noticed had I climbed into Mervyn’s lap and kissed him. I did not, of course. In fact I flushed with shame at the very thought, then flushed even deeper as I noticed a quizzical expression on Mervyn’s face and knew he had noticed.

  We had only one evening to spend with Mervyn before his departure for Liverpool in the morning, and I had expected that we would spent it together, all three of us dining at the hotel. However, I had reckoned without the strangeness of my husband’s behaviour. He came to our room as I finished dressing for dinner and looked me up and down indifferently.

  “Hmm. Pretty.” he said. “I’m sure my cousin will appreciate it.”

  I knew Mama would have wanted me to bow my head and say nothing, but I found I could not. I met Sir Montague’s gaze. “I had hoped that my dress would please you, sir,” I told him. “Mr Chastain’s reaction was the furthest thing from my mind.”

  He gave me a look of utter disbelief. “Why should I care what you wear? I’m not going to be there, so it’s only Mervyn who’ll get the benefit.”

  “You are not coming to dinner, husband?”

  “No, my little mouse of a wife, I am not. It has been s
ome time since I was last in town and I have other matters to attend to. Besides which, I can think of nothing so tedious as spending the evening listening to my cousin flirting with my wife and you pretending not to notice. I had quite enough of that in the carriage today.”

  I struggled to figure out what I should do next. Hearing my husband accuse me of being engaged in a flirtation with Mervyn made me furious – I wanted to scream with frustration and tell him how I was resisting that flirtation with every fibre of my being. I wanted to throw myself on my knees and weep and beg him not to be displeased with me, not to tell Mama, not to send us away or worse, forbid me from contact with Mervyn. I wanted to shrug my shoulders and tell him that I did not care what he thought, since he was obviously as supremely indifferent to me as I was to him. I did none of these things.

  “If you prefer, I can dine alone,” I offered. “I would never wish you to suspect me of anything. Believe me, I am as true a wife as you could wish. If you prefer me not to dine with your cousin I will ask for a tray to be brought for me.”

  “How very touching,” he laughed. “No, you’re quite safe with Mervyn. He might look at you with undisguised lust, he might talk to you as if you were childhood sweethearts, but I know my cousin. He knows better than to lay a finger on anything that’s mine.” He came up behind me as I sat at the dressing table and laid a hand on my bare shoulder. Our eyes met in the mirror. “I can see that you are obsessed with him, little Rebecca,” he whispered, slithering his hand over my skin and under my dress to cup my breast. “You think I should be angry. But no. You see, I rather like watching you and him squirming with all that pure, pent-up passion, knowing that you can’t do a thing about it because you are both dependent on me. I like seeing the way he looks at you and knowing that I may use your body as I see fit while he may never lay a hand on you. You shall dine alone with him this evening and he shall wish that you were his wife, not mine. Then tonight I shall take you to bed and he will lie on the other side of the wall from us, knowing that while he burns with passion for you I am at that very moment using you as I please.”