by Various
‘Which for the moment rather rules out the battlements. But you could still see the inside.’
‘The inside?’ She felt a quick thrill of excitement. ‘Could I really?’ Then doubtfully, ‘Are you sure the owner won’t mind?’
‘Quite sure.’ He spoke with certainty.
Even so, she knew she ought to refuse. But it seemed a terrible shame to throw away such a chance.
Reading her expression right, and suddenly more confident of success, he added lightly, teasingly, ‘And just to set your mind at rest, I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.’
Recognizing that confidence, and fairly sure he was laughing at her, she gritted her teeth.
Of course she could shatter his assurance and have the last laugh by insisting on leaving the island immediately.
Only she was abruptly convinced that it would be a waste of time. He held the whiphand, and the gleam in his green eyes told her he knew it.
No matter how reasonable he might appear, if it came to the crunch she would get no help from him, and the sound of the storm raging outside emphasized the folly of attempting to walk.
Recognizing thankfully that for the moment her opposition was at an end, and promising himself that from now on he would take the softly-softly approach, he said briskly, ‘So that’s decided. Now I’ve a quick phone call to make…’
Presumably the phone call would be to an employment agency, in the hope of finding himself a new PA.
‘So if you’d like to fetch a mac, I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.’
She rose to her feet, and, her legs feeling oddly shaky, went to do as he’d suggested.
Once again her feelings were in turmoil. Mingling with a host of misgivings was a swift and fierce gladness that she wasn’t going just yet.
Because of the weather, she had one more day on her island. One more day with Michael. She would forget her embarrassment, forget all her doubts, and do her best to enjoy it.
By the time she had washed her hands, belted a stone-coloured mac around her slender waist, and made her way down to the hall, he was standing waiting by the front door.
He had pulled the car in as close as possible, but even so by the time he had helped her into the passenger seat the shoulders of his short jacket were spattered with rain and his ruffled dark hair was dewed with drops.
A strong wind was buffeting the treetops into a frenzy of activity, and heavy storm clouds were being driven across the sky like a straggling flock of grey ragged sheep.
As they climbed towards the road, through the water that streamed down the windows she could see that the sea was a boiling mass of white-topped breakers.
From being a small child she had loved, and been in tune with, all aspects of the elements. Now something inside responded to the wildness of the weather and, her heart lifting, she wanted to laugh aloud.
As though he sensed and shared her feelings, Michael turned his head to smile at her.
The short drive along the coastal road was quite spectacular, and when they surmounted the ridge Jenny caught her breath at the sight of the castle, bleak and imposing against the stormy sky.
Looking at it, she found herself quoting, “‘Four grey walls and four grey towers…’”
Slanting her a glance, Michael offered, ‘But not too many flowers at this time of the year.’
She was still marvelling how quickly he’d picked up that spur-of-the-moment quotation when he added, ‘I see you know your Tennyson.’
‘After we did “The Lady of Shalott” at school he became a firm favourite of mine.’
‘Mine too.’
‘You like poetry?’
‘Yes.’
She was surprised that so masculine a man should admit to enjoying poetry.
Seeming to read her mind, he asked, ‘Why not? As a writer I love language in all its forms.’
‘Of course. Have you always liked poetry?’
Driving through the castle gatehouse and beneath the portcullis, he answered, ‘Since reading my first nursery rhyme at the age of three, and progressing to Marvell and Donne, it’s been only too easy to get drunk on words.’
Words were the tools of his trade, she realized, so it made perfect sense.
Close at hand, the castle looked even more stark and dramatic, with its rain-drenched cobbled courtyard and its high stone walls running in water.
As they drew up close to a huge, iron-studded door Michael remarked slyly, ‘I’ve always rather liked Andrew Marvell’s, “To His Coy Mistress”.’
Watching the colour mount in her cheeks, he added, ‘I see you know it.’
Then instantly contrite, he grimaced. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t tease you. But you blush so beautifully that I couldn’t resist it.’
He touched her cheek. ‘Forgive me?’
The look on his face made him irresistible, and her heart turned over.
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said huskily.
‘A truly generous woman,’ he commented with a smile. Then, taking a large key from his pocket, he instructed, ‘Wait here.’
Having turned the key in the ornate iron lock, he hurried back through the deluge and held the car door against the strong gusts while she clambered out.
In the two or three seconds it took to get inside, the wind and rain beat into her face, almost stopping her breath and blowing loose strands of hair into wild disorder.
Closing the door behind them, Michael said, ‘Phew!’
Strangely exhilarated, she raised a glowing face and smiled at him as she began to peel the stray tendrils of wet hair from her cheeks and tuck them back into the coil as best she could.
Thinking he’d never seen anyone more beautiful, he produced a spotless hankie and, shaking out the folds, used it to dry her face.
Her heart doing strange things and her smile dying away, Jenny stood rooted to the spot looking up at him, her lovely brown eyes wide and defenceless.
The urge to take her in his arms and cover her mouth with his was so strong it was like a physical pain, and he was forced to step back and remind himself firmly of the softly-softly strategy he had decided on.
Jenny had been convinced he was about to kiss her, and when he stepped back she sighed with what she told herself was relief.
But somehow it felt more like regret.
Though she knew, and admitted, it was the road to nowhere, she had wanted him to kiss her.
Once again she had demonstrated just how dangerous it was to be near him, and if she was to retain any remaining pride or self-respect she must leave as soon as the weather would allow.
As he returned the damp square of cotton to his pocket, and smoothed back his wind-ruffled hair, Jenny took a deep, steadying breath, and transferred her attention to her surroundings.
They were standing in a huge, panelled hall, with a massive stone fireplace and a great oak staircase that climbed to a second-floor landing and a minstrels’ gallery.
Picturing the hall with a blazing fire, the metal chandeliers lit with dozens of candles, a colourful throng of people, and the long table groaning with food and drink, she knew that in its heyday it must have been a magnificent sight.
But now, in the flickering grey light that filtered through long, leaded windows awash with water, it looked bare and bleak and deserted.
Even so, she felt a warmth, the same sense of belonging, of coming home, she had felt on seeing Slinterwood for the first time.
Despite that aura of welcoming warmth, the air itself was cold and dank, and as though in response to the realization she shivered.
Noticing that involuntary movement, Michael said crisply, ‘There’s been no form of heating in this part of the castle for donkey’s years, so I suggest we get moving.
‘How much of the place do you want to see?’
‘I’d like to see it all,’ she said, her eagerness and excitement returning with a bound. ‘That is, if you don’t mind?’
Secretly pleased by
her enthusiasm, he said, ‘I certainly don’t mind, but if you get bored you’ll have to tell me.’
How could she get bored when she would be seeing the place she had wanted to see for as long as she could remember, the castle of her dreams?
‘I won’t get bored,’ she said with certainty.
He led the way across the hall and through a door at the end. ‘This is the east wing. Neither this, nor the north wing, have been lived in since the early eighteen hundreds, and are empty apart from a few chests and settles and the odd four-poster bed.’
But, for Jenny, even the virtually empty rooms they walked through held an endless fascination, and she looked around her with unflagging interest.
When they reached the end of the north wing, Michael said, ‘Beneath here are the dungeons. They’re pretty grim-looking, but there’s no record of anyone ever having died there.’
From the dungeons they made their way through archways and bare stone passages to the sculleries, kitchens, and storerooms, the servants’ quarters and the servants’ hall.
Then, having shown her the gatehouse, which had once been used to house soldiers, the towers, with their arrow-slits and spiral stairways and, above the family vault, the beautiful little chapel—which he told her was still used on special occasions—they returned via backstairs dimly lit by cobwebby windows to the main hall.
As they approached a door near the huge fireplace, above the mantel, she noticed a shield with a familiar design, a phoenix rising from the ashes.
She turned to ask Michael about it, but he was going on, ‘And through here is the west wing. It was occupied until the late eighteen hundreds, so the rooms are still fully furnished.’
He led her through a grand living-room, an elaborate music room, a dining-room, a library, and then a magnificent long gallery.
The gallery was elegantly proportioned, with deep, leaded windows made of uneven panes of pale-greenish glass, down which rain streamed incessantly, making the light dim and wavering and giving the place an eerie, under-water feeling.
‘It’s absolutely beautiful,’ Jenny remarked.
‘It’s said to be haunted.’
‘Haunted? By whom?’
He found himself smiling at the excitement in her voice. ‘By a lady named Eleanor.’
‘Why does she haunt the gallery?’
Lowering his voice to sepulchral tones, he said, ‘It’s a gory tale of love and hate and jealousy. Sure you want to hear it?’
‘Quite sure,’ she said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SMILING at the eagerness in Jenny’s voice, Michael began, ‘When Lady Eleanor Grey was just eighteen, she fell in love with, and married, Sir Richard D’Envier and came to live at Mirren.
‘For a few months they were extremely happy, but Charles, Sir Richard’s younger brother, had also fallen in love with Eleanor, and each day he grew more bitterly jealous.
‘Eventually, unable to stand it any longer, he hired a couple of cutthroats to waylay Sir Richard and kill him.
‘But Richard, a courageous man, fought them off, and, though he was badly wounded, he managed to remount his horse and ride back to the castle, where he died in his wife’s arms.
‘They were perilous times, and because Eleanor was pregnant she was particularly vulnerable.
‘As was the custom in those days, Charles, now head of the household, offered her and her unborn child his protection, if she would marry him.
‘Still mourning her husband, Eleanor didn’t want to marry again, but for the sake of her unborn child, she felt forced to seriously consider his proposal.
‘What she didn’t know was that one night after too much wine Charles had boasted that if the child was a boy, he would find some way of getting rid of it.’
Jenny, who had been listening with bated breath, urged, ‘Go on.’
‘Though Eleanor had never liked her husband’s brother, she had almost decided that she had little choice but to accept his proposal when something happened to change her mind.
‘Charles had made one serious mistake. Because he believed his ruffians had bungled the murder, he refused to pay them.
‘One night, in their cups, the pair aired their grievances, and the news got back to Eleanor. Her dislike of Charles turned into a fierce hatred, and a strong desire for revenge.
‘Unaware that she knew the truth, Charles was pressing her for an answer to his proposal, but she bided her time while she thought up a plan to get him away from the retinue that invariably surrounded him.
‘Eleanor often walked in the long gallery, and one evening she sent Charles a flirtatious little note saying that if he met her here, she would give him her answer.
‘He came, all smiles, and prepared to embrace her. He didn’t see the jewelled dagger hidden in the folds of her gown until she plunged it into his heart.
‘A bloody and melodramatic tale,’ Michael added in his normal voice.
‘Did she kill herself too?’
‘No. Apparently she had half intended to, but the thought of her unborn child held her back. Luckily for her, there were many at the castle who were still loyal to Sir Richard, and when Charles was hastily buried, and the news spread that he had died of a fever, no one challenged the story.’
‘So what happened to Eleanor?’
‘Having given birth to a healthy son, whom she named Richard, she survived to see him grow into a fine young man, the image of his father.
‘She lived to be forty-five, without ever remarrying, and according to legend she still walks in the long gallery where she avenged the death of her husband.’
Jenny sighed. ‘I’m pleased there’s a happy ending after all.’
His smile just a little mocking, Michael asked, ‘Don’t you feel a spot of womanly pity for poor lovelorn Charles?’
‘Certainly not,’ she denied crisply. ‘He only got what he richly deserved.’
Laughing at her honest indignation, Michael led her up to the top floor, with its dressing-rooms, retiring-rooms and magnificent bedchambers.
When she remarked on the fact that the rooms led straight into one another, he told her, ‘At that time there were no upstairs corridors, which must have meant a distinct lack of privacy for any guests. Though they did manage to keep the servants well out of sight.’
‘How did they do that?’ she asked curiously.
‘I’ll show you.’
Crossing to one of the inner walls, he moved aside a hanging tapestry to reveal a small door.
‘Where possible, the staircases and corridors used by the servants were built between the main walls, and the doors into the various rooms hidden behind hanging tapestries. That way a servant could slip in to make up the fire, and disappear again without being noticed.
‘And, speaking of things being hidden, there’s a secret passage I haven’t yet shown you.’
‘A secret passage?’
Jenny, who had been fascinated by the architecture of the old place, the archways and steps that seemed to lead nowhere, the huge fireplaces and the beautiful old windows, gave a shiver of excitement.
Misreading that shiver, he said, ‘You’re cold.’
She was, frozen through, but she’d been far too engrossed to heed the cold.
‘Come on, let’s get going.’
Thinking he intended to leave, she protested, ‘I’d love to see the secret passage.’
‘And so you shall.’
Taking her hand, he hurried her down the stairs and across the hall, and, coming to a halt on the far side of the fireplace, ran his fingers along the oak panelling just above head height.
There was a muffled click, and with a grating noise a section of the panelling moved to one side.
Peering excitedly into the cobwebby gloom, Jenny asked, ‘Where does it lead?’
‘The first short section leads to the south wing, which is where we’re heading, and the second, much longer section, to an escape tunnel which goes down under the walls, through a gap in the
rock, and eventually comes out about a quarter of a mile away.’
‘Have you ever been through?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I’ve never been through a secret passage,’ she told him. Then hopefully, ‘If we’re heading for the south wing, do you think we could go that way?’
Quizzically, he charged, ‘You’ve been reading too much Enid Blyton.’
With a grin, she admitted, ‘As a child, I loved her books…So could we?’
Amused, he agreed, ‘We could. But it will be dark and rough underfoot, and all I have with me is a small pencil-torch.’
‘I’m sure we’d manage,’ she told him eagerly.
‘What if I can’t locate the lever that opens the panel to let us out?’
Looking anything but concerned, she suggested, ‘Well, if you can’t, so long as you leave this panel open we could always retrace our steps.’
‘Very well. You’d better follow me.’
As they stepped through the gap, reminding her to tread carefully, he took her hand.
Feeling a delicious thrill of adventure, she followed close on his heels.
The tunnel was narrow, the air cold and musty, the ground uneven beneath their feet.
As they moved away from the open panel, the torch a small spotlight in the surrounding darkness, the walls seemed to close in claustrophobically.
Unconsciously, she gripped his hand tighter.
‘Do you want to turn back?’
His voice sounded strangely hollow, disembodied, but the fingers curled round hers were strong and reassuring, and she answered, ‘No, no, I’m quite happy, really.’
Once or twice she stumbled, and he asked, ‘Okay?’
Each time she answered, ‘Fine, thank you.’
After what seemed an age, he said, ‘If I remember rightly, we should be just about there.’
As they slowed to a halt he let go of her hand to release the lever. At the same instant she stepped on a loose piece of rubble, and gave a gasp as her left ankle turned painfully.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I’ve twisted my ankle,’ she admitted ruefully.