Isabella, p.19
Isabella, page 19
But, of course, no one would ask those questions, not to our faces when they were our guests. The conventions of polite society would protect us from that. They would reserve their comments for the carriages on their way home.
‘Such a shame, a sin, that Curwen’s name should be dragged through the mud just because they are cousins. He who has done so much for this county, for England. To have a cousin like that.’
Some would save their talk for another time, another place, for the assemblies and inns and coffee-houses, where they would hear the rumour that Fletcher Christian had been seen around the district; where they would be told that they should not waste their sympathy on John and me. For there were those who had heard that John was hiding Fletcher. ‘In the woods of Belle Isle. On the very island where the ball had been held. Imagine! Oh, no. John Curwen is not as honourable as people think. How can he be if he is using his political influence and power to protect his villainous cousin? And his wife. Why, it is said that she and Fletcher Christian were childhood lovers.’
Oh, yes, I knew what it would be like. But, of course, John professed not to care much for rumours and gossip. He believed we were above all that. As a politician he had to think that way. Let them talk. We had more important matters with which to concern ourselves.
His voice cut into my thoughts. ‘What are you thinking about, my dear?’ he said lightly, though I detected an underlying note of anxiety. I glanced at him and saw the puzzled little frown on his face that made him look so like his son.
‘Oh, nothing.’
He turned away from me and his shoulders seemed to hunch so that he suddenly looked older, diminished. It occurred to me for the first time that he might feel as guilty as I. For if he had not intervened in our lives in the way that he had, Fletcher might never have gone to sea. But, then, John would not have had the wealth and opportunity to become the person he now was. I wondered if he regretted what he and Bridget had done. If he would do the same again. I thought how far-reaching are the consequences of each action we take, how the past is never over because it shapes the present.
John took my hand in his. ‘A ball will do us all good. Don’t you agree, my love?’
‘Yes, darling.’ I folded my other hand around our joined palms, tried to sound enthusiastic for his sake. ‘Yes, of course it will.’
‘And Bridget too. She has seemed so anxious lately. She refuses to talk to me about it, though I have tried.’ He glanced at me. ‘You must have noticed it. I do not suppose she has confided in you at all.’
I was quite surprised. I had presumed that Bridget would have discussed with him whatever it was that troubled her. But I knew then that the ball was for her as well as me, to cheer her up, to give her something to think about, the one thing she always revelled in.
‘No, my dear. I’m afraid she has not spoken to me.’
‘For some reason, she disagreed most strongly with my offering to help Edward. But that alone can surely not account for the degree of her apparent unease. Anyway,’ he added, a false brightness in his voice, ‘it’s all settled then. A ball we shall have, and a grand Christmas too. It will be good to spend it here for a change. I understand from the locals that the lake is at its most beautiful in the depths of winter. Windermere has been known to freeze over sometimes and the ice on Rydal and Derwent can be several inches thick. The children go skating.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you come inside now?’
‘I think I shall stay out here a moment longer.’
‘What is it you have there?’ He was looking at the small volume in my hands.
I had forgotten that I was clutching it still. ‘Oh, a book of poems.’
‘I did not know you liked reading poetry.’
I smiled. ‘Sometimes. My mother used to like it. She used to read to me when I was a child.’
‘Well, don’t stay out here too long, my dear, and catch a chill. You must not be ill for the ball. Mind you, it is to be a masquerade so you could disguise a swollen nose, I suppose.’
I watched him striding back across the lawn, a tall, proud figure but forlorn somehow too.
I glanced down at the book. A voice inside my head, quiet and insistent, urged me on. ‘Read the rest of it. You want to know what it says, don’t you?’
I walked over to a naked oak tree, leant my back against its broad, gnarled trunk and inhaled the damp, frosty air. A breeze tugged gently at my hair.
I opened the book and turned the pages slowly, searching, until they came to rest upon the one that had its corner folded back. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
When I closed my eyes that night I saw a white bird stretching its wings to catch the currents of the wind, soaring above the ocean, following in the wake of a ship as it slipped through a land of mountains and blue ice into a world of torturous heat.
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and blue, and white.
In the light of a crimson sun the bird’s wings turned to black as if it had been scorched. The boat it followed was no longer a ship but a small rowing-boat, inside which sat a boy, laughing, and a girl in a white gown. She was smiling too, her dark, tangled hair tumbling around her pale face. The cry of the bird, harsh and rasping, echoed around the mountains. On the glittering horizon the ship appeared again, its naked masts bare, blackened like a charred skeleton. Two women stood at the helm. One of them also wore a white dress and her hair was very black and long. Her face was turned away, towards the horizon. The other had hair the colour of burnt corn flecked with red, as if the fire of the sun was in it. Her eyes were grey and slanted and her lips the colour of blood. The rowing-boat lay in the direct path of the great ship but the two who stood at the helm did not seem to care. They were casting dice. The dark girl hesitated before her throw and it was the other who smiled as the wind blew her golden-red hair across her face.
The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!
It was she who tipped back her head to reveal her slender white throat. It was her laughter, deep, victorious, that echoed around the mountains as the ship gathered speed, ploughing relentlessly onwards towards the little boat.
That night the sounds of the lake troubled me as they had never before. The continuous, sullen murmur of the waves as they lapped against the rocks, the whisper and rattle of the water among the reeds that grew at the water’s edge. Once the sound of the water had seemed to me a restful, timeless thing. But that night it tortured me. For it reminded me of the ocean, the vastness and loneliness of it. I imagined how it could drive you quite mad, that sound, when the ocean held you captive, imprisoned with those who wished you ill. When you longed to be somewhere else, with other company. When you longed for your homeland.
I heard the creaking of the sun-warped timbers, the slapping of the waves against the hull, the winds blowing hard from the north, bearing the ship far away. The ocean, raging in the grip of a storm then becoming calm once more, reflecting the cruel heat of a tropical sun.
I could hear the ship’s bell ringing out the interminable passing of each half-hour. Its deep, mournful echo rang around the mountains, grew faint then returned, loud and low, sweeping down the valley towards the island. I saw the moonlight drifting in through the curtains, turning them silver and spilling on to the floor in a pool of white moving shadows. I closed my eyes, opened them again. Everything was as before, the echo fading away but audible still.
I had a wild desire that moment to go down to the water, untie the boat and row out across the dark lake. I wanted to find whoever or whatever it was that tormented me, with their hand upon the bell’s rope. I would have done it once, when I longed for danger and adventure, when I was reckless and unafraid of the darkness and the things it hides.
I rose by candlelight at just after five o’clock, before the servants began to stir to light fires and start their chores for the day. I was careful not to wake John and went into the adjoining room to dress. The house was very silent, and so cold that my hands trembled as I unplaited my hair and tied it quickly behind my head with a ribbon I found lying on the wash stand. I hurriedly dressed in a white muslin morning gown in case I arrived back late and was seen. I tied a dark blue sash around my waist and flung my cloak about my shoulders.
In the frosted garden I saw a rim of ice around the fountain. In the moonlight the pale marble statues looked incredibly beautiful, watching me with their eyes of stone. I walked down through the dying woods, the leaves and twigs crackling beneath my feet.
I untied the rope that secured the boat to the jetty and climbed inside, then began to row away slowly from the island. Mists lingered, hanging above the water, and the moonlight was frail and unearthly. The mountains seemed shadowy, fantastic things, and in the far distance I could see the ominous crag of Helvellyn. There was little wind, though I could hear the sound of it in the trees as I drew away from the island, that rushing sound that is so like the sound of a waterfall.
Like a meadow-gale of spring –
It mingled strangely with my fears …
How confusing it is when love and fear become intertwined. I forced myself to concentrate only on the rhythm of my body and the dip of the oars, the flow of the water as the boat glided over it.
Let me find him at last. Let me touch him again and hear his voice.
Do not let him be there. For I am afraid.
I rowed directly across the water, cutting a straight line. The house retreated behind the trees. Just once I glanced behind me and saw the vague outline of the little ramshackle cottage at the water’s edge.
The bay was white with silent light …
I turned away and did not look back until I felt the bottom of the boat graze the rocks. I took off my boots, hitched up my skirt and stepped into the water. The coldness of it snatched away my breath and almost made me cry out. I bit down hard upon my lip to stop myself and pulled the boat up on to the shore.
The cottage appeared to be a ruin. It was far more dilapidated than it had seemed when I had seen it from the water. It must have been abandoned long ago. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east now, and I saw a gaping hole in the roof, many of whose slates were missing. As I approached, I noticed that the tiny window was crusted with grime and tattered cobwebs. The whitewashed walls were blackened, dirty and flaking. Gigantic trees towered all around, dwarfing the cottage, rising steeply up the hill behind, with a root-strewn pathway snaking up towards the carriage road from Ambleside.
The door was slightly ajar and the rusted chain that held it dangled loose, broken, as if it had been forced open. I was certain that when I had seen the cottage from the water the door had been firmly secured. My heart quickened a little and I wondered if I had not been incredibly naïve and foolhardy. I was all alone on the deserted shore, with Heaven knew what or whom. I had nothing with which to defend myself and not a soul knew where I had gone.
It had started to rain a little, light drops that pattered on the fallen leaves and upon the lake. I considered leaving then, but something prevented me. Now that I was here, I had to find out.
I took a few steps towards the half-open door. There was no handle, no knocker, just the latch from which hung the broken chain. The door itself was crumbling, the dark wood swollen, rotten with damp. I gave it a quick, sharp push and stood back. It creaked and swung open only slightly as it dragged upon the ground. I glanced around me and saw a long, severed branch lying not far from my feet. I picked it up, stepped to the door and, taking a deep breath, I pushed it a little further open and crept inside.
I was blinded for a moment by the darkness. The room was lit only by the dimmest light, which filtered through the hole in the roof and the partially open door. The tiny, grime-encrusted window gave no light at all. The air was still and cold and smelt of earth and ancient dampness. And something else, smoke and a slight salty, tangy odour, which was like the scent of the ocean.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I saw that the room was quite large. The floor was made of earth, which was hard and dusty beneath my feet. A rope hung in front of me and I realised then, with a strange feeling inside me, what it was. It was thick and long, fraying at the ends. I touched it lightly. It, too, was covered in moss and mildew and felt damp and slimy. I had a curious urge to tug upon it. To keep pulling again and again so that the bell rang out, clamorous and wild, not the solitary toll I had heard from the island. I wanted to hear it until it no longer made me afraid.
Just then my eye caught something at the far end of the room, under the largest hole in the roof. A pale shaft of light shone down through it and illuminated something upon the floor, a pile of charred twigs and leaves and ashes.
My stomach felt knotted and my legs had turned to water but I made myself walk nearer, telling myself that there was nothing at all to be afraid of. I crouched upon the floor and tentatively reached out my hand. The ashes were warm still, even the uppermost ones, and I knew that those at the bottom of the pile would be quite hot, could burn me if I dug my fingers down to them. Beside the remains of the fire lay the bones of a large fish, a char or pike.
I snatched away my hands and stood up quickly, turned and rushed out into the drizzling rain. I stood for a while on the shore breathing deeply, my mind spinning, the light rain touching my face with an invisible caress.
I heard a noise behind me in the woods, a rustling sound as if someone or something disturbed the dense foliage. I spun round. It was then that I saw the boat. Almost hidden, tucked away behind the trees at the edge of the wood. From where I stood it looked in good order, as if it had been used regularly and recently.
I ran then, splashing through the water, not caring at all if the hem of my gown became soaked. I dragged out my boat, leapt inside and grabbed the oars, pushing off from the shore and rowing with all my might.
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
Once I was upon the water again I felt much calmer, a little foolish, even, for no one had pursued me. I glanced back at the cottage, quiet and deserted still. It could have been anyone who had eaten their meal at Millerground then moved on to wherever they were heading. The country was full of vagrants and beggars in search of shelter and rest. And the boat could belong to anyone, a local family, maybe, or children from Bowness or Ambleside who kept it there, hidden away so that it would not be stolen.
I remembered then that John Bolton had told me that his boat had been stolen. A small rowing-boat, he said it was. I remembered the sounds I had heard at night. Sounds that were like the rhythmical dip of oars.
As I let myself into the hall I heard the servants laying the table for breakfast, lighting the fires in the dining room and the parlour. The smell of toasting bread wafted up from the kitchens but I did not feel hungry. I went to my dressing room and changed out of my wet gown before Lizzie came in to dress my hair. John and Bridget were still not about when I made my way downstairs again, though I had heard sounds from Bridget’s room as I passed along the corridor.
So neither of them would have seen the letter that was waiting on the silver salver on the drawing-room table. It was addressed to me – or, rather, it was addressed to Mrs Christian, a name that I did not immediately recognise because I had grown accustomed to being referred to as Mrs Curwen. I thought for a moment that someone had made a mistake, that the letter was intended for Bridget but that whoever had written the address had written Mrs instead of Miss. Then I remembered that it had been my name once.
I picked it up and studied the slightly cramped, square writing but I did not recognise it. There was no seal on the reverse and the paper was thin and flimsy, of relatively poor quality. I knew that it was too early for it to have come by the usual horse post from Bowness and I rang for the butler to ask him when it had arrived.
‘Earlier this morning, madam. A messenger brought it. He did not wish to wait for a reply. I would have had it sent up directly to you but your room was empty, ma’am.’
‘Yes. I went out for a sail. I could not sleep.’
He gave a courteous little nod but did not reply. Ridiculous! Why should I feel I needed to account for my actions to the servants?
The letter was from Peter Heywood. My first thought after reading it was that I must destroy it before anyone else saw it. Was I still thinking to protect him, even then? I suppose I must have been.
The fire had recently been lit in the breakfast room and was burning brightly in the grate. I tore up the letter, slowly, into very small pieces. I went and stood by the fire and threw them into the flames and I watched them catch light, flare, twist then shrivel to black.
I looked down at my hands, still holding the envelope. Mrs Christian, it said. The person I had dreamed of becoming as a child, but that Mrs Christian I had never been.
The envelope took longer to burn than the letter and as I watched the flames eating their way slowly, inexorably, towards my name, I recalled the words that I had just read. Words that I could not, must not ignore, for they were a message, a warning. I had to speak to Peter Heywood and to do that I should have to ask Bridget to find out where he was.
I enquired casually as she sat down to breakfast if she knew where I might contact him.
She looked at me curiously, fingering the high collar of her morning gown. ‘I think he is at sea at present. Is it urgent?’ I did not reply. In a way that was most uncharacteristic of her, she rushed to fill the silence. ‘I could write to Nessy for you. She would know how it would be best to reach him.’
