Christabel's Room: A spellbinding Victorian gothic romance

by Abigail Clements

  When, after the cheese, Rowena rose and invited me to join her in the drawing room for coffee, I almost leapt from my chair to follow her slim figure through the door, so eager was I to be away from that forbidding dining hall.

  By contrast, the withdrawing room, glowing with the light of candles and lamps, was cheery and homelike. The serving maid had already set out the delicate little demitasses and a dish piled high with a tempting array of petits fours. As I seated myself on the green brocaded-settle before the fire, the girl entered again with the coffee service.

  ‘Thank you, Morag, that will be all now,’ Rowena said softly as the girl arranged the service beside the cups.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ she replied, bobbing her lace-capped head. Then, with a swish of her neat black skirt she was gone, and Rowena and I were alone.

  Rowena poured coffee. I noticed and admired the unusual coffee service, with its design of thistles and intertwining Celtic patterning.

  ‘How lovely,’ I said, indulging my weakness for beautiful things.

  ‘Yes,’ Rowena replied, coolly, as one born to wealth. ‘They are Scottish silver. Mother designed them herself and had them made.’

  The delicate china tinkled as Rowena stirred in brown crystals of sugar. She ladled thick, fresh cream carefully over the cups so it floated on top, and we drank the hot coffee through the silky coolness.

  I stretched my satin slippers toward the fire, arranging the flounce of my skirts over my ankles.

  ‘Elspeth,’ Rowena said softly, a slight question in her voice.

  ‘Yes?’ I turned towards her.

  ‘That’s a very lovely dress; is it the new style?’ she sounded suddenly quite girlishly interested.

  ‘Why, yes,’ I replied, ‘it is actually. I had it made just before I left London.’ It was true; though I was rarely up to the minute in fashion, on this occasion Papa had insisted I have at least one new gown for the start of my venture out into the world.

  ‘Oh, London,’ Rowena said wistfully. ‘Remember when we used to come down every year?’ I nodded. ‘It’s so beautiful and exciting,’ she went on.

  ‘Not all of it,’ I said, suddenly reminded of home and Papa’s hopeless struggle in the tenements.

  Rowena did not notice. ‘I haven’t been down for so long,’ she went on. ‘And the fashions … Mama used to have her gowns made in London … every year.’ She stopped and looked away. ‘The dressmakers here are so provincial; they never know what is really new,’ she added peevishly.

  ‘Well I did bring one or two fashions books with me,’ I offered.

  ‘Oh did you, oh how lovely,’ she giggled. ‘May I see them, Elspeth, please, may I?’

  I had to laugh, partly with relief, because in her childish glee she was infinitely less formidable than she had been earlier.

  ‘Of course, Rowena,’ I answered. ‘As soon as I’ve unpacked.’

  ‘Oh thank you,’ she said happily, and then on impulse, ‘I am glad you’ve come, Elspeth. It will be so much fun. It can be terribly lonely here, you know,’ she said quite pathetically.

  ‘But surely Gordon is good company,’ I said, surprised. ‘You were always so close. And you were riding together this evening, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said flatly. ‘We were close, before. But Gordon’s not the same anymore. Since Mother died he’s changed. Everything has changed. Oh, Elspeth,’ she said suddenly, biting her lip, ‘I miss her so much.’

  I turned to comfort her, but at that moment the door opened.

  ‘Ladies, may we join you?’ asked Uncle Iain, stepping smiling through the door.

  ‘Of course, Papa.’ Rowena, her masque of assurance back, rose to pour the gentlemen’s coffee.

  Gordon had followed his father into the drawing room and stood now beside the door, his face without expression. And another man then stepped into the room, bending his dark head beneath the low doorway. He straightened and stood still, his handsome face turned towards me and his black eyes surveying me with flattering interest.

  ‘Elspeth,’ Uncle Iain was speaking, ‘come and meet our cousin Roderick, Roderick Grant-Davies.’ The younger man came forward. He was elegantly dressed, though in the London fashion unlike his kilted companions, and the finely cut coat, flowered waistcoat, and frilled shirt suited him well. His fingers lightly touched my own as he bowed to kiss my hand.

  ‘Roderick,’ Sir Iain continued, ‘this is my god-daughter, Elspeth Martin.’

  ‘Why, almost family,’ said Roderick. He raised his eyes momentarily, and as he released my hand and straightened, he smiled, a slightly crooked and very attractive smile.

  ‘A cousin,’ I said, curious, because this was a branch of the family with which I was not familiar.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roderick. ‘The Grant-Davies are the result of a strain of the wild Welsh introduced into these staid Scottish Grants under circumstance both extraordinaire and suspicious,’ he laughed softly. ‘So, cousin I am, though no one is ever quite sure whose cousin actually,’ he laughed down at me again.

  ‘Mine,’ said Rowena slowly, in her cool, low voice. She had been watching us, silent. Now she stepped nearer. ‘But kissing cousins, I assure you, Elspeth,’ she added, speaking to me, but with her eyes and her slow smile for Roderick.

  He turned to her with mocking flourish, took her hand, kissed it, held it too long, and released it saying, ‘My dear Rowena, I had quite neglected you.’ Their eyes held even after their hands had parted. ‘I’m afraid,’ he continued, ‘that I was rather distracted by the charms of your new …’ he paused teasingly, ‘governess.’

  Rowena’s eyes flashed from Roderick to myself with anger, and I tried to be the diplomat, saying, ‘I’m sure “tutor” would be a more appropriate title.’

  But Rowena was not to be pacified. ‘I have no need of a governess, Elspeth, and I rather doubt I have need of your instruction in any matter whatsoever.’

  ‘Rowena, please,’ Uncle Iain’s soft voice cut in, hurt and embarrassed.

  ‘I meant what I said, Papa,’ she replied, facing him briefly, but then turning away, retreating to the coffee service. There was an uneasy pause, so as I returned to my seat by the fire I said, ‘Uncle Iain had not told me you were in residence here, also, Mr. Grant-Davies.’

  ‘Oh you must call me Roderick, please, for then I can call you Elspeth and pretend you are a cousin also.’

  I laughed in response and acquiesced.

  ‘No, I fear Iain keeps me a dark secret,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps he was afraid I would frighten you away. And anyhow, I am not really in residence. I am rather a persistent house guest, inclined to extend my visits beyond all reason, and Iain is far too kind to tell me to go home.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Uncle Iain, quickly, ‘You are always more than welcome.’

  ‘You are too generous, Iain,’ Roderick replied, explaining to me, ‘Iain has given me the free use of the gate house, and I confess to having made Creagdhubh my haven. London society is most invigorating but I fear I need the peace of the Highlands for my work.’

  I looked up, questioning, but Rowena answered before Roderick, ‘Roderick is a poet,’ she said proudly, possessively.

  Yes I thought, that fitted. I imagined him in London in the gay salons where the conversation was witty, the women beautiful and often brilliant as well. Yes, he would belong there. It was another world, I reminded myself with a slight tinge of regret, not my world.

  However, throughout the evening Roderick Grant-Davies gave no hint that I was, to him, in any way less than a lady of that society. He was gay and flattering, his conversation full of humour, often a little daring. And if he somewhat dominated our talk, he provided us with such amusement and interest that we were glad to be dominated.

  Only Gordon remained apart, not joining in our conversation, not even looking at us. His face, not unlike Roderick’s in feature but so different in expression, was turned always slightly away, his eyes roaming the delicate furnishings of the room or staring bl
ankly at the fire. He did not appear to notice the occasional sad glances from his father who tried vainly to draw him into the company. Eventually he got up and, without speaking, left the room.

  I watched as Uncle Iain’s eyes followed him sadly out the door. He saw me watching and turned his face away, but not before I could see his look of hopelessness and resignation. Neither Roderick nor Rowena reacted in the slightest to Gordon’s departure. It was evident that his brooding moodiness and his silences were an accepted fact at Creagdhubh.

  Shortly afterwards, Roderick rose to leave. Bowing once more over my hand, he said, ‘Good night, my newfound cousin,’ his eyes flashed teasingly again to Rowena, and I was sorry that his jests must take this form, for I sensed a wedge being driven between myself and the girl, destroying the fragile rapport we had established earlier.

  ‘Inspired by such beauty, I will no doubt sit lost and lonely all night, burning the midnight oil and composing verses in your praise,’ he said to me.

  I laughed aloud, responding to the jest that his flattery undoubtedly was, though Rowena, not disguising her annoyance, found nothing funny in his words.

  I too was ready to retire after my long day of journeying. I said goodnight to both Uncle Iain and Rowena and made my way upstairs. As I reached the first landing I heard the sharp tap of Rowena’s slippers on the polished oak floor below. She had slipped quietly from the drawing room, closing that door behind her, and stood now looking up at me with cold rage.

  ‘Yes, Rowena, what is it?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘You know full well what it is,’ she said, her voice gone hard and sharp, and when I made no answer she went on, ‘I wouldn’t be flattering myself thinking I had made a conquest if I were you. He is simply like that with all women, you understand. It means nothing.’

  I paused, taking a deep breath and reminding myself that this outspoken young woman was still only fifteen years old and must be judged as such. I replied, ‘In that case, you have no need to be angry. I am sure that the gentleman’s kind words are merely good-natured flattery, and in any event I have come here to work, not to make conquests.’

  ‘In that case you could have left your London gowns and your simpering flirtations at home. Roderick may kiss your hand and recite verses to you, but he is going to marry me. And you won’t change that.’

  ‘You are far too young to be talking about marriage,’ I said, and then a bit sharply, having I fear lost my temper, ‘and besides, it is usually the gentleman’s choice to propose.’

  ‘Hush your mouth,’ she hissed, struggling hard to keep her voice low so that her father would not hear. ‘Don’t you patronize me, Elspeth Martin. You are only here as my tutor. You are little more than a servant in this house. Keep your place.’ She whirled and ran down the corridor, leaving me alone on the wide oak stair.

  I climbed the stairs tiredly and found my way down the long corridor to my room. Once inside I flopped down on the chair by the dressing table and began to unpin my hair. In the gilt-edged mirror I could see reflected the lovely furnishings of the room. Suddenly I wished very hard that I could close my eyes and reopen them to find my own simple bedroom at home reflected there instead and my easy uncomplicated home-life waiting for me.

  Creagdhubh was beautiful but it was also very challenging. And at least as far as my young pupil was concerned, I had so far failed miserably to meet the challenge.

  I shook my head wearily as I removed the last pins and let my heavy hair fall down my back. I tried with little success to convince myself that it would all look better in the morning. Then, in my nightgown and heavy-velvet dressing gown, I stood by the fireplace and blew out the candle, replacing the holder on the mantle. The fire had burned low, and save for a dim, red glow the room was dark. I turned and saw then that the tall window was outlined in thin bars of white light. The weather had changed, and the moon was shining so brightly that light had found its way around the heavy draperies and into the room.

  I went to the window and drew the draperies aside, looking out on the distant, snowy hills, lit eerily by the moon so that they appeared to glow from within against the black sky. I looked downward, taking in Roderick’s gate house with its dim light. I smiled to myself, thinking of his midnight oil. I rather imagined him to be enjoying a good book rather than scrawling rhymes in my honour with trembling hands. Almost unwillingly I let my gaze continue downward, past the stone hump of the bridge and down into the frightening chasm below.

  The form took shape before my eyes, and all the time I was trying to shut my mind to it, to refuse to see what I was indeed seeing. But the moonlight was unrelenting, outlining the figure on the cliff edge with cold precision. I shook my head. No. But it was there, the snow was white all around, the woman’s shape black against it, quavering on the cliff edge, drifting skirts brushing against the frozen ground.

  Mrs. Cameron’s Highland accented voice kept repeating in my mind, ‘That is where she fell. That is where she fell.’

  ‘But I don’t believe in ghosts,’ I said stupidly, aloud. Then I yanked the curtain back across the window, shutting away the moonlight, and flung myself across the wide featherbed, crying bitterly.

  Chapter Five

  The shadow beside my bed materialized gradually. The figure was a woman’s, standing before the curtained window, looking down at me.

  I sat bolt upright and cried out.

  ‘Why, my poor dear, it’s only me,’ Mrs. Cameron’s voice sounded her amazement at my reaction.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, confused, coming fully awake. ‘I … I’m sorry, I must have been dreaming.’

  The night had slipped away. It was morning, the light behind the curtained window was sunlight, and the silhouetted form only the very solid peasant figure of Uncle Iain’s gentle housekeeper. She leaned forward.

  ‘Are you not well, Miss Elspeth?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I am,’ I said hastily, trying to shake away the uneasy memory of last night. ‘Could you pull the curtain, please?’ I asked. Somehow the shadowy effect of the half-screened light was linked in my mind with last night’s frightening vision.

  ‘Certainly, dear,’ she said, drawing the green curtains aside with a smooth swish. Warm sunlight flooded in across the foot of my bed, lighting the rumpled green satin like spring grass and driving all ghostly thoughts away into the irrational dark corners of my mind.

  ‘What a lovely day,’ I said happily.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Mrs. Cameron approving of both the weather and my better frame of mind. ‘That will be the January thaw with us now, and if we are fortunate we will have a fortnight perhaps of the sun before we see winter again.’

  ‘How nice,’ I said, rising from the bed and going to stand before the window. The inch or two of snow that had fallen in the evening was melting quickly. Water dripped and splashed from the eaves above my room and below, the roar of the burn had increased in volume with the addition of the thawing snow. The cliff edge was bare and innocent, and all but a tiny part of me was willing to believe that I had seen nothing but the tired creation of my own mind.

  There was a light rap on the door and a maid stepped into the room. Mrs. Cameron turned and said to me, ‘This is Catriona, Miss Elspeth, I have instructed her to draw your bath and see to your toilette.’

  ‘Hello Catriona,’ I said. She curtsied quickly, her head bowed shyly. Mrs. Cameron smiled gently at the girl and left the room.

  Catriona was slim and dark, her straight hair drawn simply back from a thin, quiet face. Her brown eyes were almost always cast downward. She went about her work, her plain black dress swishing, her soft steps barely audible. As she saw to my bath and brushed my hair, she sang softly in her native Gaelic, light, sweet, lonely-sounding songs. When she spoke to me, it was evident from her careful English that she had learned that language only at school.

  Once when I looked up quickly and caught her eye in the mirror she smiled, her smile as bright and as momentary as patches of sunlit s
now.

  When she had finished my hair and helped me into my tweed skirt and simple blouse and jacket, I thanked the girl. She responded with another quick smile, and I made my way to the dining room for breakfast.

  Uncle Iain sat alone, at the side of the vast fireplace. There was another chair in the inglenook, facing his own, and as I entered he rose to his feet and beckoned me toward that chair.

  ‘Good morning, Elspeth,’ he smiled, ‘I trust you slept well.’

  ‘Very well,’ I replied, quickly. It was almost true and I was certainly not going to tell poor Uncle Iain that my night was troubled by the vision of his dead wife’s ghost.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Breakfast is on the sideboard.’ He indicated a series of covered silver and china dishes, spread along the polished board. ‘I’ll ring for fresh coffee,’ he added, jangling the bell pull at the side of the fire.

  There was a small table in the inglenook and when I had helped myself to boiled eggs and fresh warm scones, I brought my plate to this small table. Morag, who had arrived with the coffee, hurried to assist me with silverware and cruets.

  I glanced towards the large dining table and noticed the debris of earlier breakfasts.

  ‘The children and Roderick have been in to breakfast already,’ Uncle Iain explained. ‘They like an early-morning ride on occasion. But,’ he added, an edge coming into his voice, ‘Rowena has promised to be back by ten to commence her lessons.’

  ‘That will be fine,’ I said, enjoying my breakfast and the peace of the room where winter morning-sun conflicted with the warm firelight. Uncle Iain stretched his stocking feet towards the flames, his heavy shoes sat ready by the fire. At his feet on the small woven-rug a dog lay curled, sleeping contentedly. It was a collie dog, white with a speckling and spotting of black, and obviously an old dog, its muzzle grey and its lean bones showing fragilely. Its paws jerked as it dreamed by the fire and presently it woke, stretched, and sat up sleepily, looking quizzically at me.