Castle of Secrets (17 page)

‘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 said.

‘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?

‘A letter has
arrived by messenger, my lord. It has come from
York
.’

There was a
sudden change in him; so sudden that
Helena
was shocked. His eyes flicked to hers, and it was as though
a shutter had come down between them, breaking the bond that had been forming
since their meeting in the graveyard.

‘Thank you,
Miss Parkins.’ He turned to
Helena
, and said coldly: ‘You have your instructions, Mrs Reynolds.
You know all you need to know for the ball.’

‘Very good, my
lord.’

Helena
rose, but as she left the
room, she did not miss the look of malevolent triumph on Miss Parkins’s face.

What news
has arrived from
York
?
she wondered.
And what does it mean for me?

Simon waited only for the door to
close, and then he broke the seal on the letter and read it.

‘Well?’ asked
Miss Parkins.

‘Mr Brunson
has recovered and has returned to work,’ he said. ‘He is at my disposal. I
think I will not see him here, it will seem odd, and I do not want anyone
alerted to our suspicions. I will go to
York
instead. I will be able to get a
description of Mrs Reynolds, and find out if she is the woman we have in the
castle or not. I will go first thing tomorrow. And what of you? Have you
discovered anything?’

‘Nothing. She
sent a letter to a friend, but it divulged very little.’

‘You read it?’

‘Of course,
but I sealed it again afterwards.’

‘And there was
nothing incriminating?’

He saw her
mind working behind her eyes.

‘There was one
strange sentence. She said she had not found what she was looking for, but did
not despair of finding it.’

His expression
darkened.

‘It could mean
she knows . . . ’ He shook his head ‘ . . . or it could mean nothing more than
a lost shawl. Has she had a reply.’

‘Yes. I did
not manage to read it before she saw it.’

‘A pity. Never
mind. We must continue to be vigilant.’

Miss Parkins’s
look was derisory.

She knows I
lowered my guard
, he thought.
I should not have done it. But there is something about
Mrs Reynolds . . . if she is Mrs Reynolds
, he reminded himself.

‘Very good,
Miss Parkins. That will be all.’

‘Very good, my
lord.’

As the door
closed behind her,  he walked over to the fire. His brother’s death had been a
terrible thing. And his sister-in-law’s death had been worse.

And now . . .
who was in the castle with him? Was it Mrs Reynolds? Or was the woman in the
housekeeper’s room someone else entirely?

Helena
was woken by the noise of hail
pelting against the window and pulled the covers up over her ears. The sound
was dispiriting; even more so when she shook away the last vestiges of sleep
and remembered that it was Sunday, and that she had been hoping to go to
church, so that she could talk to the villagers about her aunt. If the weather
did not improve, that would be impossible, and she would have to remain in the
castle, where she was in danger of being tangled up in the dark mysteries that
hung about it. And, even worse, where she was in danger of becoming attracted
to Lord Torkrow.

In danger
of becoming attracted to him?
she thought, scoffing at herself. She was attracted to him
already. There was no use denying her feelings, for they had undergone a change
since arriving at the castle, turning from apprehension to intrigue, and then
to something more.

It was compassion,
she told herself firmly, nothing more than a kindly sympathy for a man who had
had to carry the news of two deaths in one night. But it was no good. She knew
it was not compassion, it was something much deeper.

She threw back
the covers and climbed out of bed. At least the cold and the damp took her
thoughts away from their other, more disturbing, subjects.

She washed and
dressed quickly, then went downstairs to the kitchen. Over breakfast, Mrs Beal
remarked that she would need more help in the kitchen as the ball approached,
and she and Helena arranged for all the maids to spend a spell in the kitchen,
so that Mrs Beal could choose the most useful girl to help her as the time drew
near.

‘The men will
all have to learn how to carry a tray,’ Mrs Beal reminded her.

Helena
nodded, but her thoughts
were less placid than her expression suggested. She knew she could not stay at
the castle forever, and if not for the ball she would be thinking of leaving
already, for she had explored almost every avenue of information open to her.
She did not feel she could leave Lord Torkrow without a housekeeper at such a
time, but once the ball was over she would hand in her notice and return to
Manchester
.

‘And make sure
they know how to behave,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘No talking to his lordship’s guests.
It’s a good thing he’s going away, it will make it easier for us to get on.’

‘I didn’t know
he was going away?’

‘He always
sends word to the kitchen. He’s a good master that way, though he can’t say
when he’ll be back. Gone for a few days, anyway.’

Helena
did not know whether to
be relieved or disappointed. He affected her in curious ways. He was secretive
and alarming, but he moved her, too, and that was something no one else had
ever done.

She finished
her breakfast and then, leaving the kitchen behind her, she decided to revisit
the east wing of the attic, in case she had missed anything. She found the door
as she had left it. Ignoring the broken lock she went in, examining the
blankets and pieces of broken furniture, then looking for other tell-tale signs
that someone had been there. She breathed on the windows, remembering the times
she and her aunt had written messages to each other in the steam when she had
been a child. She recalled that, once the steam had gone, the messages
remained, to be revealed the next time the window misted over. But there was
nothing.