Come to Castlemoor (12 page)

“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
smit
ten. 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
cheer
ful 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 under
stand
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 fine 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.

I had a definite purpose, and I knew it was an admirable one. The sense of direction that had been missing all this time since Donald's death was present now. I had come to Castlemoor full of apprehension, only to be mystified by a series of curious, puzzling events that made the apprehension even greater. The pieces of the puzzle were all neatly in place now, no mystery at all, and everything was sharp and clear. I saw exactly what I had to do, and it was going to be a satisfying task. It would be a tribute to Donald, and, too, it would be an affirmation of the intellectual abilities of women in general. Women had published novels, of course—the Brontë sisters, the scandalous George Sand in France—but had a woman ever written a book such as the one I contemplated? It would be a step forward for my sex, and a contribution, however minor, to a cause I firmly believed in—sexual equality.

I climbed up a long slope. The ground was harder, chalkier, than it had been, with crusty layers of broken shell and rock. Far off, I could see what looked like a small black lake. It was an expanse of peat, one of the largest on the moors. Alan had described it when he had told me how to reach the ruins. The slope rose, growing steeper, and when I got to the top, I saw the ruins. I stopped, stunned. I don't know how long I stood there, transfixed. I had expected to be impressed, even overwhelmed, but nothing had prepared me for this.

The ruins stood on an immense stretch of flat land that was completely surrounded by great slopes that rose up, protecting it, making it invisible from any other vantage point. They were like a great fallen city, some of the ruins still standing, others collapsed into great heaps of stone. I was reminded of the ancient Aztec cities hidden in the South American mountains, or those primitive cities just recently discovered in Africa. These ruins must be even older. Some were small, mere clusters of stone, while others towered up to touch the hard blue sky. There were other ruins scattered over the moors, like the one I had seen when Alan first drove us to the house, but these were the major ones, a metropolis incredibly hidden away in a secret valley in the middle of the moors.