Chapter 4
T he chill has soaked into my bones and with every jolt in the path, it feels painfully like my skeleton is made of ice. Hamish still plods on at a pace that thankfully doesn’t require me to move my limbs or digits past a twitch, though somehow Mrs Buchanan still trots on, high in her seat, as though the clouds have just rained around her. She only slows down when we cross the river and draw up to a gatehouse three and a half hours after we set out.
‘Welcome, my lady, to the grounds of Balmoral Castle.’ Mrs Buchanan hops down from her horse and brushes some of the rain from her croup with her gloved palm. ‘The Scottish seat of the British royal family since 1852 when Prince Albert purchased it for Queen Victoria after she fell in love with the Highlands.’
‘I assume she was at least granted the privilege of a carriage.’ Dismounting, I speak more to Hamish than Mrs B, but she scowls at me anyway. Perhaps my appreciation of seeing the place for the first time would be greater were I not shivering and unable to distract myself from the all-encompassing smell of wet horse.
‘Ah, Mr Campbell, late as always.’ Mrs Buchanan shifts her attention from me to the stocky older gentleman who has emerged from the gatehouse with his shotgun hooked casually over the tweed sleeve of his jacket.
‘Mary, always a pleasure.’ He tips his flat cap with a coy smile, and she rolls her eyes. At least I’m not the only one getting a frosty reception. ‘You must be Lady Alice, ma’am?’ Mr Campbell turns to me with a friendly smile and stretches out his hand for me to shake. I oblige him. ‘My word, my lady, your fingers are frozen solid.’ He clutches both my hands between his rough palms and rubs them affectionately. ‘You’ve made the poor child ride all this time in the rain without so much as a pair of gloves?’
‘King’s orders,’ is all Mrs Buchanan can reply as she fusses with the reins of the horses.
Mr Campbell leans forward and speaks in a low voice from the side of his mouth so only I can hear him. ‘Since that old bat is too rude to introduce me, I’m James Campbell, groundskeeper. You can call me Jimmy. Everyone does, except Sourpuss.’ He gestures his head towards Mrs Buchanan who stares at the both of us with her arms folded.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Jimmy.’ The warmth of his hands and the kind, jesting tone of his voice comforts me, and I find enough strength in me to return his smile.
‘Would you like to come in and warm up with a cup of tea before you head up to the castle? I can stick the fire on?’ His wispy eyebrows twitch with his broadening grin and the way his wide brown eyes seem to glow as they reflect the clouds that blanket the sky reminds me of roasted chestnuts at Christmas.
‘We have much to get on with thank you, Mr Campbell,’ Mrs Buchanan answers for the both of us.
‘Who said I was asking you, Mary hen?’ A cheeky glint crosses his face as he forces another huff from the housekeeper.
‘Mr Campbell, please be so kind as to take the horses round to the stables and I shall finish the task that I have been ordered to do and deliver Lady Alice to the castle and get her settled into her lodgings.’ She hands him the reins and Jimmy gives her a wink once she crosses into his personal space and I am almost certain that I see her blush.
‘Do I get a say in any of this?’ I ask, twirling a few strands of Hamish’s damp mane between my fingers.
‘No,’ Mrs Buchanan replies bluntly.
‘Didn’t think so.’ She turns on her heel, and sets out towards a pair of gates embossed with the cyphers GVR and MR side by side: the mark of King George V and his wife Mary.
As I trail along behind her, my shoes squeak with the puddles that have collected in the soles. Trees line the limestone path and only the sound of their applause as their leaves blow and clash in the wind escorts our crunching footsteps. The whispering breeze follows us through the grounds, so subtle, so silent, my nervous breaths are the noisier accompaniment, for even the birds must be hiding from the weather.
After another ten minutes of walking, I finally see it: Balmoral. Tucked away in a clearing of trees, the granite of the castle stands proud against the perfectly manicured lawn. Its beauty isn’t dampened by the wealth of grey cloud surrounding it, but rather the contrary. The turrets and gables, each so sharply pointed, seem to slot so perfectly into the damp scene, it’s as if the castle sprung from the ground as naturally as the maples and oaks framing it did. For the first time, I realise what all the fuss has been about.
‘Queen Victoria once called it her “dear paradise in the Highlands” in her journals.’ Only when Mrs Buchanan speaks do I realise I had stopped still, at the mercy of the drizzle, to take in the scene before me. Her voice is softer than it has been all day, and she too takes a moment from her determined strides to breathe in its air, and truly appreciate its image.
‘Beautiful,’ I breathe and she almost smiles. Ivy scales the walls, peeping politely into the windows, though smartly pruned enough to not encroach on the bright white of the panes. The deep emerald leaves ornament the stone, as though all of it belongs to the landscape and we are all just Mother Nature’s guests. Not another manmade structure can be seen for miles, at least not above the sea of green as the forest stretches for leagues. It could be its own kingdom, a castle from a fairy tale, enchanted to appear only when the seeker truly needs its magic.
With rekindled strength, I reach the entrance as though an invisible force pulls me through its doors.
When within its walls, the housekeeper moves through the hallways and passages as though renewed, charged almost, by the energy of its interior. Trailing behind her at a pace that leaves me stumbling over my feet, I am unable to appreciate any of the castle’s intricacies and leaving a breadcrumb trail to find my way back out again is certainly out of the question. Drawn deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of tartan carpets and taxidermy, I am well and truly lost when Mrs Buchanan finally stops at a white door, in a long hallway of white doors, and tells me it is to be my room.
It’s bright, just full of too much air and empty space. A green tartan carpet matches the curtains in a slightly overwhelming reminder that I am no longer in London. Only a large bed, wardrobe, and desk occupy the room, all overlooked by a rather sorry-looking stag’s head mounted on the back wall.
‘Is there any way that we could take Bambi’s dad down at all?’ I look between Mrs B and the stag that just seems to pout and grow more glassy-eyed the more I stare at him.
‘No, my lady. Balmoral’s interior is largely unchanged from the Victorian period. And we shall not be starting now.’ From what I have seen so far, I know she is telling the truth. ‘Well, if that is all, I shall leave you to get settled. Dinner is at six-thirty in the dining room of the west wing. It is veal tonight, and I shall have one of the kitchen staff leave you a menu in the morning for the rest of the week. Any questions?’
Parting my lips ready to ask how exactly I can find the dining room, I don’t even get the chance to utter a syllable before she leaves the room and closes the door behind her.
With nothing to unpack besides the throngs of wet underwear that I still manage to cling to, I have little else to do aside from peel off my damp clothes that stick to my body like a second skin. Finding a robe in the wardrobe, I sling it around my limbs that ripple with goose bumps and perch on the end of the bed, telling myself that I’ll shower in just a moment.
For the first time in what feels like forever, there is complete and utter silence. There is no hustle and bustle in the house, no sirens wailing at perpetual emergencies, not even the low distant hum of an aeroplane. For the first time, in not long enough, my thoughts are the loudest thing in the room. It doesn’t take long for them to go from innocent observations of the decor, of the way my chest rises and falls with my breath, of Atticus, to something vile, twisted and gnarled into a rat-king of self-destruction.
Staring out of the tall windows, I no longer see the vast landscape, the paradise of what only five minutes ago was as exciting as all of the stories I’ve read about in my book of fairy tales. Literally, I can see, of course, even if it is just a mass blur of every hue of green, but my eyes are unfocused. It is as though I am looking in on myself, watching everything that has ever worried me, hurt me, plagued me, on repeat like some highlight reel of my very worst moments.
This is nothing new, of course. These thoughts, these feelings, have followed me through my life, grown with me over the years, and yet each time they surface, they feel as scary as if it were the first time. Logically speaking, I know I am safe; I know I have it easy, and yet my body battles me at every turn.
It got slightly easier when Kitty introduced me to all of her friends. Knowing I’d be under their scrutiny, knowing the depths of their judgement, I masked everything, it became easier and easier to pretend that I wasn’t feeling anything at all. Becoming someone else held off my sadness for a while, distracted me from these thoughts that seemed to appear in my brain to keep my happiness in check. But it always gets bad when I’m alone again. I can’t pretend with no one around. I have to face myself. I have to face an overpowering sadness of which I can’t seem to ever find the source.
A soft knock sounds around the room and for the first time, I notice that the sun is setting and the light is almost all gone. Snapping out of my thoughts, I clear my throat to tell the knocker to enter.
A small mousy woman, no older than me, peers around the side of the door. Each one of her features is petite aside from her brown eyes that seem to hold the whole expanse of the room in the reflection within them. She doesn’t say anything, only stares at me with a pinched smile, a broad air of expectation in her gaze.
When another moment passes, I finally speak. ‘Are you just here to stare at me? Or do you have something you wish to share?’
She visibly swallows and shifts around the door so the rest of her aproned body can be seen. Her dark hair is braided down her back, although loose wisps of it tickle at her brows and cheeks and she twitches her head in what is seemingly an attempt to stop their constant tickling, though her hands remain stuck firm behind her back. ‘Sorry, my lady. Mrs Buchanan told me I was not to speak unless spoken to.’
‘I see she does not like to stick to her own rules,’ I muse with a slight smile, and the girl gives a nervous twitch of her lips. ‘Don’t bother yourself with that nonsense around me. I would rather hear you talk at me constantly.’ It might drown out my own thoughts, I add, though only to myself.
‘Thank you, my lady. I, er, well, it’s just that you missed dinner. I wondered if you might prefer to eat in the privacy of your own room.’ She stands aside to reveal a trolley, laden with several plates and cutlery.
‘What is your name?’ I ask, warmed by the thoughtfulness of this stranger, and relieved to have some friendly company at last.
‘Sophie, ma’am – sorry, I mean, Miss Sophie Chorley. I’m just a maid, not kitchen staff, but I was clearing away and noticed you hadn’t had so much as a bite and thought you must be hungry after your journey. My lady.’ She adds the final honorific in a hurry, looking nervous.
‘Do you have the time, Miss Sophie Chorley?’ I ask, and she looks down at her watch so quickly I almost worry the movement will leave her with whiplash.
‘It’s 8.30 p.m., ma’am.’ I have been sat, on this bed, in this dressing gown for almost four hours. I haven’t showered. As if on cue, my stomach lets out an obnoxious gurgle and I am reminded that I haven’t eaten anything since the train nearly ten hours ago. Sophie hears it too and rushes into the room with the trolley and begins unloading platefuls onto the desk.
‘It is a little cold now, ma’am. But still lovely. All nice and fresh, I promise.’ She bustles around and is soon heading for the door with her empty trolley and a rushed goodbye.
‘Sophie?’ I say.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ She wheels around, and stands to attention at the sound of her name.
‘Would you like to stay? For a chat, I mean?’ I pick up a floret of broccoli with my fingers and plop it as casually as possible into my mouth, attempting to reclaim a little of my mask before this stranger.
‘With me?’ she asks, her accent growing stronger in the slipping of her guard.
‘Of course, you. Unless you have anyone else more exciting to suggest?’ She can’t know that I need her to stay, that I cannot stay here alone, not right now.
‘Oh, yes, ma’am, it would be my pleasure. My shift was just about to finish anyway.’ A bitter swirl of guilt sloshes in my stomach at the thought of her giving up her free time for me, but the selfish desire for distraction overpowers it.
‘Perfect, have a seat.’ She stands bolt upright before me and I gesture to the chair tucked under the desk. She slides it out cautiously, watching my every twitch before sitting down before me as I pick at the food. ‘Tell me about yourself, Sophie.’
‘What would you like to know, ma’am?’ She tries her hardest not to make eye contact and I can almost see her thought processes as she attempts to control herself.
‘Anything you’d like to tell me. Who are you? How did you get here? What makes you tick?’
A grin she has been trying to suppress overtakes her face and, at the sight of it, I know it means she will oblige in distracting me, and that relieves me immensely.
‘I suppose I should start from the beginning then …’ Sophie pinches a macaroon from the desk and with a powdery mouthful, commences her story. ‘I live in Braemar – I assume you passed through it on your way. It never gets any bigger, but I haven’t quite outgrown it yet. My grandmother was housekeeper before Mrs B. I spent my summers here when I was a child, under her feet mostly. When she passed, I decided I wanted to be just like her …’
Sophie talks, and talks, and talks, until all that concerns me are thoughts of her and the twenty-one years of her life in her tranquil corner of Scotland.