Nachtstürm Castle (7 page)

The ribbon, which had caught Henry’s attention initially, was perhaps five years old – if the creases and dust within the knot could be trusted. But some hand had obviously touched the package recently, for no dust had settled upon the missives, and a few of the creases had been caressed into gentle curves.

“Should we open them?” Henry asked, perching on the bed and examining the package. Outside, the rain was still slapping at the window, contrasting violently with the warm interior.

Catherine joined him, looking over his shoulder. She was still shaken over the whole incident – and more than a little sheepish that she should
be
shaken – but far more curious than anything. “Certainly, my love! What do they contain, do you think?”

He hesitated and regarded her, “
Should
I open them? When that room was occupied at least this past week – unless the fruit prove false? I doubt now that I should have taken them at all.”

“I am certain they were meant to be found and read, my dearest,” replied Catherine with a smile. “And if you have any compunction, you may return them later.”

“Now that the door is closed and locked? I doubt we shall ever find our way there again! But, perhaps…since we
cannot
return the letters, we might see what they contain?”

Catherine voiced emphatic agreement, and with much misgiving and anticipation, Henry pushed the ribbon to one side and slid out the topmost letter. The paper was worn about the edges, and smelt faintly of must, but was otherwise in tact. Carefully, Henry folded back the sheet...

...and laughed.

“It’s in Italian!” he cried. “I’m afraid, my darling, we shall not be appeased this morning.”

Catherine sighed. “They cannot
all
be in Italian – can they? Surely there is one in German, or English.”

Six more letters proved Catherine partially correct. For the first three letters, including the original, were Italian poetry of the same hand. “Petrarchian, by the looks of it,” Henry said, examining the foreign words. “And waxing eloquent on love, if I may guess – although given the language, that’s hardly a surprise.
 
Oh, but this one is the same as that, and not as old.
 
A different hand as well, I think.
 
I’m very afraid, Catherine, that someone has been poaching poems.”

“Do you think it is Young Will?” Catherine asked.

“Unless Edric is of an unforeseen romantic bent,” Henry replied, rifling through the letters.

The mention of that man brought a shiver of fear to our heroine’s heart, quite unsought, and she asked, “Do you trust him?”

“Whom?” came the reply.

“Edric,” Catherine answered.

“I hardly know
whom
to trust,” Henry sighed, letting the letters fall from his hands.
 
“Nor should I be upset, darling, if
you
should prefer to quit this place, although we’ve only just arrived.”

“Quit Nachtstürm!” Catherine laughed, although her heart was hardly in it.
 
Nervously, she rifled through her precious
Udolpho
, flipping from bookmark to bookmark: now a sheaf of papers, now crushed violets, now a bit of embroidery floss.
 
“No, no, Henry.
 
Do not think it.
 
Believe me, I am very eager to solve this mystery!
 
But look here,” she continued, taking a rather thicker set of letters from him, upon which was written some sort of legal document in German, the final page of which was signed with a great flourish, “Wilhelm Wiltford, Baron Brandenburg.”

“There!” Catherine exclaimed, “Baron!”

“And alliterative also,” Henry agreed.
 
“But I doubt that it was the William
we
know who signed this document.
 
Regard the date, my love.
 
He would have been a suckling child!”

“But that he
should
be Baron, I am quite certain!” Catherine asserted, winding her arms pensively around her beloved.

 
“But that he is
not
Baron, nor has he proved that his name let alone the title is his.”

Catherine had no chance to respond, however, due to Colin well nigh flying through the door.
  
“I found me a lass!” that good man panted, pointing urgently behind him. “A lass, a lass – bonny, wee lass!”

“Careful there, Colin,” Henry said, laying aside the letters. “Whom have you found?”

“A lass!”

“Yes, you’ve said as much.”

“A bright–eyed, red–cheeked, bonny
English
lass! Oh!
 
A fairer thing I’ve ne’er seen!”

Catherine and Henry exchanged puzzled glances, before Henry said, “
English?
”

“Aye – and as sweet a girl...”

“Yes, yes, I see. You are quite enamoured of her. And I’m sure she made an excellent porridge, which you either ate or forgot downstairs. I don’t suppose you happened to ask her why she was here?”

“’Course I did. I said, ‘Betty, m’girl,’ – for her name’s Betty, so she told me right off – I said, ‘Betty, what’rt tha doing
here?
’ And she said, ‘Lord Branning and his missus fair brought me.’ And then she asked if I’d like a bit of bacon with m’porridge. And, I accepted.”

“Quite eloquent, Colin,” Henry applauded. “And did you happen to ask why the Brannings brought her?
 
Or rather, why they left her here?”

“No sir! For I saw no reason, Nachtstürm being such a huge, massy thing, and it being full of such queer folk – seemed to me that ‘twould of been stranger for them Brannings to of brought nowt at all!
 
For they’re not them as would settle for a zimmel and beer for their breakfast!”

“I would,” Catherine said.

“Oh, Missus Tilney! I plum forgot. Begging yer pardon, ‘shuldigun, as it were. I’ll be back in a twinkle!” And with that, Colin left, whistling.

“That man,” Henry said, shaking his head and returning to his wife, “has travelled with me to more places, and who knows where he’s gone previous to my employment, and as a result is the most interesting study in linguistics and colloquialisms. I shouldn’t wonder if he isn’t spouting off Germanic phrases within a fortnight.”

Catherine, though, had stood and was pacing the room – glancing out the window to the perilous gloom beyond.
 
A strange look overcame her brow as she pieced together all the bizarre occurrences of the past day and a half.
 
In the half–light of the candles and the shadows of the rain, her features took on a paler, marble cast – emphasised by her white nightgown and her glossy black hair.
 
So statuesque she stood, finally saying, “How
did
you find me, Henry?”

He – who had ceased from examining the letters to marvel at her beauty, and to wonder again at the undeniable resemblance between the girl, the portrait and his wife answered, “William, of course.”

“William!”

“Yes, he rushed in the room like a great bear, and dragged me out of bed (a most unpleasant awakening), and nearly threw me through the wall and into that young lady. I confess,” he continued, folding the letters thoughtfully, “I confess I quite thought she was
you
. I’m afraid I must have given her quite as much a fright as she gave me.”

Catherine started, turning abruptly from the window. “You didn’t...that is...Henry, you did not....”

“I only called her by your name, darling.
 
And took her hand.
 
She drew back and spoke – and that was quite enough to convince me of my error. That, and William was growling.
 
I might ask
you
,” he said, “how you ever managed to find yourself in such a predicament?”

“The wall was open,” Catherine said, and laughed. “Oh, but let’s not talk of this. I am quite befuddled, Henry!”

“As am I, my love,” he responded.

“I doubt that.”

“You are much too kind,” he bowed. “But even
my
mind is whirling. Look, here, dearest,” she obliged, returning to his side and glancing at pages he held out, including the one with the Baron’s signature. “Do you not see something rather odd?”

“A smudge by the edges, but nothing else. You know I do not read German.”

“But you can distinguish between one language and another, by sight?”

“Indeed.”

“Then look again.”

Catherine was no dull woman, and after a few minutes of inspection cried, “There is the repetition of several Italian phrases, if that is what you mean.”

“And a singular phrase, that seems to me suspiciously like a name.”

“I see no Fortuna, love,” Catherine smiled.

“She may be smiling on us yet,” Henry rejoined, the colour rising in his cheeks. “What name do you read?”

She answered, Cecelia. “A common enough name.”

“Common, true.
 
But, look, here,” producing the first sheet with the Baron’s name, “it is Cecelia Durande, and here,” rifling back to a sonnet, “it’s Cecelia Wiltford!”

“Young Will’s mother, do you think? Oh, but Old Edric said that the old Baron never married.”

“It might be the other way around, my love. She might have been a Wiltford, wooed by these sonnets to exchange her name for Durande.”

“How very odd,” Catherine agreed. Then casting a sidelong glance at Henry she added, “But perhaps I should cleave to my own opinions, lest you spoil the game!”

Henry’s brow drew together as he said, “This is as much a mystery to me, Catherine….”

“Of course it is, my dear. Of course.”

“Catherine,” he began, the strangest thought creeping to his mind. “Do you suspect that
I
….”

But alas, there came a knock at the door and the visage of Old Edric, looking more sour and dreadful in the half–light of the ill day than he had in his customary environs of the evening.

The human mind is a strange thing, wont to summon ghouls as soon as the sun has fled, and just as ready to laugh at its own misgivings when the light is returned. But it is peculiar in this regard as well – for the mind so often fools itself, that when presented with a reality, it supposes there a fantasy, rather than believe the oddity before it. Thus the stony gargoyle is given credence and the angel much disputed.

No angel greeted our heroes now though – no, nor gargoyle dismissed by waking, but Old Edric whose sharp eyes flit around the room as his thin lips mouthed greetings. “I had been informed you were awake,” he began, bowing. “I had no thought of interrupting you.” They assured him he had done no such thing and that it was far past time for them to rise as it was. He smiled in an attempt at similar joviality – an effect ruined by his sudden focus on the opened letters. For a moment, but a moment only, his face blanched – but perhaps that was a trick of the rain – for he bowed quickly, inviting them for a more thorough tour of the castle once they had breakfasted. They agreed, and quickly set about their long–delayed toilettes.

A half–hour found them following Old Edric down the winding passages to the “lesser” dining chamber, which he assured them was more intimate than the great dining hall that was complete with dais. “Intimate,” however, was not the word either Henry or Catherine would have employed when describing the Lesser Hall. So accustomed were they to the comfortable domesticity of Woodston that the long table, replete with lit candelabras, the huge fireplace and the impossibly high ceiling seemed to distance the newlyweds, even though someone had thoughtfully set their chairs cornered to one another. Old Edric hovered about them, watching each mouthful and every sip, ready to motion to a servant to whisk away this plate or that, or to refill the glass before it was emptied. Only twice did he leave them – once to reprimand a nervous serving boy and again to speak briefly to Helga.