Secrets of Castle Negru

CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS
OCTOBER 1847

Fiona Foster had read enough sensational novels to know that a heroine’s carriage was never permitted to arrive safely at its destination. It was a reliable feature of the genre, and she had always found it somewhat implausible—until the wheel split.

Lightning flashed as the carriage lurched, and the crack of the axle rivaled the thunder overhead. Her companion, Glynnis Underhill, struck the door with a sharp invocation as Fiona went sliding across the leather seat.

“Doamne!” Even through the tempest, the driver’s curse could be heard as the horses’ hooves scraped for purchase on the steep and muddy mountain road.

Finally, the carriage settled, and Fiona righted herself. Outside, the rain continued to drum the panels of the hired conveyance while the carriage lamps swung, throwing light wildly across the interior. After a deal of pushing and pulling, the door handle finally yielded beneath Fiona’s fingers. Rain struck her like cold needles, immediately soaking her traveling dress and doing dreadful things to her hair. She drew her cloak tighter around her. Behind her, Glynnis sagged against the door frame, one hand still, somehow, clutching her Bible while the other pressed her temple.

“Can you stand?” Fiona asked as she offered her arm.

“The Lord gives me strength, though He tests me sorely tonight.” Despite the steel in Glynnis’s voice, her fingers trembled on Fiona’s arm.

The driver muttered as he unhitched the horses with sharp movements. Fiona assessed their surroundings in the light of the swaying carriage lamps. A swollen stream churned beside the road. Ahead, where a bridge had stood, there was nothing but roiling black water. The coachman had hauled the horses sideways to avoid pitching them into it—and straight into a rock outcropping that jutted from the hillside. Now the carriage sat tilted and useless, its axle split to the hub, and there was no going forward.

Behind them, the stream had already begun to finger across the road. Another hour and it would be impassable entirely. They would not make Vienna anytime soon, nor England beyond it. Her brother’s child might well arrive before she did.

But she had put off this journey for two years. She was not going to let a mountain road stop her now. This was merely a temporary delay.

Through the rain, a faint light flickered on the hill above them—a golden spot against the darkness all around. A boulder ahead marked a dark lane that, presumably, led to it.

“Look there,” she said. “We’ll request shelter until the storm passes.”

The driver’s head snapped toward the hill. He recoiled as he crossed himself. “Nu. Not Castle Negru.” His English, careful and precise throughout their journey, now splintered like the carriage wheel. “Is cursed place.”

“Cursed?” Fiona said. The castle loomed large and black against the flashing sky, and she could see how it might have earned such an ominous descriptor. In her travels, she’d encountered all manner of local superstitions. Every village had their own, but with the rain growing heavier and the night growing darker, there wasn’t time to entertain them now.

“Surely,” she said, “it cannot be so bad as that—”

“I go,” the driver said as he swung onto the back of one horse and gathered the reins of the other.

Fiona gave him an incredulous look. “But you cannot simply leave us! We have paid—”

But the horses were already turning, splashing through the encroaching water as their rider spurred them back down the mountain road. The darkness swallowed them between one lightning flash and the next, leaving only hoof beats that faded beneath the storm’s fury.

Glynnis’s weight settled more heavily against Fiona’s arm. “Perhaps we should wait in the carriage—”

“With a broken axle and no horses?” Fiona didn’t mention the rising stream. It had already begun to soak her boots, and the rain had gone through to her chemise. Soon, she would feel the cold in her bones.

“Come,” she urged. “There is a light at the castle and it’s not so very far. There must be warmth and beds and perhaps a glass of sherry to soothe your nerves.”

Glynnis gave a soggy, reluctant nod and they set off. The lane twisted upward through trees stripped bare by autumn winds. Branches scratched and scraped overhead, and mud sucked at their boots with each step. Fiona’s companion pressed her Bible to her chest to guard it against the rain.

“‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,’” she murmured between labored breaths, “‘I will fear no evil.’”

Fiona adored Glynnis, truly—the older lady had been a comfort to her these last months. Rarely did she complain when Fiona suggested they travel on to yet another town, but her companion had a penchant for the melodramatic that was only bolstered by the night’s events.

Lightning rent the sky then, illuminating the castle in stark relief. In one of the upper windows, a pale oval pressed against the glass. A child’s face, perhaps, although the distance and rain made certainty impossible.

“Do you see?” Fiona said. “There are children.”

But when the lightning came again, the glass was dark and empty. Her step faltered. Perhaps, on this occasion, Glynnis’s theatrics were justified.

They climbed higher, and the wind struck harder, funneling between the mountain peaks with a sharp edge. The lane here was exposed, carved into the hillside with a steep drop on one side. The air was colder with the elevation—or perhaps it was just the wind cutting through her wet clothes.

And then, through the fury of the wind and rain, came music. Someone played the pianoforte. The melody carried in fragments, each phrase seeming to come from a different direction. The tune was melancholy. Something by Bach, perhaps, though the notes disappeared on the wind before Fiona could properly identify them.

“How odd,” Glynnis said through chattering teeth, “to practice music at such an hour. Do you think they have guests?”

Aside from the single light at the top of the castle, the façade was dark. There were no signs of movement, and were it not for the music and the pale face of the child who may or may not have been there, Fiona might have believed the place abandoned. She certainly didn’t think there were guests within, but she said only, “Perhaps.”

They left the shelter of the trees and hurried across a broad forecourt. The rain slanted at them and the wind howled as they reached a stone portico. Fiona rapped the iron knocker three times before the massive oak door swung open. Music and light spilled out, accompanied by the familiar scent of beeswax.

“Oh! The storm—it has caught you!” A woman in a crisp maid’s dress stood framed in the doorway. Her English carried the soft consonants of the local tongue. “Please, come inside. Such a night, terrible, terrible.” She reached for their sodden cloaks as Fiona stepped across the threshold.

The maid had a round face and a hesitant smile. Fiona felt a measure of tension ease from her shoulders, and even Glynnis loosened her grip on her Bible.

The entrance hall soared three stories above them. The dark stone walls were hung with faded tapestries that disappeared into shadow despite the maid’s candelabra. A gust from the open door set the candlelight guttering.

Fiona explained the situation with their carriage’s broken axle. Then, her anger igniting once more, she added, “Our driver left us when he saw the castle.”

The maid—she said her name was Ana—clicked her tongue. “The villagers, they remember the old stories from their grandmothers’ time. Foolish superstitions.”

Then she looked at Glynnis, who held a hand to her head once more. “You are injured, ma’am?”

“It is nothing a night’s rest will not cure,” Glynnis said. “‘He gives power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.’”

“The doctor, he is occupied now, but he will see you tomorrow. Tonight, I will see that you have rooms.”

“Does a physician live here then?” Fiona said. Glynnis had lifted a hand to her temple no less than three times on the walk to the castle. Though her companion would protest any fussing, Fiona had seen enough head injuries in Cairo and Athens to know that a bump warranted watching. A physician’s opinion would settle her concerns.

“Oh, yes. Dr. Cornelius Lowell, from London. The castle, it is orphanage, for the children who have no family. The doctor and Miss Roth—she is the teacher—they tend the little ones. The dark frightens them, and the storm, I think. They cry out.” A shadow crossed her face. “I have brothers and sisters at home. I do not like to hear children cry and not go to them. But Miss Roth, she plays her music, and they settle.”

Ana led them from the hall, and the music continued from somewhere in the castle, carrying along the stone corridor. It was a composition Fiona now recognized, one of Bach’s more complicated fugues. By the way the notes landed without hesitation, it was clear Miss Roth was an accomplished pianist, but Fiona had never been particularly fond of the composer’s sober works. She preferred something with warmth—Haydn, perhaps, or a lilting piece by Herr Schubert.

“Miss Roth,” Ana continued, “she is most particular about the children’s routine. Everything in its proper time, its proper order. Must be the English way, yes?” The easy warmth in her voice when she spoke of the children was gone now, replaced by something more careful. “But it is no matter. The children, they grow accustomed.”

Her gaze went briefly to Fiona’s traveling dress. “You are a lady of means, I think.”

Fiona’s eyes widened at such a bold assessment. Her hair had come down in the rain, and she could feel it plastered cold against her neck in a way that was anything but ladylike. Whatever impression Ana had formed, Fiona doubted her present appearance much supported it.

“Dr. Lowell,” Ana went on, “he welcomes… how do you say? Benefactors. He will be pleased to make your acquaintance. There are many children at Castle Negru. Many bellies to fill.”

Ah. Ana’s assessment now made more sense. Though Fiona’s brother would have cautioned her against opening her reticule to every plea, she was fortunate her husband Robert had left her well situated. Otherwise, she might have needed a bit of charity herself.

“Perhaps I could meet the children,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” Ana promised. The maid stopped at the entrance to a long gallery and gestured ahead. “The gallery, it divides the castle. The living is done on one side, the sleeping on the other. To go from one, you must pass through.” She paused. “At night, it is best not to linger.”