“Birdie, the cost of silk has gone up and we can’t afford it, but we need new gowns. What are we to do?”
“Birdie, the housekeeper is resigning because we are not paying her. Where are we to get another one?”
Birdie felt a pang of guilt as she thought of Cecily. She hadn’t told her any of that. If her family ever tracked down Cecily, which they would, she wouldn’t be able to tell them where exactly Birdie was. Captain Eversleigh’s instructions were to “await instructions” in Inverness, meaning that Birdie was relatively safe. They would never find her there.
She pulled out the letter that Cecily had given her. It was covered in strong, masculine handwriting.
He didn’t sound so bad, Birdie thought. His penmanship was legible and sensible, and he crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s. His name was Gabriel. A pretty name. The letter was a bit stark, granted. No-nonsense. To the point.
Dear Miss Burns,
Pray forgive the extraordinary delay of this missive, but circumstances have been such that I have been unable to contact you earlier. Whilst we have never met, our fathers were close business associates and friends who desired a union between us, believing it would be a blessing for both our families. As a captain stationed abroad, I had no opportunity to meet a suitable lady, and I acquiesced to my father’s choice of a bride. However, fate intervened, and the war thrust a wedge between those plans. In the meantime, both our fathers have passed on, and my military duties have occupied me on the continent.
However, to honour the wishes of both our fathers, I am determined to remain committed to our engagement and renew my offer of my hand in marriage.
Take the mail coach to Inverness and await instructions on how to proceed from there. I will send my carriage to pick you up.
Your servant,
Gabriel Eversleigh
Birdie re-read it for the hundredth time and wondered why this Gabriel Eversleigh could not honour the engagement until now. What circumstances could he possibly mean? Better late than never, she supposed. But why not become Cecily’s guardian and bequeath her a sum of money?
Probably because he didn’t have any money, Birdie reasoned, as she fingered the cheap paper.
He was a captain, was he? A soldier. Cecily had said he was hideously old. Birdie suspected she might be right. He’d live in a simple hut. If she was lucky, a cottage with a garden. That would be lovely. She could raise chickens and plant bilberry bushes.
Birdie looked out of the carriage window just as it rumbled across a stone bridge. She gasped.
In front of them loomed a gigantic gothic castle.
Chapter 3
It looked like a manifestation of an eerie nightmare. Grey and monstrous, it perched on top of a cliff, as if hewn directly out of the rock. Underneath, the waves of the turbulent sea crashed into its foundation. It had countless turrets with steeples that impaled the sky like pikes. The medieval keep was a colossal, forbidding block of stone surrounded by battlements that must have been built hundreds of years ago to ward off invaders. A massive drawbridge led over a ravine where the seawater gurgled. Whoever built this fortress left nothing to chance. It must’ve been impossible to invade. The coach rumbled over the bridge and came to a halt in the bailey, in front of a set of stone steps leading up to the castle keep. It was an impressive block of stone, but it appeared as if someone had tried to modernise it by installing wider, more modern windows; despite this, the structure maintained its gothic style.
“Would you look at that,” breathed Birdie.
No servants came running, no stable boys scurried forth to take care of the horses. The bailey was empty, and the doors and window shutters of the outer buildings were closed. Only one panel dangled from the hinges and the wind clanked with regular creaking against the wall.
Birdie climbed the stairs to the massive stone building with trepidation. The coachman had dumped her luggage in front of the massive oaken door, then climbed back onto the carriage and turned the horses.
“Wait. I thought you’re Captain Eversleigh’s coachman? Aren’t you staying here?” Birdie called after him.
“Nay. I’m no one’s coachman,” he grumbled as he flicked the whip. The coach departed, rumbling over the bridge.
Birdie stood alone in the deserted bailey and blinked.
“Well. That was unanticipated.” She walked up the stairs and looked at the massive door. She’d have to use both hands to lift the heavy brass knocker. She lifted it and let it slam against the door. It made a thump that echoed in the hall inside. She couldn’t shake the nervous feeling that she was awakening spirits in a tomb.
“Stuff and nonsense, Birdie. Compose yourself.” She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
She hammered the knocker two more times. If no one came to open the door, she decided, she’d march around the building and find the servants’ entrance. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to visit the kitchen first. She craved a cup of good, strong tea. And maybe some hot pie. Or good, strong beef soup. She could also do with a slice of bread and cheese, but something hot in her belly would do her good. Just as she lifted her hand for the third time, the door’s hinges creaked.
Birdie jumped back.
Lo-and-behold, the vault opened. A desire to giggle rose in her chest. She bit her lips to suppress it.
The door opened, and in its shadow stood the oldest man she’d ever seen in her life.
