The Secret of Willow Castle - A Historical Gothic Romance Novel by Burns Nathaniel

Author:Burns, Nathaniel [Burns, Nathaniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Heiken Marketing
Published: 2013-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

8 Secrets

“I am going out, Mrs Chapman. I shall be back in time for dinner.”

I did not break my stride as I glided down the stairs, walking straight past Mrs Chapman and throwing the words back over my shoulder as I fastened my cape and made my exit. Her acknowledgement of my words was drowned out by the dull thud of the heavy oak door as it thudded shut behind me. I crossed the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my thick boots, and heaved the wrought iron gate open just enough to squeeze through.

The moment I was beyond the gates, I felt as though a weight had been lifted from me. I flung my arms wide and drew a deep, deep breath of clean, cold Peak air. Mam Tor lay before me in all its bleak beauty, the road to Castleton in one direction and a footpath leading up over the crest of the hill in the other. I had planned to walk towards Castleton and turn back a safe distance away from the town, since I was in deep mourning and should not be seen walking alone. Instead I found my steps turning away from the road, leading me onto the muddy footpath. I felt my feet sink in slightly with every step, the mud sucking on my boots as I lifted my feet again. My petticoats grew a little heavier as they gathered a layer of dirt at the bottom.

I thought of Mama and how horrified she would have been, seeing me tramping doggedly through the muck like this. Then I remembered that she would never see the state of my boots and that I would never need to clean them myself again. Upon my return I would simply have Sarah unlace them and they would disappear to the boot room, and I would not see them again until they were clean and polished. If I climbed dykes and stiles and tore my dress, it would be mended. If I climbed a tree and then leapt out of it straight into a muddy puddle, or chose to drag myself through a hedge backwards, I could still go home and have my garments cleaned and repaired and no-one would care enough about me to judge my behaviour. Even if one of the servants chose to inform Sir Montague, I doubted he would be in the least bit interested in my eccentricities as long as they remained as innocent as a little rambling. It was a strange sort of freedom, the kind that was born out of my Mama’s absence and my husband’s antipathy, yet it was the first freedom I had ever known.

Rambling alone over the Tor, I had my first chance to take stock of the events of the past few days. Mama’s burial, Sir Montague’s harsh words, my thrilling, guilt-laden moment with Mervyn… It all seemed as improbable and disorienting as a dream, yet at the same time it felt more real than anything I had ever experienced before.

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