Her name was Athelwyn.

She had been blessed since childhood with great

 beauty and wit and was the envy of her friends

 who believed she must somehow be of royal blood.

No other reason could be found for her

 elegance, style and grace.

She was schooled at home by a French woman named Paulette

 Bontecou who had been educated at École normale supérieure in

 Paris...an institute known for its great philosophers and educators

and founded on the secular values of the Enlightenment. 

As a result, Athelwyn spoke both English and French and

although her manners were refined her opinions were

bold and of her own choosing. 

As a precocious teen flirting with womanhood

young and old men alike sought to court her.

Although her father was a merchant he was of

modest means and harbored greed within his soul.

He looked upon Athelwyn as the golden goose

that might secure for him a comfortable retirement.

On her seventeenth birthday Athelwyn was introduced

 to a young major in her Majesty’s service named

 Reginald Blount and instantly fell madly in love with him

 and he with her. Becoming aware of this her father forbad her to

ever see Reginald again as his family had no estate of value.

 Athelwyn never saw Reginald again and suspected

that her father had distanced him with threats

so severe that he feared for her life.

She plotted on numerous occasions to flee her

Father’s home but was thwarted on every occasion.

In her twenty first year.. and against her will..

Athelwyn was betrothed to Duke Anthony Richards,

 a rich and influential land owner and third cousin to

her Majesty’s nephew Bartholomew Bartlow who was

a renowned scallywag known for his laziness and

reliance upon handouts from relatives for his subsistence.

Athelwyn locked herself in her room for a full month

in protest; eating and drinking only that which her younger

sister Adeline could sneak to her from the kitchen in the dead

 of night. But to no avail, as her father had the door removed

 from her sanctuary on the thirty first day,

 so ending her self-imposed exile.

 The wedding was a grim affair with Athelwyn going

 through the motions without meeting the eyes of either

her father or the Duke. Although besplendoured in white lace

and roses in her hair she seemed more a casual

 observer to the affair than the bride.

The ceremony completed, the Duke and Athelwyn

left in the Duke’s carriage drawn by four great black horses

for his estate in the country.

Upon arrival at the estate Athelwyn was escorted to

her bed chamber which adjoined the Duke’s and which

 was separated by a solid oak door with key firmly in lock.

The Duke had left the moment of consummation of the

marriage in the hands of his bride not realizing that

his wait might be eternal.

Athelwyn was introduced to the sizable staff of the

estate and, now the wife of the Castellan, was

 obliged to assume the role of Chatelaine, a role that

she would be well suited for were it not for her

displeasure with the fate that had befallen her.  

  A year went by and the key in the oaken door remained

in place … much to the dismay of the Duke.

As their first anniversary as man and wife approached

the Duke announced at breakfast one morning

 that upon his return from London he would

be visiting Athelwyn’s chamber to finalize the marriage

in the traditional manner.

It has now been five years since the Duke returned

from London with thoughts of claiming his due.

The halls of the castle, illuminated only by the dim

candles that line the walls, are cold, damp and

deserted. The staff is no longer under the watchful eye

of its former mistress. However, one night each year on the eve

of the date the Duke returned from London, the jingling

 of keys can be heard as the mournful spirit of Athelwyn

 still makes her rounds and carries out her duties as Chatelaine.   

©Copyright June 23, 2010 Charles H. Gragg