Upon the Solstice
by
Cathryn Ramsay
Rosethorn Press
Upon the Solstice
Copyright © Kirsty Ferry writing as Cathryn Ramsay 2016
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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All characters depicted within this publication other than the obvious historical figures are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Upon the Solstice
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
Extract from La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats
Midwinter
The Winter Solstice
Chapter One
1895, Síthiche Gleann,
Near Tarbert, Scotland.
I saw her first on the Winter Solstice. The snow had fallen silently, steadily, all day, and was now lying in drifts around the gardens. The tree branches were bare, a mass of twisted limbs stretching heavenwards, pointing to where the first stars of evening were beginning to prick through the midnight blue.
I had looked out of the drawing room window, a hazy shape catching my eye - and what I saw was, quite frankly, more interesting than the words I was trying to write.
‘There’s a woman outside!’ I said, laying down my pen and standing up. I moved over to the mullioned window. ‘Whatever is she doing out there?’
My sister, Bella, left the piano where she had been half-heartedly picking out a tune and came to stand by me.
Bella frowned and shook her head. ‘I can’t see anyone.’
‘There,’ I said, pointing to the shadow. ‘Just there.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. She was clearly disinterested and turned away from the window. ‘It’s a servant, no doubt,’ she continued. ‘Maybe one of the girls from the village. Edie? Or is it Elsie?’ Bella shrugged. She didn’t make it a habit to know the hired helps’ names. ‘She’s heading home for the night. I wouldn’t worry about her.’
She yawned and stretched, blinked her round, blue eyes and wandered over to the fireplace. She poked at the coals and they flared up. Then she moved swiftly away from the heat. Bella was strawberry blonde whereas I was dark - and she hated colour in her cheeks. She thought it inelegant and common. Unfortunately, with her complexion it was far too easy for the redness to creep in, especially when she was exposed to a warm, winter fire like this one.
‘I don’t know if it’s one of the local girls. I think she might be lost,’ I said. I squinted, trying to make out the woman’s features. ‘I don’t recognise her.’
Bella folded her arms, her mouth a thin, disapproving line. We had taken my late Uncle’s house near Tarbert for a few months whilst I tried to complete my latest novel. The publisher was becoming angry with my excuses and I was happy to have left the distractions of London behind so I could concentrate on my work; but Bella was already deeply unimpressed by the old house and the unpredictable weather in the west of Scotland. An unwelcome visitor in the grounds was certainly not going to make her warm to the situation.
‘If that’s the case, I don’t think it’s appropriate that she should be out there, staring into our house,’ said Bella. ‘You need to ask her to leave.’
‘I don’t think she’s staring in,’ I said, leaning closer to the window. My breath clouded on the glass as I studied the figure. ‘Oh, I say. She’s gone. She’s walking away. Oh well. Perhaps you were correct.’ I turned back to my sister and shook my head. ‘Lost, then.’
‘Good. She might have been a gypsy or a crofter.’ Bella pulled a face. ‘We don’t need the likes of those around here. She might even, God forbid, have been an Unfortunate. There are plenty of those types at home.’
An Unfortunate was what my sister termed prostitutes and beggar-women.
‘To be fair, Isabella,’ I replied somewhat coldly, ‘we don’t see too many Unfortunates in Hampstead, do we?’
She chose not to answer, but instead commented: ‘We know nothing of the people up here. She could very well be an Unfortunate. However. I am tired and I am bored and I see you need to work.’ Her glance swept over my manuscript. There was very little on the pages. ‘So I, dearest Charles, am going to retire. In fact, I shall be reading a book which someone actually finished.’
Bella had come to Tarbert with me reluctantly, which indeed befitted a woman such as her – a woman who enjoyed parties and balls and company. But as her guardian, I felt I could not leave her behind in London. So, as the deadline for my work drew nearer and nearer, I had to make the decision to come here, at least for a few months.
I had in actual fact spent very little time writing. The words would not come and when they did, they were wrong. I hated every paragraph; I despised every sentence. Bella was perhaps justified in her criticism, but I refused to engage.
‘Goodnight, Isabella,’ I said and turned back to the window.
‘Goodnight Charles,’ she replied, a little stiffly. I heard the swish of her skirts as she whisked across the floor, the slam of the door as she closed it behind her.
But my attention was taken by the woman outside. I watched the figure for a moment longer. She pulled her cloak around her body, turned her head and stared right at me through the glass.
I was aware only of a pale, oval face and dark eyes fixing mine. Then she crumpled to the ground and lay there, a black heap against the white landscape.
‘Good Lord!’ I said. ‘That can’t be healthy.’
The large window was, fortunately, also a door, although it was stiff from lack of use - my Uncle had been dead these past three years and Howard House had become no more than a family bolt-hole.
I forced the door open and flung it wide, a flurry of snow dancing into the drawing room on a gust of wind. The flakes melted as they landed on the fire-warmed floor and I took the terrace in two strides, hurrying down the steps to the garden and leaning over the intruder’s body.
I moved the hood of the cloak away from the woman’s face - and the world stopped turning.
I was unaware of the cold or the snow or the biting wind that struck me from all angles. Her face was all I saw and all I cared about. She was perfection: a smooth, pale complexion; long, dark eyelashes that brushed her cheeks and a mouth that was just the right balance between sensuous and innocent. Her lips were ruby-red and I did not stop to think how they were not chapped or dry from the inclement weather. I did not recognise her at all.
I had no doubt that I had to get the stranger indoors as soon as possible. I scooped the girl up – for girl she was, and no older, I suspected than Bella, who, being four years younger than myself, had celebrated her twenty first birthday three months ago.
Carrying the girl, cloak and all was like transporting gossamer. There was barely any weight to her and I held her close, hoping some of my warmth would seep into her frozen body. She smelled of winter and frost and I feared she would snap like an icicle if
I held her too tightly.
Once inside, I somehow managed to kick the door shut behind me, remove her sopping black cloak and throw it on the floor. Without the cloak, she looked even more vulnerable and I laid her carefully on the chaise longue by the fireplace.
Her hair was blue-black, like a raven’s wing. It clung to her shoulders and hung down to her waist in rats-tails and the firelight wavered across it in coppery highlights. But she was pale – so pale. I pressed my ear to her chest and heard a faint, stuttering heartbeat. I lifted my head; studied her; smoothed the hair away from her forehead. ‘Wake up,’ I murmured, turning my attention to rubbing some life into her thin, white hands. ‘Come on. Wake up. Tell me who you are.’
Whoever she was, her clothing wasn’t generally what I would have expected a gypsy to wear. Her garments were anything but gaudy and showy. She wore a simple white frock, years out of date from what I could tell. It seemed to be made of white muslin and a sash of scarlet ribbon was tied under her breast. The dress was wet around the hem and on her feet were a pair of white satin slippers.
I eased the slippers off and placed them by the fire. I reached across to a chair and pulled a scratchy, tartan blanket off it, which I proceeded to lay across the girl’s body. Despite the warmth of the fire, her cheeks remained resolutely white and marble-like, with no signs of the ugly flush my sister would have developed. I leaned in closer to the girl, meaning only to see if she was still breathing.
With my face inches from hers, she suddenly opened her eyes; and I found myself falling into the sloe-black depths.
***
I don’t know how long I stared into those eyes. It could have been seconds; it could have been hours. It may have been an eternity.
She was the first to break the connection. Her glance darted around the room and her perfect brow creased into lines of worry and fear.
‘It’s safe here,’ I told her. ‘You’re safe.’ She shook her head and struggled to sit upright. I moved away, frightened to touch her in case it terrified her even more. ‘Tell me your name. Tell me who you are and where you come from and I will help you,’ I said, I hoped, kindly,
The girl just shook her head and drew the blanket up over her body, trying to press herself away from me into the cushions. She watched me, her gaze travelling over my face saying more than words could ever have done.
I was confused. ‘Are you Gaelic?’ I asked, stupidly. ‘Is English not your first language?’
I never stopped to think that if that was the case, she wouldn’t understand me. But she watched me speak, tried to make sense of what I was saying. Perhaps she was deaf or mute? I had no clue how to handle this.
Then I had a moment of inspiration – something that had, as a writer, been lacking in my life recently. I would have to be more imaginative to draw the information from her. And a name would be a good place to start.
I would just have to be more literal. ‘Charles,’ I said, pointing to myself. Then I pointed to the girl and raised my eyebrows questioningly. The girl looked at my hand and then her gaze slid across to the window we had come through. The panes were beginning to fog up again with the shifts in temperature. The girl studied the door for a moment. Slowly, she sat up and looked around the room. Her gaze this time settled on the mirror above the fireplace and her lips curved into a smile.
She shed the tartan blanket and swung her legs off the chaise longue. I made a move to help her; but instead she began to walk, quite steadily, to the mirror.
She leaned up to the mirror and blew, ever so gently, onto the corner of the glass. The corner misted up, just like the window panes. The girl raised her right hand and, very carefully, began to write in the mist with her outstretched finger. The letters were shaky and would not look amiss within a child’s copybook, but still, they were recognisable enough.
Ceit
‘That’s your name?’ I asked, suddenly understanding. I caught the girl – Ceit – watching me through the glass and her smile deepened.
‘It’s pronounced “Kate”, isn’t it?’ I asked. I knew a few of the old Gaelic names thanks to my Uncle.
Ceit nodded.
I couldn’t stop watching Ceit. And she, through the glass, watched me back: still smiling.
***
Chapter Two
Ceit. Such a simple name, yet such a beautiful one.
‘Welcome to our home, Ceit,’ I said, speaking to the girl in the glass. Our figures reflected back, the room behind me looking odd and reversed. She was a good head shorter than me and now her hair was drying out it was beginning to curl in abundant natural waves. I took a step closer to her and she held my gaze in the mirror. Nothing else existed; not Bella, nor the room we were in, nor the fire which licked at the freshly piled logs, turning them into cinders as the heat burned through my clothes.
That little smile played around her lips again and I found myself responding in kind. ‘Now please – Ceit - sit down. You look very pale. Would you like some tea?’
Ceit shook her head and reached out a hand; without taking her eyes off me, she almost felt her way back around the chaise longue to a point where she could perch on the edge of it. She didn’t look terrified any more. She looked curious.
I pulled the chair across from my desk and sat in front of her so the combined light from the fire and the lamps in the wall sconces fell onto my face. If the girl was deaf, she would appreciate that, I was sure. And if she was not, I was right in front of her and could study, uninterrupted, the little hills and valleys of her face; the soft curve of her cheek, the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the dark pools of her eyes.
It took me a few moments to realise Ceit was studying me as deeply as I was studying her. I wondered what she would make of me; dark, rather overly-long hair; brown eyes, slightly taller than average and a medium build. I was nothing remarkable.
But Ceit seemed to like what she saw.
She smiled at me and I was blinded.
***
I was fascinated by her. She looked so right there, so very much part of the fabric of the house and the drawing room we sat in, that it was a quite strange. I found again the idea she was a gypsy or a crofter to be highly improbable.
‘I want to paint you,’ I said suddenly. I was surprised as anybody that I had spoken the words out loud. I was a writer first and foremost. My art was something I was almost ashamed of. And never something to be shared with strangers.
‘You see, I’m a writer. My novel is coming along well,’ I said, ‘and I think it will be complete in one or two more weeks.’ I had no idea why I was telling her this, but I continued, regardless. ‘I know you may not understand how the creative mind works, but sometimes it is beneficial to do something else and let the words settle. I had been considering painting some landscapes’ - this, of course, was a lie – ‘but there isn’t a great deal of contrast outside at the moment. So I think a portrait would be a good alternative. I need to paint something else. Something that warrants discovery.’
I almost believed it myself.
‘You might be the answer,’ I told her. ‘My sister, Bella, doesn’t like it in Scotland and she wants everyone to know it. She likes to blame me and she wouldn’t even sit for me if I asked to paint her portrait. She would bore far too easily.’
I wouldn’t normally have spoken ill of Bella. Yes, she was spoiled and petulant at times, but she was my baby sister and had been my responsibility since I was seventeen years old. For eight years I had looked after her and championed her from all quarters. Nothing had come between us – neither her passing fancies nor my inconsequential lovers.
Ceit simply shook her head and raised her hand. She leaned forward and laid the flat of her palm against my cheek: cool, featherlight, it was snowflakes settling on my skin; yet her touch burned like fire.
My heart quickened and I raised my own hand, covering hers. I drowned in her eyes.
Then Ceit shifted her glance and looked out of the window. She shrugged - a tiny, unimporta
nt movement. She dropped her hand, and it hung loosely by her side. Our fingers were still, somehow, intertwined.
I followed her gaze. She yearned, it seemed, to leave.
No,’ I repeated. I raised my free hand and took hold of her chin. I made her look at me again. ‘Stay.’ I said. ‘At least for tonight. We have plenty of room. It’s my household, ignore my sister,’ I said. ‘She will have to accept it. We don’t even know where you live. It could be five miles away or fifty. You’re not leaving. I wouldn’t let you wander out there alone.’ Then I had a sudden, unpleasant thought. What if she had a husband waiting for her? Using Bella’s analogies, what if there was a wild, Highland crofter or a volatile gypsy mate who was likely to beat her when she returned? I had to ask. ‘Will anyone miss you if you don’t go home tonight?’
Ceit shook her head. Then she tilted her face upwards and kissed me, very gently, on the cheek. It was, I think, her way of thanking me.
***
I looked for someone in the corridor; but of course, it was getting late and there was nobody to be found.
The local girls who helped out went home of an evening, hence Bella’s assumptions earlier, and we only really had the Cook or the Steward or a maid-of-all-work to call upon. The Cook enjoyed a gin and the Steward spent much of his time with the horses, talking to his cousin, the Groom, who had worked there the last few months and to whom we paid a retainer so the horses would not suffer when we were in London. And I was never sure where the maid went. So my options were rather limited. There were none of my Uncle’s old servants left now – just a skeleton staff who had come with us from London and one or two local girls, as I say, who made up the numbers.
Uncle Ruairí had died at the age of thirty-four – there had been a gap of eleven years between him and my father, and thus twelve years between myself and my uncle; who had always been more an older brother to me, I suppose.
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