Ruairí and I had grown apart in the months before his death. He had become almost a hermit, and it was to my great regret that I had not insisted upon visiting him, despite his protests. I missed Ruairí. He was the last link between my father and me . They shared the same red hair and sparkling blue eyes and it was from Ruairí, I always believed, that I had inherited my love of words and writing. He had longed to be known as a poet and follow in the footsteps of Lord Byron and Keats. He had moved up here, to one of the family properties, to pursue that dream and it had worked to his advantage with some of his works being classed as ‘genius’ by the literati.
At least, it had all worked to his advantage until he died.
That dreary event had occurred three and a half years ago, on Midsummer Eve. He had been discovered at the foot of one of the nearby mountains – people assumed that he had fallen, but, when I saw the body, there was no evidence of that to me. He was not marked in any way – no bones were broken and no limbs were twisted.
Instead, Ruairí looked to me as if he had been suffering from some dreadful wasting disease. The sight of him was shocking. His cheeks were hollow and his hair unkempt. He was unshaven and his clothes were tattered.
Howard House was not much better. By then, all the servants had left. Ruairí had become intolerable to work for, or so I was told. He was prone to outbursts of a manic variety and depressions of fathomless depths. The left wing had been all but levelled in a fire – the rumour was that he had set it himself to destroy some work he was not happy with. Had it not been for a fortuitous thunderstorm there would be very little of Howard House left.
Ruairí was not a poor man. He had left me plenty of money in his Will, along with Howard House, and also made me the beneficiary of all the royalties on his work. That financial boost had enabled me to restore the house as well as I could; and now, without a left wing, it looked a little odd and lopsided but it was very habitable.
I loved it here. I always had.
I knew all the house’s secrets. I knew all its passageways and hiding-places. Which is why, God forgive me, I wanted Ceit to sleep in one particular room that night. So the absence of inquisitive servants was probably a blessing.
I looked up at the staircase. ‘The blue bedroom, I think,’ I murmured to nobody in particular. My sister was up there in her room, at the other end of the house to the blue bedroom and I knew I wouldn’t see her any more tonight. Bella could – and would - hold a grudge for as long as it suited her.
I didn’t particularly care. I had long ago ceased to try and jolly her out of her tempers. My priority tonight was in the drawing room and would, I suspected, be more pleasant company. I didn’t know whether we would succeed in having much conversation, but her company and her presence was more than enough for now.
***
Chapter Three
I entered the drawing room, ready to explain to Ceit that she would have a warm bed for the night - and discovered that she had chosen to sleep on the chaise longue instead.
She had pulled the still-damp cloak over herself and lay curled up on her side, her cheek resting on her hand, her bare feet hanging over the edge of the chaise longue. Her eyes were closed and she was silent, unmoving.
‘Ceit?’ I asked, kneeling by the chaise longue. She was so still and white, I was concerned she had slipped into the valley of shadows whilst I had been deciding upon a bed for her. I laid a hand on her forehead and moved the hair away from her face, just as I had done earlier. The feeling was oddly familiar, as if I had done it hundreds, nay thousands of times, before – not just the once.
She shifted under my touch, turning her still-sleeping face instinctively, it seemed, towards me, her body following. She lay now, half on her back, one of her hands flung out behind her.
I couldn’t help it. I bent down and kissed her, swiftly, on the lips and pulled away, startled at my own temerity.
Ceit, however, did not flinch or awake with a scream – as she had a right to do, I suppose. Instead, she smiled in her sleep and moved under her makeshift blanket, making herself more comfortable.
‘This is no good,’ I said. ‘You can’t use that old cloak. Here. Have the blanket instead. It’s warm and dry.’ I carefully removed the cloak, peeling it back inch by inch to avoid disturbing her. When it was gone, I tossed it aside and noticed how frail and thin she was under the white muslin of her frock. I laid the tartan blanket over her, half hoping she would wake and I could look into her eyes once more. But she didn’t.
So instead, I sat back on my heels and noticed everything about her – the way the light was still flickering on her hair, the way her body curved under the blanket, the line of her hips and thighs. This moment was the one I wanted to capture. I stood up and went over to the desk where my abandoned manuscript lay and I opened the bottom drawer.
I took out a stick of charcoal and a fresh sheet of thick, creamy paper. Then I dragged a chair over into the middle of the room. Before I sat down, I locked the drawing room door. I wanted nobody disturbing us.
I made myself comfortable and, not thinking how voyeuristic and strange some might think me, I began to draw Ceit.
***
Whether I fell into some sort of half-sleep or whether I had fallen into a trance, I knew nothing more until two in the morning when the chiming of the clock startled me. I blinked, wondering for a moment where I was.
As my senses returned, I gradually realised that everything was familiar. Everything was in its place. I was stiff and sore and my hand ached and my head ached and the fire had died long ago. The room was freezing, bathed in an unearthly light from the snow which was piled up outside the door. The chaise longue, however was empty.
A swish of skirts announced Ceit. She was standing beside me, looking at the sketch that lay on my lap. Or, to be more precise, she might have been looking at any number of the sketches I had scattered all around me. They were all of her. It seemed that I had drawn her in every position possible – every time she stirred in her sleep, I must have abandoned the picture I was working on and started a new one. The charcoal was a stub, barely a quarter of an inch long now.
‘Good Lord,’ I said, staring at the scraps of paper. ‘I had no idea.’
Ceit leaned in and took the picture I had on my lap. She stood up and studied the likeness. I couldn’t read her thoughts.
I could only look up at her and try to apologise. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling the heat creep up my cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry. You were sleeping and you were beautiful and I—’
She pressed her finger against my lips and shook her head. She smiled at me and gathered up the other pictures. She took them over to my desk and tucked them into the bottom drawer, as if she knew that was where I hid anything to do with my art – my guilty secret. Ceit shut the drawer quietly but firmly, then tilted her head and studied the papers on the top of the desk. She ran her fingers across my manuscript and looked at me, questioningly.
‘It’s almost finished,’ I reiterated, automatically. Ceit’s glance didn’t waiver and my cheeks grew warm again. I looked away, then back at her, reminding myself that she might need to see my face to understand me. I opened my mouth to continue with the lie – but it was harder to face her and do that and I couldn’t keep up the pretence. ‘No. You’re right. It’s not almost finished,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I can’t progress with it. I can’t work out what is happening. As they say, I have written myself into a corner.’ I laughed, bitterly and shook my head. ‘Short of losing two thirds of the manuscript, I really cannot see a way out of it. And my publisher wants it all completed and perfectly composed by the beginning of January.’
I didn’t really think she would understand, but she came over to me and laid her hands on my shoulders. She understood.
‘Anyway, it’s late,’ I said, ‘and the manuscript is my problem. I’ll show you to your room instead. I hope you don’t mind, but I put you in a room nearer to myself than to Bella. If you need anything, I’m only a few s
teps away. Bella is a heavy sleeper and well, you’ve not met her, so…’
It was a small attempt at humour, but I was rewarded by a laugh. It wasn’t loud and it wasn’t startling, but it was nice. Ceit had some sort of voice at least and I was entranced.
‘You have a pretty laugh,’ I said and she lowered her eyelids, blushing slightly. I wondered if I’d said the wrong thing. Perhaps she had never heard herself laugh? It was an odd thought.
I touched her lightly on the arm and she raised her eyes to me again.
‘Come,’ I said. ‘I’ll take you to the blue bedroom.’
Ceit nodded and took my hand.
Her hand felt as if it belonged there.
***
The blue bedroom was plain and simple but I did not think that Ceit would have wanted nor expected sumptuous furnishings. The room was also part of an interconnected suite of rooms that had once upon a time been the nurseries.
There was a small passageway which led from the blue bedroom, through a sort of airlock which had been the nurse’s or governess’s room. It seemed as if the room ended there, but there was a cleverly disguised wardrobe door, which then led into my room. When I was younger I had often pondered why that was – I asked Ruairí about it once and he laughed and said the legend was that one of our ancestors had enjoyed more than a few liaisons with a very pretty governess.
I led Ceit through the upstairs corridors, until we reached the blue bedroom. We paused outside and I opened the door. ‘This is it,’ I said. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need. There is a bathroom just through there. I’m told it’s a very comfortable room and I’m just two doors along if you need anything. Or,’ I added for the sake of propriety, ‘you could simply ring the bell and someone will come.’ I knew nobody would, but then I also knew she wouldn’t ring the bell.
Ceit nodded and loosened my hand. She fingered the embroidered bell pull, then dropped the fabric as if she had no intention of using it at all tonight. My thoughts were correct. Her gaze lingered on the connecting door to the governess’s room.
Finally, she turned to me and smiled. She stood on her tiptoes, her fingers clutching the folds of white muslin and I realised she had left her shoes downstairs in the drawing room. She closed her eyes and moved her face towards me, dropping a kiss on my lips. It felt like a rose petal drifting down and brushing my skin.
‘And goodnight to you,’ I whispered.
I walked out of the bedroom and closed the door softly behind me.
***
Chapter Four
I did not sleep well. Mechanically, I went through the motions of changing and washing and slipping under the covers. After that, I simply lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. It was now almost three in the morning. Whatever was left of this night was, it seemed, lost to me.
My imagination would not let me forget the fact that there was a beautiful, highly desirable woman just steps away. My fingers itched to pick up a pencil and draw her again; to create a poem about her; to write her, somehow, into my disastrous, half-finished novel. She was too enthralling to forget – too incredible to remember.
I groaned and turned over, staring at the full-length window which I knew would show me nothing but velvety darkness outside. I did not bother with drapes. I never had.
But instead of the darkness, was a blurred, white figure. It was the size and shape of a woman and she was standing, with her back to me, on the balcony outside. I noticed how her waist narrowed and how her hair fell down to her hips and how it seemed to be that she had not a stitch of clothing upon that translucent, pale body.
I wanted to shout out and ask who she was. I wanted to ask what she thought she was doing outside of my chamber. But I was paralysed. I opened my mouth and no words came. My heart was pounding, the bed seeming to thump with every beat.
The figure turned and again I saw the pale face and the dark eyes that had caught my attention in the gardens earlier.
A crash, and the windows flung open, an icy blast bringing fresh snow flurries into my room. The flakes spattered the wooden floor with wet marks as they melted. I was dreaming; I had to be. I had fallen asleep and this was my subconscious, replaying the moment, hours before, when I had brought Ceit in from the gardens. It was my deepest desire that she should be in my chamber and the excitement and desire had melded into this fantasy.
The woman came over to my bed and leaned over it. Her hair fell forwards, piling up on my pillow.
‘I came for you, Charles,’ said a voice so sweet of timbre that I knew it could not possibly be Ceit. Yet she looked like her and she smelled like her and – I reached out a finger and touched her cheek – she felt like her.
‘Ceit.’ Her name came out like a moan.
‘Let me in beside you Charles,’ she whispered, her lips close to my ear. ‘I’m so cold.’
‘The balcony,’ I managed. ‘Why the balcony?’ There was no connecting balcony between our two rooms.
She laughed, the sound of a brook flowing beneath ice. ‘Why not the balcony?’
But the time for words had passed. I grabbed her pale, insubstantial body and dragged her down onto the bed.
Before I was able to make another conscious decision, she was within the sheets and our limbs were entwined and I was kissing her – kissing her as if she were the oxygen that would keep me alive, as if she were in charge of the very blood which pumped around my body…
‘Oh God! Ceit!’ I cried, abandoning myself to the fantasy.
***
And then she was gone.
I opened my eyes at the pinnacle of our mutual pleasure - and she had vanished. There was no sign of her. The doors to the balcony were firmly closed. The room was dry. It was silent.
The only evidence of our supposed love-making was the messed-up bed, the scattered pillows and my ragged breath as I came back to consciousness. My body was beaded with sweat, I could feel it trickling down between my shoulder-blades and my hair was plastered to my neck and my forehead.
But I was alone.
I sat up, trying to orientate myself. I looked over at the wardrobe door, that secret entrance to the governess’s room and swung my legs out of the bed. My feet stuck to the floorboards leaving damp prints as I padded across the room. I tried the door and it was locked.
There was a key in the lock – impossible to lock the door behind you with a key in – but I tried it anyway, just to be sure. Sure enough, it appeared that she had not entered my room that way.
I paused for a moment, putting my ear to the door, wondering if I would be able to hear anything behind it from the other room – any murmurings or rustling; sounds of her escaping to her own suite. Nothing.
My hands slick with perspiration, I turned the key in a bid to open the door. I would go in and find out.
***
I emerged through the secret wardrobe into the deep, red velvet of the governess’s room - and saw that it lay undisturbed.
The bed was neatly turned back, as it always was, and a bowl and ewer stood on the dressing table, devoid of water. This room too had a private bathroom, as did all the suites on this floor; but a quick check inside that tiny room told me nobody was concealed there at all.
I called for her, half-expecting her to melt out of the shadows in the corner: ‘Ceit? Ceit? Are you here?’ But my voice only echoed, unsure of itself, then faded into silence.
I stood in the room, looking at the door into the blue bedroom. The chill of a winter’s night crept over my naked body and I shivered. I think the shiver was as much to do with anticipation as it was to do with the cold. If Ceit was not here and not in my bedroom, she was just beyond that door.
I moved over to the door and grasped the handle. I turned it and felt resistance. Again, there was a key in the lock and I cursed it. I took hold of the key, meaning to open the door and peer in on my imagined lover; then reason overcame me. What was I doing, creeping around bedrooms, looking for an innocent young girl who I had offered to help? Instead, I l
aid my forehead on the wooden panel and closed my eyes.
But when I closed them, all I could see was Ceit, silhouetted against my window.
It was no use. Reason deserted me once more. I took hold of the key and turned it.
The lock was stiff, the metal cold. But I opened the door.
I could see the bed and a figure within it. Ceit lay there, not moving. The covers were smooth over her body, undisturbed. Her dress was folded and draped over a chair. There was nothing to suggest she had been out of her bed and in mine.
Unable to stop myself, I went right up to the bed and stood next to it, just to reassure myself it was Ceit within the covers. It was. She was calm and peaceful, her eyes closed, her breathing even.
I put my hand out to touch her. Then I hesitated.
I turned from her and went back the way I had come.
***
Chapter Five
I did not sleep any more that night. I pulled the covers over my body and thought that I could still feel her beside me.
I lay like that until the maid came in to light the fire and deliberately did not stir as she bustled around. Soon after she left, however, I rose and dressed. I splashed my face with cold water and stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes were shadowed, which was only to be expected from such a night. But despite my lack of sleep, I felt oddly alive.
I flung the windows wide open and, standing on the balcony, I breathed in the sharp, winter air. It had stopped snowing and the landscape was white and pristine. The sky was lightening from the east, pinks and golds breaking through and bathing the world in morning. It was only a few days until Christmas and I had a sudden urge to walk to the forest and collect evergreens to make festive garlands. I had a vision of Ceit, a garland of holly and ivy in her hair, laughing up at me and I knew I didn’t want to let her go back home yet.
I couldn’t realistically kidnap the girl and keep her at Howard House against her will. But I didn’t want to contemplate losing her either. I looked to my right, to the room I knew she was in. There was no balcony there, but it did have a large window. I heard the cracking of the old wood before I saw it opening. The casement was flung open, much as my own had been moments earlier and I leaned out across the balustrade, my heart pounding in expectation.
Upon the Solstice Page 2