The Master of Blacktower, page 12
“So Ian is a particular friend of yours? Well, I congratulate you. He is a fine man, from what I’ve seen of him.”
“Oh, he is, miss! Not like the others here.”
“They are a bad lot,” I agreed. “Especially that old rascal, Angus.”
“Ah, him! He was a sore trouble to me at first, the reprobate. But since I’ve had my understanding with Ian he took that worry off me. He threatened to take a stick to Angus if he bothered me again.”
This was a new sidelight into Angus’ nasty character, but not one that I found surprising. I finished my soup and took up a piece of bread. Betty, who had been watching me hopefully, could contain herself no longer.
“Oh, miss,” she burst out, “what was it you saw that night? Was it a ghost?”
“No, indeed. I touched a human hand.”
“But the servants say there is a ghost that haunts the Tower. The ghost of a nun, miss!”
“Nonsense. What would a nun be doing here, in this stronghold of Protestantism?”
“Why, she broke her vows, miss. Ran off with a wicked young lord, she did, from her convent; and when he deserted her she hanged herself in the Tower. They say she walks. It’s an ill omen for the Hamiltons when she does.”
“The classic tale,” I murmured. “Betty, I’ll wager you never heard that until after I was hurt—now did you?”
“Well—no. But there’d be no reason to tell it until then, would there?”
Her mixture of superstition and common sense defeated me. “All I can tell you, Betty,” I said, “is that the figure was not that of a nun. It was hooded and cloaked, yes. If you must have it a ghost, make it the ghost of a monk, for goodness’ sake! But it was no ghost.”
“Yes, miss,” said Betty obediently. She grinned at me, and I saw that she delighted in the story. There was no use in disillusioning her.
“You’re still mighty pale and thin,” said Betty, shaking her head and abandoning a topic on which we were never likely to agree. “You’ll have to stay abed for a time. But you’re alive; I thought that night that you were a dead one, for sure. You gave me a turn, indeed you did—blood all over, and white as a ghost yourself, your pretty hair all wet and muddy, hanging down over the Master’s arm—”
My exclamation stopped the vivid description. “He brought me in?”
“Why, yes, miss. Did you think you’d walked in on your own two feet, in the state you were in? He found you on the path from the Tower, I’m told, lying in the rain.”
A chill came over me, although the day was warm.
“I wonder…”
“What he was doing out of doors?” She finished the sentence for me. “He’s often restless at night. Miss, you aren’t thinking—oh, now, remember what he showed you. It couldn’t have been him.”
By some strange alchemy the Master had won Betty’s allegiance. I wished I could be so uncritically convinced.
Before I was strong enough to resume my duties the rowan leaves had turned red. It was autumn in the glen, a time of change. I went back to my work in the library, and found everything the same as it had been. Mr. Hamilton continued to avoid me; Mrs. Cannon slept; Annabelle was withdrawn and uncommunicative.
But there was a difference. The library was almost finished. My catalogue of the books was nearing completion, and the volumes themselves stood in neat rows, the bindings oiled and shining. My task was done. I could no longer delude myself into thinking that Mr. Hamilton needed a secretary. He had no more interest in scholarship than in Persian embroidery. His offer had been a sop to my vanity, a charity offered to a destitute kinsman. With his characteristic self-confidence, he had believed he was in no danger of succumbing to my attractions, and I had thought that I would know how to handle any such problem if it arose. We had both been wrong. He had succumbed, not to love, but to another emotion which I preferred not to name; and I was hopelessly caught. Every day it became more and more imperative that I make plans to leave, and every day it became harder to go.
If my plans needed any confirmation, I found it in a second letter from Randall, which arrived soon after I came downstairs again. It was black-bordered, so I was prepared for the news it contained, which was not a personal shock in any case. My aunt was dead. An apoplexy had carried her off, suddenly and painlessly, in the midst of a tea party.
The surprising thing about the letter was not the news it contained, but the altered tone of the writer. Randall asked me to come back to London. He promised me any sort of support I wanted, and assured me that I needn’t marry him, if I found the idea so repulsive. (I smiled at that; there was such a world of wounded vanity in the assurance.) But, he continued, if I would consent to be his wife, I could trust him to be prepared to overlook my mad behavior. No reproaches would ever cross his lips after we were married.
I was softened, not by the offensive phraseology, but by the fumbling sincerity of the thought behind it. Maybe I had misjudged Randall. Now that my aunt was gone, living with him might be—might be possible. Perhaps it was better to marry without love; it was a decidedly uncomfortable emotion to live with. Hundreds of other women married for convenience, every day; and here was Randall, not even insisting on that sacrifice. I ought to have answered the letter at once; its kindness demanded acknowledgment, if not acceptance. But I didn’t answer it.
Mr. Hamilton went off to Edinburgh soon after that. He was due to return the afternoon Lady Mary and Sir Andrew called for the first time since I had been ill. They came to inquire after my health—or so they said.
The lady hardly gave me time to say I felt recovered before she burst out, “My dear creature, you have no idea how your adventure has set the village on its ears. Nothing else is talked of in the alehouse—or so my faithful spy tells me.”
“They must have very little else to talk about,” I said.
“That’s true. But you must admit it is a delicious story. Was the apparition really a skeleton wrapped in a cloak?”
She laughed aloud before I could answer; I suppose my face spoke for me.
“No, that would be too delicious. What did you see?”
“Nothing, except the shape. No features at all.”
Sir Andrew, who had been nibbling daintily on the handle of his riding crop, remarked, “Yet you must have speculated, Miss Gordon. Who can it have been? Who could have behaved so inhumanly?”
“Why, I think perhaps there was no real harm intended,” I said slowly. “The figure never touched me; I was not pushed.”
“No, but you weren’t helped. There was a moment during which the unknown might have pulled you to safety; and did not. At least,” Sir Andrew added casually, “that is the version of my bucolic friends.”
“Yet even that may not be so bad as it sounds. The unknown may have been injured or ill; he collapsed at my feet like someone overcome. Or there may be other reasons which elude us.”
I don’t know what prompted me to leap to the defense of the hostile figure in black. Perhaps I was following the habits my father had tried to teach me, in seeing every side of a question. At least I was speaking the truth when I added, “After all, Sir Andrew, why should anyone want to harm me? I have no enemies; there is no one whom I threaten or offend.”
“Are you sure?” Sir Andrew asked softly.
I knew he was quizzing me again; and once again I was fool enough to forget myself in answering what sounded like an implicit accusation.
“I can tell you one thing,” I said firmly. “Mr. Hamilton has proved, beyond question, that it was not he whom I encountered. There can be absolutely no doubt of that.”
With a loud sigh Lady Mary sank back against the couch, one white hand pressed against the laces that covered her bosom.
“I am so glad!” she exclaimed. “So glad to hear you say that!”
We were all silent for a moment. Lady Mary, leaning back with closed eyes and a smile curving her mouth, seemed occupied in calming some palpitations of the heart that had set her laces aflutter. Sir Andrew’s silence was reserved and enigmatic. Mine was, frankly, the silence of bewilderment.
“Forgive me, Miss Gordon,” said Lady Mary at last. “You must think me quite mad. But since we last spoke, I have become as fierce a defender of your employer as you. The tales I have heard distress me terribly.”
“You have met Mr. Hamilton?” I asked stiffly.
“Oh, yes. I confess, he attracts me very much.”
“He—he never said that you and he had become acquainted.”
“Oh,” she murmured, “I expect he doesn’t always speak of matters that are important to him.”
At that moment I knew I disliked Lady Mary immensely. She chattered on, apparently quite unaware of the fact that we had become mortal enemies.
“I don’t know Gavin—Mr. Hamilton, that is—well enough yet to question him,” she said brightly, “but one day I intend to find out the truth about those silly rumors.”
“You mean the stories about his wife?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward, her blue eyes glittering. “It is suggestive, though, isn’t it, that there are no possessions of the lady still in the house? Or is that a lie, like the other tales?”
“No,” I said listlessly. “I suppose he couldn’t bear to look at her things after she died.”
“Perhaps. And yet such action smacks louder of hate than of love.”
I was about to reply when Sir Andrew, lounging near the door, made a warning movement. When Mr. Hamilton entered, the lady and I were sipping tea in demure propriety, and Lady Mary was in the midst of a remark about the weather.
He was plainly taken aback at seeing us all so cozy together. The small check in his long stride and a quickly masked frown might not have been noticed by a casual observer. I noticed them.
He bowed over Lady Mary’s extended hand and bowed at me. I sat back quietly in my corner of the divan, like the governess I hadn’t wanted to be, and kept still. Sir Andrew, for some reason, was also untalkative. The other two, the lady and the gentleman, filled the room like actors on a stage. Mr. Hamilton knew the polite banter of society. He had never employed it with me; but he countered the lady’s witty comments brilliantly. His voice was the old cool mocking one, but now and then there was a flash from his black eyes that was not at all cool.
I tried to tell myself that he was not deliberately ignoring me. But he had eyes for no one but her. When she rose to go he took her hand again, and it seemed to me she let it linger there.
“I’m for the village,” said Sir Andrew, returning to life with a suddenness that made me jump. “Can I hope for your company, sir?”
“I think not, no.”
“A fine brother, is he not?” said Lady Mary, smiling. “He leaves me to return alone—and through that very wood, Miss Gordon, where you had your strange adventure. I vow, I think the place must be haunted. What shall I do, Andrew, if a bogie or brownie jumps out at me?”
Mr. Hamilton glanced at me when she mentioned my adventure; his expression was vague, as if he didn’t see me.
“Why, I believe I must go along,” he said slowly, “to protect you from the brownies.”
From my window I watched them go. The lady was mounted and waiting when the groom brought out Mr. Hamilton’s stallion. When they rode side by side out of the gate, I couldn’t help but admit that they made a striking couple.
I hadn’t planned to follow them; such an idea would have shocked me a few months earlier. But as soon as they were out of sight I tore off my dress and put on my riding habit. Within five minutes I was in the courtyard asking Ian to saddle Flame.
It wasn’t the first time I had ridden her since my fall. She had behaved seraphically ever since, but Ian had never accepted the obvious explanation of her bolting. He helped me mount without speaking, but as I turned away I thought I heard him mutter: “Aye, it’s unco strange!”
The Master and Lady Mary were out of sight when I left: the courtyard, but I knew the path they would take. I let Flame walk; I had no desire to catch up with them. It was an exquisite day for riding. The rowans stood like scarlet banners against the somber green of the pines. The heather was turning brown. To my left the burn plunged forward toward the mouth of the glen, over stones green with lichen.
I was aware of these things with only half my senses. The blue mountain ridges beyond the glen, distantly clear in the transparent air, touched my awareness like old friends, but I was more intent upon my own unpleasant thoughts, and even more unpleasant errand. What had I sunk to since I came to Blacktower House? Now I was hiding, prying, spying on two people who had every right to be free of me and my inquisitiveness. The thought made me writhe internally, but I kept on going.
I came upon them so suddenly that only their preoccupation with each other kept them from seeing me. They had dismounted within the little copse of fir trees and were walking side by side, talking earnestly. I brought Flame to a stop, and the amiable animal at once began to crop the grass. Then, dismounting, I peered cautiously through a screen of fir branches. No, they hadn’t seen or heard me. Flame’s slow steps had been muffled by the needles that lay thickly underfoot.
I was too far away to hear what they were saying, and I felt, not shame, but keen regret. If I were to be that most despicable of creatures, an eavesdropper and spy, I wanted at least to be a successful one. But if I couldn’t hear, I could see, and it was apparent that they were not gossiping casually, nor admiring the beauties of the autumn landscape.
Lady Mary was doing most of the talking. The Master listened, with a word or a nod from time to time. Both faces were sober. Once the lady smiled briefly; another time she put her hand on his arm. He didn’t respond to either gesture, but walked beside her staring down at the carpet of pine needles.
My eagerness to hear almost betrayed me. I was leaning forward, one hand braced against the trunk of a tree, when the hand slipped and I stumbled forward with a crackling of branches. I let myself drop to my knees and crouched there, my heart beating wildly, as I continued to watch through the screen of bushes.
The lady whirled about, her hand reaching for his in a gesture so intimate and so familiar that I felt the breath catch in my throat. Mr. Hamilton also turned, staring at the bushes behind which I crouched.
I closed my eyes and prayed. I mustn’t be caught there, in such a humiliating position. It was no more than I deserved, perhaps, but it was more than I could endure. If one of them came closer I would run to Flame and ride away.
When I opened my eyes again Mr. Hamilton was shaking his head, reassuring her. It had been the wind (I could almost hear his words) or an animal in the underbrush.
After a moment they resumed their discussion, but now it had a more hurried air, as if they didn’t want to risk another interruption. Lady Mary no longer smiled. She appeared to expostulate, and he to resist. They stood facing one another, only inches apart. He shook his head. His denial angered the lady. Her face hardened and she answered so decisively that her yellow curls bobbed.
Then, as I watched, shamelessly, I got my punishment for spying—as fine a punishment as any wrathful deity could have invented. Lady Mary’s face softened and broke into a smile. She held out her hands to him. I hated her thoroughly then, but I could hardly hold back a gasp of admiration at her unearthly beauty. She had flung off her hat, and her soft curls lifted in the light breeze. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes alight; she was poised so daintily on tiptoe that she scarcely seemed to touch the ground. Mr. Hamilton hesitated; but only for a second. He caught her in his arms, with a sudden strength I knew very well. The two black-clad forms melted into one and he bent to kiss her upturned, smiling face.
Chapter
9
NEXT MORNING THERE WAS FROST ON THE HEATHER. From my window I saw it glistening like a fall of diamonds on the russet ground. Kneeling on the padded window seat in my favorite position, I folded my arms on the high sill and rested my chin on top of them. The wind from the distant hills was no longer cool; it was cold, and I shivered as it struck my skin through the flannel of my nightdress. I welcomed the cold. It seemed to strike cobwebs from my mind, and sweep into corners where dust had gathered.
What was I to do?
I had known the answer for weeks. Now I admitted it openly. I must leave Blacktower House at once. There was no longer any hope, any excuse for lingering.
I closed my eyes, and vivid as a painting, the scene in the pinewoods came back into my mind. The sunlight slanted through the green boughs and the breeze whispered in the branches; and the two interlocked figures stood motionless, caught in a furious embrace.
Today was Friday. Every Tuesday Ian rode to Castleton with the mailbag. The next time he went, I must have a letter ready for him to take—a letter to Randall, telling him…What precisely was I going to tell him?
Three days later, on Monday, I still couldn’t answer that question. It was raining again that day, and the house was as cold and dreary as a tomb. I should have been in my room, writing to Randall. Instead I wandered through the house like a distracted phantom, from library to drawing room, up to my own room, and back to the library, as if I hoped to find a solution somewhere outside my own mind.
I ended up in the entrance hall, which had plenty of space for pacing the floor, and walked up and down studying the portraits on the walls—all of them dark and badly in need of cleaning. The monotonous mutter of the rain was audible even through the heavy oak door. I thought of going up for my shawl; the hall was damp and chilly. Then I started, as the heavy iron knocker outside fell with a crash.
None of the maids was in sight, so I went to open the door. I assumed it must be Sir Andrew knocking; no one else would brave such weather, and I hated to leave even him outside in the wet.
I had to use both hands to pull the great oak panels toward me. A man was standing on the steps. When he saw me he removed his hat, and a cupful of rain spilled off the brim and splashed into his face. He was soaked to the skin; his face was as wet as if he had been bathing, and the ruins of a handsome moustache dripped forlornly into his open mouth.
