‘Elspeth, dear,’ he looked up in surprise, ‘how could I possibly wish otherwise? You do not think that I share Gordon’s bitterness, or Rowena’s foolish nonsense? She is a headstrong girl, I know, dear, and I fear I have not been honest enough with you in telling you what you would find here, but still, I do think Rowena will come around. She was terribly contrite this afternoon.’ He looked away. ‘Gordon … I do not know about Gordon,’ he added quietly, ‘but still he is not your responsibility … Oh, Elspeth will you stay, in spite of all of this? I need you so much.’
‘Of course I will stay,’ I replied instantly. Whatever the troubles here, I knew I could not leave Uncle Iain to face them alone. Besides, in spite of my disturbing welcome, Creagdhubh with its lonely wild beauty had already caught hold of a part of my spirit and would not easily let it go.
I stood with my godfather in the dim, firelit drawing room and said goodnight, vowing to myself that I would do all in my own power to make Creagdhubh a happy place again for him.
The upstairs corridor was deserted when I returned to my room, and my footsteps sounded loud in the silence. But as my fingers touched the brass knob of the door I heard another sound, a scuffling sound, then the scraping rumble of wood on wood, as if the sash were being lifted, and another quick scuffle. I opened the door quickly, and stepped into the dim light of the low-burning fire.
Cold, wet air hit my face. Something white fluttered at the far end of the room, and I leapt back with a sharp, startled cry until I recognized the white organza inner-curtain flapping in the gusts of wind from the wide-open window.
I stood staring blankly at the window for several moments, and then, reluctantly, I stepped farther into the room. ‘Who’s there?’ I called weakly. There was no answer. There were a candle and tapers on the writing desk and I reached for them. As my hand found the candle-holder, the smell of hot wax rose up; the wick had only just been extinguished. Trembling, I lifted the candle and, with a taper, lighted it again from the fire in the grate.
The flame guttered low in the draught from the window, but I managed to shield it with my hand until I found the oil lamp by the dressing table and touched a lighted taper to its wick.
The light came up, soft and yellow. The room was empty and appeared untouched. But someone had been here, moments before; I had heard the scuffle of feet, hands had held the candle and opened the wide window, let in the wind and the roar of Alltdhubh.
Foolishly, I searched the room, looking under the bed and into the wardrobe. There were no hiding places. The intruder had vanished as only a ghost can vanish, into the black air beyond the thick, stone walls.
The old dim terror that haunts us all, down deep enough, rose in me. I wanted to run and leave this place forever. Still, one thread of rationality remained in my mind, which was now ready enough to believe that Christabel’s ghost stood last night on the cliffs and tonight in this very room.
The shadowy figure, the smell of hot wax, even the gust of cold air, I could accept as the signs of that other region. But this visitation had hands to lift the window, feet to scuff hurriedly on the carpet, fingers to light the candle whose wax had been still warm and soft to my touch.
Grimly, still clutching the candle, I walked slowly to the window. If a living body had been in the room, there was only one way it could have left it. The candle blew out, but the oil-lamp cast sufficient of its light into this dim corner of the room for me to see well enough. The window was low, and the sill just at hip level. It was not easy to stand above that terrible drop with no protection.
I made myself do it, crouching down to lean through the opening, out into the windy night. Light shone from a lower window, out onto the narrow rock strip between the foundations of the house and the cliff edge. The same light, reflected upwards, showed me the heavy, tree-like trunk of the ancient ivy-vine whose winding tendrils encircled my window and reached upwards to the eaves. I brushed the wet glossy leaves with my hand, feeling, below, the strong, woody vine.
I felt sick inside at the thought, but I realized that one could, if one had to, climb down the twisting vine to the grudging safety of that strip of rock. And someone had. My relief at proving to myself that no ghost was haunting me was overshadowed by the uneasy realization that some person had made a stealthy entrance into my room, and that person’s reasons had been such that the risk of climbing down the frightening wall of Creagdhubh seemed less than the risk of being found in the room.
But what person would do such a thing? And what purpose could be so desperate? I looked around the room, carefully, hoping to find something missing or changed that would give some clue. Had it not been pushed slightly askew, thus destroying the neat symmetry of Catriona’s arrangements on the writing desk, I would never have noticed the change in the secretaire.
The lovely old rosewood case had held Christabel’s pens and ink, and I had left it untouched. But now I noticed that the lid was raised the slightest fraction. I stepped to the writing desk, fingering the lid of the secretaire, tracing the silver and mother of pearl inlay. Cautiously, I lifted the lid. Within were several compartments. Four had their own tooled green-leather lids, with mother-of-pearl handles, which I raised to reveal silver-lined interiors and delicate pens, pencils, and charcoals. Another open compartment contained the snugly nestled ink bottle with its cut-glass cover. I lifted the central tray of compartments out, finding a store of embossed writing-paper beneath; plain, untouched sheets. I even withdrew the little velvet book with its scrap of furry cloth, ink-stained from the wiping of pen-nibs. There was no clue there, either. The leather pocket in the lid contained the carefully folded, fading record of Uncle Iain’s and Christabel’s marriage, and the certificate of the births of Gordon and Rowena, tucked into the latter a tiny, faded bouquet of pink rosebuds.
I hurriedly closed the case, feeling ashamed of my intrusion in poor Christabel’s last few treasures.
The heavy lid would not set properly and I lifted it to try it again. Again it stopped just short of closing. I knew it had been fast originally, so I once more raised the lid to find the obstruction.
I had not noticed the small gold knob before, set vertically into the top of one side of the body of the case. I noticed, though, that there was a corresponding hollow in the wood of the lid, and the knob in itself should not be an obstruction. I looked more closely and saw that the knob was the head of a golden pin that had been now slightly raised from its resting place, I pushed down on it, and it slid into place, the lid then closing easily.
Gently I took the head of the pin between my fingers and lifted upwards. It came free smoothly, and as it did, a small drawer, perhaps two inches deep, sprang out from the seemingly unmarked side of the case, below the level of the paper compartment. My fingers shook slightly with an almost childish excitement as I slid the drawer fully out. There was just room enough in it for the small, leather-bound book it contained.
It was a diary, I knew instantly from the heavy brass lock that held the gold-embossed covers together. The key was not there, but it was not needed, either, for the fragile lock had been broken, torn loose from the smooth, green leather.
The intruder, whoever that person was, had come to my room for only one purpose; to find and read Lady Christabel’s diary. It was evident that that person knew full well where to look, for the room was in every other way undisturbed. Indeed, had haste not necessitated the dangerous escape from the window, I would likely never have known about the intrusion, or the diary, for the unsettled lid on the secretaire would never have caught my attention ordinarily.
But now I did know about the intruder, and the diary. I knew instinctively that Uncle Iain had never seen that diary. Had he known of its presence, he would not have left it so susceptible to accidental discovery. His wife’s secret thoughts were too precious surely for the eyes of some indiscreet maid. Moreover, such a book would have been a personal treasure that he himself would have wanted in his own possession.
No, I was sure the diary was Christa
bel’s secret. But someone had known, not only of its existence but of its precise location. That person had read it, and even now knew what was secret even from Christabel’s husband.
I wanted to run to Uncle Iain, to tell him of my frightening intruder, to give him the diary which was his by rights. But caution overcame me. What was written in this book was of vital interest to one person at least. With foreboding I realized that the peaceful reminiscences of a happy wife would hardly draw such attention. I knew then, as much as I hated once again prying into Christabel’s secrets, that I must know what was written on those pages, before I dare let Uncle Iain see them. I made a quiet vow to Christabel that I would never reveal a word of what I read, unless there was the greatest need, and I opened the pages of her diary.
Afterwards, I wondered how I had not realized from the start; all the pieces fell into such obvious places. I suppose it was simply my own youth and naivete, my lack of worldly knowledge that prevented me from seeing the tragedy that lay inherent in a marriage such as that of my gentle godfather and the passionate Lady Christabel.
At first when I realized the meaning of the words scrawled with such abandon in the little green-bound book, a wave of anger swept over me, for the cruelty of Christabel’s infidelity to my beloved Uncle Iain.
But as I read on, the loneliness, the isolation, the terrible feeling of a wild thing in a trap emerged from Christabel’s writing. Creagdhubh was a fortress, a prison, and she a tower-bound princess, a rare and beautiful bird, born for a warm land full of flowers. She wrote longingly of gentle England, of her school years in the South of France.
I knew that the cold Scottish winds, the desolate frozen hills, and the rides out over them on shaggy mountain-ponies were a horror to her. The old formal society of this so recently feudal land trapped her as surely as its encircling, ice-bound mountains.
It was a rough land, peopled by rough men who liked their whiskey, and would dance a brawling reel but found the new waltzes unseemly. There was music here, but a strange native music with the sound of wild ancient times rising near its surface. Even the summer was a fleeting thing, as uncertain of its place here as herself.
She could and did bring the trappings of her own life with her: the French furnishings, her London-made gowns. But she could not make Uncle Iain’s home into her own, any more than she could stop the swift, cold turning of the seasons. Her life was empty and desperate, without companionship or beauty.
Then Roderick came. At first they simply enjoyed each other’s company, sharing those interests that they alone, at Creagdhubh, held: their poetry, their music, their mutual friends in London society.
But they were kindred spirits in every way, and soon Christabel was writing of clandestine meetings. Her pleasure was mixed with guilt, and as the meetings became more frequent and her involvement deeper, the guilt increased also. The closing pages of her diary reflected hopeless despair at the trap within a trap she had created for herself. Eventually there remained only one way out for her, and that way led to the rocks of Alltdhubh.
I closed the book, pressing the smooth, green covers tightly shut against the velvet of my gown. I wished I had never read it, never seen it, and was not now so painfully aware of the knowledge it imparted. So this was the truth of my childhood idol.
But what of Roderick? What kind of man was this who had witnessed the destruction his adultery had caused, and yet had blithely turned his charms to his lover’s daughter, a girl just barely out of childhood. I bit my lower lip, thinking how this same man had so recently enchanted me. That would not happen again.
Then I realized the true weight of responsibility the diary had given me. I knew what Roderick was and what he had done, but unless I revealed to Uncle Iain this truth that I knew would destroy him, I must keep silent, helpless to prevent his repeating his terrible game. I was the only person now standing between Rowena and whatever Roderick wished of her, and I was the last person she would trust.
In the shock of my discovery I had nearly forgotten the intruder who had so recently read the same pages. Who could it be? Roderick, of course, might likely know of his mistress’s diary, and perhaps he had been unable until now to reach the incriminating evidence it contained, as the room had been locked since Christabel’s death. But if it were he, why did he not take the book with him and destroy it, rather than leave it where it still might be found? I thought of the ivy-hung wall beneath my window. Perhaps when he realized that he would need to make that escape he decided to leave the book, rather than chance the climb while holding it. Still, why not hurl it free, into the black burn? What rare chance would cause it to be found? It made no sense. Yet, who else would know of the book, and who else would want to read it?
The thought shook me. I knew Christabel’s secret was safe from Uncle Iain with me. But I had no such confidence regarding this night visitor.
Carefully and gently I took Christabel’s diary and replaced it in the satin-lined compartment. I slid the drawer back, so the smooth lines of the rosewood met and matched. Then I slid the pin into place, pressing the gold head down firmly, and as I did the words of a childhood song came suddenly, uncalled for, to my mind:
If I had known, afore I courted,
That true love was sae hard to win,
I’d have locked my heart in a box of silver
And fastened it up with a golden pin.
Chapter Seven
‘Och, that child!’ Mrs. Cameron’s voice was unusually sharp. She was standing in the corridor that led to the kitchen as I walked from the dining room after breakfast.
She looked up, startled, and said, ‘And it is yourself there, and me going on like this,’ she apologized. ‘Forgive me Miss Elspeth. I had quite forgotten myself.’
‘It is quite all right,’ I laughed. ‘Whatever is wrong?’
I saw she was holding a garment across her arm and inspecting a portion of it under the clear, winter light from the corridor window. I stepped nearer and recognized the heavy, blue silk of the evening dress Rowena had been wearing the night before.
‘Will you just look at this.’ Mrs. Cameron was quite overcome with indignation again. I leaned over and saw that where her rough hands held the garment, the hem was stained with muddy water, and at one point the material had been ripped and shredded as if it had been caught on something jagged and impatiently yanked free.
‘It might well have been a hank of homespun tweed, for all she cares,’ Mrs. Cameron continued, shaking the garment indignantly. ‘You’ll no be hearing me complaining when it is her riding habit ripped, or her walking skirt all muddied as if she had been lifting the ’taties in the field. But now she must go tramping through the mud in her best gowns, and there’s many a well-brought-up lass would give her eye-teeth for something half so fine.’ Her pink cheeks had gone quite red with anger, and I daresay I was in some agreement with her. Being born to wealth was no excuse for foolish waste.
‘But whatever was she doing out last night in her gown?’ I asked, and as I spoke the words, the thought had already struck me.
‘Och, she says she was out for Dhileas. He had not yet come in, and the night was cold.’ Her face smoothed momentarily. ‘Aye, to give the lass her due, she does have a kind heart, and she worries herself over the poor old dog. But in all, she would not bother herself enough to change her gown, though she saw to it that she had stout shoes on her feet.’
I left Mrs. Cameron bustling off to find some manner of cleaning and repairing Rowena’s dress. So Rowena had a reason, anyhow, for being out last night. And even the fact that she chose the same night as my visitor was not so very coincidental. Apparently she often chased out after old Dhileas, to Mrs. Cameron’s dismay.
Actually, but for the moment’s thought, I had not really considered it possible that it had been Rowena in my room. Firstly, I could not believe that she, even as headstrong as she was, would have dared to climb down the ivy-vine encumbered by her trailing skirts and petticoats. A dangerous enough task f
or a strong man in trousers.
Also, it was not like Rowena. Even had she entered my room and for some reason had known of and sought out her mother’s diary, still she would not turn then and run. She was too defiant for that. Rowena would have stood her ground and turned her haughty temper to advantage.
When I saw the girl in the school room, sitting demurely in her navy-blue worsted with its high, white collar and white cuffs, I felt a wave of guilt for having suspected her, but then I reminded myself of the bog of Cnoc nam Feidh and assured myself that I did have, after all, some reason not to trust her.
Still, she was a very different girl this morning. She sat quietly, her neat, small feet tucked under her desk, her dark head bowed over her books. The picture of the well-mannered schoolgirl was complete, except for the occasional flicker of defiance in her brown eyes. But she did her work, defiant or not, and when I released her after her final page of resented mathematics, I felt quite pleased with myself.
Gordon did not appear at lunch, nor had he at breakfast, and I confess to having been just as pleased he did not. Still, I would eventually have to see him again and to speak with him, for he was part of Creagdhubh, and I had best learn to accept him as he was.
Roderick too was part of the household, and I fear that when I next set eyes on him, at luncheon, I had to control myself with great effort, so that the fear and revulsion that my new knowledge of him had bred did not show. Still, I found my thoughts dominated by my new vision of him, and his light bantering with myself and Rowena had taken on a new, distressing meaning.
Duncan, I learned, did not always take his meals, as was the right of his position, with the household. The nature and hours of his work were such, Uncle Iain explained, that he found it more convenient to be free of the tie of a set time to dine. I wondered, though, if his evident distaste for Roderick was not an equal reason for his absence. Their mutual behaviour at dinner had indicated that it well might be.
Christabel's Room: A spellbinding Victorian gothic romance Page 7