The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel

by Burns, Nathaniel

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Sir Montague, not for the world!” She turned to her portly husband. “Would we, Talbot? We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  He muttered his agreement and I embraced my duties as hostess by excusing myself to welcome the next arrivals.

  It was a small gathering. Sir Montague had not told me how many people he had invited in my name, but I could see that the table was set for twelve. Each place was laid with enough cutlery for a dozen courses, though I had been instructed by my husband to follow Celine’s earlier example and pick at my food, in order to set up the pretence that I was with child. He need hardly have told me. I felt so nervous at being around him and so sickened by the thought of the deception that I was wondering how I was going to get through dinner without fainting.

  To throw a party to announce my supposed pregnancy would have been the height of indelicacy, but Sir Montague was keen to have the trustees of his father’s will know that he was living by its terms. If he could produce an heir only a year after marriage, he reasoned, they might be persuaded to override his father’s wishes and release the remaining half of his inheritance without making him wait until our five years were up. This plan of his did not fill me with delight, since I could only imagine that it would hasten Sir Montague’s need to be rid of me. I could imagine how he intended to accomplish that. Many women are unstable and unwell after birth, and no doubt it would occur to him that it would be an ideal time for me to succumb tragically to a bout of septicaemia or follow Mama out of an upper storey window.

  So it was my husband’s intention that we should not be so forthright as to tell our acquaintances of my ‘condition’ but that we should hint at it in such a way that they would work it out for themselves. This still struck me as somewhat gauche, especially as it was not true, but I knew that I had no choice.

  I smiled serenely and exchanged pleasantries with each guest as they arrived; the cream of local society come to feast their eyes on the famous Withy Chamber while they had the chance. Apparently it had been almost a decade since the last Chastain dinner party, so I could understand their urgent desire to take up the offer while it was there.

  The last guests to whom I was introduced were two gentlemen from the Makepeace, Makepeace and Howe, the firm of solicitors responsible for executing Sir Montague’s father’s will. The reason for their presence was obvious. The rest were simply window dressing, bit-part players in the romantic drama of our supposedly blissful marriage.

  It was not until the aperitifs were done and we had all sat down that I realised we were a guest short. I was in my rightful place at the foot of the table, but the place to my right hand side was empty. That is the place reserved for the guest of honour, I thought. So we must be expecting one more guest, someone whose presence Sir Montague considers important. I wonder who it is?

  *

  Sir Montague had hired additional servants for the occasion, and by the time they had laid and cleared the first three courses I was already exhausted, replete and ready to retire. My husband had conspired with Mrs Chapman and the cook to create a particularly sumptuous feast, an ostentatious display of wealth and taste. I watched Lord Talbot, Dr Bagshawe and Messrs Makepeace and Howe salivating as they were served with chicken a la Marengo. The heavy scent of roasted herbs and tomatoes drifted down the table, offset by the sharp, crisp Riesling being poured liberally into our glasses.

  I accepted only a small portion and dutifully took three bites before neatly laying my knife and fork upon my plate. Dr Bagshawe, seated to my left, paused in his consumption of the dish.

  “Forgive my asking, My Lady,” he blustered, dabbing the rich sauce from the corners of his whisker-covered lips with his napkin. “Are you quite well?”

  Sir Montague had coached me in the way I was to answer this question. I paused for a moment, dipping my head ever so briefly as if permitting myself a private smile, then looked up clearly. “Perfectly, thank you Dr Bagshawe,” I smiled sweetly. “Nothing to be concerned about.” I followed this by simpering down the length of the table at my husband, exactly as he had demanded.

  As I made my terrible, lying face at him, I noticed a footman appearing at Sir Montague’s shoulder and stooping to whisper a message in his ear. Sir Montague excused himself to the guests on either side and left the room. He was gone for no more than a moment, just long enough for Lady Cynthia to allow her dazzling smile to droop into a pretty pout of disappointment, then he returned to announce the late arrival of our missing guest.

  Mervyn.

  Fortunately all heads were turned towards Sir Montague as he introduced Mervyn, so no-one saw the look of shock and delight that illuminated my face. Well, no-one apart from my husband and my beloved, of course. I took great care to conceal the intensity of my joy as Mervyn strode across the room to sit by my side. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to leap out of my chair and fling my arms around him. Since I could not, I would settle for having an evening to spend beside him.

  “My dear cousin,” he grinned, his dark eyes alight as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. I treasured the all-too-brief touch of his warm, slightly rough skin against mine. “I beg your pardon for arriving so late. My journey from Liverpool was a long and arduous one, and it took me several hours longer than I was anticipating to get this far.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I told him, my eyes never leaving his face for a moment. “I am so glad that you made it eventually. Where should we have been without our guest of honour? The evening would not have been the same without you.”

  If I had found it difficult to take three bites of each course before, now it was practically impossible. My whole body, my entire being, was filled with the strange flutterings of love, my heart beating fast and my soul feeling as if it was rushing along on a swift-speeding cushion of air. As the table worked its way through an obscenely large joint of roast beef, a palate-cleansing sorbet, jugged hare and green salad, I was incredibly thankful to have Mervyn to save me from the tedious small talk of the other guests. They all had common acquaintances, shared past experiences and local knowledge which I had so far been unable to obtain. Hearing about these things when I knew that what awaited me was further isolation and captivity merely frustrated me. I was genuinely interested, however, in learning about Mervyn’s life in Liverpool. I quizzed him about the shipping company, the details of his position, the new city, the quality and size of his lodgings, the people he had met. While he answered I pushed food around my plate and tried not to look like anything more than a suitably devoted in-law.

  When good manners dictated that I must monopolise Mervyn no longer but allow the guests a chance to converse with him, Dr Bagshawe began droning at him about a trip he had once taken to Liverpool and how he had found it to be a more enterprising city but had been glad to escape to the comparative calm of the Peak District. Mervyn chatted amiably in response, providing the right amount of superficial flattery and wit to ensure that Dr Bagshawe finished the conversation feeling well satisfied.

  By this point we had moved through Bavarian crème and charlotte russe to arrive at the cheese course. A ripe round of stilton sat surrounded by nuts and grapes. Fortunately it was part of Sir Montague’s plan that I should refuse the pungent cheese, which I was glad to do as I had no great love for it. Instead I snipped off a little stalk of grapes, relishing their cool, clean taste. Although I did not enjoy the strong smell of the stilton I did not want this course to be over. As soon as the last mouthful was swallowed I would be expected to rise and lead Lady Cynthia, Mrs Makepeace and those ladies whose names escaped me into the drawing room, away from Mervyn. I would be expected to make yet more pitiful small talk over coffee while the men indulged themselves with port and brandy. I watched my guests, willing them to slow down each bite and buy me a few more precious seconds.

  *

  The chatter amongst the ladies was dominated by Lady Cynthia. We covered a variety of scintillating topics, from the unse
asonably warm weather to the engagement of a new musical director at the Crescent in Buxton, to the state of the roads, to the scandalous prices set by the latest milliner to set up shop in Spring Gardens. I poured coffee and handed out petits fours with a fixed smile on my face, registering only just enough of their conversation to nod my head or tut in consternation at the right moments. If Mervyn has travelled from Liverpool, I pondered, then he must be staying overnight, at the very least. Perhaps he will spend a few days…

  I waited for an appropriate moment to draw Lady Cynthia aside and put the next part of Sir Montague’s plan into action. Discreetly I led her over to the fireplace and we stood, heads together.

  “Dear Lady Cynthia,” I began, adopting a halting tone that could have been either excitement or distress. “I must beg a favour of you…”

  “Anything, my dear Lady Rebecca!”

  “Well… you might very well know that I have recently lost my Mama -”

  “Oh, indeed!” Lady Cynthia cried, taking my hand and squeezing it uncomfortably between her bony fingers. “I was so terribly sorry to hear about that, my darling. If there is anything that Talbot and I can do, anything at all, you have only to say the word.”

  “Quite,” I said. “Without my Mama I have no female relative to guide me, and I find that I am now in need of guidance. I – I require a… recommendation…”

  I saw the penny drop and Lady Cynthia’s eyes lit up. “My dear, an acchoucheuse? Is that what you require?”

  I dropped my head and gave a shy nod.

  “Oh, you dear sweet girl!” Anticipatory delight bubbled over in Lady Cynthia and the next thing I knew I was being ushered back to the sofa. Lady Cynthia flapped at the other ladies, urging them to make room for me. “We cannot expect Lady Rebecca to stand, my dears, not in her delicate condition!”

  That was all it took. Sir Montague had anticipated that a subtle word with Lady Cynthia would be the swiftest possible way of informing the whole of Derbyshire society of my ‘pregnancy’, starting with every other lady in the room.

  *

  When the ladies were finally collected by their husbands to be taken to their carriages, I caught Sir Montague smiling triumphantly. He could see Lady Cynthia and the others fluttering and cooing round me, and he knew that his plan had worked. My eyes slid past him to Mervyn, willing him not to notice.

  But he had. I saw his face fall, the light going out of his eyes as realisation dawned. My gaze met his and I hoped that my eyes conveyed the depth and sincerity of my sorrow.

  Free from our guests, Mervyn, Sir Montague and I gathered for a nightcap. As Sir Montague poured a fine malt whisky for the gentlemen and a rich cream sherry for me, Mervyn turned to me with a pained expression.

  “Forgive my indelicacy in asking, Lady Rebecca,” he said, his tone so stiff and formal that it made me want to cry, “but I could not help noticing the ladies treating you in a very particular way. Am I to understand that… congratulations… are in order?”

  My voice deserted me. I could not lie to him. Nor, with Sir Montague standing only a few feet away, could I risk a denial. My eyes filled with tears. I had to look away.

  “They are indeed, Mervyn, old chap,” Sir Montague swaggered over with the drinks. “To the heir to Willow Castle, eh?” He raised his whisky glass. Mervyn and I followed suit, mechanically echoing the toast. When Sir Montague saw me laying a hand to my belly he shot me a look of approval, obviously under the impression that I was beginning to embrace my role. In truth, I merely hoped to quiet the churning pain that gripped me as I felt all hope slipping away from me.

  *

  There was no chance of finding a moment alone with Mervyn that night. The note was still tucked into my chemise and I wished fervently that I had outlined the details of Sir Montague’s plans in it, for then I could have found some way to slip him the paper and he would have had an explanation. In its current state, the note would tell him nowhere near enough, and could be taken for the terror of a nervous young woman facing pregnancy in a lonely castle with a distant husband.

  When Sir Montague declared that it was time for bed, I saw a glimmer of hope. Neither Mrs Chapman nor Sarah was waiting by the door to escort me to my room. Perhaps, in his desire to conceal the fact of my imprisonment, Sir Montague had decided that I need not be escorted and locked in that night! In that case I should wait until he was out of earshot and then slip off my shoes and double back, barefoot and silent, towards Mervyn’s room. Yes, that would work, I would –

  “Come, little wife,” Sir Montague was saying, extending a hand to me. “It’s high time that you were in my bed. Goodnight, Mervyn.”

  He pulled me to my feet and pushed me out of the room, one hand on the small of my back. I glanced back towards Mervyn, my face a mask of horror.

  *

  The moment the door to the master bedroom closed and locked behind us, Sir Montague’s arms slithered round me. I stood stock still as one hand caressed my neck, the other wrapped around my waist. He buried his face in my hair, his breath reeking of alcohol.

  “You did well tonight, little wife,” he murmured. “You were very well-behaved indeed.” I felt him plant a wet kiss on my neck. “We need not be enemies, you and I,” he said, and I was surprised by his tone. I was used to his commanding coldness, but this… he was almost wheedling. “Perhaps in time you could come to love me, Rebecca, the way that Celine loves me… You think that I want you to hate me, but it’s not true. I just do not want you to love him. People always love him. Pater did, and I could see that you did from the first moment you met him.”

  Releasing me suddenly, he staggered across the room and peeled off his coat, missing the chair and dropping it on the floor. He collapsed onto the bed, shucking off his shoes with difficulty.

  “That’s why I’ll never let him have this place,” he slurred. “I hate Willow Castle. Hate it. He doesn’t. He loves it. So he can’t have it. It shall go to my bastard and my damned cousin can go to hell, where he will charm the Devil himself, most likely. And he can’t have you, nor you him. Now get undressed and get into bed, for I am going to mount you with such force that my damned cousin will hear it from the other side of the Castle.”

  *

  Deep in the early hours of the morning I lay wide awake, the light of the full moon streaming across my pillow. Sir Montague had been too far gone with drink to make good on his threat of rough wooing, but my body was sticky with sweat from the attempts he had made before finally giving up and falling into a drunken stupor. He lay beside me now, snoring loudly, his arm flung across me as if I were simply another pillow, present in his bed for his convenience and nothing else.

  I slithered out from beneath his weight and got up. The flagstones were cool beneath my feet, a welcome contrast to the early summer warmth, and my thin shift was easily sufficient clothing. Softly I stole over to Sir Montague’s discarded coat and searched the pockets, looking for the heavy iron key that he had used to lock us in. My fingers probed into the soft cloth until at last I felt it, cold metal against my skin. I crept over to the door and slipped it into the lock. I began the turn.

  “Mmm?”

  I froze. The lock was old, ill-maintained, clunking noisily as metal touched metal. My husband was a light sleeper even in the depths of his drunkenness. If I unlocked the door I would not stand a chance of reaching Mervyn. I stepped away from the door lest Sir Montague should awaken fully and catch me there, and instead tiptoed over to his writing desk. The moonlight streamed across its surface, turning the embossed leather a willowy green-grey. It was more than enough light for me to write by.

  My beloved, beloved Mervyn,

  Do not believe anything that you heard or saw tonight, everything is a lie. Everything since I came to Willow Castle has been a lie, an illusion, madness or devilry. Everything, my darling, except my love for you.

  I am not carrying Sir Montague’s child. That is a bald-faced lie which he is determined to tell so that he may pass his mistress’
child off as mine, legitimising his bastard and cheating you of your inheritance. I shall never be mother to any child of his, I swear it, so unless he were to kill me – which I fear he may very well do some day – there shall be no legitimate Chastain heir from him.

  He has forced me to participate in this deception, staging that dinner as a means of breaking the news to the executors of your uncle’s will. I should have defied him to the last, even though he holds me prisoner and seeks to declare me insane, but he threatened to harm you and that I could not have borne. I could not have you suffer for my stubbornness, my love.

  I have no idea how I am to get this note to you, my darling Mervyn. I am writing in hope, not in expectation, and because I must set these thoughts down or else go mad. If I can find a way to ensure that you receive it, you must go at once to the library and find Osier: A History, which shall reveal to you a secret that no other must know. That secret may be the key to our future happiness, although at present it seems like madness simply to write those words. How can there be future happiness? I am trapped, you are gone, nothing is as it should be.

  The happiest moments of my life were those that I spent in your arms. I would to God we could have run away together then, my beloved. Know that whatever happens, whether I get out of this situation alive and with sanity intact or not, know that above all else I love you, I love you, I love you.

  Forever yours,

  R

  I folded the letter with careful precision, then spotted a stick of sealing wax. I had had none to use on my last letter, but I decided that I would use it this time. At least then I would know if my letter had been found and read before I found a way to put it into Mervyn’s hands. I struck a match, praying that the small scrape and hiss would not disturb Sir Montague’s fragile sleep, and lit the wax stick. Globules of shiny redness dripped onto the paper, and for want of my own bronze seal I placed a kiss on my fingertip and pressed down, ignoring the stinging heat.