by Sky Winters
"Father, whatever has happened?"
John Carmichael stood up and walked toward the fire. He was not a young man, but he had always been full of vigor, but now he walked slowly and looked older than his years. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but not finding the words closed it again.
"Father?"
This time, her voice was gentle and Abigail stood to face him, placing her hand gently on his arm.
At his daughter’s touch a great sorrow spread across his eyes and he quickly buried his face in his hands. "Oh, Abigail, my love, what shall we do?" After a few moments, he managed to compose himself. "As you are aware, my dear, I have been in London on business. I received a letter from my bank over a week ago. It appears that some investments I had overseas have collapsed and I am left with very little. All the wealth I have left is in this house and lands. I shall have to sell off much of the land to pay off my taxes and outstanding debts. I am not even sure how long I can manage to keep the run of this house. I can barely afford to pay the servants’ wages."
Abigail listened open mouthed to her father. She had never suspected that anything had been wrong. Their lives had always been so comfortable, so carefree, that she had scarcely taken the time to think about the family fortunes.
"Surely things cannot be that bad, Father, surely something can be done?"
Shaking his head, he looked solemnly into the fire. "I'm afraid I have done all that can be done. Unless..."
"Unless what, Father?"
"It does not matter."
"Unless what, Father?"
Turning to his daughter, he paused before speaking. "If you or Janine could make an advantageous marriage, then we could perhaps save the estate."
Abigail swallowed hard, thinking of her words to Henry Driffield. He was a wealthy land owner but surely even he did not possess the kind of money needed to save her father.
"But no one in the county has that kind of money, Father, even if we had suitors."
Janine started to cry again and Abigail looked up at her father. There was something else, something he wasn't telling her.
"Father?"
Sighing heavily, John Carmichael gazed into the fire. "On my return home this evening, there was a letter waiting for me from Duke von Reichenstein. He has somehow heard of my misfortune and has offered me a substantial amount of money that will clear our debts and also allow me to keep the estate."
Abigail could feel the relief flooding in her chest. "Well, Father. Then there is a solution after all."
He couldn’t meet her gaze. "Of course there are certain conditions; he wants the hand of one of my daughters."
The words set a chill over her heart. Duke von Reichenstein was indeed a wealthy man but was a mysterious figure who kept to himself. He was virtually a recluse. Abigail had only seen him once and then only briefly as his carriage had passed her in the lane. He lived alone, high up on the hill that looked down upon the little village in the valley. There were many rumors about him and none were agreeable. When anything unpleasant happened, it was always laid at the Duke’s door, though none of it was ever proven. A number of villagers had gone missing over the years and everyone blamed the Duke. He was a dark and lone figure; sinister and mistrustful in the eyes of the local villagers who told tales of him to frighten their children when they misbehaved, and thus promoting the rumors from generation to generation.
He must be a very old man by now. Abigail could feel her flesh creep at the very thought of him.
Janine had started to cry again, and Abigail realized why. The prospect of such a union stuck in her own throat.
"Surely there is another way, Father?"
"I had hoped that you would find a suitor at the ball tonight, Abigail, I know that Henry Driffield was interested. I thought with Janine married to the Duke and you married to Driffield, you would both have secure futures, and I would not have to worry about you should anything happen to me. The Duke specified that I should not tell you about my debts, about his financial offer, but I could not lie to you. If I had, you would have known."
The rash words she had spoken to the farmer rushed through her head. "Oh, Father, I have been so foolish, so selfish." Reaching out, she buried her head into her father’s chest.
In her heart, she knew what had to be done. Her poor sister was too young, too sensitive to be partnered with a man like the Duke. She would have to take on the burden herself. With the house and estate saved, there would be no need for her baby sister to be married. If one of them should marry for love, then it should be Janine, not her.
Composing herself, Abigail stood up, addressing both her father and sister.
"I am prepared to marry the Duke, Father. We have no choice. I am the eldest and so must take on the responsibility. There is nothing else for it." Her voice quavered but she would not cry and stuck her fingernails into both her palms in an attempt to keep the tears away.
The three of them embraced until the room dimmed and the fire embers crackled in the grate. All was silent. There were no words left to say.
By the time Abigail entered her chamber late that night, the clouds had gathered in the night sky and a heavy rain had started to fall. Lighting a candle by her bedside, she glanced at the shadowy figure standing in the mirror before her. Was it the same young girl who had left only a few hours earlier for the ball? Her hair had become unpinned and hung in an unruly fashion around her shoulders, frizzy and course where had once been smooth and tamed curls. Her face was blotchy but she had cried enough and there were no more tears left.
Stepping to the window, she gazed out wearily into the lost night. The wind had started to whip up the trees and they tossed their branches in alarm against the oncoming storm. The house was set a little further back from the main village, situated higher up than most of the houses so that she looked down onto the lighted windows of the distant dwellings that gave the village an almost magical feel.
Letting her gaze stray upward toward the hills, her focus fixed on a spot in the distance; the dark shadow of Duke von Reichenstein’s great castle, menacing and eerie in the scant moonlight. DukeAbigail's flesh tingled as she pulled her shawl a little tighter across her shoulders. She had jumped from the frying pan and straight into the fires of hell. Her heart felt heavy at the thought of a life chained to the Duke; no doubt she would rot away, confined to remain within the damp and dour castle walls. Well, better her than her dear sister. She had no other choice.
* * *
By the time she had woken the following morning, her father had already dispatched a letter to the Duke, offering Abigail’s hand in marriage.
A swift reply was received, stating that the wedding would be arranged for a week’s time in the little chapel on the grounds of the castle. The service would take place at dusk, just after the sun had started its descent. It would be a quiet affair, with just Janine and her father invited. There would be no additional family on the Duke’s side. They were all dead.
The week passed quickly, and Abigail went through the hours in a daze. She had removed all emotion from her heart and had been left with a numb emptiness. Janine and her farther tried to offer comforting words, promising that they would visit her often; yet all the time she gazed up at the castle and imagined it her prison, the Duke her jailor.
The day of the wedding finally dawned cold and dull, the sky bleak and unforgiving. Abigail and her family were instructed to arrive at the castle gates by four. Her father and Janine would remain in the main hall, whilst Abigail would be shown to her chamber to prepare for the ceremony.
As the three of them waited patiently at the gate, Abigail could feel her knees start to buckle beneath her, the steely resolve dissolving in the shade of the gothic towers that rose upward from the main body of the castle. Supported by her father and sister, she pulled herself together as the distant bell began to toll. On the exact stroke of four, a door swung open at the front of the castle and a dark and crooked creature made its way across to the gates. Ab
igail stepped back at the sight of the abhorrent figure and prayed that this was not the Duke. The bent figure gave a slight bow and gestured forward with his hands, leading them through the gate.
As the group moved slowly up the steps toward the main entrance hall, Abigail had the feeling that someone was watching her from high up in one of the towers. Glancing up, she met the cold blank stares of the gargoyles, hideous carved stone images of devils and imps; all manner of creatures from the underworld looked down upon her. There was definitely something evil about the place.
The hall was marble, long and cold. It was time to part from her loved ones until the time for the ceremony. Fighting back tears, she followed the old man, who did not speak but led the way up a great winding stone staircase, glancing backward every few steps to ensure that his charge was still behind him. On reaching the landing, she was led along a dark and dreary corridor before stopping in front of a door marked with her own name in fine gold lettering. It was not what she had been expecting, and as the door was unlocked and opened, she was surprised to find a cheerful and cozy room lit by a dozen candles and a generous fire blazing in the grate. Before she could turn around, the old man had vanished and she was left standing alone in the doorway.
Stepping timidly into the room, she closed the door behind her. A large bed dominated the room and on it was laid her bridal gown; an exquisite creation of white silk with a long and flowing lace veil. A set of pearls shimmered in the candlelight, and she picked them up and held them to the window to catch the late afternoon sun. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, the cool even globes warming beneath her fingers.
As she picked up the gown to make a closer inspection, a sealed envelope fell onto the floor. Her name had been written on the front of the envelope in large and looping black letters. Carefully she opened the envelope and withdrew a letter in the same bold handwriting.
My Dearest Abigail,
I do hope that the bridal gown meets with your approval. The pearls are a family heirloom, and my wedding present to you. We will meet in the chapel when the bell tolls five.
Duke Von Reichenstein
The small clock on the mantle struck the quarter of the hour; she would have to change quickly into her gown and rearrange her hair. The dress fit perfectly and she wondered how the Duke had known her size. Surely he had not chosen such a wonderful garment himself? The image in the mirror reflected a beautiful young woman, yet she felt afraid. The pearls encircling her elegant throat gave her a regal air but they did not make her happy. All she wanted to do was to go home.
By the side of the bed, she found a pair of dainty silk slippers to match her gown and once again they fitted her like a glove.
With her hair pinned in place, she was ready with fifteen minutes until the appointed time. Sitting on the bed, she stared into space, her mind empty and awaiting her fate. It wasn't only the wedding itself that had been worrying her. The thought of her wedding night had been niggling at the back of her mind, though she had tried not to think too much about it. She was innocent in the ways of men. Since she had no mother, she had received no instruction on the intimacies between men and women, save for what she had read in books, which had only amounted to the fumbling of corsets and concealed blushes in the conservatory.
Soon there was a knock at the door. The old man had returned with a bouquet of wild pink roses for her to carry. It was time to leave. With a final glance at her own reflection in the mirror, she reluctantly followed the old creature out of the room and down the staircase. It was time for the girl to become a woman.
Chapter Two
The chapel stood on the vast grounds in the shadow of the castle. It had the same damp and musty smell as the church in the village, and Abigail suspected that it was seldom used. There was an air of desolation about the place and the leaves of many winters were gathered around the old oak door. It was an ungodly place and she shivered as she stepped inside.
Her father was waiting to lead her down the long aisle to the altar and the sight of him brought tears rushing to her eyes. Clasping her hand firmly in his, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Lifting her veil, he brushed them away. It was neither the time nor place for weeping and he kissed her softly on the cheek as they stood waiting for the signal to their entrance.
The inner door was slightly open, and she peered into the gloom that was lit by many candles. Two people sat in the wooden pews. She recognized one as her sister, the other, a tall, cloaked solitary figure, sat opposite. A low rumble filled the space, and the ground beneath her reverberated as a wheezy organ began to bellow a dramatic flurry of chords and notes that filled the vast space. It was not the organ music she was accustomed to and she felt as if she could almost drown in the hypnotic sound.
It was time.
With a final glance at each other, the two set off on the slow march toward the waiting priest.
Abigail's stomach was in her mouth as she managed to put one foot in front of the other; her body hardly seemed her own. Everything around her moved slowly as if she were part of a strange dream. Walking past Janine, she could tell the girl was crying. Lifting her head, she smiled half-heartedly at her sister in an attempt to reassure her that all was well.
Glancing to her right, she looked at the only other guest. She could not tell if it was a man or woman, the figure was wrapped in a large cloak, but as she passed, the head turned to look at her. The face was partly covered but what she saw shocked her. A white and bony face with large and searching eyes peered out, giving her a ghastly smile as she passed. The poor thing must be terribly ill.
It was only as they approached the front of the chapel that a dark figure stepped out of the gloom, as if out of nowhere, to stand by her side. The Duke.
She had expected a disheveled, old and bent man, yet the figure towered above her. Abigail hardly dared glance at him and her breathing quickened as she started to panic. It was actually going to happen; she would soon be the Duke’s wife and her instinct was to turn and flee, but for her family's sake, she took in a deep breath and lifted her chin a little higher.
Abigail had attended the weddings of several friends and family in the past, but the service was like none she had witnessed before. The priest was not dressed in the usual style. Instead, he wore a silver and white cloak depicting many strange symbols. His words were foreign to her ears, Latin perhaps, but she did not recognize them. Even the chapel itself was sparsely decorated, with none of the usual statues; not even a crucifix. Even the Bibles and prayer books were absent.
The Duke produced a ring from his pocket, a heavy gold band that he handed to the priest. Abigail felt a cold hand touch her own and she turned to face her future husband for the first time.
It was his eyes at first that shocked her. They were deep and dark and seemed to look straight through her. His face was striking, almost handsome, debonair some would say, and yet there seemed to be an unutterable air of sadness about the man. The whole effect almost caused her to swoon and she closed her eyes to steady herself as his cold fingers slipped the ring upon her own warmer one.
The final words of the priest signaled the organ to start up once more. It seemed that the ceremony was over. There was no lifting of the veil or kissing of the bride, and Abigail could not tell if she was relieved or disappointed; her emotions were so mixed.
Taking her by the arm, the Duke led her back down the aisle and away from her father and sister. The Duke was her family now.
She noticed the sickly figure had disappeared, perhaps sitting in the cold and draughty place had been too much for the poor soul?
It was already dark as they stepped out of the chapel and back into the main hall of the castle, which was well lit and warm and added an unexpected welcome cheer after the drabness of the chapel. At last Abigail was able to remove her veil. As she did so, she noticed the Duke staring at her again in his peculiar way. It was if he were looking straight into her very soul, and her heart started to pound once a
gain.
Light refreshments had been provided; the old man who had first greeted them silently stirring the hot punch and ladling it into small cut-glass bowls, yet it was not a festive atmosphere and the small group stood stiffly together. All knew it was a marriage of convenience and it was difficult to celebrate such an occasion. Father and daughters chatted amongst themselves whilst the Duke silently watched from a corner of the room.
After an acceptable time had lapsed, her father made his excuses to the Duke for both he and his youngest daughter to leave. Abigail grasped at her father’s hand; she was to be left alone in this drear place with the Duke. It was too soon and her eyes begged her father to stay for a while longer, but it was of no use. The deed was done and their staying would only prolong the sad goodbyes.
Abigail clung on to her father’s hand as long as she could until finally he pulled away and left her at the door of the great castle looking silently out into the night.
"You had better step inside and close the door, my dear, otherwise you will catch your death." His voice was deep and cool, like the sound of a river after heavy rain and with only the slightest hint of an accent.
He was close behind her, and she could almost feel the brush of his breath upon her neck. Her hands trembled as she turned around to face him, alone with her new husband for the first time, a man she barely knew. The Duke was well over six feet tall, and he made her feel tiny by comparison. His dark eyes glowered into hers, and she could not tell whether he was pleased with her or not. Abigail wondered if he was having second thoughts on his choice of bride.
Her mind raced for conversation, desperate to break the forced awkwardness. The Duke seemed a man of few words and she had to fill the silence.
"Your guest did not stay long; perhaps they were ill. They did not look well at all?"