Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 4
Samantha is running away from home to Claverton Castle, her friend Harriet’s family home.
To begin at the beginning of this gothic novel:
To read Chapter 3:
Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 4
On the night of Samantha’s escape from her uncle’s house, the moon glowed white and full in a misty halo. Samantha had little time to gaze at the moon and only did so for a few seconds. She had traversed far from Bath for, she calculated, several hours. Her body ached all over, and she wondered how many bruises she had. She admonished herself; she was fortunate to have no broken bones.
The wind across the moor taunted her with howls and whispers. It blew her wavy taupe hair in all directions. Owing to the unseasonable chill, she halted long enough to don her pelisse.
Her feet were sore through the thin soles of her boots. Her hip and back were sore from where her uncle had kicked them, her eye sore from his fist, and the back of her shoulder aching from the impact of her fall when he shoved her. With only moonlight to guide her way, she had to be careful not to twist her ankle on bumpy ground.
Yet she needed to continue trekking across the moor, distancing herself from her uncle as quickly as possible. Any moment, he could discover her absence. She recalled him moving toward her, grasping her arm with his disgusting bloated hands. She grimaced at the memory.
She had loved her aunt. Aunt Roseanna had been kind… yet weak. She mostly took well enough care of Samantha and spoke gently to her… but she never defended her against her uncle. It was confusing. His malicious words, his manipulative false accusations, shot at Samantha; she remembered her aunt sat hearing the same words yet never commenting or arguing.
As Samantha kept trudging slightly uphill, stepping carefully on the bumpy earth, her thoughts drifted to a memory—too like so many others—of an incident a twelvemonth before Aunt Roseanna fell ill. She had overhead Uncle Bradford grumbling and stomped out of his study. Samantha knew to avoid him. She had been walking up the corridor, but she pivoted on her heel and charged away.
Samantha ran into the drawing room, where her aunt was needlepointing a seat cushion. She hoped Uncle Bradford hadn’t discerned her entering that room. Alas, she heard his heavy boots stomping nearby in the hallway, and he threw open the door to the parlor. Both Samantha and Aunt Roseanna raised their heads and stared.
“This hoyden had the infernal audacity to rummage through my desk and made a demmed mess of it! She’s not even allowed in my study, let alone in my desk!”
“I did no such thing.” Samantha darted her eyes at her aunt, who remained silent.
“Balderdash!” Uncle Bradford yelled. “You broke into my study—and what a girl has to do with a study, I don’t know—you have no business reading my books, impudent hussy! You broke into my study and looked through my desk!”
“I did no such thing,” Samantha repeated, in a slightly deeper and louder voice. She glanced at Aunt Roseanna again, but her aunt had quickly bowed her head to her work and didn’t so much as acknowledge this “conversation.” She looked as though she was alone in a quiet and peaceful room, as she pulled her needle through the canvas.
Uncle Bradford charged at Samantha, came upon her right side, and grabbed her arm. He shook her, yelling so loudly she winced and covered her left ear with her free arm. “You hussy! As if your pounding on the pianoforte at all hours of the day wasn’t enough to try a man’s soul, I endure your impertinent remarks, and now this!” Her teeth snapped together, jarring her mouth. She felt giddy, and her head spun. “I’ve a good mind to throw you out! You’re not worth the trouble you are to your aunt and me! Do you ever show a smidgeon of gratitude? No!”
Samantha stared at her uncle with her mouth hanging slightly open. She could curse herself for freezing in shock on such occasions despite their frequency. Her aunt continued to remain silent, her head bent over her needlework.
Samantha turned in desperation toward the fireplace, a yard away. Her uncle’s shouts had drowned out the sound of the crackling, burning logs. The fire tools in their stand caught Samantha’s attention whilst her uncle still shook her. She yanked her arm from his grip and charged at the fire tools. She pulled the poker out of the stand. Rubbing against the other metal objects, the poker emitted a gravelly metallic groan. Samantha raised it above her head and faced her uncle.
“Accuse me and lay your hands on me at your own risk, you brute!” Samantha yelled.
Aunt Roseanna yelped and dropped her needlepoint. She jumped out of her comfortable armchair and stood behind it, clasping its back and staring at her niece. Samantha scowled at her aunt. Now you finally react. Even Uncle Bradford seemed astonished by her behavior since he stood gawking at her.
A maidservant ran into the drawing room. Samantha realized they must have been noisy. The servant, grasping her hands together and bowing her head, spoke quickly. “Please! I am sorry for searching through your desk, sir! Please don’t hurt Miss Ponsonby! I was a-searching for your blotting paper, owing to what a creature of habit you are, pardoning the expression, sir, and I didn’t desire a chastisement and dismissal on account of it missing! I didn’t mean any harm by it! I meant to return it to its customary place, so I went looking for it! It is always been in the exact same spot on the desk before. I can’t think what happened to it!”
“Enough, enough!” Uncle Bradford bellowed. “I shall hear no more of your yammering! You females will be the death of me, you will!”
Samantha stared at her uncle with raised eyebrows and awaited an apology from him. He stomped out of the room. She gasped, irritated that he couldn’t even give apologize after all that. She turned to her aunt, who finally looked up at her. “Put away that poker, dear,” Aunt Roseanna said. “You could hurt someone with it.” Gape-mouth, Samantha glared at her.
Samantha did not see Uncle Bradford again that day. She speculated that he was at his club.
In the present, Samantha felt an urge to hurry, so she grasped her skirts and hitched them up as she ran across the field despite her injuries. In the distance, she espied the outline of a tower, and she slowed down. Her uncle had probably fainted dead away from too much alcohol, she reasoned. He had no chance of keeping up with her and could not know where she was. She chastised herself for fretting and headed for the tower. The grass, intermingled with dirt, rustled beneath her feet.