CASTLE OF SECRETS
AMANDA GRANGE
© Amanda Grange 2012
http://www.amandagrange.com
The moral right of the author has been asserted
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person or incident is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
First published in hardback by Robert Hale Ltd. under the title of Stormcrow Castle
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Choose between Regency romances and Jane Austen fiction, including the bestselling Mr Darcy’s Diary (Kindle version called Darcy’s Diary)
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
Helena Carlisle rested her valise on the dry stone wall and peered into the gathering gloom. The March daylight was fading and she was beginning to feel uneasy. The carrier had told her it was only two miles to Stormcrow Castle but she had already walked three miles across the moor. She strained her eyes but there was no sign of the castle, nor was there any sign of a house at which she could ask for directions. Looking over her shoulder, she wondered if she should retrace her steps, but it was a long way back to the nearest town and she decided to continue on her way. She picked up her valise and walked along the rutted road, bending her head against the icy wind and praying it would not snow.
A sound disturbed the silence and, looking back, she saw a speck in the distance. As it drew closer she could see that it was a coach, racing towards her. Four black horses were pulling it, and it was swaying from side to side. She stepped aside to let it pass, but as it drew level with her, the horses were reined in and the coach rolled to an abrupt halt. The door was flung open and a man's voice said: 'Get in.'
She was about to back away when she caught sight of the gentleman inside. She heard her aunt's voice in her memory: "Like a portrait, he is, with his gaunt face and his long, pointed chin. He should have been living in 1617, not 1817. Lord Torkrow his name is, but no one calls him that hereabouts. They all call him Stormcrow."
'Don't dawdle, you're late as it is,' he snapped.
Late? she thought uneasily. But I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.
'Well?' he demanded.
She hesitated, but she had to reach the castle, and as she was already weary, she lifted the hem of her cloak and climbed inside. He slammed the door shut and rapped on the floor with his cane, then the coach pulled away, quickly building up speed and racing on again.
As she settled herself opposite him, Helena regarded Lord Torkrow covertly. He had no pretensions to being handsome. His face was thin and sharp, and his eyes looked as though they held secrets.
'Well?' he asked suddenly. 'Does my visage please you?'
Helena realized she had been staring.
'It is . . . ’
He raised one eyebrow in silent challenge.
' . . . striking,' she finished.
His lips curled. 'A good choice of word. It means precisely nothing. But let it pass.' He regarded her appraisingly. 'You're very young to be a housekeeper.'
‘A housekeeper?’ she asked, startled.
‘I have been waiting two weeks for the registry office to send me a replacement. They have been very lax. If they do not do better in future, I shall use Jensen’s office instead.’
She felt a cold chill, and pulled her cloak about her. Why did he think she was a housekeeper? Her aunt was the housekeeper at Stormcrow Castle.
‘The registry office did tell you the vacancy was for a housekeeper? Or did they describe the post as a chatelaine?’ he asked with a grimace. ‘If you are imagining the castle to be a fashionable establishment, you will be sorely disappointed. There are no fine rooms; no army of servants; no touring visitors calling at the doors and begging to be shown round.’
‘But I thought Mrs Carlisle was your housekeeper?’ she said cautiously, wondering if she had mistaken him, and he was not Lord Torkrow after all.
‘They have sent me a half-wit!’ he muttered under his breath, then out loud he said: ‘Mrs Carlisle left my service. She went to nurse her sister and will not be returning. That is why I need a replacement.’
Helena felt disoriented. Her aunt could not possibly have left to nurse her sister, for she did not have a sister.
‘You do have experience as a housekeeper?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Helena, recalling the six months she had spent working for Sir Thomas Alderley, before his new wife had decided she was too young for the position.
‘That is something, at least. You should have been here yesterday.’
She remained silent, considering what to say. If she revealed who she was then she would learn nothing more, for he had already told her that her aunt had left his service, and he would stop the carriage and expect her to return to town. But if she went to the castle in the guise of the new housekeeper, then she would have an opportunity to speak to the other servants and perhaps learn more about her aunt’s sudden departure.
‘No matter,' he said, ‘you are here now.’
He leant back against the red squabs and his cloak spread across them like a cloud blotting out the sun.
The coach lurched as it turned off the main road and onto a narrow track. She glanced out of the window, but there was nothing to be seen; nothing but the endless expanse of moor, gradually losing all colour in the fading light. At last the coach began to slow its pace. Up ahead, she dimly perceived the outline of a high stone wall, and then they were plunged into darkness as the coach passed beneath an archway. She felt her hands grow clammy. One heartbeat . . . two . . . three . . . then the darkness lifted and they emerged into a courtyard. A turning circle enclosed a patch of lawn which might once have been fine, but which had now grown wild. Coarse grass had embedded itself amongst the smooth grass, as the moor had encroached on the civilized world.
'We're almost there,' he said.
The coach finally rolled to a halt. The coachman opened the door and lowered the step. Lord Torkrow climbed out. Helena followed him, and looked up at the forbidding walls of Stormcrow Castle.
It was a long, low building with a central square turret and two wings arranged symmetrically on either side. The door was arched, and above it there was a sickly yellow light shining fro
m a rose window. Crenellations ran along the top of the roof, thrusting their way into the sky like broken teeth. Helena felt a frisson of anxiety. There was an atmosphere surrounding the castle. Isolated and exposed, it seemed malevolent, and she shivered, reluctant to go inside.
'Cold?' he asked.
'A little,' she said, trying to speak bravely.
'It's colder inside.'
With these cheery words he led her up to the door. Without waiting for a servant to open it he seized the iron ring and turned it, then pushed the heavy oak door inwards. He disappeared into the gloom and she followed him, finding herself in a cavernous hall with tapestries decorating the walls, and a huge fireplace, which was large enough to swallow her whole. The floor was bare, and was made of massive stone flags, discoloured with centuries of use.
‘You will have plenty to do,’ he said, taking a candelabra from a table next to the fireplace and removing one of the candles, putting it into a separate holder before handing it to her. ‘The castle has been neglected for some time.’
Helena looked at the thick dust on the table and wondered how long it was since her aunt had left.
‘Follow me,’ he said.
His cloak stirred as it was caught by a draught, and it billowed around him as he set off at a brisk pace across the hall. The candles were small haloes of light in the gloom, revealing the dim outlines of suits of armour, plated and riveted in the semblance of men, gleaming dully in the fading light. Their silver was darkened with age and fantastic crests were embossed on their breast plates, whilst above them hung weapons and shields. They had a sullen look about them, as though they resented the fact they were no longer used, like savage animals that had long since been caged.
Helena turned her head away from the warlike sight and looked straight ahead, but it was little better, for the cavernous space was ominous and she felt suddenly very small. Above her, the ceiling was too high to be seen. Lord Torkrow expected her to match his pace and she had to run to keep up with him.
At the far end of the hall they came to a massive stone staircase. The steps were wide and shallow, worn to a hollow in the centre with the passage of countless feet, and they led upwards into the darkness.
Lord Torkrow began to climb, and Helena followed. Her legs felt like lead long before she reached the top, for the steps were numerous, and she had already walked a long way that day. She paused to rest at the top, but a curt: ‘Don’t dawdle,’ set her hurrying after the earl again.
He turned left and led her along an ice-cold corridor, and then stopped abruptly at a door that blocked their way. It was forbidding, made of blackened oak and studded with iron.
‘Your room is through the door and at the end of the corridor,’ he said. ‘You will wait upon me in the library at six o’clock, when we will discuss your previous experience, and I will instruct you in your duties, after which you may return to your own room and rest. Tomorrow you will start work in earnest.’
Helena opened her mouth to reply, but before she could say anything, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows.
A drop of hot wax fell onto her hand, returning her thoughts to her own situation, and she was glad she was wearing gloves, for if her hands had been bare it would have burnt her.
It was a very irregular household, she thought, as she opened the door. There had been no servant to open the door, no footmen waiting in the hall, and no maid to show her to her room. Even more irregularly, his lordship had shown her the way himself, and seemed to be intent on giving her her instructions. There was no lady of the house, then. Feeling the chill from the old stone, she was not surprised. What lady would want to bury herself in a dank, dark castle on the moors, with a dark and brooding man for a husband? Earl or no earl, he was the sort of man to strike terror into the heart, rather than any softer emotion.
She went through the door, knowing at once she was in the servants’ part of the house, for there were no tapestries hanging on the wall. She was in a narrow passage with windows to her left, looking out on to the side of the castle, whilst to her right was a row of doors. At the end of the corridor was a final oak door which, gathering her courage, she opened. It was heavy, and it creaked as it moved, making her shiver. As she went in, ghostly shapes loomed out of the darkness, and, through the window she saw the moor looking bleak and dour. She had never seen such darkness before. In her rented room in Manchester there had always been a candle in a neighbouring window, or a glow from a nearby inn, or a flambeau on the street below. But here there was nothing; nothing but impenetrable blackness, unalleviated by a star or a sliver of moon.
Feeling suddenly afraid, she dropped her valise and quickly pulled the heavy curtains across the window, then hurriedly lit every candle in the room. As the flames sprang to life, the ghostly shapes resolved themselves into pieces of furniture that sat, squat and heavy, in the darkly panelled chamber. There was a four poster bed with dark red curtains, a large oak cupboard, a carved washstand, a cheval glass and, over by the empty grate, a table and chair.
She went over to the table and put her candlestick down. Was this where Aunt Hester had written her letters? she wondered. The surface was scored and pock-marked; it looked very old.
Overcome with a sudden loneliness, she took paper, ink, sand and a quill from her valise and sat down at the desk. Pulling off her gloves, she dipped the quill in the ink, and began to write.
My dear Caroline,
I have arrived at Stormcrow Castle, but something unsettling has happened. I have discovered that my aunt is no longer here, and, even worse, Lord Torkrow has mistaken me for the new housekeeper. I cannot think where Aunt Hester has gone. Lord Torkrow says she left to look after a sick sister, but she does not have a sister. Why did she lie to him? And where is she?
I, too, have lied, for I have allowed him to think I am the housekeeper he was expecting. I am not easy about it. It does not sit well with my conscience, but I wanted to find out more about Aunt Hester’s strange departure, and I could think of no other way. I hope to question the other servants, and, having done so, I will return to Manchester.
I will probably not post this letter. There do not seem to be many servants in the castle, and I might be able to speak to them all tomorrow, returning to Manchester before you could receive it, but I wanted to write because it makes me feel you are near, and I need to feel I have a friend. The castle is cold and dark, and it is taking all of my courage not to be afraid.
But enough of me. I hope you had good luck with Mrs Long, and that you are now her new companion. You certainly deserve the position, but positions, alas, do not always go to those who deserve them. What a trial it is for us both, to be constantly having to seek work!
But perhaps it is better than the alternative. I cannot decide whether I should accept Mr Gradwell or not. He is a good man, but is that enough? Are my dreams of love just that, dreams? Should I put them aside, as I put aside my dolls when I outgrew my childhood? Is a fantasy of love just another aspect of childhood? Should I accept a marriage with a good and worthy man as reality? Or is there more to life than that? Is there really love in the world, the sort that poets write about, and the kind that troubadours sing about? And if there is, will I ever find it?
I need Aunt Hester’s counsel more than ever, but she is not here.
I am worried, Caroline. Aunt Hester is all I have in the world, except you, my dear friend. Where can she have gone? Why did she lie to Lord Torkrow? And why did she not write to me, in order to tell me where she was going? It is bewildering, but I hope to learn more by and by.
I am sorry this is such a strange letter. It must be the atmosphere of the castle that is unsettling me, for as you know, I am not usually prone to these anxieties. But it is a strange place, full of shadows and darkness. Lord Torkrow, too, is strange. And Aunt Hester’s departure is stranger still . . . But perhaps I am just cold and tired. Perhaps, after a hot meal, everything will assume a more normal appearance.
If you are
reading this letter, I must have had to spend longer here than I expected, but rest assured, I will write again soon if I am delayed, otherwise I will see you in Manchester before long.
Affectionately yours,
Helena
She sanded the letter, then folded it and put it in the pocket of her gown, glad to have it near her, for it reminded her that Caroline was not too far away.
The faint sound of chimes from a far-away clock reached her ears. It was five o’clock. She had an hour before she had to see Lord Torkrow. Her stomach began to growl, reminding her that she had not eaten since that morning, and she resolved to find the kitchen and ask for something to eat. She removed her pelisse and bonnet and then, straightening her shawl, she picked up her candle and went out into the corridor.
The cook is Mrs Beal, she reminded herself, as she went in search of the stairs down to the kitchen. Mrs Beal and her aunt had been friends, and she hoped to learn something of use.
The cold from the stone floor bit into her feet, even through the soles of her shoes, and icy draughts lifted the hem of her gown. She walked briskly, feeling some welcome warmth creep into her body with the exercise, and was relieved when she saw the top of a back staircase. She went down the stairs, finding them narrower than those in the hall. Being used by servants, they had no need to be imposing.
She had never been in such an old building before, and the size of it was daunting. Down, down went the steps, and the walls were shrouded in shadows. Her footsteps had an eerie sound in the vastness, and she had to tell herself that the tap tap following her was nothing but an echo of her own footsteps. Even so, twice she glanced over her shoulder, convinced that someone was following her. The second time, she thought she saw the hem of a gown pulling back into the shadows, but when she turned round and lifted her candle high, there was no one there.
Unnerved by the incident, she ran down the rest of the steps, but at the bottom she was forced to stop, because she was not sure which way to turn. She peered ahead into the gloom. In the distance, to her left, she saw what appeared to be the top of another flight of steps. She went over to them and descended once more, lifting her skirt in one hand and treading carefully, for the stone was smooth and slippery. She emerged in another corridor, and the smell of damp that had pervaded the stairwell was replaced by the smell of baking coming from a door in front of her. The warm, inviting scent put new heart into her, and as she opened the door she felt her spirits rise.