Upon the Solstice

by Cathryn Ramsay

  I had received no word of her. I did not know whether she had made it back to Hampstead or not. My skin crawled as I thought of the alternatives –and as I also realised she had gone back without any of her presents. Bella loved Christmas – she was always up early in the morning, as excited as a child, ripping the ribbons from her gifts and exclaiming in delight at every item. I had a vision of her waking up alone in our large house in London with no gifts to open, nobody to talk to, nobody to play her silly parlour games with. I emphatically complained about those games every year, knowing fine well we would spend hours in the afternoon indulging her.

  I hoped she had found some friends to spend the festive season with.

  But surely she would have sent me a letter? Even just to remonstrate about the fact I had treated her so badly; and possibly to beg me to come back to London myself. I knew she wouldn’t have asked to come back here. And who could blame her? There was nothing for her here except me and I feared I had been poor company.

  I looked at the dying fire and tried to summon up the energy to get up and use the poker. My bones ached and I was fairly sure I stooped more than was usual for a man of my age when I walked. Everything was an effort – unless Ceit was with me. Then, I felt wonderful again.

  I spread my hands out before me and studied them. Still the hands of an old man. I curled my fingers into my palms, then attempted to straighten them out but the knuckles were swollen and it was painful. I had obviously been clutching the pen far too much in the chilly weather. I dearly longed for some warmth and sunshine. I dearly longed to return to our day up at Tarbert Castle when the winter had fooled us for a little while into thinking it was over. I looked out of the window. It was grey outside, and damp today, but the clouds showed signs of breaking away and I wondered briefly if the sun would show its face.

  My thoughts returned to Bella and Christmas. Her gifts were still stowed in the large cabinet in the library. It was a horrid, Chinese black-lacquered thing which we both despised. It had scenes of war and torture painted onto it in gold and red – the tale of some Chinese Emperor, I think. At least that was what Ruairí had told me when, as a boy, I found a strange fascination in it. Joking, once, he had told a five-year old Bella it contained the relics of the said Emperor and she had fled, screaming. She had avoided it ever since. Therefore, it made the ideal place to hide her Christmas presents. I don’t know why I kept the cabinet, to be honest. I think it was because it was another tenuous link to my uncle and therefore sacred.

  I eased myself out of the chair and steadied myself, holding onto the desk as the room tilted a little. I had clearly been sitting down and concentrating too long. It would be good to move around. After a moment, when I felt I could walk properly, I made my way slowly out of the drawing room and headed across the hall towards the library.

  Bella’s presents were still there. I debated on whether to send them on to Hampstead, but unfortunately, the oranges were mouldy and the nuts wizened. There was a small bottle of Houbigant perfume I had ordered especially from Paris for her, and a pair of lace gloves with a matching parasol. A romantic novel she had wished desperately for lay on top of the gloves, next to a writing set with pressed flowers embedded in the paper.

  The writing paper made me wonder once more where her letters were. She loved writing letters, gossiping about Society and telling anyone who would listen any nuggets of information she had acquired. Even if she were writing, as I say, to chastise me, she would have written.

  Unless she had written. And I just hadn’t noticed.

  I closed the door on the cabinet and stumbled out into the hallway. There was a small table in the recess beneath the staircase which we had always used to put unopened correspondence on. I went over to the table and saw a thick layer of dust on it. The flowers in the bowl were dead and the water they sat in brackish and stagnant. There was no mail on the table and for a moment I wondered why.

  Of course: we’d had staff that had kept it clean and tidy and who had brought the post in for us. They too were gone.

  There was a kind of cage behind the letterbox on the back door which my uncle had fitted when he had his Labradors. They loved nothing more than to chew incoming mail and present him with the pieces. After a royalties’ cheque had ended up as a dog’s dinner he had the cage installed. He’d given the dogs away, I heard, just as he shut himself off from everyone and his writing career exploded. It was as if he wanted no distractions.

  Again, I felt an inexplicable flicker of unease. Ruairí had been devoted to those dogs. I was pleased they had been cared for and had not been destroyed. But if he’d left it any longer, as he sank more deeply into madness, what might he have done to the poor animals?

  I turned away from the hallway table and headed through the house towards the side door. This was part of the house I rarely ventured into, being the domain of the servants. I paused halfway along. Why had I never even been into the kitchens since I had been on my own? How had I been eating or taking meals?

  I brushed off the notion that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten properly and continued on my way.

  As I suspected, the letterbox cage was full to bursting. I had not even realised. I opened it up and a whole host of letters tumbled to the floor. I assume there must have been bills and advertising circulars and goodness knows what else in there. But all I was interested in was anything with a Hampstead postmark.

  I squatted down, rummaging through the pile of letters, trying to see something from Bella and conscious of the fact my back was fit to break and my knees were probably locked into place.

  And then I saw it. Or rather, them. A selection of envelopes with Bella’s distinctive, round, careful handwriting on.

  ‘Bella,’ I murmured, collecting them together.

  Then I saw Ceit next to me. Or rather, I saw her feet. She sat down next to me and began to rummage with me. I looked up and she smiled. She reached across and her fingers hovered over the pile. She plucked one particular envelope out of it - thick, cream and expensive-looking. I recognised the return address as my publisher.

  Your contract and payment, I suspect.

  I looked up at Ceit sharply. ‘Do you think so?’

  Open it and see.

  She dropped it into my hands and I shook as I opened it.

  She was right of course. A handsome sum and a glowing letter.

  I stood up, Bella’s letters forgotten, shoved into my pocket for later. I felt young again. Young and inspired and raring to go. I held my hand out and pulled Ceit to her feet.

  ‘This,’ I told her, ‘this is what makes my life worthwhile.’

  And I believed it.

  Ceit took me by the hand and guided me back to the drawing room. She was correct, of course; I needed to work on the novel. I was riding high on success and I could not afford to waste a single moment.

  As we passed the hall table, I noticed that it was clean and polished and a fresh posy of flowers sat in the bowl.

  I thought that Ceit must have done it and it was a delight to see.

  ***

  Ostara

  The Spring Equinox

  Chapter Eighteen

  I worked frantically on the novel for the next few weeks, Ceit never far from my side. It was March, and the days were lighter yet still brisker than I would like.

  New shoots were visible on the shrubs and trees within the garden and daffodils were nodding their head as we passed them on our daily walks. One day, however, my darling Ceit appeared wistful. She was walking slowly and her eyes were downcast. A little sigh escaped her lips and I stopped in my tracks and turned to her.

  I put my forefinger under her chin and tilted her face to mine. ‘What is it, my darling?’ I asked.

  Your book, she told me - I could not tell you whether she spoke the words into my mind or signed them to me. I could sense waves of desperation and sadness flowing from her and could not take my eyes away from hers. I saw a haunted, ragged man reflected in her irises a
nd refused to believe it was me. My eyes surely, did not shift from side to side like that as if I was unsure of what was hiding around the corner. My clothes certainly, did not hang from my frame, crumpled and untidy.

  ‘What of my book?’ I asked, sliding my gaze over her shoulder so I did not have to see the stranger.

  It is almost finished.

  ‘Yes, that is true,’ I said. ‘But that is a good thing, surely?’

  A little shake of her head.

  But what of me after that?

  ‘What of you? It changes nothing.’

  You won’t need me.

  She looked so sad that my heart went out to her.

  ‘Of course I need you. I have decided I will have a break after this one is submitted, and perhaps go back to London for a little while. Catch up on my old life. Reconnect with my sister and my friends. It has been several months, now I think of it. You shall come with me.’

  Ceit gasped out a dreadful, harrowing sob and threw her arms around me.

  I can’t live in London, I just can’t. You saw how I was in Tarbert—

  Thoughts – dismissive thoughts – crowded into my mind. Ceit was right. London was an entirely different place to here. How would my darling girl cope? Poor Ceit, trapped in her strange, silent world. It would be utterly terrifying for her. And would the people I once knew even want me back there? Would they even consider picking up the reins of our relationships again? Probably not. I was not assured of a good welcome; I still hadn’t read any of Bella’s letters. In fact - where had I put them? I could not recall. I could barely recall anything except the gnawing suspicion that I was alone now and if Ceit left me, what then?

  I was afraid her misery and horror of the unknown was infectious. The world seemed to lose its colour and its promise and all I could think about was a future so bleak it terrified me.

  I dropped my hand to my side, unable to contemplate it. Gently, I raised my hands again and loosened Ceit’s grip; then I sat down on the path and put my head in my hands.

  ‘Of course I need you,’ I repeated. It was right. What was I without her? Nothing. It was her influence that kept me working – be it writing novels or poetry or simply filling pages and pages with drawings and sketches of her. I lifted my head up to face her. ‘I just cannot be without you, Ceit. It is as simple as that. I can’t be in London without you and you can’t ever be in London. It would be too cruel.’

  She dropped down beside me, a soft whumph as her skirts ballooned slightly and gathered around her in folds. Her arm snaked around my shoulders and I closed my eyes.

  As I began to dwell on it, I thought about my novel and thought about how dreadfully bad it actually was. How simpering my heroine was; how idiotic the hero was.

  ‘Perhaps I should just burn it – forget all about it and start a new one,’ I said.

  Don’t burn it – just start a new one. A better one. But stay here and write it. I need you here. Look – look how pretty it is here, Charles. It’s the 19th of March. It’s Ostara. It’s a special day. Nowhere is better than here, with you and me together. Is it?

  ‘The vernal equinox,’ I mumbled into my knees. ‘Midway between winter and summer.’

  My skin prickled: Midsummer. Hadn’t she once said something to me about the fact she’d be gone by Midsummer? Or our time would end at Midsummer? What was it? I wracked my brains trying to remember.

  I gave up. Her exact words had fled. I sat up and turned to her; put my hands on her shoulders and pulled her towards me.

  Midsummer. Was our time together indeed so limited? If all we had left was a few months together, my return to London could definitely wait.

  ‘I shan’t go anywhere,’ I told her. ‘I’m staying here with you.’

  The sun came out from behind a cloud and shone down on us, illuminating Ceit and making me see again how beautiful and special she was.

  Then lay with me, Charles. Let us celebrate Ostara – a time of new beginnings. This is our time.

  We made love quietly and gently, looking into one another’s eyes – yet in my heart, I knew it was desperately. I held her tightly afterwards and tried once more to dismiss the shadow of the man I had once been – the man I had glimpsed again in her sloe-black irises.

  ***

  Chapter Nineteen

  The notion of Bella’s letters niggled at me all day, even as I sat on the terrace in the late afternoon, the watery sun lighting up the tops of the trees.

  Ceit was on the lawn, dancing, and I was content to watch her. I poured myself a second whisky and wondered what music she was dancing to. If I closed my eyes and strained my ears, I could just about hear a humming sound, a little like that music I heard at Tarbert Castle weeks ago. I opened my eyes and dismissed it as my own imagination.

  I fingered the sketch book on my lap and looked down at it. I had captured her so perfectly, her arms thrown out with joyous abandon, her hair streaming behind her. It was not unlike the way she had been at Tarbert Castle and I envied her the unconscious ecstasy.

  She danced away to the edge of the lawn and disappeared into the shadows beyond the hedges. I could see her no more and so I hauled myself to my feet. I stumbled into the house and made myself climb the stairs to my bedroom. I think, as far as I recalled, I had put Bella’s letters in my pocket. It was just a case of seeing which pocket.

  I entered my room and saw, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that my clothes were strewn everywhere. I identified a waistcoat I had not worn in quite some time, draped over the dressing table and thought that would be a good place to start.

  The letters were not there. In fact, they were nowhere in the room. I emptied every pocket in every coat, waistcoat and pair of trousers I could find and there were no letters from Hampstead.

  It struck me that Ceit’s clothes weren’t lying around the bedroom. Being a woman, I guessed that she might take better care of her gowns. She was so sweet and thoughtful that, knowing they were Amy’s, she would be doubly cautious with them, I was sure.

  I went through the secret wardrobe, something drawing me to the Blue Bedroom – the room I had not entered since before Christmas. I had no need to do so. Ceit was with me of an evening. But, thinking about it, I never saw her dress. She was usually ready before me in a morning – more so these last few weeks when it had been more of a struggle to get out of bed. I felt truly drained when I came out of my waking-dreams.

  Had Ceit had still been using the Blue Bedroom and the wardrobe in there? Curious, I made my way through the governess’s room and into Ceit’s old suite. The room smelt foisty and disused, unaired and sour. There was a pile of ashes in the grate, left over from a long ago fire, and a burnt-out candle in a holder on the dressing table. Wrinkling my nose, I went over to the wardrobe and pulled the door open.

  Amy’s outfits were hanging as Ruairí had left them, all lined up neatly. I flicked through them, the fabric cold and unfriendly as the coat-hangers grated along the metal rail. As I moved the last item along the rail, I saw the corner of something white sticking out beneath a carefully folded length of wool. I leaned in towards the item - which I subsequently recognised as a scarf – and plucked the white thing out. As I did so, a little pile of other white things tumbled out onto the floor.

  Envelopes. All with Hampstead postmarks. All addressed in Bella’s handwriting.

  I did not know why they were hidden away in the wardrobe. I thought that Ceit had maybe collected them up from where I had left them - I must have left them somewhere, if I could not locate them in my own clothing – and popped them into the pocket of her cloak, then put the cloak away. They had fallen out of the cloak and been buried amongst the other garments. This explanation did not fit with the fact the letters had been piled just as neatly as the scarf had been folded, or that the scarf had been folded and laid on top of them; but my mind thought the reasoning logical and so I did not query it further.

  My hands shaking slightly, I sorted through the pile, bundling them in
to datal order. Once I had them sorted, I held them and stared at them, unsure of what to do next. I glanced up and out, towards the window, and visualised Ceit dancing in the gardens, enjoying the first day of spring. Part of me recognised that it would be a bad thing for her to walk in and catch me reading the letters – but another part of me dismissed the idea.

  However, for once, I ignored the dismissal and clutched the letters to my chest. I saw the bathroom door in the corner of the room and hurried over to it. It seemed ridiculous, but I was going to barricade myself in there and read the letters.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty

  The first letter was dated Christmas Eve. It was, as I had suspected, a tirade against me for throwing my sister out of Howard House and sending her back to Hampstead.

  She did not know what to do. She did not know who to contact. Everybody would be busy and she had no tree and no gifts.

  The words were scratched hard into the paper, the ink smudged in places where I suspected tears of anger and frustration had fallen. Perched uncomfortably on the edge of the roll-top bath, I did not continue with that letter much beyond the first two pages. I dropped it into the dusty bathtub and moved onto the next one. The thin trail of blueish-green copper oxide, deposited from a dripping tap onto the on the neglected, yellowing enamel barely registered as the letter floated to the bottom of the tub – carried, it seemed, on the foul smelling breeze that whispered up through the plug-hole.

  The next letter was written on Boxing Day. Mollified slightly by the festivities and the fact that a friend had invited her to spend the day with them after hearing of her abandonment, it was still a tirade, but mostly aimed at making me feel guilty.

  The friend’s house was cheerful and warm, they had a delightful fire and she had been entertained most wonderfully. They had looked after her and sympathised with her predicament…and so it went on. I scanned through it and discarded that one too into the tub.