We are waiting. It is not for long, but I can see from the expression on my husband’s face that he feels that it is an eternity.
At last a servant in evening dress calls us, and we are escorted into the throne room. A minute passes and my husband’s name is called.
He approaches a small man with a beard, dressed in the uniform of Admiral of the Fleet.
A word or two pass between them, and then my husband kneels.
George the Fifth, by the Grace of God, King of Britain and Her Dominions Beyond the Seas, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India, takes a sword from an equerry and taps my husband on the shoulder. The King speaks. ‘Arise, Sir Roger Attwood.’
Christabel’s Room by Abigail Clements
From the author of Mistress of the Moor, another gripping romantic suspense thriller ‒ Christabel’s Room. Keep reading for a preview of Chapter One and details of where to buy the book.
Chapter One
I can still recall everything about that snowy January morning when I left London. The icy winds that caught at the trailing skirts of my tweed travelling-costume, the smell of coal smoke in the damp air beneath the high, dim roof of King’s Cross Station; Papa in his worn frock coat, jostled by the hurrying crowds as he stood on the platform silently waving, and the train pulling slowly out. And then I was alone and suddenly feeling very much a frightened little girl, wishing desperately that I was back in the warm, safe circle of home. But then the train was sliding out of London and into the whitened English countryside, and the excitement of adventure slipped over my fears, like the snow softening the sharp lines of the land.
All day the train clacked and rattled northward, out of the gentle English farmland, up through the bleak, brick cities of the Midlands and the north, where the drab skyline was spiked and clustered with tall mill-chimneys. The other passengers in the ladies’ compartment were soon nodding with sleep, lulled by the rhythm of wheels on rails, but I was wide awake, unwilling to take my eyes from the new, changing world beyond our trailing curtain of soot and smoke. Then, further north, past Berwick, our route swung to the east and the coastline, and I looked down on rugged, curving cliffs and the crashing, stormy, grey sea.
Rain and sleet rattled against the windows, and a little later, an old lady travelling in the compartment with me roused herself at the sound of it, looked out, and nodded approval at the wild landscape. Then she turned to me with a kindly smile, and seeming to know without being told that it was my first trip north, said in a soft Scottish accent, ‘You’re in Scotland now, my dear.’ Then she slid gently back into sleep and I stayed close by the window, entranced. As the landscape rolled by, my thoughts turned to home again, and that evening little more than a month ago, that had been the real beginning of my journey.
On that occasion, I recalled, I had set the last touches on the dinner table myself, twining the bright holly in bunches around the candelabra. The room looked lovely, glowing in the candlelight of a winter evening, and I was pleased. It was a special night. Christmas was always special for Papa and me, the time in the year that we kept to ourselves to be, briefly, a family. But it was always a somewhat sad time for Papa, for Christmas must have brought back memories of those brief happy years when Mother was still alive.
As a child, finding no reason for his sadness, but perhaps my misbehaviour, I would creep about the house being forlorn and quiet, until, beyond restraint, I finally ran to him with outstretched baby arms and found that this brought back the games and laughter. As a woman, I tried to fill the empty places in his life as best I could, keeping the house as I believed it would have been kept by the mother I never knew.
Commotion among the passengers broke into my reverie. It was nearly dark, and we had reached Edinburgh, the long train slipping in beneath the shadow of Arthur’s Seat, the great mountain within the city. Most of the travellers were ending their journeys here, but the Scottish part of mine had just begun.
A helpful porter hustled me and my luggage through the confusion of Waverley Station, colder and windier even than King’s Cross, and found the waiting North British train to Perth. Soon I was on my way again, as the carriages jerked forward and slid from beneath the shelter of the station. The black outlines of Edinburgh Castle were barely visible, towering on the rocky heights above the train, and the gay lights of Princes Street winked beyond the gardens as we left the city.
The attendant opened the compartment door and leaned in to inform us that soon we would be crossing the wonderful new Forth Bridge. We passengers crowded to the windows to stare up at the great, looming girders hanging from the night sky, and down, far below, to the white splashes of waves on the windblown Firth of Forth. It was a magnificent, thrilling sight, and even after we had swept away into the hills beyond, there was much talk and exclamation about the great bridge. Then, after the chatter had died away and we had all exchanged the customary pleasantries, everyone settled back to read or sleep.
I leaned back against the upholstered seat, closing my eyes and hoping to sleep. Again the vivid memory of that important evening intruded; the sounds and scents of Christmas. There had been carol singers, their voices drifting faintly from the street outside, and, as I gathered the remaining boughs of holly and went through to the drawing room, there had been the sweet smell of pine, as Cathleen teetered on a chair by the tree, touching the uppermost candles alight with her taper.
‘Thank you, Cathleen, it’s lovely,’ I said, admiring the bright boughs of the Christmas tree. Cathleen scrambled down off her chair.
‘Yes, miss,’ she replied. ‘Sure, it’s a picture now.’ She smiled brightly and scurried off about her chores. It was a picture. The great tree filled the window, and the deep-blue velvet curtains made a splendid backdrop. As I hung the sprigs of holly on the lintels and above the gilt picture-frames, a happy glow filled me. It was a good, close, warm feeling. Soon Papa would be home, and later there would be the dinner together, with our special guest. Then suddenly I was saddened deeply by that thought, for as much as I looked forward to seeing my godfather, the occasion could not help but be darkened by the past. Not one of us would be able to forget the last occasion when Sir Iain Grant had dined with us, when the lovely Lady Christabel was still alive.
I had only to close my eyes against the soft glow of the gaslight, and it was again that night, when I had crouched in my long nightdress by the kitchen door, peering into the candlelit dining room, awestruck at the sight of this beautiful, vivacious creature. Mrs. Flanagan had, giggling, let me slip into the kitchen to have my peek at the party. Uncle Iain and Christabel’s two children, Gordon and Rowena, were sound asleep in the nursery, upstairs, but I had managed to elude the watchful eyes of Aunt Isabel, Papa’s elderly maiden aunt who had cared for me since my birth. Aunt Isabel had firm opinions on precisely when fourteen-year-old girls should be in their beds, but Mrs. Flanagan understood how very exciting an adult party was to a girl just a little too young to attend, particularly when a lady as lovely as Christabel was dining at our own table.
I gazed in adoration. Christabel was like a Romany princess. She wore red velvet, and her dark hair was bound with red velvet ribbons. Her eyes were dark as the earrings and necklace of jet that she wore and they flashed with a deeper fire than the jewellery or the flames on the hearth. I was enchanted. I wanted to be just like her, to look and talk and laugh just like her. And to have men gaze at me, as they did, all around that table, at her.
Aunt Isabel arrived, an angry rustle of taffeta in the kitchen, and I was dragged away to the nursery, chastised. I didn’t care. For months afterwards, I locked myself secretly in the bathroom and practised tossing my hair back, throwing my chin up, laughing secretly, with that fine gypsy look of Lady Christabel.
Now dear Aunt Isabel was dead. And Lady Christabel was dead too.
I opened my eyes suddenly, looking up at the reflection of myself in the darkened train-window; a tall, slim girl, with quiet eyes, and a face too strong for real beauty, framed by
soft brown hair. I was not at all like Christabel. But then, since that day over a year ago when we heard, I had never wanted to be.
The train was slowing, shuddering to a halt with a great hissing of steam. We had arrived at Perth, where I knew I was to change to the Highland Line for the final part of my journey. When I stepped down onto the platform, there was a clean fresh smell in the air, a country smell of earth and rain. I was conducted across the platform, and soon my luggage had been loaded and I myself was aboard the train to Inverness. Excitement rose in me as, in the darkness, we climbed on into the rising hills of the Highlands. Beside me, other travel-weary passengers dozed, and eventually I too succumbed to the monotonous rhythm and slept for a while.
I awoke to find the air, even within the small compartment, distinctly colder. The curtains had been drawn in the compartment and the Pintsch gas lights turned low, so I stepped into the corridor to look out at the landscape.
The storms had cleared and the sky was filled with racing, ragged clouds, and a white, winter moon appeared to fly backward among them. In its light was spread out before me a high, sweeping terrain of harsh rock and snow-covered heather, the barren smoothness cut deeply by black, twisting gullies, in which glinted icy streams. It was at once the most beautiful and the most awesome land I had ever seen, and that haunting first vision of it served me as a fine foretelling of all I was to come to know of the Highlands.
I retired to the compartment, a little unnerved and very tired, as the struggling engine began its long heavy climb to the heights of the Slochd. It achieved the summit, though there were times I truly doubted it would, and it shuddered as if with relief, and the train rolled easily down the long, smooth slope towards the Highland capital of Inverness.
It was nearly midnight when the great engine at last hissed and clanged to a halt. After fourteen long hours of travel, I was truly exhausted and, I fear, very bedraggled, as I stumbled down the steps and out onto the long platform where the wet sea-smell of fish-crates mixed with clouds of steam. Wearily I followed the kindly porter, who carried my luggage and led me like a tired child to the gracious foyer of the Station Hotel.
The night porter of the hotel showed me the way up the graceful, curving staircase to the room Uncle Iain had reserved there for me. It was large and graciously furnished, and as I quickly undressed and climbed sleepily into the comfortable bed, I silently thanked Uncle Iain for his kindness. It was clear he had taken pains to ensure me a good rest in pleasant surroundings.
But in spite of my exhaustion, my mind was too full of the excitement of the journey to permit sleep. So I lay under the heavy quilts in the darkened room, as my stiff muscles gradually relaxed and my thoughts flitted lightly over the events of the day. I still found it difficult to believe that I was here, far from London, and that tomorrow I would at last see Uncle Iain’s Highland home.
Once again, and now with the vividness of thoughts on the edge of sleep, my mind turned back to that December evening that had begun so simply and had ended with such profound effects on the course of my life.
I could hear again the front-door latch click, softly, and a moment later, the familiar heavy thud of Papa’s medical bag as he set it down on the hallstand. I had gone through to the hallway where Papa was standing, brushing the snow from his silk top hat. I went to him, smiling hello; and helped him with his heavy, snow-laden frock coat.
‘Elspeth, darling, you do look lovely,’ Papa said, as I kissed his cheek. ‘Are we all ready, then?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ I replied, ‘I was just going to see how Mrs. Flanagan is getting on in the kitchen. But come and see the tree; Cathleen has lit all the candles.’
Papa patted my hand, and followed me into the drawing room where we stood together, admiring the tree.
‘How was your call?’ I asked. ‘You’ve been a long time.’
‘Mrs. Black’s confinement,’ Papa answered, adding in response to my look of inquiry. ‘She’s fine. A fine Christmas baby, too. A little boy.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ I said, with feeling. Papa always discussed his work and shared his problems with me. His many, many patients, most of them among the very poor of London’s harsh East End, were all individuals to Papa, each important and special. I rarely saw any of them, except for the occasional furtive, ragged figures at the door, asking, ‘Is this Doctor Martin’s house?’ or, on the few occasions that Papa had allowed me to accompany him on his rounds, the shabby, beaten occupants of crowded, dreary rooms.
But through Papa, I learned all their stories, their hopes, and their sufferings. Tonight I was thankful that Mrs. Black’s difficult pregnancy had had a happy conclusion. Papa and I smiled at each other again. This was one of the good moments that made up for all the rest, the evenings when Papa came in silent and weary, the look of despair when for weeks typhoid gripped his little community, all the defeats, great and small.
It was not an easy life Papa had chosen. Like his father, he might have been a wealthy man, practising his skill among the wealthy and distinguished. At first he had done so. But soon the overwhelming needs of the city’s poor became a personal calling. There was little financial reward in his work; few of his patients could afford to pay. What remained of my grandfather’s fortune gradually dwindled. But although our lives held few luxuries, Papa had insisted that my schooling be completed in the best manner he could afford.
When, at fifteen, I left Miss Pringle’s Academy, he was deeply distressed that there was no money for further years of schooling, and at that time he even spoke of abandoning his work in the tenements. However, both he and I knew he could never do that. So my education was completed in long, quiet evenings by the fireside in the library, where Papa and I discussed music and the arts, the classics, and the sciences. Papa was a fine teacher, and I was proud of him. But I was prouder still when the ragged figures came in the night to our door, with their trust and their gratitude.
Papa took out his watch and, glancing down at it, said, ‘Well, dear, our guest will soon be here. I must change my clothes. Is there anything I can help with first?’
I shook my head, and Papa went off upstairs. I returned to the drawing room, straightened my frock before the mirror, and retied the ribbon in my hair. I heard the wheels of a carriage on the cobbles outside, and then the door bell chimed and Cathleen’s light footsteps sounded on the stairs. I slipped into the hallway and called, ‘I’ll get it, thank you, Cathleen.’
The inner door, with its frosted-glass panelling, closed behind me, and I lifted the latch on the heavy-oak outer door. The snow blew in on the cold, smoky city air. The glow from the hallway, filtering through the frosted glass, just touched the man at the door, and in that uncertain light he appeared so frail and bent and huddled against the wind that for a moment I took for one of my father’s ragged patients the figure of my godfather.
‘Uncle Iain!’ I said and I fear the shock I was feeling must have sounded in my voice. But if he noticed, he didn’t let on. Instead, he took my hands and said, ‘Elspeth, dear Elspeth. How good to see you, how very good to see you.’ His voice shook slightly, and impulsively I embraced him and we kissed.
‘Come in, Uncle Iain,’ I said softly, taking his arm. As I helped him with his coat, I could see by the clearer light of the hallway that he had indeed aged greatly since I had last seen him.
Although he was my godfather, I had really seen very little of Sir Iain Grant in the past. His home was in the far north of Scotland and although, when I was a child, he and Lady Christabel had usually come south for the season, their numerous acquaintances throughout the Home Counties took much of their time. Even so, there was generally at least one visit from them each year, though often only for a day or two. Gordon and little Rowena joined me in the nursery. Christabel was always away during the days, visiting friends, attending recitals, or shopping. Indeed, I rarely saw her, and although I worshipped her girlishly, I hardly knew her.
But Uncle Iain always found time to slip up to the nur
sery in the afternoons. Sometimes he would take us out for walks; on other occasions he would just sit and read to us, or listen patiently to our games. I think now that he was really much happier in this gentle occupation than in Christabel’s busy social round. Certainly I adored him for it; Aunt Isabel’s care was always kindly, but rarely exciting, and Uncle Iain’s visits stood out in my childhood memories with the brightness of Christmases and birthdays.
I think, too, that I also had a special place in his affection, perhaps because, being a simple, open sort of a child, I was in some ways a more responsive companion than either Gordon or Rowena. As young children, they already seemed to have inherited so much of their mother’s passionate, artistic nature as to be more her children than his. At times they seemed to withdraw from our simple games with an adult dignity, and retreat to a private world of their own, where, somehow I sensed already, only Christabel would have been welcome.
But now, five years had passed since the last of those visits, and the years were clearly marked on Uncle Iain’s face, and his once sandy hair was now nearly white. Still, it was his eyes that saddened me most. They had always held such teasing merriment for me when as a child, I’d climbed up on his knees and put my face up close to his. Now all the merriment was gone, and for me it was as if my childhood friend was dead and lost somewhere within an ageing stranger.
‘Elspeth dear,’ he said now, ‘How you’ve grown.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I knew you’d be a young lady now, but still somehow I expected a little girl. Come, let me see you,’ he said, stepping back and holding me at arm’s length, under the wavering light. ‘So like your mother,’ he whispered finally, ‘so very like your mother.’
He dropped his hands to his sides. ‘It all seems such a short while ago; she was just a girl, like you …’
I could see that his mind was turning again to his own sorrow, and I quickly said, ‘Come, I think I hear Papa coming.’
Mistress of the Moor: A gripping gothic romance mystery Page 19