THE MISTRESS OF CASTLE CRAGGE

CORNWALL, FEBRUARY 1895

CHAPTER ONE
Thirty-seven years ago, I, Septimus Cragge, did a despicable thing. I seduced a young innocent girl, one Celia Clarkeson daughter of the Reverend Clarkeson of Nettlefield village, Somerset.
When she became pregnant with my child I turned my back on her plight and callously deserted her. When her father approached me, pleading that I should set matters right I arrogantly refused, even though I was a widower at the time.
My heartless treatment of this young woman has haunted me for many years and though I never did marry again I could not gain the courage to inquire of her fate.
Now that I am dying, I mean to make restitution and have instructed others, namely my lawyer Mr George Spindler, on my death to seek out the fate of Celia Clarkeson and her child. She, her child or the child's offspring shall inherit Castle Cragge and all of my estates here and elsewhere and my entirely fortune. This I do determine.
The document in his hand, the lawyer moved away from the light of the oil lamp and approached the bed.
'That statement, my confession, is to be read at the time of the reading of my Will.' The figure moved feebly in the bed in the dimly lit room. 'I charge you with this, George. It is my earnest wish.'
'Septimus, I strongly urge you to reconsider,' George Spindler said. 'This new Will will be a shock to your sisters and their husbands. They have had expectations which you have never disavowed. Think what this will do to your family.'
'What of my soul if I do not make restitution,' Septimus Cragge whispered. 'My fault was that I loved my wife Isobel too well and too long. We had barely five years together and even after her death I could not bring myself to love another.'
'And yet you trifled with this young girl. Isobel had been dead ten years at that time.'
'You do well to chastise me, George,' Septimus said. 'The cruel fact is that I could have married Celia Clarkeson. She was a delightful creature and very biddable, yet I could not bear to think of another woman as Mistress of Castle Cragge in place of my Isobel.'
'And now you have changed your mind?'
'Now I am dying. There is little time left for me. Soon the future of Castle Cragge will be beyond my ken. I will rest easier in my grave now that I have set matter aright.'
George Spindler shook his head.
'It is I who will face the wrath of your family, Septimus,' he said. 'However, you have set me a task and I will do all I can to bring it to fruition. Yet I fear there will be much strife and bitterness abroad in Castle Cragge. I do not envy your heir, whoever it might be.'
THAT EVENING
'Is my brother dead yet?' Henrietta Swindale asked of the doctor leaning close to his patient.
Her tone was severe and demanding as she stood at the foot of the bed were the figure lay still and quiet; her strident voice disturbing the silence of the shrouded sick room.
'Henrietta!' Steven Ashgrove, her brother-in-law chided her. 'I think you might moderate your voice in the circumstances.'
'And I'll thank you not to correct my wife in that tone of voice, Ashgrove,' Percy Swindale said harshly. 'Henrietta is the eldest sister. I believe she has the right.'
'Must we quarrel at this time and place?' Catherine Ashgrove asked waspishly. 'And besides my sister takes too much on herself. I was Septimus' favourite.'
'Indeed you were,' her husband agreed. 'Septimus mention this to me many times.'
'Poppycock!' Henrietta said. 'My brother thought you a simpering idiot, with your frills and flounces. No one could take you seriously, Catherine.'
'Rather a simpering idiot than a stiff-neck harridan!' Catherine Ashgrove countered angrily.
There was a polite cough from the doctor.
'Ladies, gentlemen, I regret to tell you your brother is dead. I will sign the death certificate immediately. You may make whatever arrangements necessary.'
There was silence.
'Thank you, doctor,' Steven Ashgrove said at last. 'Your fee will be paid just as promptly.'
The doctor bowed his head in acknowledgement then reached for his hat and bag.
Steven Ashgrove went to the head of the bed and pulled at a bell rope. Almost immediately a footman appeared.
'Thomas,' Steven addressed him. 'See the doctor out and make sure his carriage is ready for him.'
With no further word the doctor left the room followed by the footman, who closed the door quietly behind him.
No one spoke for a moment.
'We must search,' Catherine said.
'Whatever for?' Henrietta asked.
'The Will.'
'Spindler has the Will, you witless fool, Catherine,' Henrietta scoffed. 'I will send Thomas around to his chambers to inform him that our brother is dead. The sooner the Will is read the better.'
'I hope he has done something for my boy Peter,' Catherine said. 'The poor lad needs an uplift.'
'Poor boy! Fiddlestick!' Henrietta sneered. 'He would do better to attend his father at the bank than be rattling round London living the high life.'
'How my son Peter conducts himself is none of your concern, Henrietta,' Steven Ashgrove said sharply. 'I'll thank you to mind your own business.'
'Steady on, Ashgrove,' Percy Swindale said sharply. 'Do not address my lady wife in that belittling tone.'
'Then she should mind what she says,' Steven snapped. 'At least Peter conducts himself like a gentleman, whereas your son Gerald, so I've heard, passes himself off as a painter, an artist, and mixes with the flotsam and jetsam of the city. I've heard tales...'
'How dare you!' Henrietta shrieked.
The moment was interrupted by a loud knock on the door and Mrs Crossmore, the housekeeper enter.
'Begging your pardon,' the housekeeper said in a matter-of-fact tone. 'But the layer-out, Mrs Baggett, has come to see to the master.'
The disagreeing occupants of the room stared around them in a startled way as though they had completely forgotten that they were in the presence of death.
'Quite!' Steven Ashgrove said at last. 'Come along Catherine. We can do no further good here.'
The Ashgroves marched out of the room, the Swindales following, amid an undertone of petulant complaint.
Mrs Crossmore closed the door after them with a deep sigh.
'You'll not stay here with them lot in charge?' Mrs Baggett asked her.
'Where else can I go at my age?' Mrs Crossmore said sadly.
Mrs Baggett sniffed. 'Your life won't be worth living if one of them witches gets to be mistress of Castle Cragge.'
Mrs Crossmore looked wise. 'I've heard tell that neither of them will be mentioned in the Will.' She tapped the side of her nose. 'Don't ask me any questions.'
Mrs Baggett's eyes were round with curiosity. 'Who gets it then?'
'They don't know it yet, but the master wasn't slow in sowing some wild oats in his younger years. Seems one of them oats has taken root and borne fruit, if you get my meaning.'
Mrs Baggett was impressed. 'How do you know all this?'
Mrs Crossmore smiled. 'Don't you ever listen at doors? A woman in my position needs to know everything that is going on to be prepared.'
Mrs Baggett nodded her agreement of that sad fact of life.
'Well,' Mrs Crossmore continued in a business-like tone. 'You'd best be seeing to the master. God rest his soul.'
AFTER THE FUNERAL
Mr Spindler felt hot under the collar. It could have been due to the heat of the blazing fire in the grand marble fireplace in Septimus Cragge's study, lit against the cold of the February day, but he did not think so.
Cragge's relatives were all gathered there, staring at him as he sat behind the dead man's desk. They were there in force; the Swindales and the Ashgroves.
Peter Ashgrove had taken leave of high society in London to attend the reading, while Gerald Swindale had foresworn, if only temporarily, the bohemian life.
The daughter of each family was also present; Rose Swindale and Bernice Ashgrove. Sweet-faced girls both, but Mr Spindler fancied he saw the glitter of acquisition even in their tender eyes.
'Well! Begin!' Henrietta Swindale snapped.
Mr Spindler cleared his throat.
'Before I read the Will proper, there is a statement your brother asked me to read to you all. I think the statement will clarify what will come later.'
'Well, get on with it then.'
Mr Spindler picked up the document in question, and could not stop his hands shaking. In a voice that was a little unsteady he read the statement which Septimus Cragge had called his confession.
There was silence after he had finished. He glanced around apprehensively at the faces before him. Some showed anger and some bewilderment.
'What does it mean?' Catherine Ashgrove asked at last.
'It means,' Henrietta Swindale exclaimed in a loud voice. 'That our brother's bastard child is to inherit Castle Cragge.'
There was a shocked silence.
'I will not allow it!' Henrietta continued. 'Percy! We must contest this...fraudulent Will.'
'The Will is not fraudulent,' Mr Spindler countered. 'And I would advise you, Mrs Swindale, not to make such odious accusations, lest the weight of the law take you to task.'
'But this is outrageous,' Steven Ashgrove exclaimed. 'You cannot expect us, his closest relatives, to take this lying down.'
'These are his final wishes and instructions.' Mr Spindler tapped the documents on the desk in front of him. 'It is my duty to carry them out.'
'My brother was mad,' Henrietta proclaimed. 'He was not in his right mind when he drew up this Will. I hold you responsible, Mr Spindler.'
'He was as sane as you are, Mrs Swindale, perhaps saner!'
'Ooh!' Henrietta blustered.
'Did my brother leave nothing for my boy Peter?' Catherine Ashgrove asked in a querulous voice.
'I will now read your brother's Will, Mrs Ashgrove. He has explanations you should all hear.'
'Damnation to his explanations!' Henrietta exploded. 'I have heard enough.'
With a chuckle, Peter Ashgrove rose to his feet. He was a tall, lithe young man, with passable good looks.
'I leave empty handed. I expected nothing less. I am glad I came, though. It was entertaining.'
'Peter!' Catherine was close to tears.
'This is not over,' his father said. 'Besides, Septimus's...illegitimate child may be dead. There may not be issue; therefore no heir.'
'That I have to look into,' Mr Spindler said. 'It may take time, but I have already set my enquiry agent on to the task.'
'If there is no heir,' Henrietta asked carefully. 'What of my brother's estates then?'
'Then I believe they will revert to his relatives, Mrs Swindale. However, there will be an exhaustive search first, you may be sure.'
Gerald Swindale pushed himself up from his chair in an indolent manner. He was a young man of medium height, with a strong looking frame and wide of shoulder.
'It has been enlightening,' he drawled. 'Imagine the old man sowing wild oats. I would never have thought he had it in him. He has risen in my estimation.'
'You speak like a young fool,' Percy Swindale said angrily. 'Don't you realise he has done you out of your inheritance?'
'Well, father, who knows?' Gerald said languidly. 'The new owner of Castle Cragge may be a young and beautiful woman, to whom I shall make passion love and win her hand in marriage.'
'Gerald, really!'
Peter Ashgrove came forward and slapped him on the back.
'We will be rivals in love, cousin,' he said with a laugh. 'May the best man win the hand of the fair maiden, whoever she may be.'