Come to Castlemoor Read online

  I suddenly remembered Bertie Rawlins. I asked Alan if he knew him.

  “Aye, Bertie,” he said. “Everyone knows him, more or less. He don’t have no particular friends. He works at the factory turnin’ a pottery wheel all day long and goes home to an empty cottage that’s fulla dirty dishes and old rags. His parents died, you see, and his brother worked at the castle and never came around, and bein’ all alone like that sorta unhinged Bertie. He’s a harmless lad, but there’s those who say stayin’ to himself all the time’s bad for him. None of the girls’ll have anything to do with him, and some of the children laugh at him and throw rocks at his cottage, call ’im a loony. He’s a poor sight, Bertie is. Why do you ask, Miss Kathy?”

  “I—just wondered. What happened to his brother? You said he worked at the castle. Doesn’t he work there anymore?”

  “He was a stable boy. They say Rodd discharged him because he showed too much interest in the Italian girl. Wouldn’t surprise me none if it was true. Jamie was a fine lad, quiet, polite, but he seemed to smolder, sorta. You know what I mean? He seemed to be fulla somethin’ that threatened to burst out, wudn’t content to work in the stables, wanted to do somethin’ better. Maybe he thought the girl could help ’im. I don’t know. Anyway, he lost his job and came back to Darkmead, Jamie did, and stayed with Bertie a few days. The arrangement didn’t suit ’im, though, and he left for other parts, thinkin’ he could find better employment somewhere else, I guess, as Rodd wasn’t about to let him work at the factory.”

  “He left?”

  “Just up and left one night without a fare-thee-well to anyone. He was like that. Independent as all get-out.”

  “I see,” I replied.

  I dismissed the subject from my mind. Everything was explained now. I was able to fit the pieces together. My brother had worked himself into a state of mental fatigue, and he had allowed the superstitions of the local people to take root in his mind. His work suffered from this, and he destroyed the manuscript. That’s why I hadn’t been able to find it. It didn’t exist any longer. Jamie had been a robust stable boy who had undoubtedly tried to take advantage of a disturbed young girl, and after his dismissal he had stayed in Darkmead just long enough to see that it didn’t have much to offer a lad with his ambitions. His brother shrouded the whole incident with his delusions, weaving it into a fantastic tale. Everything was perfectly clear.

  I looked at the moors we were passing over, marveling again at their terrible power. They seemed to have the ability to seep into the minds of people, distorting, building fantasy. The inhabitants of Darkmead, Nicola, Bertie Rawlins, my own brother—they had all been affected by this curious terrain. Even Bella had imagined a ghostly figure in white. I closed my eyes, upset, exhausted, wanting to shut everything out.

  I couldn’t shut out the image of Edward Clark. I found myself looking forward to seeing him again, and at the same time I hoped he wouldn’t come. My calm, orderly life had just recently been thrown into an emotional confusion by my brother’s death and all that followed, and I was just now taking hold again, restoring order. I wasn’t sure I was ready to welcome the kind of joy and anguish I knew, already, Edward Clark was capable of bringing into my life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Edward Clark came to call the next day, and the next. When he came through the door, the narrow entrance hall seemed to diminish in size, and the sitting room, clean and comfortable with its beige wallpaper and white-painted furniture, seemed to take on the proportions of a doll house. He sat on the lime-green sofa, and I feared it would collapse under his great weight. He walked about the room, examining the black-and-white etchings on the walls, touching the white milk-glass vases, and the room seemed like an elegantly appointed cage designed to confuse and confine a panther. On the first day he brought me an autographed copy of his book on Celtic folklore, on the second he brought a bunch of long-stemmed yellow roses which I promptly put in one of the milk-glass vases.

  He was charming and completely at ease, yet I sensed a certain restlessness about him, as though his energy was so great he had to repress it, keep it under careful control when he was engaged in something as sedentary as talking with a young woman. His large hands with their broad palms and strong sinuous fingers seemed to have a life of their own. They gripped the edge of the sofa, stroked the worn nap of the cloth, rubbed the hard, polished surface of his leather boots. They didn’t merely touch, they made contact. They were capable of crushing, capable of caressing with silken gentility. Even in repose, resting at his sides, they seemed eager to leap into action. I thought again how incongruous it was that such a man should have chosen the academic life full of books and quiet and thoughts when he would seem to be more suited for digging canals or building stone houses or fighting the enemy as a professional soldier.

  Edward discussed his work. He brought manuscript copies of several of the folk songs he had collected here, each carefully annotated with a history of its origin. They were very similar to Elizabethan ballads, with an earthier, more direct quality than those smooth-flowing, prosaic pieces. He told fascinating stories about how he had collected them. He had heard a group of children singing one as they played around the blacksmith’s shop, had bought candy for them, and had them recite all the verses while he hastily transcribed them into his notebook. A drunken factory worker bellowed one of the songs at the inn, hurling the Anglo-Saxon phrases about the room in a blustering, whiskey-sodden voice. For the price of a few drinks he sang the song over and over again until Edward had every word captured on paper. The songs reflected the interests and attitudes of the people who had lived here hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and when the collection was finished and published, Edward’s book would be a valuable contribution. He was doing something worthwhile and, apparently, having a great deal of fun with it.

  “The folk songs, the ballads, the nursery rhymes, are the history of the country in capsule form,” he told me. “A love song written by a young peasant for the daughter of landed gentry can tell us more about social attitudes than volumes of factual reconstruction of a period.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Someday,” he continued, “the raucous songs they sing in the music halls today will provide a far greater insight into the true Victorian character than any number of documented historical studies.”

  “That’s an interesting theory,” I said, “though I have my reservations about it.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s a grand way to make a living. People have an insatiable curiosity about the past, perhaps because the present’s so drab. My books feed that curiosity—and they’re fun to read.”

  “When will you be finished with this one?” I inquired.

  “I have a few more weeks of work here, a few more leads I must follow up, and then I’ll go back to London and spend several months haunting the book rooms and libraries to authenticate what I’ve gathered. My publishers will have the completed manuscript in about six months.”

  He spread his palms over his knees, leaned forward a little. Locks of burned-blond hair tumbled in a heap on his forehead. “I hope to gather quite a lot of material at the festival in Darkmead next week,” he said.

  “Festival?”

  “Perhaps that’s too grand a word. It’s market day, and after the goods have been sold, the barters made, the profits turned, a bonfire is lighted and folk dances are performed in front of the blaze. It’s all rather primitive. You might enjoy it.”

  “It sounds intriguing.”

  “You’ll come with me?”

  “I’d love to,” I replied.

  Edward talked about his rooms at the castle. He had a study in one of the towers, a round room with high, slitted windows, filled with books and hung with ancient tapestries. A flight of circular stairs led to his bedroom, directly above the study, damp, slightly moldy, crowded with ancient furniture. Conversation turned naturally to the people at Castlemoor, and I learned that his second cousin, Dorothea, had become a recluse because of the smallpox that had marred her once-
perfect face. As a very young woman she had traveled to Egypt and Arabia in high-buttoned boots and veiled hats, and even now, as a recluse, found life far more exciting and stimulating than most people Edward knew. He spoke of her diamond-hard mind, her sharp tongue, her devilish sense of irony. She sounded like a fascinating, enigmatic woman.

  He had very little in common with her son, Burton Rodd, and I sensed that the two men did not get along at all well. Edward described Rodd as a hard, cold, realistic man whose life evolved around the factory, whose only other interests were the complicated business and financial transactions he carried on with London firms via the mail. He was a man without poetry, a man whose occasional fleshly indulgences were as sterile and devoid of emotion as his business deals. Edward hinted that Rodd resented his presence at the castle and that the two of them had had words. I wondered if any man could be as black as Burton Rodd had been presented by everyone who spoke of him to me. Surely there were shadings. Surely no man could be all that bad. I found myself wondering about him more and more.

  I asked Edward about Nicola, without letting on that I had already met her. His face looked grim, weary, his mouth a straight line, his eyes dark. She was very disturbed, he said, had always been. The “school” she attended in London for several years had, in reality, been a kind of private hospital, the “teachers” especially trained nuns who were adept in dealing with the overly sensitive, the deluded, the young who carried a private anguish inside themselves. Nicola had “graduated” and been sent back to Castlemoor, only to grow worse. She had developed a girlish crush on a young stable boy who had tried to take advantage of her. The boy had been dismissed, and she saw the whole thing as a conspiracy against her. Edward shook his head, a crease between his brows. I could see that he was genuinely fond of Nicola, genuinely concerned with her welfare.

  “She needs to get away from here,” he said. “She needs to be taken somewhere where there’s bright sunshine and color, music and laughter. She was born with those things as her natural heritage, then brought to a grim place the very opposite of what her nature demanded. I worry about Nicola. Sometimes I wonder if it’s too late for her.…” His voice trailed off, and he was lost in thought. I found his expression touching.

  Bella came into the room after he left that second day. She tried to conceal her curiosity, but she couldn’t repress the lively sparkle in her eyes. Bella thrived on romance. Now that she sensed one in the offing for me, she could hardly control herself. I felt she wanted to dance around the room and clap her hands in glee, and I was amused at the way she restrained herself. She stepped over to the bouquet of yellow roses, touched the sleek petals, then wandered over to the brass cage and watched the birds swing on their swing and peck at their seed. She stuck her finger between the wires. The brown bird perched on it, the gold one pecked at it gently, and the yellow bird ignored it completely. Bella seemed to be absorbed in her study of the lovely creatures.

  “What do you think of Mr. Clark?” I asked after a moment.

  She whirled around, birds abruptly dismissed from her thoughts.

  “Oh, Miss Kathy, I think he’s simply grand. Fancy him bringing roses! It’s ever so romantic.”

  “It was just a gesture—politeness.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, no, he’s smitten. It’s as plain as the nose on your face! The way he looks at you, the way he says one thing and means somethin’ else. I can tell.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating.”

  “Didn’t he ask you to go to the festival with him?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Well—uh—”

  “Bella!” I cried in mock horror. “You’ve been eavesdropping!”

  “Not really. I was dustin’ the hall table, you see, the one right near the door to this room, and the door was open, and—”

  “How long did it take you to dust the table?” I asked casually.

  “About thirty minutes,” she admitted, grinning pertly. “It was very dusty,” she added.

  I smiled, wishing I could look stern and reproving. I couldn’t, not with Bella.

  “You may as well forget all that nonsense,” I told her. “Mr. Clark thinks of me as a friend—we’ve interests in common—and even if he did have another kind of relationship in mind, I wouldn’t be interested. I have the book to write—I intend to start on it immediately—and I’m not interested in anything else right now, not at all.”

  Bella smiled and looked very wise. She shook her head slowly from side to side, as though despairing of my total naïveté. “You always were able to fool yourself, Miss Kathy,” she said.

  “Don’t be impudent, Bella,” I said sharply. “What are we having for dinner?”

  “Baked ham and biscuits,” she replied, “and I wasn’t bein’ impudent. I was merely statin’ facts.”

  That night I thought about what Bella had said and wondered if there could be any truth in it. No, no, of course not. Bella was a dear girl, but quite silly and frivolous, addicted to penny-dreadful romances and tabloids, without the least conception of the really important things. The important thing now, for me, was to do the book Donald had wanted to do, do it in memory of him, do it as well as possible. I had no time for romance, despite Edward Clark’s magnetic charms.… I really couldn’t be bothered, I told myself, and I went to sleep resolved to put all foolish notions out of my mind.

  When I woke up early the next morning, I could hear Bella busy clattering in the kitchen. The sun had just come up, and everything was hazy, the mist lifting layer by layer, the air cold and invigorating. I washed and brushed my hair and put on an old dress of dull-gold linen, brown daisies scattered over the skirt. Feeling none of the lethargy that ordinarily afflicted me in the morning, I hurried down the stairs and burst into the kitchen. Bella looked startled, then concerned, sure something was wrong with me. I gave her a radiant smile, had a cup of coffee, and then went into the study for notebook, sketch pad, and pencils. I had been here a week now and hadn’t yet visited the ruins. I intended to do so today. I asked Bella to pack a sack lunch for me. She was displeased when I explained my project to her.

  “I just don’t think you should, Miss Kathy, not by yourself.”

  “Why ever not? It’s absurd—”

  “All sorts of things happen at those ruins—Alan’s told me tales! You have no business goin’ to that terrible place alone.”

  “Nonsense. I want to start the book as soon as possible, and I need to study the ruins before I start reading about them. There’s not any reason on earth why I shouldn’t.”

  “There’s plenty!” she protested. “I just have a feelin’—”

  I shook my head, smiling. “I think this place is getting to you, Bella,” I teased. “First you see a figure in white, and now you have premonitions. A strong, sensible girl like you! You really must take hold.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t a told you about that figure in white,” she said, pouting sulkily. “I was tired, and kinda uneasy after all that talk about ghosts, and I told you I knew it wasn’t real. This is different.”

  “Would you like to come with me?” I asked merrily.

  “No, thank you,” she retorted. “I don’t want anything to do with those stones! I can’t understand why you’re so cheerful at this hour of the morning. It makes me nervous.”

  “I’m just eager to get started. Have you packed the lunch yet?”

  “I’m gettin’ to it,” she said grumpily. “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, Miss Kathy, I just don’t understand you. You’re as pretty as a picture, and that’s a fact—”

  “Why, thank you, Bella!”

  “—and the world’s full of books,” she continued. “I can’t see why you want to shut yourself up for months and months and work and lose sleep and grow all tired and pale just to write another one.”

  “Bella, you disappoint me! I thought you were proud of my intellect. I heard you bragging about it to Alan.”

  “Intellect’s f
ine and dandy when you’re sittin’ by yourself. There’s a man in the picture now, and such a marvelous man, too. That makes everything different.”

  “Heresy,” I said, enjoying the banter. “You think I should toss everything aside just because a man is—rather, might be—interested in me? Why, if it were left up to you, women would always remain just where they are now, servants, playthings.”

  Bella raised her eyes to the ceiling, as though imploring heaven to give her strength. I couldn’t help laughing. She looked properly offended by the sound. She was a treasure, and her impudence was a great part of her charm. She wrapped sandwiches and dropped them in a paper sack with a hunk of cheese and an apple. I told her good-bye and set off across the moors in an unusually good mood, feeling very young, full of energy.

  I walked rapidly, eager to see the ruins. The sun was high now, a hot yellow ball that evaporated the lingering veils of mist and dried the gray-brown earth. The mystic spell of the moors was present, but my mind was occupied with other things, and I managed to ignore it. Perhaps that was the secret of the moors: the spell was there, the danger was there, but only if you allowed yourself to succumb to it. I was thinking of other things, and the moors had temporarily lost their power over me.

  Now that I had definitely decided to write the book, I was filled with enthusiasm for the project. It would take months and months, but I had already done preliminary research in London, and I had everything at hand. I visualized the completed volume, impressively bound in brown leather, Donald’s name on the dedication page. The thought of that book caused my spirits to soar, spurred me on. It seemed to have given me a whole new lease on life.