I thought too that the original builders of the structure must have been very small people, if grown men had actually entered it. No grown man today would manage it.
At one point the roof sagged so low that I could barely creep beneath it, but when I did so the dim light of the central chamber could be seen at the mouth of the tunnel. I crawled eagerly to it, sitting up with some relief in the freer space of that inner room.
The opening in the roof of the cairn was small, perhaps no more than two feet across. It let in enough grey light to allow me to see quite clearly around myself, though the low edges of the room were shadowy.
The walls around me were built of a simple layering of stone ‒ dry stone, no mortar had been used ‒ but the choice and positioning of the stones was so careful that they lay as neatly and firmly as bricks. The chamber was perfectly circular and arched above, so that the interior was like an upturned stone bowl with a small notch out at the top.
The floor was smooth and hard as the floor of the entrance tunnel. Nothing grew in the cold shadow, except a faint edging of green moss on the damp rock-surface. But at one point the earth was blackened, and there was a slight scattering of ash and charcoaled twigs, enough to show that a fire had burned here not long ago.
Pleased with my discovery that someone, I assumed Rowena, had spent enough time here to warrant building a fire, I set about searching for some reason why she had done so.
At first it seemed impossible that I would find anything. The floor of the little room was uncompromisingly bare. The flat, smooth faces of the ancient stones in the circular wall appeared no more promising.
The room was tall enough for me to stand, and standing, I followed the outlines of the upper stones meticulously. There was just nothing there.
I got down once more on my knees then and studied the lower circle of larger stones with the same care. A smooth grey-brown slab caught my eye, partly because the colour was distinctly different from the others, partly because it lacked their rim of moss. I touched it gently with my hand and it moved, sliding sideways. With both hands I lifted it away. It was no boulder, but a thin slab of native shale, laid lightly there to cover the niche in the wall behind.
It was quite a large space behind the piece of shale, more than a foot across, and it went back deep into the wall. Perhaps there had once been another big boulder there, like those on both sides, or perhaps the space itself was part of the old structure, with a purpose which died with its builders.
In any event, a use had been found for it. Within, neatly nestling in its stony surrounds, was a small Indian chest, not dissimilar to one Uncle Iain kept in the library, of intricately carved wood, mounted with brass hinges. The wood on this chest was without the polish and shine of the library one; indeed it appeared weathered and faded, as if it had spent a long time in the cold dampness of the cairn. For although it was protected from the wind and rain in its shelter, the atmosphere was not the best for the preservation of wood.
I knew that the chest contained the answers for which I had come. I hesitated, considering what rights I had to open it. Rowena was, after all, partly my responsibility, and a worrisome responsibility at that. Her visits here were certainly odd. If this old wooden chest could give me some clue to her erratic behaviour and be of some benefit in my attempts at guidance, perhaps my invasion of her privacy would be justified.
Impatiently I brushed back the troublesome loose lock of hair, finding a pin and securing it. I would have to see; I need never say anything after all, and I was getting used to keeping the secrets of Creagdhubh.
The flat lid lifted easily on its brass hinges. In the dim light I saw the contents and gasped with surprise.
I do not know what I expected, but it surely was nothing quite so innocent and sad as the tattered jumble of treasures piled within the chest. Toys and dolls and childhood trinkets lay heaped inside the wooden interior; there was the old one-eyed, stuffed bear that Rowena as a child had dragged about the nursery at home. Two or three flowered china cups remained from a fine old doll’s tea set. The doll itself, with its painted china face and torn velvet dress, stared with blank blue eyes up at me. There were beads and bits of cast off lace, a music box, broken and battered, and a pretty carved horse with a rabbit-fur mane and tail.
I gently searched among them, wondering if it was possible that Rowena came here only to retreat to the happy solace of childhood; that the haughty woman in her had blossomed too early even for herself, and she was drawn back to the source of her childhood comfort, to find there the comfort of a child’s safe world again.
Surely this place had long been her refuge; the years that the chest had sat in its stony niche were written in the weathering of it. And yet, it hardly seemed enough. Would she really still come alone in the darkness, here, build a fire like an Indian and sit with her childhood toys and her childhood books?
I leafed through the books: nursery tales, Pilgrim’s Progress, a child’s early prayer book. Suddenly my fingers touched within the stack of books one that was different. The binding was smooth and new, not the worn, tired leather and paper of the others. I lifted it out.
It was a modern volume, bound in dark blue leather. It was entitled, Words on Love, and the author’s name was Roderick Grant-Davies.
Fascinated, I lifted the cover, reading the title page, noting the French publisher’s name. I thumbed through the collection of poetry and selected a verse and began to read. Three or four of the short poems were sufficient to tell me why Rowena found it necessary to hide her cousin’s book out here, not daring to chance its discovery in her room. I understood too why Roderick’s published work was never mentioned at Creagdhubh.
I make no claim to be a true judge of poetry, and too I accept that the new trends in literature these days are certainly freer and make no apologies to prudery. But even so, I could not help my reaction to Roderick’s verses being one of sheer distaste. They were roughly, unpleasantly bawdy and indecent, with no saving grace of beauty that I could see.
However, while matters of art were not my province, Rowena’s upbringing to some extent was. My guide in such matters was of course the standards of her father. I knew well enough that he would not be pleased to find his young daughter reading literature of this sort, regardless of the author. And Rowena knew too, or she would have no need to keep Roderick’s verse so very well hidden.
I replaced the book in the chest, noting as I did another volume, covered by a package wrapped in heavy, rough cloth.
I moved the package aside and found this volume to also bear Roderick’s name on the cover. I made no attempt to read this one, sliding it unopened back into its place. As I started to replace the package that had covered it, the rough fabric slipped in my hand and the bundle tumbled open into my lap.
Ruffles of pure, beautiful white silk spilled from the wrapping. Amazed, I shook the contents free, holding them carefully on my outspread skirt, protected from the earth.
It was a dress, a white dress, embroidered and ruffled and trimmed with seed pearls and lace. It was a wedding dress.
As my hands ran over the luxurious fabric, I felt a sharp prick of pain. Feeling for the source, I found a neat row of pins in the fabric and a needle and thread thrust through the silk, where someone had paused in their sewing. My fingers touched the needle, as I considered the meaning of my strange discovery.
Suddenly I heard a scraping sound from somewhere above me, and the light dimmed in the cairn, a shadow crossing me. I looked up startled and frightened. A voice hissed down at me, seemingly from nowhere, ‘You interfering bitch. Put my things away.’
‘Who’s there?’ I gasped, peering upward at the dark roof.
Rowena’s face appeared at the narrow opening, pressed close down as she lay on the stones, shutting out the roof-light, her features twisted with anger. ‘Put my things away,’ she ordered again.
‘Rowena,’ I called back. ‘Wait, let me explain,’ but she was away; I heard the clatter of her bo
ots on the stones above. ‘Wait, I’m coming,’ I called again.
I quickly re-wrapped the wedding dress and placed it carefully amongst the toys and books. I shut the lid and put the chest back into its niche in the wall, returning the sheltering piece of shale. I wondered if Rowena would wait for me to emerge from her refuge so that I might make my explanation. There was silence now outside the cairn.
Never have I felt quite so ashamed and inadequate as I did then, emerging on my knees from the low tunnel, with mud on my hands, my hair in disarray, to face Rowena standing tall and dignified, watching me with a mixture of fury and disgust.
‘Are you quite satisfied now?’ she demanded coldly. ‘Did you find everything you wanted?’
‘Rowena,’ I began slowly, rising to my feet. ‘I did this for your own good.’
‘My own good,’ she laughed shortly. ‘My own good. It is always for my own good, isn’t it? Papa’s rules, your rules. And all your interfering.’ She laughed mockingly again and then her voice went very hard and she said, ‘You did it because you could not contain your prying curiosity; that is why you did it. And that is why you followed me last night.’ Her look of triumph proved she had read the surprise on my face.
‘How did you know?’ I said weakly.
‘Because of this,’ she announced dramatically, and held something up that fluttered, yellow, from her fingers. I looked closer and recognized the silk handkerchief which matched my yellow dress and which last night I had tucked in the sleeve of that dress. I must have dropped it and not realized.
‘When I found it on the ground last night I knew you had followed me. So when I saw you go flouncing out this afternoon, proper as can be, I knew very well what you were up to.’
‘All right,’ I replied. ‘So I did follow you last night. I saw you leave the house late at night and I felt it my duty to find where you were going.’
‘And where did you think I was going?’ she asked slyly.
‘I … I had no idea,’ I lied.
‘Oh yes you did,’ she accused bitterly. ‘You thought I was going to see Roderick, didn’t you?’ I said nothing, unable to lie any further. ‘You did then, didn’t you?’ she cried. Suddenly I saw that her pale face was shining with tears.
‘You’re just like everyone else. You all think he doesn’t really love me. You are all full of suspicions. It isn’t true.’ She was sobbing. ‘Your minds are full of evil and you see evil everywhere. You do not know what love is.’
‘And what is love, then?’ I replied quietly, regaining some of my composure. ‘Is it what Roderick writes about in his books?’
‘You had no right to read those,’ she shouted, ‘no right! Anyhow you wouldn’t understand,’ she added scornfully, ‘schoolmistress.’
‘Let us not be childish, Rowena, it will hardly help,’ I said.
‘It is you who have been childish. Following me around. Creeping after me in the dark. Invading my privacy.’
‘Your behaviour was questionable. I was bound to investigate. I admit my suspicions of your actions were unfounded, and I am glad of that. I must warn you however, Rowena, that Roderick is not the man you think he is. Nor do I think he is capable of truly loving you, or anyone else.’
‘He does love me,’ she shrieked. ‘Don’t you dare say he doesn’t.’
‘Rowena, I know more of him than you do.’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ she cried, covering her ears. ‘I won’t hear your filthy lies.’ She turned away, calming herself, and when she turned back to me her proud face was smooth and composed.
‘Roderick does love me. And we will be married as soon … as soon as possible.’
‘Is that what the dress is for?’ I asked.
‘Of course. It was my mother’s. I am altering it to fit myself. My waist is slimmer,’ she added proudly.
‘Does your father know you have taken it?’ I asked sadly.
‘Why need he know?’ she demanded. ‘It is mine. My mother’s things came to me when she died. All her jewels and her dresses. And her money.’ She said the last quietly, and it was the first I knew that Christabel had had money of her own, and had left it to her daughter.
‘Have you spoken to your father about your plans? Has Roderick spoken to your father?’
‘No.’ I heard the first trace of hesitation in her voice. Then she continued quickly. ‘We are going to elope. Roderick does not want to share our love with anyone. We will run away and be married in some beautiful place, far away.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, and then cautiously I tried, ‘Perhaps Roderick does not dare ask your father?’
‘Of course he dares. He just does not want to.’ Then another thought came upon her and she said sharply, ‘And you are not to tell him either, Elspeth Martin.’
Her eyes darkened with both anger and fear. She realized now that she had spoken too freely. ‘I should not have told you this,’ she said softly, almost to herself. ‘Roderick will be furious.’ Then she turned on me. ‘If you dare tell my father a word of what I have said, or about the books or the dress or anything, I … I will tell Roderick that you came prying here. And you will be sorry. Very sorry.’ She looked frightened and I wondered if under her romantic infatuation, she too was more than a little afraid of Roderick Grant-Davies.
She stood swaying slightly, her hand pressed to her mouth. I thought she might faint, and I stepped closer to her, but she waved me away. Finally she said in a small quiet child’s voice, ‘You should never have come here, Elspeth. This is my place. You had no right to come here. It will be your own fault if …’ She stopped, closed her eyes, then opened them, and looked desperately at me. ‘Please promise you won’t tell, Elspeth, please promise,’ she begged.
I made no answer, but left her standing in front of her little stone fortress on the lonely, grassy hill.
Chapter Fourteen
Rowena was in the library when I entered the following afternoon. Instantly her eyes were on me, watching, as I approached her father. She had watched me with the same guarded expression all yesterday evening and this morning at lessons.
Neither of us had spoken a word of what had transpired at the chambered cairn. And yet, unspoken, the subject hung in the still air of the house.
‘I’m going to the west pasture to see Duncan,’ I said to Uncle Iain, who had been reading in his chair by the fire.
Roderick was standing with Gordon at the bookshelves, searching for some volume or other. They had both turned as I entered and Roderick’s crooked smile responded to my entrance. ‘Is it making hay, then, that he is at?’ he said, laughing, putting on his mockery of Duncan’s accent.
I blushed and turned my back to him. ‘I have just come for Dhileas,’ I continued, to my godfather. ‘He will enjoy the walk.’ It had become my custom to take the old dog with me on my walks. I liked his company and he was the better for a leisurely romp in the summer grass.
‘Not today, my dear,’ Uncle Iain replied, putting down his book.
‘Why not?’ I asked, for the old collie was already rising and stretching in anticipation of the outing. ‘Is he not well?’
‘He is very well,’ Uncle Iain laughed, rubbing the dog’s smooth head. ‘But you see the cattle are all in the lower pasture, and all with young calves. You will be safe enough going through them, but they will turn on a dog. Not that poor Dhileas is any threat to a calf, but he’s not quick enough to get out of their way any more.’ He patted Dhileas gently. ‘Sorry old thing, you’d best stay in the house today.’
‘I’m afraid so, then,’ I said, and after apologizing to an unhappy Dhileas, I left the library and the house.
It was a windy, showery day and I walked quickly to keep warm. Even in summer it could be very cold at Creagdhubh. I was learning to like the wet, cold winds though, and as I walked I unpinned my loosely styled hair and let it fall free down my back, enjoying the way the wind got under it and lifted it from my neck.
Thinking was easier while I walked, and the questio
ns that had plagued me since yesterday sorted themselves into some order.
That I must somehow prevent Rowena’s planned elopement went without question. A marriage to Roderick was unthinkable. He was faithless and cruel and, too, Rowena’s revelations of her own personal fortune had given me new suspicions of his motives.
And I had little time left. Within the month Rowena would celebrate her sixteenth birthday. At sixteen she could marry without her father’s consent, and I knew full well that, having attained that privileged age, she would soon enough be away to her wedding.
Rowena feared I would go to her father, but her fears were groundless. As much as I wanted to go to him, I knew it was useless. Roderick would, as he had threatened before, merely throw himself on the mercy of Uncle Iain’s faith in him. Denying all, even perhaps accusing Rowena of girlish fantasy, he would make the whole question a matter of his word against mine.
Even if Uncle Iain suspected I was right, his honour would prevent him from condemning Roderick through unproven suspicions.
As always I had no proof; even the wedding dress in the cairn proved nothing more than the depths of a young girl’s fantasy. If indeed she had not already destroyed it under his order.
Then too, the fact that I had once already been wrong in my suspicions shook my faith in my judgement.
And so I turned instead to Duncan, trusting that his judgement would be wiser than mine.
I came to the gate of the lower pasture, and looked beyond it to the herd of Highland cattle grazing with their furry brown calves following close behind them.
I opened the heavy gate and made sure that it was firmly shut behind me. The kylies were not like the cattle of England, or the gentle milk cows in the barn. They were rugged and bony, with trailing shaggy hair and long, sharp curving horns. Though the calves looked like stuffed toys, tiptoeing on little black hooves, their mothers looked fierce and wild, and I would rather not be walking through them. But it was the only way to reach Duncan in the upper pasture.
Christabel's Room: A spellbinding Victorian gothic romance Page 13