Prologue
A young man stood in the thin light of the moon, looking up at the towering walls of an old castle. The man’s clothes were beautifully tailored and of fine fabric, betraying his wealth and status.
He was Nelson Montecliff, the Marquess of Camden. Such a man rarely found himself alone, especially in a place like this, but the road before him was empty and he could hear not a sound in the darkness.
The castle was medieval and ancient, but still held together well in the cold light of the moon. Nelson took a deep breath, his eyes tracing the parapets and settling at last on the heavy gate. He didn’t know what lay within the castle walls, but he knew he had to see for himself.
It was moments before he stepped forward, however, that he felt a hand touch his shoulder eerily in the black night, and knew with a cold jolt of fear that he was not, after all, alone.
* * *
Seven days earlier
Ill nights and arguments between family members are best forgotten, and yet it was just such unpleasantness that pestered Nelson all night and into the morning. He could not sleep, and now found himself at his writing desk, disconsolately drumming his fingers on the oaken surface.
He was a young man, not yet four and twenty, with a high aristocratic forehead and auburn hair falling in soft curls about his face. In the golden morning light, he cut quite a figure, disheveled but romantic, his strong form folded up into a spindle chair; his dark eyes searching emptily out the tall casement at his side. Those eyes were as stormy as a Turner painting, flickering over the memory of the night before and his argument with his father, the duke.
There was a knock at the door—the third that morning alone—and Nelson let out a quiet sigh before bidding the servant outside to enter. First had come the chamber maid to lay a fire in the hearth, then the boy his father kept for small tasks stumbled in with a clump of a heather in a jar, and this newest servant was the slim footman in his fine livery, standing stiffly as though insulted by his errand. They had all been sent for the same reason, whatever their excuses.
“My Lord,” the footman bowed and stood at attention in the doorway, not even deigning to enter. “His Grace, the Most Noble Duke of Richmond, requests your presence at breakfast.”
If he hadn’t been so frustrated at the previous nights’ events, Nelson would have been amused at the footman’s formality. The chamber maid had simply bobbed into a quick curtsy and told him, “Your father wants you, m’Lord.”
He turned briefly in his chair, but did not stand. “Please give him my regrets,” he answered quietly. “I am indisposed this morning, and do not think breaking fast with my father will restore my good humour.”
The footman was clearly taken aback by his refusal, but hid his surprise and was gone as softly as the others.
Alone again, Nelson went back over the last night’s conversation in his mind. As always, his father was pressing him about the latest in a long line of eligible women who fit not only his father’s idea of a suitable match, but would also bring to his position what the Duke declared, “unmatched beauty and elegance.”
Nelson could not, of course, deny that Lady Julie was a picture of elegance, although her beauty was of the pale, simpering sort that was easily forgotten. It was too perfect; too practiced, and when he was in her presence he felt as if he was in a Renaissance painting, staring at her marble skin and distant expression to determine whether or not there was anything at all real about her. Certainly, she would look lovely on his arm, and he could hardly imagine her saying a cross word to him were they to build a future together, but what fun was love if there was no danger of crossness; no wit and cleverness with which to spar?
He had tried to explain all this to his father, but the duke was a man of logic and precision. To him, Nelson’s prospects were a mathematical equation into which one could put proper facts and deduce a proper answer. It was simple in his mind: an eligible woman and an eligible man made for an honorable marriage worthy of the peerage.
They had argued, and both had said things they did not mean. Nelson winced to remember it now.
There was another knock at the door, and this time Nelson got up and walked to it himself, pulling it open a little too briskly, prepared to shoot a withering gaze at whichever unfortunate servant had been sent up this time to request his presence in the breakfasting room. But it wasn’t an unfortunate servant. It was Henry, the old and distinguished butler who had known Nelson since he was a young boy. Withering glances had no effect whatsoever on Henry, who stepped into the room before Nelson could deny him entrance and stood looking at him as if he were every bit the little boy who had snuck frogs into the dining room all those years ago.
“Lord Camden,” he said, the formal address in no way masking the familiarity in his tone. “Your father is eager to see you this morning. He is in the breakfast room as we speak.”
“My father saw quite enough of me last night,” Nelson turned, fidgeting with the quill he still had in his hand.
“Perhaps so,” Henry said quietly. Nelson wondered what, if anything, he had heard last night during their argument. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d heard every word. Henry was unfailingly discreet. “Still, he desires your presence.”
“It is unfair of him to send you,” Nelson said, fighting to keep the peevishness out of his voice. “He knows I respect you above all, and cannot find it in myself to deny you any favor.”
Henry pursed his lips ever so slightly. “You do not respect me above all, my Lord. You do not respect me above your father,” he paused a moment, and Nelson recognized the tell-tale signs of a slip in Henry’s usually perfect etiquette. The slip, when it came, was almost imperceptible. It was a brief moment of gentleness. “Master Nelson,” he said, using Nelson’s childhood pet name. “Your father cares for you very much. He only wants what it good for you, and only thinks about your future. If you have had words, he will surely want to make amends.”
“We have walked this ground before,” Nelson said coldly. “His amends mean nothing if he is to throw me at the next eligible lady he comes upon.”
“You are a lucky man, to be blessed with a title, wits, and a father willing to make the most of them,” Henry answered. “You should be glad that your father worries so much about your future.”
“You are forgetting yourself,” Nelson retorted, a blush coming into his cheeks. He paused a moment, watching Henry’s face ice over briefly as the butler returned to his place of propriety. Nelson shook his head. “I did not mean that.” He sat down heavily at the foot of his bed and leaned his head into his hands. “It is only that I do not see the situation as you do. There is a difference between worry and constant hounding. You have heard him these last weeks. If he is not openly hounding me to marry Lady Julie, he is dropping hints at every turn; trying to weave her name into every conversation.”
“I did notice that he managed to make a connection between her Ladyship and the races at Tattersall’s two nights past, a remarkable feat considering Lady Julie has neither a horse in the event, nor any interest in the races,” Henry intoned.
Nelson smiled despite himself. “See? You have witnessed it as well.”
“What I have witnessed is a man who has recognized in Lady Julie the qualities necessary to support and advance the Montecliff household, my Lord,” Henry said, choosing his words carefully. “She is fine woman and will make an excellent duchess one day, when you inherit your father’s lands.”
“I do not doubt all this,” Nelson waved his hand dismissively. “But I have no desire to be trapped into a marriage of convenience. I want to marry for love and love alone.”
This had shocked Henry a bit, Nelson could see. It would be a feat indeed for the proper butler to suffer any conversation from a marquess on matters of the heart, but the old man bore the matter as best he might and dealt his final blow.
“Doubtless your father can come to understand your sentiments in time,” he said. “But not if you stay locked away in your room and refuse to engage him in conversation on the subject.”
Nelson felt a smile tugging at his mouth again. “He is not such an ogre after all,” he said.
The butler could not bring himself to acknowledge such an improper comment about His Grace the Duke, and settled only for extending his hand towards the door and asking whether or not the Marquess would require a housecoat for his descent to the breakfast room.
Nelson put on the blue one left draped over the edge of a chair and walked downstairs at last, Henry following at a respectful distance.
The breakfast room was as it always was, quiet, full of light from a few tall windows, furnished with an absurdly long table at the end of which sat his father and a place setting for himself. A footman stood in the corner, eager to jump in and help distribute small cakes and soft-boiled eggs when the duke gave the word.
“So, you have come at last,” Simon Montecliff stood stiffly at the end of the table. He was not as tall as Nelson, but always seemed to take up more space. He had a presence about him that men respected, a stature that went beyond his size. His eyes were dark like Nelson’s, but his hair was soft and white, curling ever so slightly around his ears. He waved at the chair beside himself. “I see Henry was the ticket after all.”
“You do not play fair.” Nelson sat down, pulling up to the table and nodding to the footman when the man came over with a pot of tea and a cloth. “You could have breakfasted without me. There are plenty of hours in the day to rehash last night’s conversation.”
The duke raised his eyebrows over his glass. “Are there? I would expect you to disappear for a day’s worth of riding to avoid the topic.”
Nelson smiled down at his meal. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? Almost certainly.” The duke’s deep voice softened. “I know you well, my son. I should not have pestered you last night. It seems to me as though all your future were laid out before me in a simple map, easy to decipher, and yet you are choosing all the turns and paths that make no sense to me and follow no logic.”
Nelson began to protest, but his father held up a hand to stop him.
“Hear me out, my son.” He smiled. “I can see that I have pushed you too hard, and it is not what I want for our partnership. Our times together should not be fraught with arguments. But Nelson, even if you do not desire to marry Lady Julie—a fine match if ever I saw one—I would entreat you to take an active part in the business so that you might be a proper duke when the time comes. You have done your travelling, attended your seasons, and been about the ton. If you are not to choose a wife to marry, then I must ask you to at least give a thought to what legacy we will leave behind.”
Nelson swallowed hard and set down his silver spoon. “Father, I am gladdened to hear you say such a thing. It is the first hint you’ve given that there is a path forward without your persistence in the matter of my marriage.”
“And the business?”
“I have wanted to learn more for some time. Previously you were too consumed with work to teach me what I need to know.”
The duke looked worried. “Even now I fear I am often too consumed with work. But surely I can connect you with the agent to learn the details, and for everything else you can accompany me as you used to do when you were a young boy.”
“I would like to be of use to you in other ways,” Nelson said. Even as he spoke, he feared he was asking for a responsibility for which he was not yet prepared. “Perhaps you could delegate some of your more tedious tasks to my oversight.”
“Perhaps,” his father mused.
Just then, the door at the end of the room opened abruptly, admitting Henry with a tray of correspondence. It was early for such a missive, but Henry walked crisply to the duke and laid it before him nonetheless.
“On urgent business from Scotland, Your Grace.”
The duke picked up the letter, breaking the seal at once and reading it as Henry stepped back out of the room. His face, usually so calm and restrained, opened in astonishment as he read. Nelson waited quietly, knowing better than to interject when his father was absorbed in something. At long last, the duke laid the letter aside and turned to his son.
“It is indeed from Scotland.” He looked around as though searching for words. “You know that a small part of my paternal family live there, far away from the civilised English world we know and love.”
“I know this,” Nelson said slowly, searching his memory, “but I can hardly recall their names or titles.”
“They are distant relations at best,” his father responded quickly.
“May I?” Nelson motioned for the letter.
His father shook himself as though waking from a dream. “You may, of course. But I may as well tell you the contents. My cousin Robert, who I am sad to say I’ve rather lost touch with over the years, has died of a wasting sickness. It is a mystery indeed what brought such a thing on. After all, he must have known about his death for some time and yet he told no one.”
“Perhaps he thought he would recover.”
“And yet he did not. I do not remember him being a very hopeful man, although I can well imagine him to ignore the facts in service of his own desires.” The duke handed the letter to Nelson, explaining the contents even as he did so. “He died without family or heir, and therefore the entirety of his estate transfers to me.”
Nelson raised his eyebrows. “Had he much estate to transfer?” It was not uncommon for such “gifts” to be places sunk deep in debt, leeching off the countryside rather than giving back and supporting country folk as it ought.
“I’m not sure.” The duke motioned at the letter. “You will see there that his fortune lies tied up in a castle in Scotland. I am his only living relative. We will not know for certain the spoke of the inheritance until I go to see the castle and the people he has employed there.”
“Did you know this cousin Robert well?” Nelson asked.
His father shook his head. “We knew each other when we were lads, and I remember a particularly pleasant visit when I was but ten years of age. Robert was five years older and far superior in my eyes, but I only remember a little of our meeting. I believe I went with him to Scotland to hunt with his father, but I was too young to enjoy the festivities much and don’t recall what the home was like in the least. It is possible we did not even stay at the castle—it is not uncommon for such trips to occur at a country cottage or on location in the highlands.”
“And now it is all yours,” Nelson said, taking a sip of his tea. “It will be interesting to see what you discover about the place.”
The duke looked up suddenly, a new light in his eyes. “What I discover?” he asked. “What an interesting thought.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, as we mentioned before, I am quite overwrought with work and social duties at present. I could not possibly go to a castle in Scotland for any reason whatsoever. I suppose I ought to send an emissary.” He looked significantly at Nelson.
The Marquess set his cup down in astonishment. “I?”
“Yes, you.”
Nelson prepared to protest, but as he thought about it, a warmth of interest stirred in his mind. “I suppose you can’t leave your position at present,” he said slowly. “Perhaps this is the sort of responsibility I could begin to take on your behalf. Perhaps I could go in your stead.”
“My thoughts exactly,” his father said. “You will ride as soon as you are able. Pack for a significant journey. I do not know much about the highlands, but I know enough to say this will be an unexpected adventure for you, and in such situations you cannot guess what the future may hold.”
Chapter 1
Travelling across country had always been something Nelson enjoyed as a boy—the painful rattling of a chaise and four hardly registered in younger bones—and he expected to enjoy his adventure even more now that he would have the freedom of a lone mount and the ability to stop as he chose in the surrounding villages along his way.
He packed simply, having given Henry orders to send the remaining trunks of clothes and books he would want for an extended stay in a slower carriage after him. He expected his things to arrive a good two weeks after he did, as the roads were deeply cut with ruts from the spring rains and had not yet been pounded down evenly by passing wagons. As it was, he packed only a few changes of clothes, some writing utensils, and two books for evening enjoyment into saddle bags that were buckled securely over his horse’s flanks.
“That’s it, Augustus,” he said, smoothing his hand down the noble steed’s jet-black mane. “A bit of a heavier load than usual, but we will take our time and rest as you require.”
He preferred travelling this way. It would have been more protected to stay within a coach, where only coachman and horses were exposed to the elements, but he was bringing his own mount and would not suffer for any changing of the horses along the way. It was better that he was up close and personal with his animal and could determine the stamina of the creature as they rode.
The duke had hardly anything to say as they parted. He was a man of few words. Even so, Nelson could see that his father was proud of him. The duke slipped the letter telling of the inheritance into Nelson’s satchel and bid him show it at the castle gate as evidence of their rightful ownership.
“Write when you have arrived,” he said. “To tell us you are safe. It may take some time before the post reaches us.” After a momentary pause he added gently, “I am proud of you, my son. This increase in responsibilities will not be easy, I know, but it will surely be worthwhile.”
“I will send you word when I have arrived, but it may take more time to determine the scope of what Cousin Robert left behind,” Nelson said, nodding. “When I have a better idea of the place, I shall give a more detailed report.”
“I trust you, son,” his father said in a rare show of tenderness.
And with those words, Nelson set off on his journey.
It was summertime, and the air was cool at the start of his travels. He had ridden often to and from London, and again to various seaside locales, but he had never travelled to Scotland before, and found the road through northern England to be diverting in its rolling landscape and deep green hills.
The first two nights he stopped at local inns, eating a simple stew provided and paying a bit of coin to bunk out of the elements. He could see at both these stops that, though he did not introduce himself as the Marquess of Camden, or in any way go into his father’s powerful connections, the locals were able to deduce his wealth and circumstance from the cut of his clothes and his manner of talking. He was treated with deference, behaviour he was well used to, but found nevertheless to be rather distant and cool.
It was on the third day that he was officially through the lowlands and had entered the highlands at last. It was here that his travels took a turn. The terrain was unfamiliar for both him and Augustus, and they slowed considerably navigating the undulating road and rocky byways. Nelson found himself wondering how a wagon could traverse such ground at all, much less a chaise and four. The few people he encountered made him guess that a chaise and four was not often found in such parts. Civilisation, as his father called it, was considerably lacking—or at least different.
The first Scottish inn he stopped in seemed to see his fine garments as an insult rather than a sign deserving of respect.
“I suppose you’ll be having us clean your horse for you, as well as serve you dinner,” the innkeeper’s wife said sharply, her red hair flaming around an equally ruddy complexion.
Nelson, who had indeed given Augustus over to stable hands the last few days of the journey, stammered quickly that he had no such intention and led the horse back to the stable to tend to the animal’s care himself. When the black steed was fed and bedded, Nelson returned to the inn in a damp drizzle, seating himself by the fire and raising a hand to order some dinner.
No one came, so at last he was forced to move from the jostling crowd of locals to the bar, where the same red-haired lady begrudgingly took his coin and slid a tureen of meat and potatoes back across the table in response.
“You’ll be bunking with the others in the loft,” she said curtly, not even looking up from the tankard of ale she was filling. “I hope you weren’t thinking you’d have a room to yourself; we aren’t as fine as all that, you ken.”
Nelson took the food, which was dubious at best, and said nothing in response. The woman’s hostility would not be better by attempting to assuage her assumptions. He ate quickly and took his things up to the loft for the night. He slept fitfully, surrounded by the snoring and coughing of seven other men in bunks around the dim room, and woke before the dawn to bathe his face in the icy water and dress. He chose a simple linen shirt to try to fit in, but even his plain riding coat was edged with gold thread and lined with fine fabric. He knew he stood out.
The rest of his journey progressed slowly and in a similar fashion. It was hot at times, but in general the remaining days were haunted by drizzle and rain, weather that Nelson enjoyed well enough when indoors with a book, but grew to detest as he and August plodded on through the highlands, soaked to the bone. Even uncomfortable, however, he preferred this adventure to the monotony he had at home, trying always to sort things out with his father and feel useful in a glittering world that didn’t seem to need him.
He thought of how tedious it had been to always be on guard for his father’s marriage schemes; to constantly parade himself before the lords and ladies of the land as a man of good prospects and a marriageable age, even to sit at his father’s table and pretend to care about things like societal meetings and the peerage.
Here before him was an entirely different and exciting adventure, full of expectation and the unknown. The rain and hard riding could certainly have been a point against the journey, but to Nelson it only reminded him that he was finally free of a world that dictated his every move. He was able to make his own decisions, and the prospect of the adventure ahead was exhilarating.
It was on the sixth day that he realized he was close enough to the castle to avoid another stay at the inn where he watered and fed Augustus. The stable boy there told him it was a few more hours ride.
“It’s not far, true, but it will be late when you arrive,” the boy shrugged. “These aren’t roads to be traversed in the dark.”
“Do you have a room for me at the inn?” Nelson asked, wiping the pervasive mist from his brow.
“There’s a shared bunk room on the side,” the boy said, patting Augustus’ flank kindly. “And a fine pot of porridge, I’m sure.”
Nelson kept his distaste from showing on his face. He didn’t feel much like another night at an inn, and was too eager for the adventure ahead to dally.
I think I shall press on,” he said, though the boy did not require a list of his goings on. “I will go slowly to keep my horse safe, but I would like to rest at my destination tonight.”
In the end, it was nearly midnight when he at last crested a hill and saw before him the hulking shape of a castle clinging to a hill ahead of him. The moon was out, but so were the clouds, which blew across the moon at intervals. In the changing light, the medieval structure had an eerie look about it, and as Nelson drew nearer, the chill he was already feeling from the cool drizzle grew.
At last, he was at the gate, attached to the grey stone walls on either side by rusted iron hinges. The town he had ridden through to reach the castle had been sleeping, with only a light burning at the centre of the square and not a solitary person walking around or talking in their home. The same silence lay as a thick blanket over the castle’s parapets, and Nelson couldn’t help wishing he’d come with a coachman after all, so it didn’t feel so much like he was the last man on earth.
“I’m sure they’re just asleep,” he said, slipping off Augustus’ back patting the tired horse gently on the neck. His voice sounded unnatural in the silence. The gate stood before him, open and easy to enter, but something held him back. It was nothing tangible, but rather a shiver up his spine as he’d used to feel when reading ghost stories as a child. He’d always tried to pretend such things did not bother him—he didn’t believe in ghosts, after all—but here in the eerie moonlight, all things fantastic and supernatural felt possible. It was as though he could feel a ghost breathing icily down his neck—
Someone, or something, tapped him quite suddenly on the shoulder. Nelson spun around, his heart in his throat, and gave a soft cry despite himself. The figure behind him, however, was as solid and natural as any person he had ever seen. It was a small man, dressed in a guard’s uniform, with a rather pudgy nose and an overgrown beard.
“Who are you?” he asked a little sharply, glad that the waning moonlight would hide his blush of embarrassment over his fearful cry from before.
The man was standing an arm’s length away, and Nelson could see now that he must have tapped on Nelson’s shoulder with the long cane he held in his right hand. He frowned under bushy brows. “It is you who must tell me who you are,” he corrected Nelson. “I live in this town; I am the night watchman. I have every right to be here, while you are the newcomer who just rode along our cobblestones, quite noisily I must point out, in the dead of night.”
“I am the Marquess of Camden,” Nelson said, introducing himself formally without thinking. “I have come to visit, or, that is to say—I am staying here for a time. Is there anyone who lives in the castle? It seems quite deserted.”
The round little man frowned again, his eyebrows gathering even closer together on his forehead. “Staying here?” Some thought seemed to dawn on him. “Hold. Are you the new owner of the castle? The man from down south who is to take over after the passing of Lord Edgewood?”
Nelson nodded. “I am. Or, at least, my father is at present. I am here at his behest.”
“Alone? Without a coachman?” the watchman looked him over curiously. “I can see you’re fine enough to be the one, but it is unexpected that you come into town carrying so little.”
“My things are following. I shall expect them to take a few weeks.”
“Yes, I imagine.” The man seemed quite comfortable now. Nelson imagined he was even enjoying himself. It was unlikely that the night watchman in such a sleepy town was accustomed to conversation of any sort on the job. “Well, then. You’ve been expected, although not quite so soon. We don’t know of many marquesses in these parts, but certainly none that would come on their own mount without any servants in tow.” He nodded towards the castle. “But you’ll find staff in there to suit your needs, and as the gate is open you shall go inside, I suppose.” He sounded almost sad to lose his chance for conversation.
Nelson frowned, realizing for the first time that the open gate—a convenience for his arrival—was in fact a dangerous oversight on the part of the staff. It was not good to leave doors open for anyone to pass by.
“Thank you,” he said simply, tipping his hat and walking into the courtyard. The night watchman turned and walked back towards the town.
The courtyard was spacious and sparsely filled. There was a well at the centre, and beyond that a wagon and carriage parked side by side near what looked to be the stables. Nelson went in that direction, walking into the musty interior to offload his saddle and settle Augustus for the night. Not a soul was there, only a team of horses rustling in individual stalls.
He walked back into the courtyard with his bags in hand and walked through the front doors of the castle, which were also unlocked. The doors were grand and tall, heavy to pull open and heavy to shut again. Nelson almost left them unlocked out of habit, but seeing no staff to close the door after him he slid the heavy bar into place, locking the doors soundly behind him. The bar echoed in the cavernous front hall where he found himself.
He took a few steps forward into the blackness, wishing at once that he had sought about for a candle or torch before the door was closed behind him. Just as he was thinking of edging back the way he’d come, he heard a sound from his right, muffled by what seemed to be a hallway or door that separated them. It was the steady clicking of shoes shuffling along in the darkness, undeniably coming his way. The shoes echoed as the door had, and Nelson felt the familiar dread seeping into his bones again.
Suddenly, a soft orange light glowed ahead of him and to the right, comforting in colour and familiarity. It flickered along the wall, and after a moment of confusion Nelson realized he was glimpsing it between open casements cut in the stone. The carrier had to be traversing the hall just on the other side of the cavernous room in which Nelson was waiting.
He picked up his bags and walked quickly along the floor. When he emerged from the open door where the light was, he found himself in a narrow hall. Just ahead of him, a woman was walking away, holding a candle, dressed all in white.
“Pardon me?” Whether from nerves or simply the overly quiet nature of the castle, Nelson’s voice rang too loudly in the hall.
The woman gave a cry, whirling about so quickly she nearly put out the candle in her hand. Her eyes were wide and dark in her white face, and Nelson realized too late that he had given her a greater fright than the watchman had given him only a short time before.
He held up his hands, backing away so as not to seem threatening. “It’s only me,” he said nonsensically, knowing she would have no idea who he was. He corrected, noting now that the woman was in late middle age, her hair already showing strains of white beneath a white wimple, and she clutched a thick woollen shawl about shaking shoulders. “My name is Nelson Montecliff, Lord Camden as I am known. I have come on business of my father—“
“Lord Camden!” the woman cried, understanding flooding her frightened face. “You gave me a moment of real alarm, I will admit.” She gave a nervous laugh, looking down at her nightclothes in shy embarrassment. “And you’ve caught me quite unawares. I had not expected you this soon.” She looked around her and added significantly, “Or at this hour.”
“I wanted to press through and avoid another overnight stay,” he said, feeling silly now for having imagined there would be staff awake around the clock as at his father’s sprawling mansion.
“How did you gain entry?” she edged closer, emboldened now by the knowledge that he was not a random intruder.
“The door was open.” He tried to take a sober tone. “Such a thing is unsafe, and I would not appreciate its repetition in the future.”
The woman nodded. “I am the housekeeper here, Marta. The door was likely left unlocked by the house boy, Troy. It’s his responsibility, but it’s been so long since we’ve had anyone of note around here—doubtless he forgot.” She looked chagrined. “He’ll receive a scolding in the morning, and it shan’t happen again.”
Suddenly Nelson felt overwhelmingly tired.
“May I rest somewhere for the night?” he asked.
“Somewhere?” The housekeeper smiled. “Of course you may, my Lord. But not just anywhere. I’ll take you up to the master’s bedchamber at once. We will have you settled in it tonight. I can lay a fire if you like.”
“A fire is not necessary,” Nelson said quickly. The warmth would be welcome, yes, but a fire took time to start and tend, and all he wanted was a horizontal surface upon which to fall asleep.
They walked upstairs through more corridors and chambers than Nelson could count, and when Marta at last opened the door to a great dark room and lit a few tapers within with her candle, he was unsure he could find his way back to the great room in the morning. She seemed to read his mind.
“I’ll let you sleep your fill in the morning, but when you wake you may ring the bell for a house boy to come and fetch you breakfast.” She gave a little bow. “We can talk about the castle management in the morning.”
He bid her goodnight and lay down at last, weak with exhaustion. The castle walls in his chamber were so high he couldn’t see the top with only the dim light of a single candle. He fell asleep, unable to shake the feeling that the casements in the wall were great gaping eyes watching him slip into slumber.
* * *
The next morning dawned without rain, and the beautiful golden sunrays slipped into the narrow windows and woke Nelson where he lay in the great central bed. He climbed out of bed and walked to the wash table. There was a fresh bowl of water there and he splashed the chilly liquid on his face and arms before looking about the room with fresh eyes.
The ceiling was indeed as towering as he had suspected the night before, but there were windows all around that the darkness had concealed, and the chamber had none of the markings of dark heaviness he had expected. He dressed in the only clean trousers and shirt he had left and fashioned a crisp overcoat overtop just in time for the timid knock that signalled the servant sent to fetch him to breakfast.
The servant girl, who introduced herself shyly as “Mary,” bobbed in front of him down the hallway and led him to a great sombre chamber with a long oaken table and great shields hung upon the wall. At the end of the room there was a stone fireplace. It was a far cry from the well-lit breakfast chamber at the duke’s mansion, but Nelson could tell that it was not only for breakfast, but for every meal eaten in the castle. For that purpose, it had to be grand, even when such luxury seemed to clash with the casual dining.
Marta popped in when Nelson had only just finished his meal of porridge and ham hock with apple preserves. She brought with her a line of servants, including Mary, and bid him to inspect the staff.
“We have a daily meeting to go over the events of the day before and prepare for the next day’s duties,” she said crisply, eying a lanky lad of about Nelson’s own age who was standing with his head down. “Troy here was a part of that morning meeting and knows that he did badly by leaving the door open.”
Nelson cleared his throat, wanting to wield his father’s firm hand without getting off on the wrong foot.
“I am glad to meet you all,” he said carefully, “and I am delighted to hear the castle will be more secure in the future.” He walked down the line of servants, six in all, and greeted each in turn.
“This is Helen,” Marta explained. “She is our primary cook, although Mary helps. We don’t have a large staff here, so everyone throws in where they are able.”
“Do you have family in the village, Helen?” Nelson asked, noting that the older woman looked terrified at the prospect of taking his hand.
She nodded and mumbled something about a daughter and two sons.
“How blessed you are,” Nelson answered warmly. “I would love to meet them one day.”
“One of them is just there, M’Lord,” she said, nodding toward a middle-aged man with a jet-black beard at the end of the row. “It’s Simon, if you please.”
“Ah!” Nelson turned to Simon with a smile. “You are one of the sons, I see.”
“I am, sir.” He nodded his head deferentially, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “My brother is a blacksmith and my sister a baker, but unfortunately I’m only good for livery and carrying the odd thing about the house.”
Nelson noted his strong build. “I imagine you’d be able to carry more than the odd thing,” he said. “And I’m glad to meet someone who knows horses. My own mount, Augustus, will need looking after.”
“I already saw to him this morning,” Simon said. “He’s a beautiful creature.”
“He is, and he’s been through a rather trying journey. Let me know if you require anything at all to tend to his needs.”
“I will.” Simon stepped back a little, leaving room for Nelson to move on to Mary, the young girl who had helped him downstairs that morning. She was small and wide-eyed, not a year over sixteen, and made of solid stock. According to Marta, who had to do all the speaking on behalf of the shy girl, Mary fetched and carried and helped with the laying of fires and stripping of linens where needed.
Troy and Rory were the next and last servants in line. There was no butler, as far as Nelson could see, but these two served as footmen and coachmen both as necessary, doing all that required a masculine touch. Rory was as quiet as Mary, but Troy answered Nelson’s questions sullenly. Nelson imagined the scolding the young man had received earlier still stung.
“You all have families in the village?” Nelson asked Troy, trying to make inways with the lad.
“We do,” the boy said. “But you needn’t worry. There are always two of us at the castle at all times, to make certain that the place is watched.”
“Good,” Nelson said, happy for something to praise. “Tell me,” he widened his question to the group as a whole. “Did you know Cousin Robert well? What sort of man was he?”
The group exchanged glances, and Marta spoke first.
“He was an odd sort of fellow,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “A kind enough master who paid us on time to be certain, but he liked to stay to himself. He never married or had a family of his own, as you well know.”
Nelson looked about him at the bleak surroundings. The place seemed built to intimidate, and unlike the light-filled chamber he’d slept in the night before, the rooms downstairs had no warmth or feeling of home. It didn’t seem like the sort of place in which a person lived, only a place of work or even battle.
“The furnishings are sparse,” he said carefully.
“Master liked it that way,” Rory interjected. “He didn’t like people from the village to come either, and he wasn’t one for talking with the staff.”
“That’s not how I want to run things,” Nelson explained. “I will take the day to explore the castle, and then perhaps tomorrow we can work together to make the place more welcoming.”
Marta gave a quick nod to the staff, who bowed and curtsied respectively and disappeared as quickly as they had come.
“It is a good plan, My Lord,” she said. “But I think you’ll find the castle vaster than you had anticipated. Still, we will do what you wish to change things for the better as you direct.”
“Thank you, Marta,” Nelson said kindly. She left, and he set off to explore the stony halls of the castle.
Chapter 2
Last night, the castle had seemed like a vast and impenetrable fortress, and Nelson found, as he walked about, that it seemed even bigger on the inside. There was an abundance of rooms, and after setting out with a simple mission of discovery in mind Nelson found himself adjusting his expectations significantly.
“I shall have to come back and go room to room,” he murmured to himself. “Otherwise, I shall have no way to easily document Cousin Robert’s belongings and the extent of the inheritance.”
Each room was decorated with a mixture of Spartan simplicity and heavy gothic furniture. There were few pieces and few paintings, but those that did exist were dark and ornate.
The best part of the tour by far was when Nelson went down a narrow staircase at one end of the castle and through a heavy oaken door that opened into a library. He was astounded by how vast the room was. In this one area there was no simplicity whatsoever. Bookcases rose to the vaulted ceilings on every wall, so high that there were ladders on tracks to help reach some of the uppermost books. The selection also seemed diverse, although Nelson could not possibly read every title. As he walked along the dusty shelves he saw poetry, epics, biological textbooks, and philosophical writings.
It was evident that, though Cousin Robert had kept to himself and seemed odd to the villagers, he and Nelson shared at least one thing in common. They were both readers.
Strange or not, I may have liked the man, he thought to himself. We are both misfits in our own way.
In the centre of the room there was a small podium upon which sat a great heavy book all alone. He walked to it, expecting to see a family bible. It was common for great houses like this to keep a large bible in the cover of which would be recorded the genealogical tree. It wasn’t a bible, but it was a family history. There was thick dust on the cover as Nelson opened it. It had not been touched in some time and was clearly not as well-loved as some of the other titles.
Inside was a list of all the peerage connected with the family, and a vast genealogical tree that he saw included his father’s name and, yes, scrawled in a corner near the bottom there was his own title.
He noticed with mild surprise that a few centuries ago, the castle did not belong to his own family, but was in fact under the possession of a different surname and title completely. The last entry there was the name of a woman. Vanessa. No surname, just a first title, written in soft feminine script. Nelson let his fingers linger on the name for a moment. He was interested in how a woman might be connected to the leadership of a castle, and how the place might have passed from her care all those years past.
He left the library in search of Marta, to ask about the book, but quickly got lost. At one point he seemed to be in a large hall, but saw with alarm that it was not the one he’d come into the night before. He felt thoroughly lost and, calling out Marta’s name, grew embarrassed. It was not a very good sign that the new master of the castle could so easily lose his way.
He turned from the hallway and went down another unfamiliar passage. At the end of this passage he found a heavy door. On either side of the door were great woven tapestries in the old style, beautiful in scarlet and gold thread, showing on the one side a festive wedding scene, and on the other what looked to be the aftermath of a great battle.
“I must have stepped into another wing of the castle,” he said quietly. He tried to open the door but it did not move. Looking down the doorframe he saw that it was closed with a handle at the base that connected with the floor via an iron bar and, pulling stiffly against the old metal, he loosened the latch and stepped inside.
Behind the door was a huge bedchamber that had clearly not been touched in ages. It was larger even then the chamber he had woken up in that very morning, but even as it lay draped in great white clothes, he could see the feminine touch all about the room. The furniture here was not heavy and dark as the furniture in other areas of the castle. It was curved and delicate, white and gold and floral.
Nelson walked across the room carefully, as though he was on some sort of sacred ground. He felt he was trespassing. At the casement, he threw open the window and let the cool breeze and light into the room fully. As he did so, he saw a portrait of a young woman on the wall. She was quite beautiful, wearing a simple dress with only a single ruby pendant about her neck for ornament. Her hair was dark; her skin quite white. He walked over and peered at the name scrolled in gold beneath: Vanessa. Of course. It was the chambers of the last woman to have held a place here in the castle before his family had taken over. She was younger than he had imagined when he saw her name in the book.
He peered more closely at the picture, so caught up in its examination that he did not hear Marta walk in until she was a few steps away clearing her throat.
“My Lord,” she said as he turned in surprise. “I’ve been looking all over. I had hardly expected you to be in this room of all places. We haven’t opened this chamber in years.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Sir Robert asked us to keep it shut,” she said.
“Who is this woman?” Nelson inquired, turning back to the picture. “I saw her name in the genealogy tree downstairs, and now to stumble upon this room…it has a mystery about it that I would like to unravel.”
“Not a mystery,” Marta said sadly. “But a long story.”
“I have time.” Nelson turned and tugged at the covering over a low sofa near at hand and the two sat carefully amid all the dust and memories.
“It started before your ancestors had even a thought of this castle or the Highlands around,” Marta said carefully. “It’s a well-known story in the village, although not perhaps to the English who come to stay.” Her voice took on an eerie tone. “I say story, but I think by now the events have the ring of legend.”
Nelson leaned forward with interest. “Do tell.”
“Those were terrible times,” she said. “Legend has it that the family who lived here before your line took over had only one living daughter.” She nodded towards the picture. “Vanessa. The family had other branches of cousins who lived in the area, but they were of a lesser rank. Their descendants still live in the village and surrounding country.”
“They didn’t hold on to the castle after Vanessa’s passing?” Nelson asked.
“They couldn’t have done so during her life either,” Marta said quickly. “They were distant relatives only; not the sort to have it as an inheritance, or even to be worthy of the necessary title to inhabit such a place. Vanessa lived like a princess here. You can see in this room alone, the opulence and elegance she experienced. It was said far and wide that she was the Queen of the Highlands, a damsel who kept the castle full of warmth and life.”
“Warmth and life,” Nelson said dryly. “Not how I would describe the current climate.”
“Perhaps,” Marta said with pursed lips. “The happiness did not endure. There was a great conflict, you may well remember from the history books, and the young man Vanessa had been in line to marry—a betrothed of wealth and status as well as kindness and a handsome face—went away to fight. Her parents died while he was away. I don’t remember what from.”
“What a tragedy. How did they die?” Nelson asked.
“I suspect disease. In those days epidemics were rampant.” Marta sighed. “Legend has it the man Vanessa loved died in battle, or so they say. He never returned, and news of his definitive death never came. Everyone pressed her to marry, for she was still young and beautiful, but she believed her beloved would return. She refused to even entertain the advances of another man, and as the days passed her wealth slipped away. She had no firm connection to allow for continued growth, nor a marriage from which a promised heir could be born, and so one by one the servants had to leave. At last, she dismissed the final handful, living alone in the great castle as it fell into ruin about her. Word is she stayed here until her last breath.”
Nelson felt an uncanny chill crawl up his spine.
“Where is she buried?”
“No one knows.” Marta looked slowly around the room. “Her body was never found. Legend says she is still here, walking the halls in search of her betrothed. Her spirit could not find peace, after all, on earth. Some say she will have no peace until her beloved comes home to find her.”
Silence drew across the room like a blanket. Nelson felt drawn to Vanessa’s story—both touched by the sadness she had endured, and chilled by the thought of the spirits Marta spoke of. He did not believe in ghosts or anything of the like, but sitting in this damp, abandoned room so full of Vanessa’s memories, she didn’t feel so very far away. She didn’t feel gone at all.
Marta looked at him a moment and then gave a quick laugh. “No, M’Lord,” she said brightly. “I like the story, of course, and it suits the town to think the place haunted, but no one knows for certain and I myself have walked these halls with nary a glimpse of a white lady weeping for her lost love.” She rolled her eyes dismissively. “But the old nags from the village would say no one knows for certain.”
Nelson nodded. “Thank you for telling me. It is a fine story, if only that.”
The two stood, brushing off the dust, and walked out of the room. Nelson shut and barred the door behind himself. He wasn’t sure why he did it. It’s not as though anyone else will be in this wing of the castle, he thought. But somehow he still felt the delicate little woman in the painting deserved her privacy, even after all these years.
Chapter 3
The first day of his arrival had been one of information gathering and exploration. On the second, Nelson decided to get about the work of making the castle liveable. He knew that his father would be expecting a report on the condition of the place, but he was not yet certain what to say. He had a feeling his attempts to revive the old place would not fit into the duke’s ideas of his proper duties there, but the castle walls seemed to cry out for care and rehabilitation. Despite himself, Nelson was already beginning to feel a sort of responsibility for the place.
He woke early, while the servants were still just starting the day’s duties, and took a brief ride through the countryside with Augustus. Braced by the early morning air, he found his way back into Cousin Robert’s study and rung for Marta to bring his breakfast there. A bit of toast in one hand and a financial ledger in the other, he set to work untangling the matters of castle business at hand. It seemed that there was not much left behind except the castle, and therefore no business dealings to sort out. Cousin Robert had left the place much as Vanessa had, reportedly—with a minimal staff, the resources drained, and no real connection to the surrounding village and lands. Nelson intended to remedy that.
He dipped a quill into the inkstand and scrawled a quick note to his father.
I am safely arrived. The castle is much as you suspected, large and not well-tended. I shall send news of the financials and remaining investments soon. For now, there is work that demands my attention and further correspondence will have to be postponed.
He deposited the sealed letter into Troy’s hands, along with a few others he’d written to local vendors, and sought out Marta in the lower servant’s quarters.
“I have a mind to do some work today,” he said brightly. “I’ve drawn up plans for improvements of the castle and would like to go over them with you.”
She set down the cloth she was mending and stood quickly, giving a little curtsy of greeting. “Why, of course. What have you in mind.”
“Firstly, I would like the entire place cleaned thoroughly. I have ordered an abundance of candles so that the castle might be lighted after dark, but I don’t imagine the order will be completed today. It is rather vast.”
Marta raised her brows. “We have a small staff. Cleaning will take some time.”
“I do not wish to over-tax you,” Nelson assured her. “And I intend to help. There are some pieces of furniture and some piles of cast-off things that I would like to relocate to the stables and even the village if we could. I have sent word with Troy to request a carpenter from the village come for a consultation. We can work with him to design more suitable and modern tables and chairs, I am certain.”
Marta gave a little gasp. “I believe I mistook you, M’Lord,” she said. “You say you intend to help?”
“Yes,” he assured her kindly. “I will help with the cleaning and the moving of the furniture, especially. It is unfair of me to saddle you all with such physical work without throwing in my lot with you as well. I admit I am new to this work, but I shall roll up my sleeves and look to you for guidance.”
Poor Marta looked very near to fainting. “Guidance. My Lord, you are a marquess.”
“I am aware.”
“And you wish for me to teach you to clean.”
“I do.”
She shook her head meekly. “If you insist.”
“There is another thing,” he said, pulling out his list so she could peruse the projects he’d compiled. “I believe the fireplace in the main hall has fallen out of repair.”
“Indeed, it has not been lighted for years.”
“How did my cousin live like that? He must have been very chilled in the colder months when he was taking his meals.”
Marta shook her head. “No, My Lord. He never ate in the great hall. I suppose it was lonely, all by himself. He only took his meals in his bedchamber.” She pursed her lips, as though she disapproved of this way of living and was revealed to finally imply as much.
“I see.” Nelson pointed at the fireplace on his list. “We are going to be running a much different sort of house, Marta. We will need a fireplace so that we can host people, and to keep the castle warm and inviting even in the winter months.”
“These are ambitious tasks,” Marta began, her eyebrows drawing together in consternation.
A lesser housekeeper might have balked, but to her credit Marta squared her shoulders and rang for the rest of the staff. When they assembled, she sent Mary and Helen with Ronin to begin a systematic cleaning of the main rooms. Simon and Troy, who had just returned from delivering the messages in town, joined with Nelson to begin moving furniture, and Marta skittered to and fro, cleaning out candelabras and the great chandelier in the main hall in preparation for the candles.
Simon and Troy both seemed taken aback that the master was working alongside them, but they settled into a gentle camaraderie as they worked, and by the end of the day a good section of the lower rooms had been opened up to the fresh air and rid of outdated furniture and ornament.
“It will be a task indeed to determine what we should hang on the walls and furnish the rooms with,” Nelson mused to Marta. “I shall think on it, but for now I believe everyone is tired. Tell them to eat and rest and I will see to it their wages are doubled this period to account for the extra work.”
He slipped down to the kitchen, bone weary, and took a bit of cold meat and bread from Helen for his supper, begging off a full meal so he could eat and read in his room before an early night. On his way to his bedchamber, however, he passed the drafty hall where he knew Vanessa’s bedchamber was located. He paused a moment. Despite all the work the day had seen accomplished, they had not come near to touching that room. It was a part of the castle and would need to be cleaned eventually, and yet Nelson felt there was sacrilege in touching it. He turned, almost without thinking, as though drawn toward that heavy door and the tapestries at the end of the hall. Pausing outside a moment, he felt the old eerie chill creeping over him.
“Don’t be foolish,” he scolded himself, ripping open the door and pulling the hinge loose in a single movement.
He stepped inside. The room was much as he had left it: a beautiful bedchamber with better preserved furniture and adornment than in any other part of the castle. There was one marked difference, however.
Sitting upon the bed, her back to him, was the white-clad figure of a woman with long dark hair falling loosely to her waist.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe. He said nothing, just stood there staring at her back and wondering if ghosts always looked so solid; so human. He wanted her desperately to turn around, and yet he was terrified at what he might see.
He took a step closer, his feet silent on the stone. She must not have heard the door. Did ghosts hear? It was a foolish thought. She could not be a ghost. And yet the door had been barred from the outside. He had unbarred it himself.
As he drew nearer, he could see the fabric she was wearing and make out the line of her body beneath the dress. She was very slim, and the fabric seemed quite ornate in its pure white quality. There were tiny beads of something shimmering amongst the folds. He realized with an eerie thrill that it was a wedding dress.
Legend says she is still here, walking the halls in search of her betrothed. What a terrible time for Marta’s words to come back to him, sending chills over his body.
There was only one thing for it. He had to be brave enough to call out to her; to say something and face the facts as they would come. If she faded away as an apparition, so be it. He would deal with such happenings when they occurred. It did him no good to stand there deliberating.
“My Lady,” he spoke softly, but his voice was still sudden in the still room and the form on the bed reacted immediately, standing and turning in one fluid movement.
She was not quite like the portrait. Her cheekbones were higher; her features more delicate, and the painter had done her an injustice by painting her eyes as dark when they were in fact a deep blue—but she cut a very similar picture there in her long wedding dress, her skin almost translucent it was so fair; her hair loose and dark around her pale shoulders. And there, nestled against her chest, was the brilliant red ruby pendant that she had worn in the portrait hanging just behind her on the wall. She looked startled. I’ve never seen someone so beautiful, he thought, or so fragile. She looked so pale and slight, in fact, that it almost seemed he could see through her, although he knew that was foolishness.
“Who are you?” he asked, taking a step forward.
She said nothing, frozen for a moment like a fox in the path of hunting dogs. Then she bolted, fleeing backwards towards the open window behind her. Her movements were graceful to the extreme—almost otherworldly, he thought fearfully—and when she reached the window she swung a leg over the ledge and disappeared over the edge and out of sight. For a moment he stood as though stuck to the stone floor, then he ran to the edge and looked over.
The chamber was on the second floor of the castle, just above the overgrown gardens below, but as he looked down into the fading light, he could make out no sign of the woman or of anything beyond the deep green overgrowth and the forest beyond. He suddenly didn’t want to be alone in that room with the great vast chamber to his back and no one to stand guard.
He reared back, breathing heavily, and stumbled back into the hall, bolting the door behind himself.
“This can’t be real,” he said to himself in the hallway. “It is my imagination, surely.”
But even as he spoke, Nelson knew it was not true. He was not prone to flings of fancy. Something strange and inexplicable had indeed happened here. He had been promised an adventure wherein he would grow in responsibility and show his father that he was ready to take over more duties back at home. He had expected to meet new people, to perhaps learn the running of a home and an estate, and to make mistakes along the way.
What he most certainly had not expected was to find a ghost lingering in the halls of an ancient castle. He had not expected a shade haunting the bedchamber of a tragically departed woman. He shivered in the dark hall, his candle flickering eerily on the stone walls around him.
He considered himself to be rather steady and stout-hearted, but the sight of the woman in the bedchamber had shaken him more than he cared to know. Though the flame of his candle made a small arc of warm safety, he shivered to think what was lurking in the shadows just outside that pool of dim light.
