The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel (2 page)

When I broke this news to Lorenzo he reacted with rage, dragging me back to London and forcing me to appeal to all my society friends for any help that they could give. None was forthcoming. I found myself an outcast. Even the Marches abandoned me, refusing to acknowledge any of the supplicating letters I sent. We took lodgings in Blackfriars, a single squalid room. It was the best that we could afford, since our marriage had cost Lorenzo his popularity in society salons. We survived as best we could on the little he earned from his occasional concerts and pupils, but his temper grew increasingly unpredictable and all my youth and liveliness was worn down by constant work and unending thrift.

It was no surprise when your father abandoned me. He had often expressed his desire to return to Italy, and in truth I was prepared to go with him, thinking that life there could scarcely be harder than that which we already endured. But he did not ask me to accompany him. He simply left. One morning I woke to find him gone, and all his belongings with him. I had not yet realised that I carried his child, and to this day I do not believe that he knows of your existence. I appealed to my family once again, informing them of my husband’s desertion… but to little avail. I received a reply from

my eldest brother, your Uncle Thomas, telling me that he could not readmit me to the family as it would be too distressing to our Mama, but he offered me a small annuity on condition that I did not attempt to contact our mother again. It broke my heart to accept his terms, but with a child to care for what else could I do?  I removed to Lisson Grove, to this house, and gave it out that I was a widow so that you would not be born under a cloud of shame.”

I knew that Mama was approaching the end of her tale. Drowsily, I let my eyes flutter open.

“I tell you my sad history, Rebecca, in the hope that you will learn from my mistakes. I have kept you sheltered from the world so that your head will not be turned by friends and lovers who may prove treacherous. I pray that you will be guided by your Mama as I was not, and that I shall be able to spare you the shame and pain that was my lot.” Mama laid down the hairbrush and patted me on the shoulder. “Now off to bed with you. No sense in staying up late, you’ll get lines round your eyes if you strain them to see in this light.”

I placed a kiss on her cool cheek and did as I was bid.

2
Willow Castle

I

hardly saw my mother over the next week. From dawn until dusk she shut herself away in her room, wrapped up in shawls at her writing desk, furiously scribbling letter after letter to recipients unknown. I guessed that they were to her relations, family members I had never met, and prepared myself to console her when her pleas for their intervention went ungranted.

As for me, I could hardly bear to sit still and write. We were plunging deeper into winter and our little house seemed to have grown increasingly drafty with every passing year. The colder the weather grew, the harder I would concentrate on fast, vigorous tunes on the piano or on complicated dance steps, anything that kept me moving and warmed me up. With Mama so preoccupied, at least I could take over cooking – she had always insisted that a lady should never touch a stove, but someone had to ensure that we ate. For the first time in my life I visited the shops alone, purchasing ingredients on Mama’s account and relying on her battered copy of Mrs Rundell’s recipe book to guide me through the steps of preparing our meals. I found myself taking pleasure in every tiny freedom, even in burnt meat and burnt fingers, and almost began to look forward to the day when our annuity would end and Mama would have to allow me to help her, to learn to live as an adult.

I adopted Mama’s routine of visiting the post office. Day after day I would step in on my way to the butcher’s, dispatch Mama’s latest missives and ask whether any replied had arrived, and day after day the post mistress would give me a little smile and shake her head. It was such a small triumph, but for me, for a young woman who had seldom even spoken to anyone outside her home, it was a sweet-tasting victory.

*

“
Miss Lennox! Miss Lennox!” The postmistress pounced on me the moment I walked through the door, waving a letter at me. “This has arrived for your Mama! I know she will be waiting for it - there’s a penny to pay, then pray hurry home with it!” I fumbled in my purse for the penny and pushed it into her palm, staring in surprise at the envelope. I did not recognise the hand, nor the postmark – it was from Derbyshire, and I knew of no relations so far north. Forgetting all about my remaining duties, I rushed straight home.

“Mama!” I cried as I opened the door. “Mama, come quickly!”

“Rebecca!” She scolded as she bustled down the stairs. “What have I told you about raising your voice? Is something the matter? Are you hurt?”

“No, Mama, I’m sorry,” I gabbled. “It’s just – look! I thought you would wish to see this at once.” I held the letter out to her and watched as she broke the seal and unfolded it. Her eyes flicked back and forth across the paper and I wondered what to expect. If the letter had come from Norfolk, where my grandmother and uncles resided, I would have anticipated further disappointment for Mama and prepared myself to comfort her, but I did not know what to think of news from Derbyshire and in my heart I felt sure that this message was of greatest importance.

I realised that there had been something inside the letter, for there was a folded piece of paper which had fallen to the floor when it had been opened. I stooped to pick it up and unfolded it, ready to hand it to Mama, but something caught my attention – this was not another page of the letter, it was a five pound note! I stared at it, speechless. Suddenly Mama lurched forward and threw her arms around me.

“We’re saved!” she cried, squeezing me tight. “Rebecca, my darling child, we are saved! And it’s all thanks to you, my sweet girl!” I felt her damp tears wetting my hair as she buried her face in my neck. I paused. I had never known my Mama to cry before, at least not openly like this.

“Calm yourself, Mama,” I told her, guiding her over to her chair and settling her there. I laid the bank note in her lap and left her to read the letter over and over while I went to fetch her some tea. When I returned she immediately set the teacup aside and took my hands.

“Rebecca, my child,” she said, and her voice was alive with a joy I had never heard before. “Sit down and let me tell you of our great good fortune. Ever since I learned of your uncle’s unkind decision I have been appealing to our relations to intercede with him, or otherwise to help us as best they can. I had hoped for a little pecuniary aid or that I might be able to find a secure position for you that would not expose you to the horrors of the world, but the offer we have had – it surpasses all my hopes! A distant cousin of mine, Sir Montague Chastain, has written to make a proposal!”

I stared blankly at her. A proposal? I tried to imagine Mama married, sitting at the foot of the dining table while an unknown man sat at the head, a man whom I must learn to call Papa. Would she be happy? Would he have children of his own who might be company for me? Yet I wondered, did Mama consider herself free to marry? Surely not, since my real Papa was not dead. Suddenly I realised that Mama was speaking and dragged my attention back to her.

“Well?” she asked, “Should you like to be Lady Chastain?”

“Me?” I exclaimed. “But Mama, I thought you meant he had made an offer of marriage to you! Sir Montague has never met me.”

Mama tutted. “That is of little importance, child! He has never met me either. This is not a romantic gesture, it is a suitable arrangement. Look at what he says here – Sir Montague’s father recently passed away, and now he requires a bride of appropriate birth and breeding in order to have access to his inheritance. His family seat is remote and he is seldom in society, so he has formed no attachments. When I asked for his father’s help I explained that it was not simply for me, but for the benefit of my innocent daughter. I wrote in detail about your upbringing and education, I even enclosed the daguerreotype we had taken on your sixteenth birthday, hoping to elicit some sympathy.  But this! This is beyond my wildest expectations. Such fortunate timing! Sir Montague sees you as a suitable bride and is prepared to marry you to rescue us from penury and bring us back into the family.”

I stared dumbfounded at the letter. Sir Montague’s handwriting was a delicate, swirling copperplate script and the paper felt heavy and expensive between my fingers. Mama had always spent as much as we could afford on the notepaper she used to write to her relations, stressing the importance of quality, but our stationery felt cheap and flimsy next to that of the Chastains. I skimmed over his formal greetings to Mama and his offer to waive the dowry, my eyes coming to rest on his final paragraph.

Should you be amenable to these arrangements, I shall expect your arrival at Willow Castle no later than the 28th of February. I should advise you to take the train to Stockport and change there for Buxton, where you will be able to engage a carriage to convey you the rest of the way. Willow Castle lies close to Mam Tor at the head of the Hope Valley, near the village of Castleton. As a gesture of my goodwill I have enclosed a five pound note for your fares. I shall also instruct my London bank to advance you a sum of money for Miss Lennox’s trousseau. Arrangements for the ceremony shall be made upon your arrival.

“Well, Rebecca?” Mama asked. “Shall I advise Sir Montague that you accept?”

*

Of course I accepted. It had always been Mama’s fondest hope that I should marry well and live comfortably, safe from poverty. I had known from infancy that this would be my fate if only Mama could find a husband for me, and that it was a better fate by far than anything else that a girl in my position could expect. She had told me time and again of the horrors that awaited governesses and paid companions, thrust into other people’s homes, cut off from their own loved ones and subject to the unwanted attention of married men, eldest sons and male servants. She had warned me that I could not go into trade, for a woman in trade could expect nothing better than to marry a tradesman who would surely turn out to be a brute. None of these options would provide a lifetime of security, nor would they allow me to take care of Mama in her old age. A husband from our own class was our only hope, and now… it appeared I had found one.

*

Thus began a flurry of preparation. I scribbled furiously as Mama dictated a list of the things I would need: a wedding gown, shoes, gloves, corsets, crinolines, stockings, garters, a veil, a trousseau, hairbrushes, fragrance, creams and lotions, replacements for all the everyday items that would pass for Lisson Grove but not for Willow Castle. For the first time in my life I had new dresses that were not simply Mama’s old gowns remodelled. She took me into town, where we called at Sir Montague’s bank, then to Piccadilly.

“This is where my Mama brought me when we were in town for the season,” Mama told me as we swept through the doors of Swan & Edgar. “Not for dresses, of course. We had the best seamstresses in the city call upon us for that. But we visited Swan & Edgar for all sort of things – ribbons, bonnets, gloves, all the things you will now need. Now that so much time has passed I no longer know which are the best seamstresses, but doubtless we shall find some in Derbyshire. In the meantime, we can outfit you here so you will be presentable when you meet Sir Montague.”

I had grown used to the shop in Lisson Grove, where the shopkeepers chatted to their customers, exchanged gossip and yelled orders to the shop boys. Shops were noisy, bubbling hives of activity, but Swan & Edgar was another matter. It was serene and elegant, laid out across several storeys. Assistants glided noiselessly across the floor and conversed with customers in hushed tones. Within minutes we were seated on overstuffed couches watching a parade of young women modelling the latest fashions, while Mama indicated her choices by discreet gestures. Seamstresses whipped out measuring tapes and flung them round me, draped dresses against me, pinned hats on my head. By the time we left I felt quite ashamed of my plain cotton day dress but quite thrilled by my new wardrobe, neatly packed into long rectangular boxes.

The assistants asked if we would like our packages delivered, but Mama refused to give them our real address. “Our home is in Derbyshire,” she informed them grandly. “Willow Castle, you may have heard of it? To have them delivered there would take too long, we shall simply take them with us. Pack them into our trunks and call us a cab, if you would be so good.”

We had bought brand new trunks, shiny beige leather with thick brown straps, deep enough to hold all the possessions I had ever had. Seeing them being loaded into a hackney cab was exciting, but nowhere near as thrilling as seeing them being carried off by railway porters a week later.

I had been on a train before – only once, though. Mama and I had been overwhelmed by curiosity when the new underground railway had opened between Paddington and Farringdon, two years earlier. I hadn’t liked that much. It was dark and crowded and the flickering gaslight cast eerie shadows on the walls of the tunnels. The train we took from London to Stockport was a different experience altogether! We travelled first class thanks to Sir Montague, sitting in a spacious compartment where I could sit opposite Mama and watch the countryside rushing past me, flowing backwards towards London. Never having been out of London, I had only ever seen the countryside in illustrations in Mama’s books and the couple of cheap prints that had decorated our home.
 

Thinking of the house in Lisson Grove made me sad for a moment. I had not expected to experience sorrow upon leaving it, but when we locked the door for the last time I had felt a strange wave of melancholy wash over me. Mama dropped the keys through the letterbox for the landlord to find, and as I heard the snap of metal on metal and knew that the door would never open to us again, I suddenly felt that I would miss the place, the only home I had ever known. Gazing out at the rural beauty beyond the window and comparing it to the industrial sprawls that we passed through every time the train reached a city, I set my sorrow aside.
 Willow Castle, I thought. I am certain that it will be a beautiful place. 

We changed at Stockport and arrived at Buxton, where the station still had the gloss of newness upon it. As I stepped off the train I took a deep breath of air so fresh and sweet that I wished I had been breathing it all my life. What awaited us beyond the station was a smart little spa town full of steep hills and elegant people. I had assumed that we would proceed directly to Willow Castle as per Sir Montague’s instructions, but Mama had other plans.
 

“
We shall go to a hotel tonight,” she informed me. “It is getting late, and I would not wish for us to arrive in the middle of dinner and begin our acquaintance with Sir Montague by inconveniencing him. Besides, we are dusty from the train. We shall take a room somewhere and you can bathe and then tomorrow we shall engage a carriage to complete our journey.”

We found rooms in a magnificent building, the Old Hall Hotel. Mama ordered dinner to be brought to our suite and arranged for a bath to be drawn before a blazing fire. Stepping into the hot water, cloudy with mineral salts, felt like washing off a lifetime of London grime. Emerging from the water to wrap myself in warmed linen and sit snug before the fire, watching the flickering flames as I let my hair dry, was luxury itself. Silently I blessed Sir Montague for coming to my rescue. That night, when I curled up beneath the down coverlet in the soft hotel bed, I gave myself over to ecstatic thoughts of my husband-to-be. He had saved me from poverty and I promised myself that I would repay him by becoming as perfect a wife as any man could wish for.