Towards the end of our tour of Wray Castle, we were shown what had been the morning room - here, Mrs Dawson could warm herself in the crazy, icy, folly she and her husband had dreamt up - the mock gothic castle was extraordinary - as you approached, along the shores of the lake, you saw crenellated towers, then a great dark iceberg of stone -
Once inside, you entered a vast hall - a staircase led up to a dark wooden gallery - you stood on glowing tiles, a sudden glimpse of beauty in this shadowy place -
Our guide was a cheery northern girl - she took us upstairs - even in the summer, you can see your breath inside -
We wandered through huge cheerless rooms - there was the billiards room, with its scoring rack - the gentleman would stay here for hours -
We looked at the servants' quarters, going down the narrow servants' stairs - we shivered inside the tiny rooms - in the time of the Dawsons, these windows were arrow slits -
Mr Dawson had been a successful surgeon - I imagined his frock coat, stiff with blood - his wife inherited a fortune derived from gin - I looked at their daguerreotypes - there were Mrs Dawson's ringlets - there was Mr Dawson's whiskery chin -
But I forgave them their bizarre self indulgences when I saw the fireplace in the morning room - for there, bordered by blue tiles, were the figures of two slender women, with grave, calm, faces - one was painting, one was playing a violin -
I fell in love with them at once, with their delicate shapes, their slim necks - I was sure that I felt their warm breath upon my cheek -
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