She went down to the kitchen to speak to them.
‘There is plenty of work to be done,’ she told them. ‘Can you start today?’
They had all come prepared to stay, and Helena set them to work. Whilst two of the young men began polishing the silver under the direction of Dawkins, the other four took down one of the tapestries and carried it outside, where Helena set three of the girls to work beating it with brooms. The men than moved on to fetching buckets of water so that the rest of the girls could wash the floor.
Fortunately the day was fine, and Helena joined the girls who were working outside. It was pleasant to be out of doors, and though the air was cold, beating the tapestry was heavy work and it soon warmed them.
‘I think you have you worked at the castle before?’ she asked Sally and Martha.
‘That’s right, missus.’
They were perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age, and although they seemed ready enough to work, the glances they kept throwing at the younger footmen whenever they walked by suggested they would not be reliable if left alone.
‘What were your duties?’
‘We kept the rooms clean, missus. We dusted ’em and polished the grates and kept the fire irons shiny. We swept the floors and made the beds.’
‘Then I would like you to do the same now you have returned. Did you air the rooms before?’
‘Yes, missus, some of ’em. The ones that ’ad someone in ’em.’
‘Good, then you can continue to do so. Did you air the attics?’
‘No, missus, we daren’t go near the attics.’
‘Why not?’ asked Helena.
‘There was noises,’ said Sally.
‘At night,’ said Martha, with wide eyes.
‘Made my blood curdle, they did,’ said Sally. ‘All that screeching and wailing.’
‘You said it was crying,’ put in one of the other girls, as she hit the tapestry with a broom.
‘Screeching,’ said Sally emphatically, ‘and wailing.’
The story grew in the telling, and Helena was not surprised when the girl asserted that she had heard chains clanking behind the door. However, Helena believed there had been something in the girl’s story.
‘When did you hear it?’ she asked.
‘It were just before Mrs Carlisle disappeared. A week before, mebbe.’
‘And you stayed in the castle a whole week with such noises?’ asked Helena.
‘They weren’t so bad after that. Just sobbing now and then.’
‘Ghost must’ve got a sore throat,’ said one of the footmen cheekily, as he walked past on his way to the well.
‘I’d like to see you spend a night there, for all your talk,’ retorted the girl.
Helena was not sure what the girl had heard, and she knew she couldn’t rely on what the girl said, but nevertheless she was sure Sally had heard something.
‘Perhaps it was a cat,’ suggested Helena.
‘That’s what Dawkins said, but it weren’t no cat,’ said Sally definitely.
‘Was he with you when you heard it?’
‘Right next to me, e was.’
So, the sound had not been made by Dawkins, at any rate. Then who, or what, had been crying in the attic a week before her aunt left?
In an attempt to find out more about Lord Torkrow’s family, Helena tried to induce the maids to talk of them, but they answered her questions with monosyllables and would not be drawn. Whether it was deliberate, or whether they were simply more interested in their own affairs, Helena did not know.
It was a pity, because something was tugging at her memory, and she thought it might be important, if only she could remember what it was.
At last she returned to the housekeeper’s room to finish her plans. There was a lot of hard work to be done before the castle was ready for the ball.
The fire burned low, and Effie arrived with a bucket of coal to mend it.
Helena was about to ask her again what she had seen in the housekeeper’s desk, when she had a better idea. Going over to the window, she toyed with the curtains, then said: ‘Bring me some string from the drawer, would you please, Effie?’
Effie hesitated.
‘The top drawer,’ Helena prompted her.
The girl reluctantly went over to the desk, wiping her hands on her apron. She opened the drawer, and stood looking at something inside. She appeared to wrestle with herself, then blurted out incoherently: ‘If someone knew something and someone ’ad said something but someone thought it wasn’t what they said it was, what ought they to do?’
‘They should tell the housekeeper,’ said Helena promptly.
‘Very particular about ’er quills she was,’ said Effie, looking at Helena nervously. ‘Always used ’er own quills for letters.’
Helena wished the girl would hurry up and tell her something she did not know.
‘Always used ’er own quills, missis, but it’s still ’ere.’
Helena’s eyes widened as she realized what Effie was telling her. If Aunt Hester had left the castle, she would have taken her quill with her.
Lord Torkrow’s ominous words came back to her: The castle has a way of keeping people.
Effie was looking at her with a frightened expression, and Helena quickly reassured her.
‘Don’t worry, Effie, Mrs Carlisle knew her sister’s pens were well mended, I am sure.’
‘Really, missis?’
‘Yes, really.’
Effie’s face shone with relief.
‘I’ve been that worried, missis. It wasn’t like ’er to go without saying goodbye. Always good to me were Mrs Carlisle.’
‘I am sure she wanted to say goodbye, but did not want to wake you,’ said Helena.
‘Yes, missis,’ said Effie, nodding.
‘And now you had better go back to the kitchen. Mrs Beal will be wondering where you are.’
As soon as she had gone, Helena went out into the hall. Lord Torkrow had left the castle on horseback after luncheon, and Miss Parkins was also out of the castle, it being her day off. Their absence gave Helena an idea.
‘Leave that,’ she said to the footmen, who had rehung the tapestry and were preparing to take down the next one. ‘I have something else for you to do.’
She took them upstairs, and then into the attic.
‘The key to the attic has been lost,’ she said. ‘I would like you to break the door down.’
The footmen looked at each other uneasily.
‘You’re not afraid of ghosts, I hope?’ she asked.
‘No, missus. But smashing a door . . . what will his lordship say?’
‘His lordship has given me responsibility for the castle,’ she said.
The footmen looked at each other, then shrugged and set their shoulders to the door. After much heaving they managed to break the lock. They stood back and Helena went in, her heart racing. She expected to find a madman, or her aunt, or a body . . . but she found nothing. The attic was empty. She went through into the room leading off from it. Again there was nothing. The entire east wing was empty, save for an assortment of discarded furniture and a few odds and ends. She did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
She went through the attic rooms again, looking for any signs that someone had been there recently. There was less dust in the central room, and a few items of bedding that could have been used, but it told her nothing. Whatever secrets the castle was nursing, they were no longer to be found in the east wing.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the footmen. ‘You may return to your work downstairs.’
They departed, leaving her to wander through the rooms again. There must be something, some sign, she thought . . . But she could find nothing. Why, then, had the attic been kept locked? And why had someone hidden the key? Had it ever contained anything of importance, or had it simply been locked once when it contained some fragile vases or delicate furniture, and then been forgotten about?
As she looked round the bare ro
om, it seemed ridiculous to remember that she had fancied it housing Lord Torkrow’s mad brother. She was ashamed of herself for such a thought. He was probably away, abroad, perhaps, or attending to business in London. Or . . . something Mrs Beal had said came back to her. It had been nagging at her mind for some time, and now she remembered what it was.
She went down to the kitchen, asking Mrs Beal if she needed any of the maids to help her, before suggesting they take tea together.
Mrs Beal was agreeable, and they talked over the likelihood of the maids and footmen remaining at the castle.
When they had done, Helena asked casually: ‘What is his lordship’s name? His family name?’
‘Pargeter,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘His lordship is Simon Pargeter. Why do you ask?’
‘I was just curious,’ said Helena.
But hers had been no idle curiosity. As soon as she had finished her tea, she put on her cloak and, slipping out of the side door, made her way to the graveyard. An icy wind was blowing across the moor, and she wrapped her cloak tightly round her. She crested the rise and then went through the gap in the low stone wall, where she found the grave she had been looking for. It was very simple and said, Richard Pargeter. Master Richard, Mrs Beal had called him. Lord Torkrow’s brother. He wasn’t in the attic, he was here in the graveyard. And next to him was his wife.
She heard a slight movement, and turning her head she saw Lord Torkrow sitting on his horse at the edge of the graveyard, watching her. So absorbed had she been that she had not heard his approach. Their eyes met; then he dismounted, tethered his horse to the dry stone wall and entered the graveyard.
‘So. You discovered whose graves these are.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
He did not answer her immediately, and she did not break the silence, for he was lost in his own thoughts.
The sun went behind a cloud and the landscape darkened, the bright green of the grass fading to sage. The dry stone wall, which had been silvered by the sun, returned to its sombre dark hue. It was bitterly cold, and as the chill wind blew across the moor, Helena shivered.
He did not seem to feel it, even when it blew his cloak open and whipped at the tails of his coat, for he stood there, motionless, making no move to fasten it.
At last he spoke.
‘You asked me once how I earnt my name.’
She was very still, waiting for him to continue.
‘I do not know why, but I have a mind to tell you.’ He looked at the gravestone, as if he could see his brother’s face there. ‘It was on a dark night in the summer, when I had been to a neighbour’s ball. It had been a tedious evening, the conversation had been shallow and the company bored me. I left early, and returned to the castle. There was an . . . incident . . .’ He became lost in his thoughts, then seemed to rouse himself with difficulty. ‘ . . . I knew at once that I had found my curse, or that my curse had found me. We are all cursed, we stormcrows. We are all fated to carry terrible news. It was my fate to carry it to my brother. I had to tell him that the woman he loved, his bride of six months, my sister-in-law, was dead.’
The wind moaned, and rain began to fall.
‘I will never forget his face. I should have known better than to leave him. He went up to the battlements, his favourite place in times of sorrow – it had been so since he was a boy. He could barely see or think, driven mad by his grief.’ The wind howled. ‘He fell from the battlements. It was my fate to earn my name not once, but twice. For the second time I was the bearer of terrible news: I carried it to my mother.’
‘It was not your fault,’ she said.
‘No?’ To her consternation he cupped her face, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘I failed my brother, and I failed my sister-in-law. I will not fail again.’
His tone was sombre, and his words were strange. She could not make sense of them, but she was finding it difficult to think clearly. Something about his touch confused her, blocking rational thought. Instead, she was a mass of feeling. She felt the wind; the wetness of the rain; the roughness of his skin against hers; the warmth of his breath on her face; and she began to tremble.
Each kiss a heart quake . . .
Byron’s words came back to her.
And then, to her frustration, he lowered his hand and let her go. She had an impulse to take his hand and return it to her face, and it was only with an effort of will that she was able to resist. But she could not turn away from him.
What had happened? she asked herself, as she looked into his eyes. Why had he touched her? Why had he stroked her face? He was a strange man; secretive and haunted; but also a man of strong feelings, and a man who could arouse strong feelings in return . . .
Aloud, she said: ‘I should go back to the castle.’
‘We will go back together.’
He untethered his horse and they began to walk, and without willing it to be so, Helena found her steps coinciding with his. She felt wrapped around by an energy that encompassed them both, and for the first time in her life she knew she was not alone.
They walked on in silence, and she was seized by a strange thought, that it could be a thousand years in the past, or a thousand years in the future, and she would never know, for the moor was unchanging, a primitive landscape outside of time and place. She would not be surprised to see an elf or a hobgoblin walking across her path, some figure from folk tale long forgotten by civilization but remembered here, in the wilds, on an isolated pocket of land.
They walked in through the archway and the spell was broken, for there before them lay the castle, and in the courtyard, the maids were busy working. A groom came from the direction of the stables to take Lord Torkrow’s horse. He relinquished the reins, and they went into the castle together. Once over the threshold, they heard the banter between the footmen and the maids who were washing the floor.
She was about to retire to the housekeeper’s room when he said: ‘I need to speak to you about the arrangement of the rooms for the ball.’
For a moment she thought it was a ruse, because he was finding it as hard to part from her as she was finding it to part from him, but his manner had returned to normal, and she quickly dismissed the idea.
‘You will attend me in five minutes,’ he said.
‘Very well, my lord.’
She had time only to divest herself of her outdoor clothes before she went into the library, where he was waiting for her. The fire was dancing, the large flames licking the inner walls of the fireplace and filling the room with their crackling.
‘The dancing will be held in the ballroom,’ he said. ‘It will need to be cleaned and polished. I will not have it disgracing the castle. The supper will be laid out in the dining-room. My overnight guests will dine with me at four o’clock, which will give you time to clear the room and arrange it for the ball before my other guests arrive.’
She had not expected him to take such a personal interest in the ball, but as there was no mistress of the house, she realized that he had no choice. He seemed to take no pleasure in it, but to regard it as a duty to his neighbours and a tribute to his ancestors.
‘The ball will not finish until about three o’clock in the morning, but my overnight guests will require breakfast. Their servants will collect it from the kitchen, probably some time after mid-day.’
She listened as he told her of the castle traditions, and she noted everything he said, but all the time she was thinking of his hand raised to her face and the feel of his skin on hers, and wondering what it would feel like if he kissed her.
‘I will be going away for a few days, or possibly longer, but I will back before the ball,’ he said at last.
‘Very good, my lord,’ she said, wondering where he was going.
He did not enlighten her, and she turned to go, but he said: ‘I have not dismissed you.’
He sat down in a wing chair which was set on one side of the fire, and motioned her to sit in the other.
‘I don’t think I should sit,’ she s
aid.
‘But I have chosen to do so, and as I have no intention of getting a stiff neck from looking up at you, you will oblige me,’ he said.
She hesitated, then she smoothed her skirt beneath her and sat down on the edge of a chair.
‘Do you need to take another book from the library, or are you still reading Le Morte d’Arthur?’ he asked.
‘I am still reading it, my lord. I have almost finished it - I read in the evenings when my work is done,’ she added.
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. ‘I was not about to castigate you for neglecting your duties. I am glad you have had a chance to begin. I am interested to know what you think of it.’
‘I am enjoying it. It is very pleasant to be spirited out of this world and into another for a time.’
‘This world does not suit you?’ he asked.
‘It has its trials,’ she said cautiously.
His reply was ironic. ‘So it does. Very well. You like it for transporting you to another world. You do not find the tales realistic, then?’
She was surprised by the question, for the stories of knights and ladies, kings and queens, wizards and magic were far removed from reality.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I think, perhaps, I do.’ His shoulders sank, and his eyes turned in. ‘Love is at the heart of the stories. Love of power. Love of men. Love of women. It is strange the things that love can do to a man, the journeys on which it can take him, the things it can make him feel and do. It is not a gentle thing, but a wild animal, without reason or pity. It rends and tears, making a mockery of goodness, destroying people. Love is a terrible thing.’
He fell silent, but was roused by a knocking at the door.
‘Come!’ he called.
Miss Parkins entered the room. She looked at Helena with hostility, and Helena felt her skin crawl, for she felt certain that Miss Parkins was her enemy. The woman’s eyes might be dead, but Helena could feel her malice as a living thing.
Why does she not like me? Helena thought. Is she jealous of his lordship’s servants? Or does she suspect I am not who I claim to be?