Christabel's Room: A spellbinding Victorian gothic romance

by Abigail Clements

  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.’

  Papa came hurrying down the stairs, having heard our voices in the hallway. As the old friends greeted each other with great warmth I led the way into the drawing room, where Cathleen had set out sherry and glasses on a silver tray.

  Over dinner, I sat mostly silent, while Papa and Uncle Iain reminisced over the long years of their friendship and shared news of their many mutual acquaintances. They had met in Edinburgh at the university, where the young medical student and the Highland laird’s son became close companions. Although after their university years their lives took divergent courses, and they were often separated by great distances, they never lost contact. They attended each other’s weddings, took pride in the arrival of each other’s children, tried to meet as often as possible. Now, I thought sadly, there was one more point of common ground between them in that they were both early widowers.

  Uncle Iain seemed to feel a need to talk of Christabel, and therefore Papa gently encouraged him to do so. Thus we learned the facts of the accident, of Christabel’s terrible, fatal fall from the awesome Black Cliff, upon which their home, Creagdhubh House, was built and from which it took its Gaelic name.

  ‘I still can’t understand,’ Uncle Iain whispered, his white head shaking back and forth, ‘I still cannot understand what she was doing there. You see,’ he looked up, bewildered, ‘she hated the cliff. She had such a fear of heights. Why, Christabel even hated the path down to the loch, because it was so high, so steep. She never went near the Black Cliff. Not … not until that day, anyhow.’ He looked down at his untouched plate. ‘I can only think,’ he said slowly, ‘it was the primroses … It was spring, you see, early spring. She loved flowers, anything beautiful. There weren’t many flowers at Creagdhubh; it’s high, rugged country. And in the winter, little lives. But those first spring flowers, something bright and gay for the house … they grow down the cliff edge. You could reach them from above, if you were careful, but the rocks are wet and slippery in the spring …’ He stopped helplessly, and Papa gently rested his hand on his friend’s arm.

  I thought of the pale yellow flowers clinging to the wet rocks, and Christabel who loved beautiful things, and I wanted to cry.

  Hoping to take his mind from the tragedy, Papa urged Uncle Iain to tell us of the children.

  He did so, brightening noticeably as he described Gordon’s successes at school and Rowena’s blossoming beauty. But when Papa asked about Gordon’s plans for university, Uncle Iain seemed to withdraw again and then, after a long hesitation, he said, ‘Yes, he’ll be going up to Edinburgh, of course. But next year, I think. I want him to have this year away, first. He’s studied hard. He needs the rest.’ The explanation seemed logical enough, yet there was some slight reserve in his manner, that seemed in itself to imply that this was not the full story.

  Papa then asked about Rowena’s schooling. Again, there was a hesitation, then Uncle Iain said slowly, ‘Actually, Henry, that was something I wished to discuss with you.’ And then he turned quickly to face me, ‘And with you, also, Elspeth.’

  We both looked up, inquiringly, and Uncle Iain continued, ‘Rowena’s not been happy at her school in Edinburgh. I think she is still too disturbed, too lonely to be so far from home. She returned from the autumn term very distressed, and I don’t wish to send her back there.’

  ‘Perhaps a governess?’ Papa suggested helpfully.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Uncle Iain replied. ‘Naturally this is what I had in mind. But you see, Rowena is a strange girl in some ways; I’m afraid she’s rather difficult at times,’ he admitted. ‘She was always high-strung, and now, since her mother’s death she has been really quite troublesome. Christabel could always win her around, you see, they were so alike. But now everything is so different, and sometimes I don’t know quite how to approach her.’ He stopped then, and looked straight at me across the table. ‘This is why, Elspeth, I’ve thought now of you. You knew Christabel, and you and Rowena and Gordon, too, have known each other so long … You see, Elspeth, I would like you to come to Creagdhubh to give Rowena her schooling. Provided of course,’ he added hastily, ‘your father has no objection.’

  I sat, momentarily silent, with this whole new vista opening up before me. Before I could speak, Papa was saying, ‘Of course I’d have no objections. What a wonderful idea, Iain, I’m sure Elspeth would be a great help to Rowena now, and indeed, the experience would be wonderful for Elspeth too. It’s time she had a chance to travel some and to be on her own, away from London.’

  His enthusiasm was genuine; as always he was thinking purely of my welfare and not of his own. ‘But come, Elspeth,’ he added quickly, ‘let’s hear what you have to say.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to come, Uncle Iain,’ I answered hurriedly, thinking of all the excitement and adventure of going to a new place so far away, and living on my own as an adult for the first time. ‘But Papa,’ I stopped, turning to him, ‘what of you? How will you get on here, alone?’

  Papa laughed aloud. ‘I’m really quite capable, my dear, I’m not quite in my dotage yet, you know.’

  ‘But the house, your appointments, everything …’ I continued.

  ‘Now, don’t you worry. Mrs. Flanagan can manage with most of it, I’m sure. Or perhaps I’ll take on more help. It’s a minor difficulty. No, you must go, Elspeth, It’s a wonderful opportunity for you. I’d been regretting so much that I couldn’t afford to send you to the Continent next year. This will be good for you, a chance to see some of the rest of the world. Besides, Rowena will be needing companionship as well as education, and I know how well you can provide that. You must go, Elspeth, you must regard it as your duty.’

  ‘No, surely not,’ Uncle Iain interrupted, ‘Only if she wishes to come.’

  ‘But I do wish to come,’ I said, smiling happily. ‘It will be so exciting. I can hardly wait to see Gordon and Rowena and to see Creagdhubh.’

  Uncle Iain took my hand, as he had done in the hallway. ‘I’m so glad, Elspeth,’ he said, ‘Now I’m sure everything will be all right again.’

  Papa smiled at us from across the table. I realized without his having to say it that it was as much for Uncle Iain’s sake as for Rowena’s that he wished me to go.

  And so it was decided with those few words, that I should leave our quiet, city home and, in the dark, cold days of the new year, travel north to the Highlands, to Creagdhubh House, to be governess to Lady Christabel’s daughter.

  Chapter Two

  Suddenly, I awoke and the room wa
s bright with daylight. My reminiscences had dissolved in sleep without my noticing, and I had slept long and soundly. I arose and, drawing the curtain aside, looked out on a clear, frosty morning.

  After bathing and breakfasting, I was ready once more to continue my journey. By the time the hall porter had summoned a hansom cab and loaded my luggage, the late-risen northern sun was gathering warmth and melting the frost.

  The cab clattered through the cobbled streets of old Inverness to the harbour at Muirton, where I was to board the loch steamer which carried goods, passengers, and the mail down the Caledonian Canal to the villages surrounding Loch Ness. Uncle Iain had instructed me to disembark at the south shore village of Foyers, where I would be met by the carriage from Creagdhubh.

  Soon the prow of the steamer was cutting smoothly through the dark waters of the canal. The day was bright and windless, and the sunlight flooding the winter landscape held a warmth remarkable for January. I stayed on deck, enjoying the weather and the flight of the circling gulls. The heavily wooded shores of the narrow canal were cut only occasionally by small gaps, revealing modest, stone cottages and a few winter fields mounting the low hillsides. But when we passed Bona Narrows, the great width of Loch Ness opened out before us, the hills sweeping up to lofty, rocky heights on either side with an amazing symmetry. So perfect was that symmetry, and so even the parallel shores of the long loch, that the receding shorelines fading to shadowy blue shapes in the distance seemed almost false, as if painted and hung there as a backdrop to some imminent theatrical play. Indeed, the steamer slipped graciously out into the loch as if truly aware of the waiting stage.

  Around us the shadowy hills looked down, and the loch, whose still, black waters seemed to drag even the sunlight down into their unmeasured depths, rippled softly as we passed. Suddenly an inexplicable chill passed through me, as if the icy waters had somehow overpowered even the warmth of the bright sun. It was a feeling akin to that I had experienced on the train looking out at the frozen, wasted landscape. But this was somehow stronger, more determined, as if an actual malevolent being had reached momentarily from the dark waters, and I had felt the brief cold touch of it.

  I shuddered and turned my gaze up from the loch to the high, steep hills, but there was little comfort in those grey rock-faces, amid wind-warped Caledonian pines and glittering sheets of ice. I pulled the fur collar of my tweed coat higher around my throat and was glad when the steamship turned her prow towards the friendly white cottages of the village of Dores.

  After an exchange of passengers and goods at the pier at Dores, the loch steamer cut across the water once more, to the Abriachan Pier, where more loading and off-loading took place. As we continued our journey, a brisk wind roughened the surface of the water into white caps and, although the boat began to pitch and roll, I was just as pleased to see the end of the eerie calm. The loch now reflected the clear sky, becoming a bright, deep blue, free of the haunting shadows and somehow friendlier.

  We stopped again at Temple Pier in Urquhart Bay and then sailed past the high rock walls of the ruined Urquhart Castle, out into the open water and across to Foyers, my destination.

  Although it was still only mid-afternoon, the sun had already completed its low round and slipped behind the western hills whose black shadows had stretched across the loch. Still, before us, on the south-eastern shore, the hillsides glowed with rich, gold light, and at the utmost barren tops, the mantle of snow turned softly pink. Up there among those hills was the place that was to be my home for many months to come. I stood watching the approaching shoreline and wondering which of the high, unlit pastures were the pastures of Creagdhubh.

  It seemed, then, looking up from the dark loch below, to be a warm and friendly place to be going. But long before the steamer nudged gently into the pier, the black loch shadow had mounted the hillside like a shroud, the bar of darkness dimming all colours to a sullen grey.

  The wind was harsh and icy cold on the pier; all the warmth of the day had gone with the sun. I stood by my little heap of cases, while the other passengers hustled busily off to their own destinations. I felt lost and lonely and dimly frightened as the highland dusk descended on the shore. I had been told I would be met but I saw no one I knew. Then the figure of a man, small and wiry in build, wearing a heavy, black coat over working trousers and a cloth cap hesitated at the end of the pier, seemed to stare in my direction, and then walked purposefully towards me. Uneasily, I studied his grim, weathered face as he approached.

  Then suddenly he smiled and said, ‘Miss Martin, will it be?’ and I’m sure he must have heard my sigh of relief, so pleased was I then to find someone was expecting me there after all, and also that, transformed by the smile, my rescuer’s face was not at all intimidating.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, hastily. ‘Are you from Creagdhubh?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ he replied, ‘I am Angus Fraser. I’ve come with the brougham to take you up to the house. Will these by your things, then?’ he added, reaching for my cases.

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you, Mr. Fraser,’ I said as he gathered up the larger things and I collected my hat box and hand-case. He led the way down the pier to the waiting brougham, then helped me up to the seat and after tying my luggage to the rack, climbed up beside me.

  ‘A cold day for travelling, Miss Martin, it is that,’ he said solemnly, gathering up the reins.

  ‘It is indeed,’ I agreed heartily, for I was half-frozen by now.

  Angus Fraser flicked the reins over the horse’s back and it trotted briskly off, glad to be going home. Quickly we passed by the grey stone cottages of the shore-side village, and then out onto a track winding upwards into the hills. Soon we were high above the village, and looking down I caught glimpses of the sweeping view over the dim loch and the distant northern shore. The road was narrow and rough where the rutted surface had frozen solid. At points it edged close to sharp cliffs, and I glanced uneasily at my companion. He made no response, and I realized that the road must have seemed as safe to him as my home London streets to me. The horse, too, seemed calm and sure of itself, so I relaxed, and tried to enjoy the view.

  Snow began to fall, first gently, then with a rush, gusted by sharp winds. Angus Fraser tightened his grip on the reins and peered out over the horse’s ears into the disappearing landscape.

  Suddenly I saw a figure ahead, that of a woman hunched against the storm, her heavy skirts flapping at her ankles. As we drew closer to her, I saw that the snow was already settling on her coat.

  ‘Mr. Fraser,’ I said, ‘Could you offer her a ride? She must be frozen.’

  He was studying the woman’s back and said, by way of answer, ‘That will be Mrs. MacDonald.’ His tone was strange, as if the name should mean something to me, and indeed, should explain why he was making no effort to slow the brougham.

  ‘Oh, please, Mr. Fraser,’ I said, as we drew abreast of her, ‘the weather is terrible, and it’s almost dark.’

  He looked oddly at me, then, out of what seemed more a deference to me rather than compassion for the woman, he reined in the horse.

  ‘Mrs. MacDonald, would you be wanting to ride?’

  The woman looked up. The noise of the storm must have drowned the approaching clatter of hooves, on the stony ground, for she was startled by our sudden appearance.

  She was an old woman. A lined, pinched face peered out from the tattered cloak drawn over her grey hair. Her eyes were dark, bright points, strangely alive in the wrinkled ancient face. They glittered up from under the tightly clutched cloak.

  ‘Is that you, then, Angus Fraser, offering me to ride in the laird’s own brougham?’ she asked, with an odd, low, teasing laugh.

  Angus Fraser stiffened on the seat beside me. ‘Are you wanting to ride, then, or are you not?’ he said coldly.

  ‘Aye, then, I will ride,’ she said, and I was a little shocked at the rudeness of her tone, the lack of a single word of gratitude.

  Angus Fraser made no move to help her up, though I assumed h
e wished to keep the horse in hand, as it was stamping with impatience on -the narrow track. So I extended my hand to her as she came to my side of the brougham and hauled herself, grunting, up to the seat. She seemed to notice me then for the first time, looking me over carefully with her sharp eyes. Sitting close to me, she smelled strongly of onions and sour milk.

  ‘And who then, Angus,’ she said finally, talking past me as she might talk over the head of a young child, ‘might this fine young lady be?’

  ‘Miss Martin will be staying at the big house,’ said Angus Fraser, without turning his head.

  ‘Will she, indeed?’ said the old woman, eyeing me with more interest. ‘And what will she be doing there, then?’

  ‘That is not your affair, Mrs. MacDonald,’ Angus Fraser replied, so sharply that I felt obliged to explain quickly, ‘I am to be governess to Miss Grant.’

  ‘A governess, is it now?’ she laughed, croaking in her throat. ‘A governess for Miss Rowena? Aye, lass, I would not have your job, I would not. If you ask me, it is not a governess that is needed there …’

  ‘No one has asked you, Mrs. MacDonald,’ Angus Fraser cut in gruffly.

  ‘Och, no, Angus,’ she replied, mildly, ‘no one has asked me. Indeed not.’ She rocked back and forth gently on the seat, her head drawn into her cloak like a tortoise. ‘But, then, who would be needing to ask what all of the village is already knowing? It is in the blood, is it not? The daughter will be true to the mother. There is no need to be asking an old woman of that …’

  ‘Hush, woman!’ Angus Fraser growled, ‘You’ll no be speaking thus of the dead in my hearing. Or you’ll be out and walking.’