Christabel's Room: A spellbinding Victorian gothic romance

by Abigail Clements

  ‘Who is she?’ I asked. ‘And where are we?’

  ‘She is Mrs. MacLeod and this is her cottage in Fort Augustus. She and her good husband took us in last night, when we arrived.’

  ‘How kind of them,’ I said.

  ‘It was only natural to them,’ he replied. ‘But they are good people.’

  ‘Where is Rowena?’ I asked then, ‘and Uncle Iain.’

  He rose and stepped to the window, pointing out. ‘Look there,’ he said.

  I sat up in bed and saw through the small, crooked panes, my godfather and his daughter strolling beside the splashing waters of the river. Rowena was wearing a borrowed dress of simple grey homespun wool; her hair hung loosely down her back. She walked beside Uncle Iain, her arm on his, her face turned up to his, listening. They looked like any father and daughter enjoying a quiet Sunday morning.

  ‘Is she all right?’ I asked, remembering her shocked, numb countenance the night before.

  ‘Och, she will be all right. She does not remember it all yet, but she understands.’ He paused, watching the two figures on the river bank. Then he said slowly, ‘Sometimes it takes something like this to make a person see what life is about.’

  ‘A hard way to see,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, a hard way.’

  Then I closed my eyes and said, bracing myself for the answer, ‘Gordon is dead, too, isn’t he?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Duncan. ‘He, too.’

  ‘He tried … the bridge …’ I started to cry.

  Duncan held my hand and said quietly, ‘I know. I know it all. We heard your screams and found him in the ravine. He lived long enough to tell me. That is how I knew to follow you in the boat.’

  ‘How is Uncle Iain taking it?’

  ‘I think he had been expecting something like this for a long time. There was no other way for Gordon. He had lost the pathway.’ He looked out the window again. ‘I told Iain to stay, but he wanted to come with me. Angus and the others will have seen to the boy.’

  ‘That awful cliff,’ I said, still crying.

  ‘It is done now,’ Duncan replied. ‘The balance has been made. Evil does not come from the rocks. It comes from people.’

  He stood up. ‘I think Iain would like to see you,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell him to come?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I will go to him, if you could find me some clothes?’

  ‘I will see the wifie,’ he replied, bending to kiss me, and leaving the room. In a few minutes Mrs. MacLeod came bundling through the door backwards, her arms piled high with garments.

  ‘They are my daughter Mairi’s things,’ she explained, laying out an assortment of woollen dresses and knitted jumpers on the bed. ‘It is shameful to be offering anything so rough to a lady, but your own things are still drying by the fire,’ she apologized.

  ‘But it is so kind of you, and the garments look beautifully warm. You have been so good to us,’ I said.

  ‘Och, it was little enough we could too,’ she said sadly, glancing instinctively out the little window to the bright blue loch. ‘Here lass,’ she said, turning from the window. ‘Let us see if any of these will be fitting you.’

  Her daughter Mairi was much my size and I slipped the woolly, practical garments on easily, marvelling at the soft, beautiful colours of the natural dyes.

  Then I followed Mrs. MacLeod from the neat, small bedroom and down the curved cottage-stairs, which ended in a short hallway, with the wooden plank front door in its centre.

  The door was divided in the middle, and half stood open. I glimpsed a warm, sunny patch of garden. The day was gentle; summer had returned.

  ‘Come, lass,’ the woman called and I followed her into the low kitchen-sitting room of the cottage.

  One wall of the room was taken up by the vast fireplace, with its blackened hooks for griddle and cookpot and its soot-caked kettle on the hob.

  Rowena sat beside the fire on a little wooden chair. She looked younger than I remembered her since the old days in London. The brittle shell of maturity had shattered and the child had emerged again. She smiled a little and said hello.

  Duncan stood beside her. Uncle Iain was at the window, talking with a man in dark working-trousers and jacket, whom I knew would be Mr. MacLeod himself.

  He smiled when he saw me and introduced me to our host. I knew that this was not a time to speak, and together we sat down to a breakfast of porridge and oat-cakes and fresh brown eggs from the hens that scratched in the garden outside and occasionally leapt to the broad stone window ledge, watching curiously.

  Later, Uncle Iain and I walked through the village, over the little stone bridge to the wide lawns and grey buildings of the abbey.

  There was nothing either of us could say about Gordon that would help in any way.

  Uncle Iain said, ‘I think I will write to your father and ask him to come to Creagdhubh for a while. Do you think he will?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, knowing that Papa would, somehow, manage it.

  ‘Those poor foolish children,’ he said suddenly, and I realised he meant Rowena and Roderick, ‘why didn’t they come to me? Why didn’t they say they wanted to marry? I know he had no money, but that would not have mattered. We were all family, I would have provided. I suppose he was too proud,’ he said finally, shaking his head.

  Then he stopped, standing still among the beech trees, and said very slowly, ‘Do you know, Elspeth, there is something I have never told anyone about Roderick. It doesn’t seem to matter now. You see, Christabel loved him. Not just as a friend, you understand, she really loved him.

  ‘I knew the moment they met; it was uncanny. They were right for each other. I was jealous at first, but in the end I was just sorry, sorry for her that she had not met him before she married me.’

  ‘Oh Uncle Iain,’ I said, nearly crying, wondering for a moment if he knew.

  Then he said, ‘Of course, Roderick pretended he did not know. He was my friend and a gentleman. He would not put temptation before her.’

  I buried my face in his sleeve, pretending to cry so that he would not read what I was thinking. The truth never changes. I had told Roderick and he had laughed. Now I held the truth in my own hands and I let it slip gently away.

  ‘He was brave,’ I said quietly, my face still pressed against the rough tweed. ‘He tried to save the ferry-wife and he drowned.’

  Nothing more was ever said, and from that moment the whole story was buried forever in the past.

  When we returned to the MacLeods’ cottage on the river bank, Duncan was at the boat, readying it for the sail up the loch.

  We clustered in the cottage garden, thanking the MacLeods for their hospitality. Then in the warm sunshine we boarded the boat, and Duncan hoisted the white canvas sail. There was barely enough breeze in the sheltered river to fill it, but we glided smoothly away from the shore.

  I sat beside Rowena, turning to wave to the MacLeods until they were hidden by thick trees on the riverbank. We sailed past the long railway pier on one side and the abbey grounds on the other and out into the wide loch.

  The wind picked up, but it was westerly and no companion of last night’s terrible north-east gale. I was astounded that the vast stretch of water, so recently wild with waves, could already be so gentle.

  Behind us, the grey tower of the abbey faded into the shore, and we sailed between the two steep-plunging lines of hills where the hardwood trees were already turning to brilliant autumn colours, near the water. High up, I picked out the red-speckled circles of the tops of the rowans, rich with berries.

  Late in the afternoon, Duncan pointed up the hillside to where sheep were scattered like salt on the green grass. They were Creagdhubh sheep. We were home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By late October, the leaves had fallen and the rowan berries were gone. The wind that swept the stone pier at Foyers was cold. We stood in a line, waiting for the steamer which was now an approaching black shape on the choppy, grey water.

  Row
ena’s green velvet skirt and jacket were like a splash of summer on the pier. She looked elegant, her costume trimmed with red fox, her black hair curving gracefully from beneath her bonnet.

  She leaned close to me and whispered, ‘You will be sure Dhileas comes in at night, won’t you, Elspeth?’

  I nodded, assuring her I would. ‘And my pony, you’ll see that he gets his carrot. Angus cannot be bothered, but Tom has always had his carrot and he will miss it.’ Again I promised, smiling. She was like any young schoolgirl leaving home.

  Of course it was not school anymore, but this Continental holiday would be an education in itself, with its promised round of museums and concerts, art galleries and opera. I even thought that in recent weeks, Rowena had come to look forward to it.

  I expected no miracles. But time and distance were both great healers, and Papa had assured me that she, a healthy young girl after all, would eventually forget and go on to a life of her own.

  In a way, our worries over Rowena were a blessing, because they filled Uncle Iain’s time, and, involved in the plans for her future and this extended journey, he was less likely to dwell on sad memories.

  Papa had arrived at Creagdhubh in September, having somehow arranged for his fellows in London to oversee his practice for a month.

  Now as the loch steamer drew nearer under its cloud of coal smoke, he stood with Uncle Iain at the end of the pier, exchanging a last few words on matters of business with Duncan. Papa had been a great support to us all. So had all our friends, and messages of condolence had come from scattered sources around the north and from England too when the news was first given out.

  There had been no need for details, of course. The deaths of Gordon Grant and his cousin would be remembered as the result of a boating accident on the loch. Such things were common enough. If Creagdhubh had had perhaps more than its share, there were some that said the run of threes would end it now.

  I knew it had already ended. As Duncan had said, the balance was made, the wages had been paid, and Creagdhubh owed nothing any more.

  Papa left his companions and came to me, taking my hands in his.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said, sadly. ‘You will try to come down in the spring?’

  ‘Of course we will,’ I said. ‘Perhaps even for Christmas.’

  ‘That would be grand.’ He smiled down at me. ‘You were a beautiful bride,’ he said, eventually. ‘As beautiful as your mother.’

  ‘I was so glad you could be here,’ I said.

  The wedding had been small and quiet, with only the family and closest servants crammed into the tiny stone kirk. More elaborate celebrations would not have been fitting at such a time.

  Rowena had been my bridesmaid. I would not have expected it of her, but she offered bravely, and I knew she was truly happy for me.

  The prow of the steamer cut through the deep water close to the pier. Great coils of rope were flung down, caught by workmen, and made fast.

  For a while we were all lost in the awkwardness of farewells, helping with luggage, trying to remember the last few words and promises and messages to distant friends.

  Then suddenly the pier was quiet again. Off-loading passengers had disappeared into the streets of the village. Embarking passengers were now all on the boat.

  High above us, Papa and Uncle Iain stood on either side of Rowena, waving and calling down to us words that we could not hear. We shouted back into the rising east wind, our voices strained and thin in the cold air.

  Then the steamer slipped from the pier, a widening gap of grey water opened between us, and in moments they were just silhouettes by the railing. I stood quietly watching until only the edge of Papa’s top hat, and the bell-shape of Rowena’s velvet skirt could be distinguished in the distance.

  Suddenly the steamer was just a black shape on the choppy, grey water, moving away.

  ‘Are you coming home, lass, or will you be staying here the night?’

  I turned. Duncan was standing a little behind me, and in the distance behind him Angus Fraser waited with the now-empty brougham and our two shaggy ponies.

  ‘I am coming,’ I said, smiling up at him. We stopped there and kissed on the pier, while Angus Fraser looked very carefully at the feet of the carriage horse.

  Then we mounted our ponies and trotted through the stony streets behind the clattering rumble of the brougham.

  Village folk came to their narrow doorways to see us pass. Many had watched us come from the kirk at our wedding. Besides, there were no secrets here for long. The women smiled and waved and wished me good fortune, while the young men shouted to Duncan in Gaelic, words that made him laugh and the women giggle. I was as well not understanding, I decided.

  All the way through the cobbled main street we were followed by children with patched clothing and dirty faces who ran beside us, shouting and getting in the way of the carriage horse. Angus Fraser shook his fist and growled at them in their own language, and they ignored him.

  A wedding was always a cause for excitement, and a wedding at the big house even more so.

  At the curve in the road above the loch, we held in our restless ponies and looked back. Far out on the water the steamer was well on its way to Inverness.

  We stayed, watching it out of sight, until our ponies began to snort and skitter about on their shaggy feet.

  Then we turned, and I rode beside my husband up the hill path to our home.

  Highland Fire by Abigail Clements

  From the author of Christabel’s Room, another gripping romantic suspense thriller ‒ Highland Fire. Keep reading for a preview of Chapter One and details of where to buy the book.

  Chapter One

  The big Pan Am jet lumbered clumsily around the sky, wheeling, waiting for the word to go. Awkward and uneasy in its slow circles, it could not have been better calculated to frighten the passengers, already tense from the long delay on the ground. Some sipped nervously at their drinks, and fidgeted with papers. The young woman across from me clutched a whimpering toddler to her, while trying to soothe the crying baby in the basinette with her free hand. Outside the dark windows, the brilliant stars of New York below tipped and changed with the dim stars above. I watched, unmoved by either beauty or fear, then turned to smile reassuringly at the young woman with the children. If my calm surprised her, as it appeared to, it amazed me.

  Once in that other world, three long long years ago, Danny and I had flown back to college together after the Christmas break. We pretended to be brave, but we were both nervous about planes and we were terrified. We chatted and giggled, shared a drink, clutched each other’s hands, and prayed as the plane lifted off. We had so much to lose; we had each other. It is strange how having nothing more to lose frees you from fear.

  A last circle was completed; the pilot turned his plane like a rider putting his horse to a jump, it seemed to pause, and then it leaped out beautifully across the dark Atlantic.

  New York was behind us. New York, my home, my parents on Long Island, work, college, my brief, sweet marriage … Danny. I said goodbye silently as we dashed on into an early dawn.

  The baby in the basinette settled down, rocked to sleep by the great thundering engines and the creak of steel. Its young and exhausted mother held the older child tighter against her body, and when it, too, slept, she also relaxed against the padded seat. Then the sun came pouring in through the windows. The child woke and struggled, waking its mother. She sat up, quickly hushing it before it could wake the baby. Our eyes met, she grinned wearily, her hair straggling over her eyes. I smiled back and offered to take the child.

  She hesitated, then nodded gratefully, holding him out to me over the aisle. He was about two, the age, and my arms had been wanting him all night.

  Two years is a long time, Carrie. It’s time to forget. My mother was right. Two years was a long time, long enough to turn a soft, sheltered scrap of a newborn into this hearty struggling little person clambering up my shoulder for a better look out the window. Bu
t time to forget?

  I had known from the start I would never forget my little daughter, never get over it, though my friends said I would. But I don’t think even I realized how she would haunt me. The world was full of reminders. When I first left the hospital, there seemed to be nothing in the world but newborn babies. I saw them everywhere. Time passed. They grew, and my ghost-child grew with them. She was two now, a sister to the little boy in my arms. He poked a fat finger against the glass and prodded it, reaching for the clouds below.

  ‘Fuzzy?’ he said.

  ‘Fuzzy,’ I assured him.

  It’s not as if you really had her, and then lost her. My friends said that, too, as words of comfort. But I had had her. She was alive and part of my life from the very start, even the first strange, discomforted days when I understood nothing and my body shifted without my knowing it with a new tide. Then the first happy months, when Danny and I were together and childlike in our eagerness. Even after the news came and we knew he was going, the child that was coming seemed strong enough to win out against everything, even the war.

  In my fifth month Danny left for Vietnam. Only the baby remained, a living tie between us. The tie held, through the hot, hazy spring months, while I waited at my parents’ home on the Island. When I went into the hospital, confident and happy, I was carrying Danny’s most recent letter with me. I kept it by my bed. I was fit and strong and my labour was easy. I had no idea anything was wrong until the moment of birth.

  I’ll never forget the silence. I waited and waited for the cry. I was conscious of frantic work going on around me, everyone hurried and wordless. The nurse who came to tell me my baby was stillborn was younger than I was and she was crying. They didn’t let me see my daughter. They said it was better that way.

  I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think babies were ever stillborn any more. They said I was very brave, because I didn’t cry. I wasn’t. I was numb.

  One thought remained in the emptiness that followed: The link is broken; how do I tell Danny?