‘I have just been repairing the fire,’ she said, hastily putting the book back on the shelf.
He glanced round the room, and his eyes fell on the vase of flowers. She was about to hurry over to the mantelpiece when, to her surprise, his face relaxed. It was warmer and more open than before, and she felt a rush of some strange feeling rise up within her. She had not realised he could look so appealing.
‘There haven’t been daffodils in here since . . . ’ he said.
There was such a wistful tone in his voice that she held her breath, wondering what he would say next, but he never finished the sentence. Instead, his voice trailed away, and Helena dare not move. He was lost in thought, going back to some previous time, and the memory seemed to please him. But it was made up of pain as well as pleasure, she thought, because there was a twist to his mouth that cut her to the quick. She was surprised at the stab of pain that shot through her, because she had not been prepared for it, and for a moment she saw him not as an enigmatic and forbidding figure, but as a man of flesh and blood.
What had hurt him? she wondered. Why did the simple sight of daffodils bring him pain?
He roused himself, and turning towards her, he said, ‘You have done well.’ He noticed that she was standing by the bookcase and said, ‘You are interested in books?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Then you must use the library. You may choose something to read whenever you wish.’
For a moment there was a gleam of friendship illuminating the room. It warmed her, as the unexpected gleam of daffodils had warmed the moor. It relaxed something deep inside her, something that had long been frozen, but in this strange place and stranger situation, it started to come to life.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You were looking at this?’ he asked, going over to the shelf and taking out Le Morte d’Arthur, which she had not pushed back properly.
‘Yes.’
‘Then take it. I think you will enjoy it.’
He handed her the volume.
‘It must have taken generations to assemble a library like this,’ she said, looking round at the laden shelves as she took it.
‘Yes, it did.’
A sense of longing welled up inside her. She had no home, and, saving her aunt, no family. She did not know where she would be in a year, or even a month’s time. She would have to go where the wind blew her. But he belonged to the castle. He was lucky. He had his place in the world by right. She sometimes wondered, in the dead of night, if she would ever find hers.
‘It must be a wonderful feeling, to have a home, to belong,’ she said.
He looked at her strangely and she realized that she had forgotten to whom she was speaking. The gleam of friendship he had shown her had lowered her defences and made her forget her position, so that she had spoken to him as an equal, but she quickly reminded herself that she and Lord Torkrow were not equals. They were master and servant, separated not only by rank but by deception and the disappearance of her aunt.
‘I have work to do . . . ’ she said.
She began to head towards the door, but as she tried to pass him he put his arm out, resting it on the desk so that he was blocking her path.
‘You call it belonging,’ he said. ‘I call it being trapped.’
He looked down at her, and she felt herself being pulled into the strange aura that surrounded him, a magnetic strength that held her fast.
‘The weight of the castle oppresses me,’ he said, looking deep into her eyes as though seeking understanding. ‘At night, the walls close in.’
‘But it is your home,’ she said, searching his eyes.
‘It is not my home. It is my tomb.’
All light and warmth had gone from his voice, and she was once more afraid of him, but the fear was tempered with intrigue. She clenched and unclenched her hands, then said: ‘But you can leave the castle if you want to.’
‘Can I?’ he said with bitterness.
‘You were returning to it on the day I arrived, so you must have left,’ she said, striving to remain calm. ‘And you left again yesterday.’
‘Briefly, yes. But the castle keeps drawing me back. It is not fond of letting its inhabitants go.’ He looked deep into her eyes once more, and his words sounded like a warning. ‘One way or another, it finds a way to keep them.’
He fell silent, and Helena stood there, unable to pass, but unwilling to disturb him. He had become lost in thought, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. After a minute he roused himself.
‘You must tell me what you think of the book when you have read it,’ he said, dropping his arm so that she could pass. ‘We are not unlike the knights of old, you and I. We, too, have monsters to fight.’
Helena was unsettled. What monsters did Lord Torkrow have to fight? Were they real or imagined? And what of her aunt? How did she fit into all this? Where was she? With a sick sister Helena knew nothing about? Or had something happened to her?
He seemed to be oblivious of her presence, for he had sunk into his own thoughts, and Helena quietly left the room. She went upstairs, taking her book into her bedroom. As she put it on the table, she wondered if her aunt had sat at that very table writing her letters. If only the table could talk, what tales might it tell?
Aunt Hester, she thought, why did you not tell me you were leaving the castle? If you did leave it . . . Did the castle find a way to keep you, too? Are you being held here against your will?
Aunt Hester, where are you?
Simon scarcely noticed the door closing. He was lost in his thoughts, seeing the past, when the castle had flourished. It had been full of noise and colour when his parents had been alive, until . . .
Strange how the sight of the daffodils had taken him back to that time, their bright yellow and green reminding him that there were colours beyond the stone, oak and metal of the castle.
How soft they had seemed, how fragile, as she had been soft and fragile . .
He brought his thoughts back to the present with difficulty. The sight of the flowers had taken him aback and he had lowered his guard, but that was not something he could afford to do, not until he was sure that she really was Mrs Reynolds, and not even then. She was his housekeeper and nothing more. The secrets of the castle were not for her.
It was evening. Having dined with Mrs Beal, Helena was sitting by the fire in her room. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the black night. She was leafing through Le Morte d’Arthur, looking at the illustrations, which were beautifully done. It was as she looked at a picture of a man with a candle that a thought struck her. In the absence of a key to the east wing of the attic, she might be able to find out if anyone was in there by going out into the grounds and seeing if there was a light in the window. It was still early, not yet seven o’clock, and she decided to go before it was too late.
She laid aside her book, uncurled herself from the chair and put on her cloak and heavy shoes. She tied her bonnet under her chin, pulled on her gloves then went down the stairs.
She slipped out of a side door, and walked across the lawn, which was silvered by the moon. She walked away from the castle, so that she could see the windows clearly when she looked back. When she felt she had gone far enough she turned and looked up, but they were dark. There was not a glimmer of light anywhere. She had been hoping to see something, but there was nothing.
She was just about to go back inside when she caught sight of a lantern bobbing along in the distance. Her senses were immediately alert. Who would be going out with a lantern at this time of night? And where were they going? She hesitated. A part of her wanted to ignore it, but curiosity won over caution, and she began to cautiously follow.
The light disappeared briefly and Helena realized that whoever had been carrying it had gone through the archway in the outer wall. She followed quickly, taking care to stay well back so that she would not be seen.
She passed through the arch and saw the light again, in the distance. It looked
unearthly, bobbing along, detached from the ground, a ball of glowing yellow in the darkness. She followed it, but soon she began to grow uneasy as she felt the gravel give way to coarse grass and found herself walking across the moor.
The wind whipped round her, stronger than it had been in the courtyard, pulling her cloak open and knifing her with freezing air. She pulled it around her, holding it closed with folded arms, and went on.
An owl hooted as it flew by her on silent wings, making her jump, and she turned and looked at the castle, nervously wondering if she should turn back. But if she did, she would learn nothing.
The grass beneath her feet was tufted with hillocks that made the going uneven, and once or twice she stumbled as her foot caught in a ditch. Then her shin hit something hard and she found that she had reached a low wall. She felt along it with her hands until she found a gap and went through.
The light was now further away and she hurried forwards, only to trip over a large stone. When she looked down, she dimly made out the shape of a headstone. It had fallen onto its side and lay, neglected, on the turf. She stepped back in alarm, and found the back of her legs were against another tomb. Icy fingers of fear crawled up her spine. She was in a graveyard. What was someone doing there after dark? And why had she followed them? Why was she not safely in her own room, in front of the fire, reading about knights and battles, instead of following a dancing light through a place of the dead?
Her panic began to dissipate as she reminded herself that it was only seven o’clock. It was early evening, not the middle of the night. There was probably a down-to-earth explanation, and she would soon discover it.
The light had disappeared and she moved forwards cautiously, fearing the lantern had been hooded. Her footsteps halted. She could see a figure kneeling ahead, silhouetted against the lantern, which was on the ground. As she stood there uncertainly, the moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and in the cold light she saw that the figure was Lord Torkrow. To her shock, he was slumped forwards. His shoulders were heaving, and she realised he was crying.
Her heart lurched at the desolate sound, as she found herself privy to a terrible grief. She was torn between a desire to leave and an impulse to go forward and comfort him, and caught between the two impulses she remained where she was.
She was frozen, lost in a timeless expanse, until at last his grief was spent. His cries subsided and he stood up, reclaiming his lantern. Helena shrank back against the gravestone and he passed by without seeing her, his lantern bobbing away from her in the dark.
When he had gained a sufficient lead she followed the light back across the moors, back through the arch and back to the castle. She slipped round the side to the small door and let herself in, her fingers trembling as they lifted the latch.
What had she just witnessed? she asked herself. Was it grief for the loss of a loved one, or could there a more sinister explanation? Could it be that his tears had been produced by guilt?
As she slipped upstairs, she felt the atmosphere of the castle beginning to oppress her. Why did the villagers talk about Lord Torkrow? What did they say about him? Why did Mrs Beal stop suddenly whenever she began to talk of his past?
She had only questions and no answers.
She undressed, glad to be safe in her room, and warmed by the fire. But as she put on her nightdress and slipped into bed, Lord Torkrow’s desolate cries echoed in her ears.
Chapter Five
Helena dreamt that she was outside, late at night, and flying across the moor. Above her was a gibbous moon, with torn clouds blowing across its face. Ahead of her was a blasted tree, its twigs spreading like fingers and its joints creaking as it was bent and twisted by the wind. She sped towards it, then passed through the branches and emerged untouched on the other side. Before her lay a graveyard, with tombs scattered across it like bones picked clean by the crows. Beside them was a man, wrapped in a cloak, with a lantern at his side. As she glided closer, she saw that his face was ghostly. Black shadows filled the hollows, and a sickly pallor marked the planes. He was shaking with grief, and his shoulders were heaving as racking sobs filled the air. She flew closer, around and behind him, until she was looking over his shoulder into the grave.
Then all of a sudden she realised his shoulders were shaking, not with grief, but with mirth, and as she looked past him she saw, to her horror, that the body in the grave was that of her aunt. She turned and fled, moving rapidly away, carried on the wind, floating higher and higher as she approached the castle, rising up and up, until she was on a level with the attic, and she found herself looking through the windows. There was nothing to be seen, only the ghostly shapes of furniture cloaked in dust sheets, and a clock ticking, ticking by the wall. And then a dust sheet moved, and was thrown back, and her aunt’s corpse rose from a chair.
Helena awoke with a shock. She was covered in cold sweat and was trembling all over. It was icy in the room. She shivered, and her breath formed clouds in front of her. With numb fingers she reached out for her wrapper and threw it round her shoulders, then climbed out of bed on shaking legs. She went over to the fire, which had all but gone out. She raked the ashes, encouraging a small spark, and fed it with small pieces of paper. She piled on twigs, and when they had caught light she put on a few pieces of coal. Still shivering, she returned to her bed . . . but she stopped as she approached it, for there was something under the covers. Her skin began to crawl. She saw the covers rise and fall. Someone was under there!
Someone, or some thing.
She reached out and twitched back the cover, and her aunt sat up in the bed, two weeks dead and laughing —
She sat up with a start.
Am I really awake this time? Helena wondered, her heart hammering in her chest. Or am I still dreaming?
She looked around the room, fearing another nightmare vision, but everything was peaceful. The fire was burning low in the grate, casting a mellow glow over the furniture. All was as it should be. Her pulse began to slow, and her breathing became less shallow. She reached for her wrapper, still not convinced that she was awake. Warily, she threw it round her shoulders and slipped out of bed. She went over to the fire and knelt down beside it, warming her hands and taking comfort from the glowing coals. She lit a candle, then sat on the hearth, loath to go back to bed. She glanced towards it, but there was no strange shape under the covers. The blanket was still thrown back, revealing the white sheets beneath.
She heard the clock strike in the hall. Six o’clock. It would soon be time for her to rise. She was glad of it. She had no desire to go back to bed. She waited only for Effie to bring her hot water and relight the fire before slipping out of her nightgown and, once washed, putting on her dress.
Having completed her toilette, she left the room. The stone corridor was unwelcoming. Her candle seemed feeble, a puny attempt to light the space. Walls and ceiling waited in the shadows. The castle seemed a living thing. Old, monstrous, biding its time, before it claimed another victim.
She tried to banish such thoughts, but they would not leave her. She quickened her steps and the patter of her feet was matched by the patter of her heart.
Quicker and quicker, down the stairs, through the hall, into the kitchen, where sanity was restored. Candles filled the space with light. The hearty fire added its glow. Mrs Beal was brewing a pot of tea, a beacon of homeliness in the brooding atmosphere of the castle.
‘It’s colder this morning,’ said Mrs Beal cheerily, as she put the finishing touches to the table, adding a pot of honey to the rolls and butter that were already there. ‘There was frost on the inside of the window when I came downstairs. It’s still there, look, even now.’
‘Yes,’ said Helena, relieved to be talking about something so ordinary after her disturbed night.
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