Speechless, she looked about. There was a small window, as was customary for tower rooms. It allowed sufficient light. A small fireplace was on the other side. A simple bed, more of a cot. Was this where he slept? With nothing but a thin woollen blanket and a lumpy straw pallet?
Like a soldier.
Birdie stroked her hand over the blanket. It was rough and thin.
What kind of man was her husband? Why did he voluntarily wall himself up in this room to live in dirt and poverty? Why marry her and then tell her to leave? Did he have anything to do with that ghost yesterday?
He was a mystery, her husband.
There were some books stacked by the bed. But what caught her attention was what stood in the middle of the room. On a low platform supported by books, taking up the entire room was a model of some sort. Plates of paint and brushes were scattered on the floor.
Birdie stepped up to it, careful not to step on the paint. Amazed, she saw that it was a landscape. There were hills, fields, and a forest. Crafted out of clay and papier mâché and meticulously painted. There were hundreds of miniature figures everywhere. She picked up one.
Tin soldiers? Armies of them. Some in red, some blue, green, blue-white…
Then she understood. She was looking at a battle scene.
These troops over there must be the French. She picked up a figure that resembled the Emperor of the French: Napoleon on a white steed.
And this one here, a figure on a brown horse with a bicorn hat and a simple blue coat with gilt buttons. Wellington. Birdie marvelled at how detailed the figure was. Every tiny button, every crease of the coat was wonderfully painted. Birdie set it back carefully.
Another figure stood out. It wore a scarlet red coat with a white cross belt and grey trousers. It lay behind a farm with blackened, collapsed walls. The face was half blackened. Birdie gasped.
She picked up the figure and walked over to the window to see it better. On the windowsill, on a black velvet cloth, was a pistol. Ready and loaded.
She picked it up with trembling fingers.
“What are you doing?” a voice roared behind her. She dropped the figure and nearly the pistol as well.
“I am so sorry. I just—I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” She set the pistol down carefully.
“This is private,” Gabriel snarled. “Haven’t you wrought enough havoc in the rest of the castle? Must you also invade my private quarters?”
He stalked towards her with a scowl.
Birdie took a step backwards, stumbled over a pile of books and sprawled on the floor.
“You are a plague upon man. Get out. Get out now and never come back!” Her husband picked up a book. His face had turned completely red; a vein pulsated in his temple, and his one remaining eye flashed.
Birdie picked herself up, tumbled out of the door and down the stairs.
She heard him slam the door behind her, followed by a vicious thump against the door.
He’d thrown a book against it.
Tears randown her face as she stumbled down the stairs.
He was insane.
He’d lost his mind completely.
Not only was he caught up in the past, but he was also suicidal. Birdie choked. He was going to kill himself the moment she left. That had been the plan all along. What was it with the men in her life who, rather than taking a chance on her, loving her, preferred to kill themselves?
Like her father. He’d also had a pistol, and he’d used it.
Even her brother Freddie had tried in a duel, but he’d failed.
She ran out the door and across the bridge. As she ran down the path to the village, her skirt tangled up with the nettles on the way. She pulled it loose.
