The Locket of Dreams (7 page)

The servants walked slowly into the stable yard, their horses hanging their heads in exhaustion. Behind them bumped a rickety old farm cart, with a blanket-shrouded shape lying on the back.

Eliza flew down the staircase and met the returning servants as they carried the scarlet-draped body into the hall. The men, grey with weariness, carried their hats in their hands, refusing to meet Eliza’s gaze.

‘My lady,’ blurted Wilson, ‘I am so sorry. We found my laird’s body this afternoon, washed up on the shore of Lochalsh. We brought it straight home; we thought you would want to know as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you, Wilson,’ murmured Eliza. As if of its own accord, her hand reached out and gently, softly stroked the draped body. ‘Could you please carry him in here? I want to look after him myself.’

Alexander’s body was laid out on a table in the sitting room and Eliza closed the door, locking everyone out. The servants scurried around, watching the door nervously.

At last Eliza emerged and wordlessly climbed the stairs to the nursery to comfort her daughters.

‘Darlings, your papa is dead. There is no doubt now.’ Eliza slumped, all the fight gone from her, and hugged Charlotte and Nell closely. ‘It is just us now.’

Charlotte buried her head in her mother’s skirt but somehow she had already known the worst. Nell just stared uncomprehendingly. How could their larger-than-life, laughing father be gone?

Sophie could not bear to watch Eliza, Charlotte and Nell’s grief. She turned away and swooped up through the window and up through the clouds, back to her own world.

Sophie woke with an aching head, her pillow wet with tears. She took the locket off and held it in her hand, feeling its weight. Should she put the locket away in its oak box? Did she really want to know the rest of Charlotte’s story?

But could she bear not to know? Could she bear never to go back to the past?

Sophie thought of her own family’s problems. She had tried to ignore these for months but learning about Charlotte’s family dramas had made her realise her own troubles were not going to go away.

Her dad, Jack, had lost his marketing job six months ago, when his company had gone bankrupt. At first he had been cheery and optimistic, telling the girls that it would not take him long to find another job. He had dressed in his suit every day and read the newspaper, circling all the jobs he would apply for.

He had visited headhunters (apparently these were people who helped you find jobs, not cannibals) and made hundreds of phone calls. He had attended interview after interview, only to be told he was over-qualified for the job and the economy was depressed.

Sophie’s mum, Karen, had worked part-time as a graphic artist, but was now working full-time to pay the mortgage and bills and buy the groceries. There was not enough money to pay for everything, so the family had to
economise
. First went the ballet and piano lessons, then over time, more and more changes had to be made.

Karen made lots of different meals with cheap mince, and one Sophie and Jess jokingly called ‘dead vegetable soup’, made from the weekly leftovers. There was no money for treats such as going to the movies, buying new clothes or books or even takeaway.

As the months sped by, Jack had fallen into a deep depression. He spent half the day in his pyjamas and had taken to reading the sport and comics in the newspaper, instead of the business and jobs pages. The highlight of his day was watching mindless programs on television and he
had started to yell at the children, making everyone feel miserable.

The decision had been made that after the holidays, Sophie and Jess would have to leave their expensive private school and go to the local public school, leaving all their friends. Sophie’s stomach filled with butterflies whenever she thought about it. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Last week she had heard her parents fighting over the credit card bills. Her mother suggested they should sell their home and rent somewhere cheaper until Jack found another job. Jack had shouted back, then stormed out of the house. He had returned hours later, quiet and withdrawn.

Karen had decided it might be nicer for the girls to stay with Nonnie for two weeks, to give them all a break. Sophie was scared of what was happening at home. She worried they might lose their home; she worried her parents might break up; she worried her dad was so sick and sad that her old cheerful, happy dad would never come back.

Sophie put the locket back on, pulled the covers over her head and thought of Charlotte losing her father, Alexander Mackenzie.

When Sophie returned, it was five days after Alexander’s death. His brother, Roderick, and sister-in-law, Arabella, had come to stay for the funeral.

Eliza had washed and dressed her husband’s body in a white sleeping gown and he lay in the drawing room. For five days, Eliza had sat with her husband, keeping a vigil. Around her the servants crept anxiously, attending to all the many duties of a house in mourning.

There were letters to write, cards of condolence to open, messages to be sent to the far corners of Britain, the funeral to organise, mourning clothes to be ordered.

At last Eliza left her husband’s side. She wandered down the hall into Alexander’s study, to find Roderick rifling through the papers on the desk. Eliza froze with indignation.

‘Ah, Eliza,’ Roderick said, quickly covering up a letter he had been reading. ‘How are you, my dear?’

‘Roderick, I would greatly appreciate it if you could try to keep your long nose out of my husband’s private papers,’ snapped Eliza.

‘My dear Eliza, I’m only trying to help,’ retorted Roderick. ‘At a time like this you need all the support you can get, and of course it’s too much to expect you to grasp Alexander’s complex business affairs.’

‘Why? Because I am a woman?’ asked Eliza, dangerously polite.

‘Well, yes, of course,’ replied Roderick smugly. ‘It’s much too complicated for your delicate sensibilities at this time.’

‘It is too much for my delicate sensibilities to have you pawing through my dead husband’s things, so I would greatly appreciate it if you could leave me alone for a few moments.’

Roderick could do nothing but agree, albeit with bad grace, and leave the room.

Eliza picked up the paper Roderick had been reading. It was one of the crofter’s tenancy contracts. Next time Roderick surreptitiously tried the study door, he found it firmly locked.

That evening at dinner, Eliza toyed with her food, hardly eating anything. Arabella chatted cheerily, ostentatiously
flaunting the brand-new black of her mourning gown. The black silk dramatically emphasised her pale skin, black hair and slim figure.

Sophie floated restlessly around the dining room, causing the candles to flicker and gutter.

‘There seems to be a terrible
draught
in this room, Eliza,’ complained Arabella. ‘I do not know how you can bear it.’

Eliza also wore head-to-toe dull black, as was expected of a widow. The dressmaker and her assistants had spent days and nights sewing the required mourning gowns for Eliza, Charlotte and Nell. While adults wore black for mourning, children usually wore white.

The girls sat quietly, joining the adults for dinner but saying very little.

‘I wonder, my dear Eliza, what you will do now with the girls,’ quizzed Arabella, her black feather headdress bobbing. ‘I suppose you will be sending them to boarding school. I know an excellent boarding school in Edinburgh that is marvellous for teaching dancing and deportment.

‘Goodness knows, Charlotte and Nell could do with some help there,’ she continued. ‘They will never find a husband unless they learn to walk like ladies.’ She trilled with laughter.

Eliza flushed with mortification. One of the candles on the mantelpiece flickered and went out.

‘No thank you, Arabella,’ replied Eliza with difficulty. ‘Charlotte and Nell will stay here at home with me.’

‘Oh, I wonder if you do not die of boredom, here in the middle of nowhere,’ Arabella said. ‘Well, of course, as a widow you will not be able to go to parties or balls for a year.

‘I suppose you will want to move to Glasgow or Edinburgh. You may meet some eligible older gentlemen there. After all, you are not so
very
old now, and I am sure you would wish to remarry in time.’

Charlotte clenched her fists under the table with fury and Nell gasped with shock, tears welling. Sophie floated behind Charlotte and Nell, stunned by how insensitive and insufferable Arabella was. She longed to touch the girls on the shoulder or the back to comfort them.

‘Thank you, Arabella, for thinking of me,’ answered Eliza through clenched teeth. ‘But as my husband has only just
died
and is not yet
buried
, I had not planned so far ahead quite yet.’

Arabella blushed at the rebuke and fell silent.

‘I have been meaning to talk to you, Eliza,’ began Roderick, his fork picking over his fish.

‘Yes, Roderick?’

‘It is about the Dungorm jewels,’ Roderick continued. ‘Of course, as a widow you will not wear any jewels for a very long time, and I believe they would be much safer stored away in a bank vault. I know an excellent bank in Edinburgh and could happily arrange their safekeeping there.’

Arabella nearly purred with pleasure. Eliza’s head jerked up in shock.

‘Of course, you could always send for them when you are ready to start wearing them again,’ added Roderick hurriedly.

Eliza breathed deeply and evenly before replying. Sophie hovered behind Eliza’s chair wondering how Eliza would react.

‘My husband brought me my jewels as a wedding present.’

‘Exactly,’ Roderick replied. ‘Which is why we want to keep them safely in the bank.’

‘I do not want …’ Eliza paused, took a breath and then continued. ‘I do not want the jewels my husband gave me as a gift of his love to moulder away in a bank vault, nor to be worn by your wife to fancy Edinburgh soirees.

‘I am quite happy to keep them here where they belong, so at least if I cannot wear them, I can be delighted by their beauty to remind me of what once was.’

‘Quite,’ Roderick responded. Arabella deflated rapidly, shooting a poisonous look at her husband.

Eliza rose to her feet, her napkin dropping to the floor.

‘If you will excuse me, Charlotte and Nell, I find I have a migraine coming on.’

Charlotte and Nell glanced at each other in concern. Their mother never had migraines.

Sophie smiled to herself. She felt Eliza had come out the best from her encounters with Roderick and Arabella Mackenzie. Sophie felt a moment of wickedness come over her, and she carefully tugged gently at the plate of salmon placed in front of Arabella.

At first nothing happened. Sophie tried harder. The plate teetered for a moment on the edge of the table. Sophie concentrated really hard and smash, the plate tumbled into Arabella’s lap, basting her in dripping fish juices and lumps of flesh.

‘Something touched me!’ Arabella shrieked loudly. ‘Something knocked my plate down. Oh, my gown!’

Sophie swooped in glee and floated up to the ceiling.
Charlotte and Nell giggled audibly then coughed loudly into their napkins. They had not smiled for what seemed a very long time.

‘There now, Arabella,’ soothed her husband. ‘I think you are a little overwrought. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a rest?’

Sophie knew that if she fell asleep wearing the gold locket in her own world, she fell down through a tunnel of sleep into Charlotte’s world. In the past she had simply swooped up again, like flying in a dream, through the tunnel and back to her own bed.

But several nights had gone by and Sophie sensed that there was much more to Charlotte’s story. Sophie decided she would try not to go home to the future, to Australia, to Nonnie’s apartment. Instead she would see how long she could stay in Charlotte’s world, in nineteenth-century Scotland.

Time seemed to run differently in the different worlds. The first night, her visit had been very short, perhaps an hour or so. Her later visits had been progressively longer.

With each visit she had seemed to grow more substantial in the past world. Instead of merely being a misty onlooker, now she could actually make things happen if she concentrated hard enough.

She had saved Eliza from falling down the stairs and tipped Arabella’s dinner in her lap. Perhaps, if she tried through force of will, she could stay longer in the past and learn all there was to learn about Charlotte Mackenzie of Dungorm.

The next day was the hardest of all: the funeral.

Once more the day dawned grey and drizzly, as most days did in Scotland in late autumn. All was black and grey. It was hard to believe that it was only a little less than a week since Alexander had been alive and well and making jokes at the breakfast table.

The carriage came around to the front door, its black paintwork gleaming and speckled with raindrops. Two other wagons stood ready, both draped in black crepe.

All the horses had been brushed until they shone, with black ribbon plaited into their manes and tails, and long black feather plumes attached to their bridles. The drivers, dressed in frockcoats and top hats, stood at the horses’ heads, soothing them.

The servants, dressed in black, lined the steps, forming a guard of honour. Four servants carried the timber coffin out of the house and down the stairs, and carefully arranged it on the back of the first wagon. Uncle Roderick followed and climbed into the carriage behind.

As was custom, the women did not attend the funeral ceremony but stayed at home to grieve in private. Charlotte watched the sombre cavalcade from the window of her mother’s bedroom, tears rolling down her face. Eliza stood beside Charlotte, twisting her handkerchief into sodden knots.

Nell sat in a chair, staring into the fire, her face swollen
and tear stained. She could not bear to watch the coffin being taken away.

Sophie hovered anxiously, helpless to do anything to alleviate the overwhelming grief of the family. Charlotte turned suddenly and glanced sharply at the space where Sophie was, but, seeing nothing, turned her eyes back to the window, to watch the servants outside file over to the last wagon and climb up.

The cavalcade set off, clopping sedately down the gravel drive. Sophie decided to follow it, to escape into the fresh air and see what happened.

Sophie slipped out through the wall and flew over the iron-grey loch, whipped by the wind into small white-capped waves. She saw the majestic ruins of Castle Dungorm on its tiny island, seabirds swooping around its shattered keep and tumbled stones.

The carriage trundled on past the rolling green pastures, dotted with black-faced sheep huddled against the cold, and the hills where Nell and Charlotte had raced their ponies last spring.

The horses clopped further, their heads bobbing up and down, through a set of ornate wrought-iron gates flanked by tall sandstone pillars, with a small gatehouse on the left. Sophie floated behind.

The road twisted to the right towards the village, but the cavalcade stopped at the small stone kirk, with its ancient stained-glass windows and higgledy-piggledy graveyard.

Despite the steadily falling rain, the kirkyard was filled with local villagers, fishermen, crofters and tradesmen, all dressed in their Sunday best. A number of carriages and horses were tethered in the meadow across the road,
indicating that more people were inside the building.

A villager dressed in a kilt and tam-o’-shanter stood to the side of the kirk door playing a lament on the bagpipes. The haunting, mournful music wafted out over the kirkyard, through the rain and up over the hills, sending shivers up Sophie’s spine.

The coffin was ceremoniously carried into the kirk, followed by Roderick Mackenzie. Once he was seated, the villagers came crowding in to stand at the back and sides of the small kirk. Sophie gazed about her intently, trying to guess the occupations of the locals by their dress and demeanour.

The service was long and wordy, punctuated by muffled coughs and sniffs. Then it was over and the coffin was carried out once more, followed by the subdued congregation.

At the end of the kirkyard, under a huge old oak tree, a marble crypt had been built. The piper played a sombre tune as Alexander’s coffin was carried into the crypt and laid to rest on a stone plinth.

An ornate headstone behind the coffin had words freshly carved into one half of the stone.

A stone carving of an angel guarded the grave, her wings spread protectively behind her back.

The other half of the stone was chillingly bare, and below it was the empty half of the plinth, waiting for another coffin to fill it. Sophie shivered in the cold, dark air of the crypt. She flew outside to escape the last of the service, followed by the haunting song of the bagpipe, and swiftly soared back to Charlotte and Dungorm.

Charlotte was woken by a scream, which was quickly cut short. It clawed through the exhausted, miserable fug of her brain and brought her to instant wakefulness. She slithered out of bed, pulled a shawl around her white nightdress and slipped her feet into the slippers by her bed.

Sophie was instantly alert, her heart pounding.

Charlotte tiptoed out of their room, careful not to wake the still-sleeping Nell, and down the brightly lit hallway. A muffled cry came from a room further down the hall.

Charlotte crept down the hallway, past several closed doors, paintings and portraits and the top of the sweeping staircase. Unbeknownst to Charlotte, Sophie followed right behind her, her bare feet nearly skimming the carpet.

Her heart like a stone at the bottom of her stomach, Charlotte paused outside her mother’s room and listened at
the door. She could hear odd, muffled noises and a small cry of distress. She turned the knob and flung the door open, almost falling in her haste.

Eliza was in bed, in her long nightgown, the covers tumbled and knotted. Her hair was tangled and her face shone with moisture. Nanny sat beside the bed, bathing Eliza’s face with a damp cloth and murmuring soothing words.

Eliza clutched Nanny’s left hand so tightly both their fingers were bloodless and white.

‘I will ring for the surgeon –’ Nanny began.

‘No,’ Eliza retorted forcefully. Then she let go of Nanny’s hand, collapsing back against the pillows.

Charlotte sprang forward with a cry of horror, Sophie beside her.

‘Hello, darling,’ panted Eliza breathlessly. ‘Do not worry. Mama is not feeling very well but Nanny is looking after me, so you can go back to sleep. I am sure I will be much better in the morning.’

Charlotte looked at Nanny for confirmation. Nanny nodded, but swiftly glanced away.

‘Give me a kiss, darling, and go back to bed,’ Eliza continued. She gave Charlotte a strained smile as Charlotte kissed her on the cheek.

‘I love you, darling,’ Eliza said. ‘Do not worry; everything will be fine.’

Charlotte stepped away from the bed, looking back uncertainly at her mother. Nanny stood up and followed her to the door, shooing her out gently. Nanny and Sophie followed Charlotte into the hall.

‘Miss Charlotte, dear,’ Nanny whispered, ‘I wonder if
ye could do me a wee favour and ring the bell for Wilson. I want ye to ask him to send one o’ the lads riding at once to the mainland for the surgeon. Lady Dungorm is no’ well, and I am thinking it would be best if the surgeon came quickly.’

Nanny’s voice seemed calm but Charlotte, who had known Nanny her whole life, could sense the suppressed panic beneath the surface.

‘Of course, Nanny,’ Charlotte replied quickly, her voice cracking with fear.

‘There ye are, my bonnie lassie,’ Nanny replied. ‘Ring for Wilson, then gae straight back to bed.’

Nanny did not wait for Charlotte to reply but hurried back into Eliza’s chamber. Charlotte heard another low moan of pain from behind the closed door. Her mind was made up in a flash.

Charlotte ran down the marble staircase, her padding feet making no noise in her cotton slippers. She drew back the bolts on the back door, slipped out into the night and ran to the stables. Sophie swooped beside her. What was Charlotte going to do?

In the tack room Charlotte lit a lamp and found a bridle, a carrot and an old mackintosh, which she shrugged over her nightgown. Then she walked slowly down the corridor of the stables, talking softly to the horses.

She stopped, quietly and calmly, at the stall of her father’s favourite hunter, Tamburlaine, the fastest horse on the estate. He was a massive eighteen hands high, much taller than her own pony, Rosie.

Sophie stayed well back, not wanting to spook the horse with her proximity.

Tamburlaine accepted the withered carrot happily, with a whickering hurrumph and a tickling breath on Charlotte’s cheek.

Cautiously, Charlotte slipped the bridle over Tamburlaine’s head while he still had it down low, and buckled the strap. Her cold hands fumbled with the unfamiliar task, then she led him out of the stall, down the corridor and out into the stable yard.

There was still one more difficult task, which was to actually mount the huge horse. Charlotte led him past the mounting block and over to the water butt which caught the rainwater from the roof. She scrambled up onto the water butt, then onto Tamburlaine’s broad, bare back.

The time for slowness was over. Charlotte gathered the reins, wrapping her fingers in Tamburlaine’s mane, and kicked her slippered feet into Tamburlaine’s sides. The hunter caught her panic and leapt into a gallop.

Charlotte hunched right over his neck, clinging on for her very life. Her slippers did not even last until the stable-yard arch, dropping away into the mud. Charlotte prayed she could guide him. Her weight and strength were nothing compared to Alexander’s.

The intelligent horse seemed to sense her need and flew out of the stable yard and along the pale glimmer of the road leading to the village. They clattered through the small village and out the other side, heading to the ferryman’s cottage.

Sophie skimmed alongside, well away from the horse.

The island was separated from the mainland by a narrow loch, crossed by barge. Charlotte rode Tamburlaine right to the ferryman’s front door and rang the bell furiously.

‘Who is there at this time o’ the night?’ cried the ferryman, sticking his head out the window.

‘’Tis Charlotte Mackenzie. An emergency – my mother – the surgeon – please hurry.’

The ferryman flung open the door and rushed down to the loch, pulling on his jacket as he ran.

‘Do no’ fret, lassie,’ he called back, untying the rope securing his barge. ‘I will fetch the sawbones. ’Twill be quicker. Ye wait inside with my wife, and I will take ye back to Dungorm when I return.’

Charlotte nodded wearily and watched as the competent ferryman took the oars and was speedily swallowed by the darkness. But Charlotte did not go inside and wait with the ferryman’s wife. Instead she turned Tamburlaine’s head and cantered for home, Sophie flying beside her.

Once Tamburlaine was safely returned to his stall, rubbed down and fed a bucket of oats, Charlotte raced to the house, the sharp gravel bruising and cutting her feet.

Lights blazed in the back of the house and servants hurried back and forth, from the kitchen, to the laundry, to the back servants’ staircase, carrying pails of boiling water and piles of linen.

Charlotte dashed upstairs to her mother’s chamber. Once more she threw open the door without knocking and rushed into the room. Her mother lay limp – her long hair now brushed and plaited, her skin as pale as the white nightgown and sheets – but still gently breathing.

Sophie heaved a silent sigh of relief. They were not too late.

Nanny was in the corner folding some towels, her face creased with grief.

‘Och, Miss Charlotte,’ Nanny whispered. ‘Your mother’s sleeping. I think ’tis best if ye gae to bed.’

‘No, I am not sleeping, Nanny,’ replied Eliza from the bed, her voice weary. ‘I want to talk to Miss Charlotte for a few moments. Would you mind leaving us? I would appreciate it if you could ensure no-one disturbs us. Thank you, Nanny.’

Nanny looked inclined to argue, but years of working for great families had ingrained a sense of unquestioning obedience. She nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. Sophie was torn: should she go too, or should she stay and listen? Curiosity won and Sophie stayed.