Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 13
Welcome back to my spooky gothic novel set in a slightly different Regency England!
By the time you read this, I’ll be on a road trip. A friend with Parkinson’s needs to rehome her cat—and I’m adopting the cat. Since I’m not sure how much access I’ll have to Wi-Fi or time for working on my Substack, I’m setting up this chapter—and every chapter I’m publishing for the next couple weeks—ahead of time.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 12:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/hauntings-of-claverton-castle-chapter-cde?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 13
With trembling fingers, Samantha kept her eyes on the specter and took down her hair. She brushed and braided it under the still and watchful eyes mostly hidden by the dark veil. She reached down to untie her garters and remove her stockings.
Samantha imagined sitting with Margot in a rose garden and talking with her, describing the apparition. She had only begun to visualize this scene, when the ghost faded and disappeared. The specter’s energy diminished to nothing.
Samantha rose from the dressing table and, carrying the candleholder, strode as swiftly across the room as she could without extinguishing the candles. Reaching the door to the bedroom, she briefly glanced back toward the looking-glass before tiptoeing into her bedroom. She closed the door behind her and hastily pressed her back against it and closed her eyes. A shower of relief washed over her.
She crossed to the bed and lay under the covers. Since childhood she had had a peculiar fancy that if she was under the covers, she was safe from monsters. They would not crawl over the windowsill or out of the wardrobe.
Fluffing up her pillows, Samantha thought of Mr. Prendregast and frowned. Her impression of him was far from favorable, but she told herself that perhaps she was too quick to judge him. He may have had a disappointing day; perhaps his joints were in pain. Surely he would not be cantankerous during every supper. She refused to cautiously avoid the library whenever she believed Mr. Prendregast occupied it. Well, hopefully.
She shook her head as she rolled over and faced the candelabra. She sat up long enough to blow out the candles. In utter darkness, she lay down and pulled the sheet and coverlet up to her ears.
Perhaps, she told herself, owing to her uncle’s remarkable unpleasantness, she expected all mature men to be odious. She doubted Mr. Prendregast would give her a black eye. She grimaced and rolled over again. She consciously shifted her thoughts to something significantly more amiable. She imagined she was outdoors in a circle of oak trees with tiny, sparkling Fae folk flying around her and inspiring her to giggle and dance.
Samantha recalled her magnanimous father—a memory that often comforted her. Her father had taken her on a walk he called an expedition when she was eight years old. It was but a month before both her parents’ demise.
Her father and she had packed pastries and fruit and headed out to the woods behind Thyme Cottage. They walked alongside the brook and crossed it by stepping on slick stones. Her father pointed out various animals: a badger, beavers, and a dormouse. He helped her identify the various birds by the creek, including a heron. He had been exceedingly different from Uncle Bradford and Mr. Prendregast. She drifted off to sleep.
Samantha was playing the pianoforte in a flower garden, to an audience of pigeons and peacocks. She put her fingers on the wrong keys and emitted jarring, atonal noise. Her fingers felt like rubber; she could not control them. The feathered audience threw back their heads and shrieked with hysterical laughter.
Samantha awoke to darkness. It was but a dream. She recalled her mother saying, “Remember that wherever you are, your father and I love you and always will. We accept you for whom you are.” This sustained her all these years after her parents’ deaths.
Upon moving in with her aunt and uncle, she had created an internal, fanciful world in which admirers surrounded her. Everyone in her imaginary world—including talkative pigeons and peacocks—accepted her without question. An eight-year-old created this world, but at nearly seventeen Samantha continued to dwell in it. Sometimes it buffered this world where people such as her uncle and his friends were quick to harshly judge her. Other times, her uncle supervened her daydreams by yelling at her, and, bereft, she felt pressure on her heart.
She rolled over and drifted back to sleep.
Samantha was sitting before the dressing table. She knew not why she was back in that room instead of in bed. The veiled woman was staring back at her and drifted silently closer to the looking-glass. Samantha tried to rise from the bench, but she could not move, as though she were frozen. The woman in the veil climbed out of the looking-glass and onto the dressing-table. Samantha tried to lift her right foot but could not. The specter stepped down to the wooden floor and stood over Samantha with her arms outstretched toward her throat. Samantha felt anxious and knew she was about to die.
Samantha lay in bed, gasping in horror; she yanked the covers off her head. With wide eyes, she regarded the bed curtains, now pulled shut around her bed and lit by daylight. She knew she left them open last night. She sat up and pulled aside the curtain on her left, allowing morning sunlight to beam on her face and the air from the open window to cool her forehead. She lay back and closed her eyes.
Sitting up again, Samantha observed that, although the bed curtains had been adjusted, the bedchamber looked impeccable in daylight. As she rose from bed, she pulled back the remaining bed curtains and wondered if they would mysteriously move every night. She reminded herself that she should join the others at breakfast before the hot food cooled.
When Samantha entered the breakfast room, only Harriet, clad in an elegant white lawn frock, rose from the table and greeted Samantha. The guest considered telling her friend about the phantoms, but in the bright morning light, it seemed inappropriate, especially with someone lacking Sensitive powers. She resolved to wait.
Samantha noted Mr. Prendregast’s empty chair and exhaled. She felt relieved but sheepishly guilty for feeling relieved. She must remind herself that while churlish, he was extremely generous in allowing her to stay at his home for an indeterminate length of time. He need not do so merely because she was Harriet’s friend; he had the authority to dismiss her.
After an exchange of greetings, Harriet sank back down, and Samantha helped herself to the spread. Large silver dishes lined up on a long buffet table, and Samantha spooned up eggs, mushrooms, potatoes, and grilled tomatoes. Perhaps Mr. Prendregast’s ability to throw her out caused much of her aversion toward him; he was a male authority figure, like Uncle Bradford. And like that of her uncle, his power was oppressive and suffocating. The old manor house would feel more pleasant and free… she shook her head.
She helped herself to two slices of toast and added marmalade, and she poured herself a cup of coffee before sitting across from Harriet. Though observing her feelings of guilt, she recalled some of Mr. Prendregast’s belligerent words and acknowledged he was quite unpleasant.
Harriet distracted Samantha from her thoughts. “Your frock is monstrous fetching, Samantha. The embroidery is exquisite.”
Spirits lifting, Samantha smiled. “Thank you so much.” She wore a white muslin frock with a high ruffled collar and long sleeves featuring a series of small puffs. White and blue floral embroidery decorated the neckline, ruffles, and skirt hem. “I fear my clothes pale in comparison to yours, Harriet. You have such an exquisite wardrobe, what I assume are the latest fashions.”
Harriet giggled. “Perhaps not the very latest fashions, but I do pay attention to such things. I try to keep up. I fear it is futile.” She wiped her chin. “Would you like a tour of Claverton Castle?”
“Oh, yes!”
After breakfast, Harriet and Samantha drifted into the entrance hall. Harriet waved around. “Claverton Castle is not a proper castle. It is a fourteenth century manor house that has, like a castle, battlements and a moat. Unlike most manor houses, it is fortified.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“Let’s do go outdoors, to the courtyard first.” Harriet led Samantha toward the front entrance. As they stepped out into the courtyard, she explained, “This I think will make more sense, help you keep your bearings. Wandering around indoors first might confuse you.”
“Very likely.” Samantha’s eyes were not upon Harriet; she was gazing around at the courtyard and manor house.
Harriet waved her hands vaguely at the manor house walls. “I think the stone is all sandstone…. Oh, wait, Father said it is both sandstone and ashlar, and the roof is slate. That’s quite a lot of stone.”
In daylight and up close, Claverton Castle still looked charmingly medieval. Samantha observed to the left of the main gate a wing now used as a carriage house; in the distance, she discerned the hint of a carriage through a window. To the right was the long stretch of the two-story wing she had noted from the hill. The entrance path on which she had walked divided the courtyard in half, and a garden surrounded it—complete with a few stone benches and statues.
Harriet led the way down the path. “The garden isn’t original, from what I understand. According to Father, it is but a century old.”
“I suppose your medieval ancestors were more interested in edible crops than in decorative plants. There must be many acres of fields on your land.”
“Very true. And we still have plenty of tenants attending them. That said, the original garden, which is not as old as the house, is off to the east field.” Harriet pointed her nose eastward. She moved up the path, and Samantha followed her until her friend stopped and revolved to face the main, central section of the house.
“That enormous part is the great hall,” Harriet explained.
“I figured as much. Forgive me—I stood on a hill and looked down at Claverton Castle from a distance.”
“Was that not part of the directions I gave you?”
“Yes, I… memorized them.” Samantha continued before her friend had a chance to comment. “No matter the perspective or angle, your home is breathtaking.”
“Why, thank you, dear!” Harriet swirled in a full circle. “La! The drawing room and parlor are inside the big three-story section in front of the grand hall. Above them is the library and the billiard room. And above that are guest suites.”
Harriet swiveled to look toward the left end of the great hall. “And that biggish section right next to the great hall is, on the main floor, the kitchen and pantry. Above it is the breakfast room and more guest rooms. Your bedroom is right there.”
“Oh, I see it! I had no idea I was above the kitchen.”
“Sound should not carry well—the floor and walls are many feet thick.”
“Well, it certainly is medieval.”
Harriet began walking back toward the door. “Now we can go back inside.”
“What are the rooms inside that long wing, over there?”
Harriet turned and saw where Samantha was looking. “Ah, upstairs it is the servants’ bedrooms, and downstairs it is rooms where the servants work. The original buttery, pantry, ironing room, and laundry room… I think that is all of it. Oh, and storage rooms. I’m a bit fuzzy about it since I scarcely set foot in that part of the house.”
Samantha smiled. “Of course.” She followed Harriet back indoors. They walked the stretch of the front entrance hall, with the door to the solar immediately on their left and the door to the front parlor on their right.
“You have seen the parlor, of course,” Harriet said. “Let me show you the other rooms on the ground floor.” They approached the next door on the left, and Harriet opened it. “This is the drawing room, but you have already been here.”
“Yes, but it is a very pleasant room.”
They stepped in, and Samantha saw the drawing room in daylight for the first time. It held no resemblance to that of Samantha’s aunt and uncle and therefore did not conjure distressing memories of her last evening there. That had been a modern room with white paneled walls and delicate-looking furniture, but this drawing room still retained much of its original medieval style. The walls were whitewashed stone, and the large stone fireplace was embellished with lions supporting the mantle. Various rugs covered the sandstone floor. The furniture was old and heavy wood with colorful cushions.
“Father is usually here with us in the evenings,” Harriet said. “However, he does not always join us.”
Samantha raised her eyebrows. “Since he is of a curmudgeonly disposition?”
“La, you do make amusing observations! Sometimes he prefers the library.”
Samantha stopped herself from saying, Good.