‘I’m scared, Aunty Fliss,’ she whimpered, and I took her trembling hand in mine and held it tightly.
‘It is not much farther, dear,’ I said through gritted teeth, silently cursing Mr Hart, who strode on relentlessly in front of us through the thicket. We had to keep pace with him or else be left floundering in the darkness. I myself was notafraid of the trees or the darkness or the scurrying noises of small animals in the undergrowth, having grown up in the country. But I was becoming uneasy as to where he was leading us.
The ‘short walk’ he had described was turning into a veritable hike, and I bit my tongue in an effort to keep my complaints to myself for the sake of Lucinda and Jane. The forest was, I suspected, an ancient defence system planted around the perimeter of the castle designed to deter intruders. But Mr Hart was not an intruder nor a visitor—his family owned the castle. So it was strange that his father would not permit the opening of the front door for his own son and instead force him to use the back entrance like a servant.
We emerged from the trees a while after, and in the limited light of the lamp, I saw that I had been correct. The forest stretched away from us on either side and formed a protective barrier around the monstrosity of stone that loomed before us.
‘Ladies, I give you Hartmoor Castle,’ said Mr Hart theatrically. ‘But you will be able to see it better without the light.’ There was a ‘poof’ noise as he extinguished the gas lantern, which resulted in a collective gasp as darkness enveloped us. He chuckled softly to himself, and I got the impression he was enjoying our fear and uncertainty.
Lucinda and Jane huddled close to me, and I took a deep breath to steady my pounding heart. However, he was right. A gibbous moon hung in the sky directly overhead, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw the castle more clearly. It was indeed the one in his sketch. The turrets were there as depicted, but the moonlight also revealed stonework that was badly in need of repair. There were black gaps like missing teeth all over it. To my mind, it was more of a dilapidated ruin barely held together with mortar than what Mr Hart had drawn. His version was more like Hartmoor Castle in its heyday.
Jane, who had been clamouring to visit his castle, was not saying anything. As Mr Hart walked off towards the creepy-looking fortification, not waiting for our opinions or comments, I nudged her. ‘A bit different to his sketch, don’t you think?’
But she declined to answer, possibly grappling between the truth and politeness.
It made me think that perhaps I was being too hard on him. If this was the back entrance, perhaps the front of the castle was in a better state?
Chapter 12
We stumbled along a narrow rutted path after Mr Hart, who was making his way towards a studded wooden door. As we approached, I happened to look up and, to my consternation, spied a large stone gargoyle crouched on a ledge—its mouth stretched wide in a gaping grin. I decided not to point it out to Lucinda, who, by this stage, was scared stiff, if her fingers digging painfully into my forearm were anything to go by.
Mr Hart knocked on the massive door thrice, with the aid of a heavy door knocker bearing the head of a lion. The booming noise it made echoed through to whatever lay beyond, which, by this point in time, was anyone’s guess.
In spite of my trembling knees, I was still impressed that Mr Hart’s family owned a place like this. It was difficult not to be. But it did not override my annoyance that he had misled us. For if he had drawn the dilapidated castle as it truly was, I doubt Elizabeth would have wanted the sketch framed and hung in her front parlour or indeed been so encouraging of us visiting it!
The door began to creak slowly inwards, emitting a shaftof yellow light, which illuminated our waiting party. A silhouetted figure appeared in the doorway and shuffled towards us, moving in an odd lopsided manner. It was only when it came closer did I see it was a man and that he had a hunchback. He raised a hand in what seemed a menacing fashion, causing Lucinda to hide behind me with a stifled scream.
But he was only beckoning us inside.
‘Thank you, Maurice, my good fellow,’ said Mr Hart blithely as we filed past the man and into a stone entranceway with a curved ceiling.
‘I was expecting you hours ago, Master Dorian,’ said Maurice, pushing the door shut after us and locking it with a giant iron key. He held up his lantern and perused us ladies, beady brown eyes peering out from underneath a straight fringe. I was surprised to see that he was only middle-aged and not as ancient as I had thought. He had a pleasant face, although it was rather serious.
‘Yes. Well, we had a few more stops than were necessary,’ said Mr Hart, looking pointedly at me.
Remembering my manners, I said, ‘How do you do? I’m Mrs Felicity Fitzroy. This is my friend Miss Jane Austen and my niece. Miss Lucinda Fitzroy.’ I gestured to each in turn. Jane said ‘Hello’ and Lucinda bobbed from behind my shoulder.
Maurice inclined his head at us.
‘Welcome. Let us go through to the kitchen, where it’s warm.’ He shuffled off down a narrow stone hallway, and we trailed behind him, albeit slowly as he did not walk fast. There were candle sconces that had been lit on the wall, but they only served to throw out spooky shadows. It seemed a dark, cold, and gloomy old place.
But I endeavoured to keep my spirits up—in this case, by looking forward to a change of clothes and a wash. I turned my head and enquired brightly of Mr Hart, who was bringing up the rear, ‘Will our luggage be delivered soon? I’d like to freshen up before dinner.’
‘I’m afraid you will have to make do this evening, Mrs Fitzroy,’ he said. ‘My driver has retired to a nearby inn for the night. But he will bring your luggage first thing tomorrow.’
I could not believe my ears.
‘That is most inconvenient,’ I said tightly.
‘There will be warm water and soap provided if you want to wash, and what you have on is fine for supper. As for afterwards, you sleep in your chemise, do you not? Or perhaps you don’t?’ he added in a lower tone.
I whipped my head to the front again, pretending not to have heard his insolence. But from the soft laughter behind my right ear, he knew I had.
‘Either way’, he continued when I declined to give him an answer about what I wore to bed (which was frankly none of his business), ‘you will have no need of anything in your luggage until the morning.’
Jane will be so angry about this, I thought with glee.It will put him in her bad graces, and he’ll have a hard time wriggling out of them.For she’d left her writing desk in the carriage on the assumption that it would be delivered forthwith.
When we reached the kitchen, it was much more cheerful, thanks to the numerous lanterns set around. Warmth flowed from a huge black leaded stove, which had a cast-iron pot steaming upon it. Unable to help myself, I murmured to Jane, ‘We are not getting our luggage tonight. He says tomorrow morning.’ I gestured to Mr Hart with my chin.
