Christmas At Pemberley
Something more...newsworthy?
He slammed his fist down hard on the desk, sending papers fluttering into the air, and the pencil skittered and rolled once again to the floor.
But this time, he didn’t bother to pick it up.
And he didn’t bother to shut the door when he strode out of the room.
A weak shaft of sunlight slanted in through the tiny slit of a window.
Dominic, shivering from a night spent passed out on the floor in whisky-fuelled oblivion, sat up and groggily surveyed his surroundings. He was sitting on dirt. The wall against his back was rough stone, darkened here and there with moss.
Where the fuck was he?
The last thing he remembered – after downing a bottle of Draemar whisky with Archie – was stumbling down the back stairs in search of car keys – any car keys – so he could get away from the castle, away from Scotland, and most importantly, away from Gemma and her incessant demands.
Try this jacket on, Dom. What do you think of this dress for the honeymoon, Dom? Will you wear a boutonnière, Dom? Shall we go with Royal Doulton or Wedgwood china, Dom?
As if it made any fucking difference what he liked! Dom thought darkly. Gemma always did whatever the bloody hell she wanted anyway, regardless of his opinion.
He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and staggered to the door. Gripping the ancient-looking metal handle, he yanked on it with all his might, but the heavy oaken door didn’t budge.
It was locked. What the!?
There were bars inset in a small window at the top of the door, like the kind you saw in that Man in the Iron Mask film. But wait a minute – the man in the iron mask spent most of that film in a bloody prison.
What in hell was he doing in prison?
Panic overtook him as the whisky fumes fogging his brain began to lift. This was no prison. This, he remembered from the tour Tarquin had given them when they’d arrived at Draemar, was the dungeon.
He was locked in a dungeon in the bowels of the castle. And no one – no one! ‒ knew he was down here.
‘Help!’ Dominic bellowed, as real panic set in. ‘Let me out of here!’ He cast his eyes wildly over the dirt floor, hoping to find a key, or a crowbar, or maybe one of those tin cups that prisoners dragged across the bars in prison films.
But there was nothing. No key, no crowbar. Not even a tin cup. Just...dirt.
Right, then, he told himself as he began to hyperventilate. This was it. He’d always wondered how he’d die...and now he knew. No massive cocaine overdose for him, no heart attack whilst romping in bed with a couple of curvaceous groupies.
No, instead he’d die of starvation, wasting away little by little, until one day they found his bones in a pathetic heap on the floor of this bloody Scottish dungeon.
‘Lemme out!’ Dominic howled as he pounded his fists against the door. ‘Somebody get me the fuck out of here!’
Halfway down the stairs, Gemma came to a halt. ‘I can’t go down there,’ she said, and shuddered as she brushed another cobweb away from her face. ‘This is disgusting.’
Tarquin, a few steps ahead of her, turned and looked up at her with a raised brow. ‘You want to find Dominic, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ she gritted, ‘but only so I can kick him in the balls and give him his bloody ring back!’
‘Stay here, then. I’ll go ahead and have a look round.’
‘No, wait!’ Gemma’s eyes widened as he started back down the steps without her. ‘Don’t you dare to leave me here!’ She eyed the moss-covered stone wall that pressed in closely on either side, and with another shudder, she hurried after Tarquin.
The floor, if you could call it that, consisted of packed dirt. Gemma wrinkled her nose as she glanced around. It was dim down here, and dank, and it smelled like earth, and moss, and damp.
Oh well, she reasoned uneasily, dungeons aren’t meant to be comfortable or sweet-smelling, are they?
‘Do you really think Dom’s down here?’ she asked Tarquin.
‘I doubt it. But we’d best have a look, just to be sure.’
‘Right,’ she agreed reluctantly, and followed close behind him.
They were halfway along the corridor, its length liberally festooned with cobwebs and inset on either side with thick oak doors, when Gemma came to an abrupt stop.
‘Did you hear it?’ she asked as she clutched his arm, her words breathless.
‘Hear what?’
‘That!’ she hissed. ‘Listen!’
Tarquin tamped down his rising irritation – really, Gemma Astley was more dramatic (and more annoying) than a six-year-old schoolgirl – when he heard it, too. It was a low sort of moan...
...followed by the unmistakable sound of someone bellowing, ‘Get me the fuck out of here!’
Chapter 40
‘Dominic!’ Gemma cried. ‘Where are you?’
They stopped outside the last door along the corridor.
‘Gems?’ he croaked. ‘Gemma, is that you?’
They heard a scrabbling sound, then Dominic – looking a bit wild-eyed – pressed his face against the barred window at the top of the door.
‘How did you end up down here, locked in the dungeon?’ Tarquin asked him in bewilderment.
‘How the hell should I know?’ Dom snapped. ‘The last thing I remember is looking for a set of car keys.’
‘Car keys? Why would you come down to the dungeons to find a set of car keys?’ Gemma demanded. ‘You were drunk, weren’t you?’
He started to protest, then realized there was nothing to be gained by denying it. ‘Yeah, I was. I was drunk. So what? When I’m pissed, at least I can stop thinking about boutonnières and bridal gowns and bouquets for a bit. You’re doing my head in with all this wedding shit.’
She stared at him. ‘Are you saying...are you saying you don’t want to marry me?’
He gripped the bars more tightly. ‘I’m saying I’m having second thoughts about this whole wedding thing. You’ve turned into a bridal-obsessed cow, Gemma! I don’t care whether the guests throw rice or confetti or...or spears, I don’t care if the cake is made of vanilla or marzipan or fucking mud! I just want to marry you, babes, that’s all. I want this wedding to be about us, just us, not about table arrangements or personalized party favours or...or a trending hashtag on bloody Tweeper!’
‘So you don’t want a Scottish wedding with all the trimmings?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘No kilts? No tartans? No horse-drawn sleigh, no white roses or Prada gown or hand-made dried heather wreaths on the end of every pew?’
‘Of course we can have all of that stuff, if that’s what you really want, babes.’ Dominic lowered his voice as Tarquin solicitously stepped away and pretended to study the moss at the end of the hall. ‘You know me – I don’t care if your wedding gown is Prada or Primark. But in the end, none of it really matters, does it? What matters is you and me, exchanging our vows, and,’ he swallowed ‘and spending the rest of our lives together.’
Gemma’s eyes were awash with tears. ‘That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me, Dom. Have I really been such a beast?’
‘You have,’ Tarquin called out.
‘Sorry, babes,’ Dominic agreed, ‘but Tark’s right. You’ve been a fucking nightmare lately.’
She sniffled and stepped closer. ‘I’m sorry, Dom. I never meant to be such a cow, honestly. I just wanted every detail to be perfect for our wedding. For...us.’
He reached through and clasped her hand with his. ‘As long as I hear the vicar say the words, “I now pronounce you man and wife”, that’s all I need to make it perfect, babes. Honestly.’
Gemma squeezed his hand. ‘I love you, Dominic. And you’re right – in the end, that’s all that matters. Now,’ she added briskly, ‘let’s get you out of here. Tarquin!’ she called out. ‘You can stop eavesdropping now and let Dominic out.’
‘Well, I’d be more than happy to do that,’ Tarquin told her as he rejoined them, ‘if I could.’ He indicated the ancient lock. ‘There isn’t a key in the lock. And I’ve no idea where it might be.’
‘But...someone has to have the key!’ Gemma cried. ‘After all, that same someone locked Dom in and took the key. We just have to find it.’
‘But who would do such a thing?’ Tarquin asked, mystified. ‘Surely no one here at Draemar would deliberately lock Dominic in the dungeon and throw away the key.’
‘Somebody did!’ Gemma snapped. ‘It was probably that grumpy ginger-haired groundskeeper, Colm.’
‘No. It wasn’t Colm.’ Dominic shook his head as he began to recall the events of the night before. ‘I shared a bottle of whisky with Archie last night, in his study. I remember wanting to leave the castle, wanting to get as far away as I could, and so I went off in search of car keys. Archie followed me, said he knew of a spare set of keys down in the dungeon and that we’d go and get them.’
‘In the dungeon?’ Gemma echoed sceptically. ‘And you believed that?’
‘At the time,’ Dominic informed her, ‘it made perfect sense. You have to remember, we were both bladdered.’ He scowled. ‘Anyway, we went downstairs, and we staggered all the way down the corridor to the end, until we came to the last door.’
‘This is for your own safety, laddie,’ Archie had mumbled as he turned and left Dominic inside, then swung the door shut.
‘Archie locked me in and took the key,’ Dom said slowly. ‘I remember now.’ As Gemma and Tarquin began to protest, convinced that Archie Campbell would never do such a monstrous thing, he added impatiently, ‘Don’t you see? He did it to keep me from grabbing a set of random car keys and driving off with a half a fifth of whisky in me.’
‘Then all we need to do is find Archie and get that key back,’ Gemma said.
Tarquin sighed. ‘There’s just one problem.’
Dominic eyed him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean, a problem?’ he demanded. ‘What problem? Just go upstairs and get Archie.’
‘That’s just it,’ Tark said. ‘He’s not here. He’s gone to London on a matter of urgent business and he isn’t expected to return until late tonight.’
‘Oh, that’s just fucking wonderful, that is,’ Dominic groaned. ‘So I’m locked in here until God knows when! I need a nice, greasy fry-up. I need a big glass of OJ and vodka. I need some bloody aspirin!’
‘We’ll just have to find the key, then,’ Gemma said firmly. ‘It’s bound to be in Archie’s room somewhere.’
But although she and Tarquin abandoned Dominic to look in Archie’s study and bedroom, then the library and the drawing room and even the kitchen, the key was nowhere to be found.
‘What’ll we do?’ Gemma wailed as she turned to Tarquin. ‘Poor Dominic! There’s no way to slide a food tray under the dungeon door; there’s not even space enough between the bars in that bloody window to hand him a bottle of beer!’
‘Alcohol’s what got him into this mess in the first place,’ Tarquin pointed out sharply. He sighed. ‘I’ll just have to go into the village and get a locksmith to come out and have a look. There’s a chap who specializes in antique locks.’
‘Well, go on and get him, then, and hurry!’ Gemma urged him. ‘There’s no time to lose. The wedding’s just two days away. And without Dominic, there won’t be a wedding!’
As he turned to go back downstairs, Tarquin suddenly remembered something.
‘I think I might know where the key is.’
‘You do?’ Gemma clutched his arm. ‘Where is it? Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I only just remembered. There’s an old key ring with dozens of antique keys hanging on a hook in the buttery. It’s been there ever since anyone can remember.’
‘Do you think the key to the dungeon is there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tark said, and made his way downstairs with Gemma close behind him. ‘But it’s worth a look.’
Chapter 41
As she came downstairs later that morning, Caitlin Campbell paused on the last step. Draemar Castle was looking very festive.
The mantels, mirrors, banisters and doorways of the drawing room, library, entrance hall, and dining room were draped with fresh greenery and filled the castle with the scent of pine and spruce. A fire blazed a welcome in the drawing room fireplace.
A twelve-foot tree stood in the corner, glittering with icicles and woven with strands of white fairy lights. Christmas music played at a low volume on the old Roberts radio, and a tray with shortbread and mugs of hot cocoa sat on the coffee table.
‘There’s sherry, too, if you’ve a mind,’ Mrs Neeson announced as she brushed past Caitlin with a cut-glass decanter of Amontillado in hand and set it down next to the shortbread and cocoa. ‘Now I’d best get back to the kitchen, seein’ as I have waitstaff to supervise, and a wedding dinner to put on the table tomorrow, as well as the family’s Christmas supper afterwards.’
‘Everything looks lovely, very Christmassy,’ Caitlin approved as she entered the drawing room and surveyed her surroundings. ‘What can I do to help?’
Pen handed her several boxes of fragile German Christmas ornaments. ‘You can start by hanging these on the tree, if you like. Do you remember them? They were always your favourites.’
Caitlin took the boxes and set them carefully down. ‘Of course I do.’ They’d had these ornaments for as long as she could remember – a pink-cheeked skier, a snowflake, an angel, a Swiss chalet with tiny wreaths on the windows – each of them made of blown glass and meticulously hand-painted.
She remembered when one of the ornaments, a Scottie dog with a plaid scarf wound around his neck, had slipped through her fingers and shattered on the flagstones in the entrance hall. Six-year-old Caitlin had been inconsolable.
Now, as she took the decorations from the boxes and began to hang them from the branches, her throat thickened.
Would she trim a tree like this with Niall’s son or daughter one day? Would the two of them find a way to build a life together, or would her father – and Niall’s son Jeremy – make a future between them impossible?
At least none of the houseguests knew she was pregnant, thank God. Only Gemma.
But as she glanced down at the slight swell of her stomach, Caitlin bit her lip. It would only be a matter of time before everyone else noticed.
‘How are you feeling?’ Wren enquired in a low voice as she came to stand beside her.
‘Fine,’ Caitlin said shortly.
‘I’m glad. If there’s anything I can do...’
‘There isn’t.’ She hung one of the Swiss chalet ornaments and turned away from Wren’s hurt expression. She knew she was being beastly, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Knowing that she wouldn’t be giving her baby up for adoption to Wren and Tarquin after all made her feel horribly guilty.
Caitlin took a deep breath and set the empty box aside as she turned back to Wren. There was no time like the present...
‘We need to talk, Wren. It’s important.’
‘Of course,’ her sister-in-law agreed, her face at once eager and hopeful. ‘What is it? Is it about—’
‘Not here,’ Caitlin cut in. ‘Somewhere private.’
‘All right. I don’t think anyone’s in the library…’
The sound of raised voices outside the drawing room windows could be heard above the low crooning of Bing Crosby singing ‘White Christmas’ on the radio.
Pen laid aside a strand of lights and frowned. ‘It sounds like an argument. What in the world?’
She hurried over to join Wren and Caitlin in front of one of the tall drawing room windows.
Caitlin peered outside. ‘It’s Colm and Helen,’ she said in a low but avid voice, and pushed the drapes back to get a better view. ‘They’re having a regular donnybrook out there, right in the middle of the drive!’
‘I cannae believe you’d do this to me!’
As Helen extricated herself from the rental car, distracted by thoughts of how much she owed the mechanic’s shop and wondering how on earth she’d ever pay it back, she froze as Colm MacKenzie strode up to her.
‘Do...what, exactly?’ she asked, mystified as much by his words as by his obvious and incendiary anger. ‘What is it I’m supposed to have done?’
‘As if ye didn’t know,’ he spat, his jaw tight. ‘And it’s not what you’re “supposed to have done” – it’s what you did. I went in your room this morning,’ he forged on, ‘looking for that twit of a rock star, Dominic Heath.’
Helen bristled. ‘Why on earth would Dominic be in my room?’
‘I didn’t know whose bloody room it was,’ Colm flung back. ‘But he’s gone missing, and I was searching the rooms upstairs, when I came to yours.’
‘So you just – what? Went into my room and had a wander round?’ Helen demanded. ‘How dare you?’
‘How dare I?’ He got in her face and stared at her, his fists clenched at his sides and his hazel eyes dark with fury. ‘You’re the one who’s been looking into my past, searching for dirt about me on your computer. Or will you deny it?’
She stared back at him, and any words she’d had – to protest, to explain, to excuse her actions – dried up in her throat.
There really was no excuse for what she’d done.
‘So you know about the accident,’ he went on, his chest rising and falling with the tempo of his fury, ‘the accident I caused, and you know I’m to blame for my wife and baby’s death. You know that not a day has passed that I don’t wish it’d been me who died, not them. Instead I have to live with my guilt for the rest of my life.’
‘Colm—’
‘Are you pleased with yourself, Miss Thomas? Will you write a nice, lurid story about me to give to your editor back in London? Or did you give it to him when you met him at the pub on Friday night?’
‘No, of course I didn’t!’
‘Why didn’t you mention it, then? You didn’t go into Northton Grange for groceries – you were here the entire time, giving Tom all the dirt you dug up on me.’
‘My meeting with Tom had nothing to do with you.’ She looked at him beseechingly. ‘I only looked your name up because I wanted to understand.’ She felt her throat tighten and tried to clear it. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anything, Colm, and I had so many questions—’
‘Then why not ask me? Why go behind my back?’
She opened her mouth to argue, to say that she’d only done it to protect herself, to protect her heart from being broken, that she was sorry she’d unearthed the sad tragedy of his wife and child’s death...
...but Colm, his face etched in contempt, had already turned on his heel, and left.
Chapter 42
‘Well,’ Pen observed as she turned away from the window, ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Colm MacKenzie so angry.’
Caitlin, standing next to her, raised her brow as the groundskeeper stormed off down the drive. ‘I wonder what Helen did? Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty bad.’
‘I think,’ Wren ventured, ‘that the two of them are seeing each other.’
‘Colm and Helen?’ Lady Campbell enquired as she breezed into the drawing room and joined them at the window. ‘Oh, unquestionably! I don’t normally like to gossip,’ she went on, ‘but I was looking out my window the other morning when I saw Miss Thomas doing the walk of shame up the drive from the gatehouse.’
‘Really? And how do you know that’s what it was?’ Caitlin scoffed. ‘She often goes out walking.’
‘She had on the same clothes she wore the day before – jeans, and that hideous Christmas jumper.’ She sniffed. ‘I know, because she didn’t do up her coat. It was flapping behind her like a great quilted bird.’
‘Helen’s not the sort of woman who’s bothered about her clothes,’ Pen pointed out, and moved towards the door. ‘I admire her for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some correspondence to catch up with. I’m woefully behind.’
‘Does anyone still write letters?’ Caitlin wondered, mystified.
‘I do,’ her mother replied. ‘It’s a lovely habit, and one you should cultivate.’
‘In my day, every young woman had monogrammed stationery,’ Lady Campbell agreed. ‘Now it’s all texts and status updates and God knows what... If you’ll wait, Pen, I’ll come with you. I’d like your input on the dinner menu for Hogmanay this year...’
As the two women left, discussing the relative merits of fish versus fowl, Caitlin moved to follow them. She didn’t want to talk to Wren about the baby, not just yet. She needed time to think first, to find the right words.
But what were the ‘right words’ to tell someone – namely, Wren ‒ that she’d changed her mind and was keeping the baby?
‘Caitlin, wait.’ Wren turned from the window and followed her. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me...about the baby.’
‘I do,’ she hedged, ‘but I’m a bit busy just now. I promised Tark I’d make ginger cookies while I’m here. He loves my ginger cookies. It’s nearly Christmas, after all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get started—’
‘Please.’
A world of pleading and hope was contained in the word.
Caitlin sighed and turned around. ‘All right. Let me just close the doors so we can have a bit of privacy.’
‘Have you decided whether to have natural childbirth or not?’ Wren enquired as Caitlin moved to shut the doors. ‘It’s better for the baby, you know. Much less traumatic. You could give birth in one of those water pools…’
‘I’m having a baby,’ Caitlin said irritably, ‘not... baking a custard in a bain-marie.’
‘It’s a very lovely, very gentle way to give birth.’
‘Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. But I’m sure I’ll want every pain medication on offer. The truth is,’ Caitlin admitted as she went to one of the sofas and sank down, ‘I’m terrified.’
‘Tark and I will go with you, if you like. We’ll be your...your birthing partners. Isn’t that what they call it nowadays? And I can help you pack whatever you’ll need in hospital.’
As she looked over into her sister-in-law’s excited, enthusiastic face, something of her own mixed feelings and misgivings must have shown. Wren’s smile faltered.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Caitlin stared down at her hands, twisting the onyx ring on her finger round and round. ‘I just have a lot to think about at the moment.’
‘You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?’
Caitlin looked at Wren, and the words she’d started to say ‒ no, of course I haven’t – remained unsaid. What was the point in lying? She had changed her mind, because of Niall, because he wanted her and he wanted this child she was carrying.
‘You’re keeping the baby,’ Wren said evenly.
‘I – yes, I am. I’m sorry,’ she added in a rush, ‘but Niall asked me to marry him, which caught me completely by surprise, and he wants this baby—’
‘What about me?’ Wren’s words were low but fierce. ‘What about what I want? You said you wouldn’t keep the child, that you were giving it up for adoption. To us. To Tarquin and me.’
‘I know I did,’ Caitlin said. ‘But things have changed. I’m sorry, Wren, truly—’
‘Sorry?’ she echoed, and let out a sharp, bitter laugh. ‘No, you’re not sorry. You’re enjoying every minute of this, aren’t you?’
Caitlin stared at her, stunned. ‘What? How can you say that?’
‘You don’t like me, Caitlin. You never have. That’s plain enough, and has been from the day I married Tarquin and moved in here. You resent me – for living in the castle, for having a place in Tark’s life, for taking attention away from you. Because everything’s always all about you, isn’t it? Caitlin Campbell, the golden girl.’
‘That isn’t true!’ she retorted, incensed.
‘It is true! Despite the fact that you’re a spoilt, over-indulged girl who’s never wanted for anything, you’ve always been jealous of me. All the little digs, the barbed comments...did you think I didn’t notice?’
‘You swanned in here and acted as though Draemar was yours, right from the very first day. You redecorated the drawing room – there was nothing wrong with it – and you let your stupid dogs have the run of the place. You made me feel unwelcome every time I came home from university, like I didn’t belong any more. “Why did you bring your dog home, Caitlin?’”’ she mimicked. ‘“You’re upsetting the household! You know we have dogs at Draemar.”’