‘One of them. I keep the other one. I look in every week, to make sure that not too much has gone missing.’
‘I’m surprised his lordship does not want a butler.’
‘His lordship’s lost heart, since . . . Ah, well, it was a long time ago, and he never bothered to replace the butler when he left. “Dawkins can manage” he said.’
Her tone plainly said that Dawkins could not manage, but that she could do nothing about the situation.
‘Now, about the desserts . . . ’
They fell to discussing the arrangements, until the bell rang again.
‘They’ll have finished with the tea tray,’ said Mrs Beal.
Helena returned to the drawing-room, and to her surprise she found that Lord Torkrow’s visitors had gone. Only the used tea cups and the hollows in the furniture showed they had ever been there.
‘Mrs Reynolds. Come in.’
The fire had burnt down low, and its flames created odd patches of light across his body, throwing one shoulder and one side of his face into relief. His forehead, chin and cheek were lit brightly, and a gleam of gold was awakened in his eye. He turned his face to hers, and she wondered why she had never noticed how fine his cheeks were. They were like the rocks outside, sharp-angled, but with the stone made smooth by the constant onslaught of the elements.
‘You have been speaking to Mrs Beal about the ball?’ he asked.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good. She has been here for many years, and knows what is required. Your predecessor had already done much of the work. You will find her notes in the housekeeper’s room, no doubt. You have spoken to Mrs Willis about finding some more maids?’
‘No, my lord. I was driven back by the weather. But I managed to send her a note, asking her to help me find two girls.’
‘You will need more than two maids if the ball is to go ahead. You had better go and see her tomorrow, and tell her of the change of plan.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
He stood there, saying nothing more, and Helena was conscious of a disturbing atmosphere in the room. It was as though he was keeping himself on a tight rein, and she felt that if he let the reins go, the power released would change her life for ever.
He considered her intently, and then he surprised her by saying: ‘You were in the graveyard last night.’
Her heart jumped at the unexpected shift in the conversation. She wondered if he had seen her, or if someone else had told him.
‘It’s a strange place for a young woman to be after dark,’ he continued. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘I went out for a breath of air,’ she answered. ‘I did not know where I was going. I walked across the courtyard and then onto the moor.’
‘And just stumbled across the graveyard?’
She hesitated, wondering what to say. It would be easier to let him think she had found it by accident, but she wanted to say something, something that would help him, for she knew that he had been in pain. And he was still in pain now. She could see it etched across his face, in the lines around his mouth and by the haunted look in his eyes.
She heard herself saying: ‘I was drawn to it by the sound of someone crying.’ He went pale, but gave no other sign that he had been the person crying by the grave. She went on: ‘I wanted to comfort them. It is a desolate thing, to cry alone, in the dark.’
His eyes locked on to hers and she felt something pass between them. Won’t he tell me? she wondered, without even knowing what it was she wanted him to say. She only knew that he had a secret burden, and she felt she could help him, if he would only let her.
With the words, she no longer felt like a housekeeper talking to her employer, she felt like a woman talking to a man. Even so, she was unprepared for his reaction. He suddenly grasped her hand and, saying: ‘Come with me,’ he pulled her along behind him, out of the room, up the broad, shallow stairs, so quickly that she had to run to keep up with him; along the corridor and into the portrait gallery. Then he let her go.
She looked about her. A long line of Stormcrows hung on the wall. These were the men who had built the castle. They were also the men who had given rise to the tales in the village; superstitious nonsense most likely, arising from nothing more than the family living in a castle, and coming and going at will. Or so she tried to reassure herself.
The portraits began many centuries before. There were maidens in wimples and men in doublet and hose. There were cavaliers in silk and satin, and ladies in velvet and lace. There were men in tailcoats and women in panniered gowns; family portraits and wedding groups; old men and little children. She traced the progression of family features, from the first Lord Torkrow to the man beside her.
There were several recent paintings of him. The first showed his family: his father and mother with their three children, two boys and a girl. He and his brother looked to be about the same age, whilst the girl appeared to be three or four years younger. His brother was like their mother, with fair hair and blue eyes, looking like a cherub, whilst he and his sister were dark-haired. His eyes looked out at her and she was shaken by the change in them. The eyes in the portrait were not haunted and secretive, as they were now, they were clear and happy.
Her gaze moved on until she stood in front of a portrait of the three children, fully grown, and dressed in the fashions of a few years previously. It was of the fair-haired son’s wedding day. Helena remembered what Mrs Beal had said, that Lord Torkrow had no need to marry because of his brother. She must have meant that, as he had an heir in his brother, and as his brother looked set to carry on the family line, Lord Torkrow had no need to marry to provide an heir. Helena looked at the portrait of the bride, who stood next to his brother. She was a beautiful young woman with soft fair hair, and she seemed happy.
What had happened to the brother? she wondered. Where was he now? Not at school, that much was clear. So where was he? And where was his wife?
‘Do you know what they call my family in the village?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged. ‘They call you Stormcrow.’
She turned towards him and she was preternaturally aware of him. Though not handsome, his face was striking, and she found her eyes tracing the lines of his forehead, nose and mouth. It was not prone to laughter as it had been in his portrait, and she wondered if it would ever be again.
‘Do you know why they call us that?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Do you know what a stormcrow is?’
‘No.’
‘A stormcrow is a bird of ill omen,’ he said. ‘It brings bad news.’ He led her over to the first portrait. It was of a thin, sinewy man in middle age, with bright amber eyes.
‘This is the first earl. He brought the news of the Yorkist defeat at the Battle of Bosworth, back to his father. As you can see, he was a man with a thin face and bright eyes. As he rode across the moors to break the news, a storm followed him. A crow flying before the coming storm alighted on his shoulder, and they rode in through the gate together. When it was known what news he brought, an old man, playing on our name of Torkrow, quipped, Here they are, two stormcrows.’
They moved on.
‘That is the second earl,’ he said.
He stood behind her. He lifted his hand as they looked at the portrait, and for a moment, she thought he was going to rest it on her shoulder. She felt an awareness ripple through her in anticipation of his touch, but instead he gestured at the painting, and the lack of his touch left her feeling strangely empty.
‘Richard brought his father the news that his mother was dead, thrown by her palfrey,’ he continued. ‘“My son, you are a true stormcrow,” his father said.’
Helena looked up at the face of Richard, who was dressed fashionably for his era, in a slashed doublet and breeches. He looked carefree.
‘He had not earnt his nickname when this portrait was painted,’ she said.
‘No. He had no idea what was about to happen. He was still h
appy, then.’
He moved to the next portrait. The third earl Stormcrow was standing with his hands on his hips and with his legs wide apart, looking solid and secure. He was wearing a doublet that accentuated the width of his shoulders, with wide sleeves that billowed outwards, before being confined at his wrist.
‘He looks as though nothing can topple him, doesn’t he?’ asked Lord Torkrow, standing behind her. He was so close that she could feel his body heat, and she had a disturbing urge to lean backwards and feel his warmth envelop her, but she resisted the strange impulse.
‘What happened to him?’ asked Helena.
‘There was a fire, and the family house in York was razed to the ground. He brought the news to his mother, an old woman of ninety-nine, who had been making plans to celebrate her one hundredth birthday. The news caused his mother’s death, three hours before she would have achieved her ambition. Henry was ostracised for giving his mother the news, instead of letting her hear it through other means, after her birthday.’
He went on, telling her the story of each Stormcrow, and of how each one had earned his name, until at last they stood before his own family portrait.
‘And you?’ asked Helena. ‘How did you earn the name?’
He said nothing, and a profound silence engulfed them. Helena turned to look at him, and she saw that his face had gone white. His eyes, in contrast, were dark and hollow, and the rings around them were black. He was staring at the portrait, and she knew he was far away, back in the past. His hands had dropped to his side, and she saw that they were clenched into fists. He opened his mouth, and she thought he was going to speak, but then he turned and strode out of the gallery, leaving her alone.
She looked again at the portrait of the boy he had been, a happy, carefree child. But now he was a man sunk in mystery, and darkness wrapped itself around him like a shroud.
What had happened to him? she wondered. What tragedy had befallen him? What news had he carried? And how had he earnt his name?
Why did I do that? Simon asked himself as he descended the massive staircase and went into the library. Why did I try to make her understand?
He tried to settle to estate business, but he could not concentrate. He heard Helena’s light step as she followed his down the stairs and went into the housekeeper’s room. He picked up his quill, then threw it down and went out of the library, climbing the stairs two at a time, returning to the gallery and pacing to the end, then pressing the embossing on the wall and waiting impatiently for the secret door to open. It swung ponderously inwards, and he went inside.
The room was small and panelled. A window looked out on to the moor. An empty grate held blackened ashes. Above the fireplace hung a portrait. It was of a young woman, his brother’s bride. She was looking radiantly beautiful. She wore her fair hair loose, hanging round her shoulders in soft curls. Her muslin gown, with its high waist, revealed a slight figure with gentle curves. Her lips were pink, and her eyes were blue. She was standing in a garden, and the dew was on the roses.
He stood, lost in thought, until a sound disturbed him. Miss Parkins had entered the hidden room. She was the last person he wanted to see, especially here, now.
‘Did you wish to speak to me?’ he asked her coldly.
‘I understand you are to go ahead with the ball, my lord.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Do you think it wise? A masked ball can hide many secrets.’
‘I have made my decision. The ball will go ahead.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ she said, with a trace of insolence.
She walked over to him and stood beside him, looking at the portrait.
‘She was very beautiful,’ said Miss Parkins.
‘Yes, she was.’ He could not keep the wistfulness out of his voice.
‘Your brother chose well. He loved her dearly. Until you killed her.’
Chapter Seven
The following morning, Helena began to organize the castle in earnest. Unsettled by everything that had happened, she was glad to take refuge in physical labour. The library, drawing-room and dining-room were well cared for, so she decided to rescue a further room from its state of neglect. If there was to be a ball, then the castle must be brought back to life again. All thoughts of leaving quickly had left her, for she did not intend to go before she had had a chance to speak to Sally and Martha.
She chose a small sitting room that overlooked the front of the castle, and she began by removing the dust sheets, taking them off and folding them carefully so as not to disturb the dust that had settled on them. She was surprised to see that the furniture was of good quality, and delicate. Gold chairs in elegant styles were upholstered with red brocade, a padded sofa was covered in a matching brocade, and, as she removed the dust sheets from the floor, she discovered a flowered carpet. It had been a lady’s room, then, she thought, as she looked about her. Whose room had it been? Had it belonged to his lordship’s mother, or his sister-in-law?
She rang the bell, and whilst she waited for it to be answered, she began to dust the mantelpiece and other surfaces, revealing the beauty of the wood beneath.
The door opened and Effie entered hesitantly.
‘It’s all right, Effie, come in. I am preparing this room for use. I want you to light a fire here, and then I would like you to bring a bucket of water and wash the windows. Make sure Mrs Beal does not need you first.’
‘Yes, missis.’
Effie departed, but returned soon afterwards.
As they worked, Helena asked the girl about her family. Reluctantly at first, Effie began to speak, saying that she had been orphaned and that a cousin had found her work at the castle. Once or twice, Helena led the conversation round to Mrs Carlisle, but Effie became nervous when she did so, and so she talked of other things. Gradually, though, she began to win the girl’s trust, and thought that, before many more days had passed, she might induce Effie to confide in her. That the girl knew something, she was convinced, though whether it was important remained to be seen.
By late afternoon, the room was looking cheerful. Helena had wound the ormolu clock, which was ticking on the mantelpiece, and polished the gilded mirrors. Effie had washed the windows, both inside and out, and they sparkled where they caught the light. The fire was crackling merrily in the grate.
‘It’s a pity there is no one to use it,’ said Helena to Effie, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Yes, missis.’
‘Whose room was it? Do you know?’
‘It was ’ers,’ said Effie, not very helpfully.
‘Was it used by Lord Torkrow’s mother?’
Effie did not reply.
‘Or his sister-in-law?’
Effie nodded.
‘She liked it ’ere.’
‘Does she live here now?’ asked Helena.
Effie dropped the poker with a clatter, and was clearly frightened.
‘Where is she, Effie?’ asked Helena. ‘Is she in the castle? Or on holiday?’
‘No, missis. She’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes, missis.’
‘Then the crying in the attic — ’ is not her, Helena was about to say, when Effie interrupted her.
‘Yes, missis, it’s ’er. Dawkins says she walks,’ said Effie.
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