The Master of Blacktower, page 15
When the shadow fell between us, we both started. Gavin stood in the French doors. If he had overheard, he gave no sign.
“Aileen is ready to leave, Duncan,” he said calmly. “She asked me to find you.”
Mr. Duncan fled, after the most perfunctory of farewells. I remained where I was, leaning against the balustrade, and Gavin joined me. He was carrying something over his arm; now he unfolded it and draped it around my shoulders. It was my shawl.
“Thank you,” I said. “Do you want to leave now?”
“When you’re ready. But we may have trouble removing Cousin Randall from the mad pursuit of pleasure. When I last saw him, he was in the supper room gorging himself.”
His voice was the same—harsh, sardonic. The hand that lay on the balustrade beside mine wore the ugly black glove. I shivered, but not with cold. The shining phantom boy was gone. He had been gone for almost sixteen years.
“So,” said Gavin, breaking the silence, “tomorrow you leave.”
“Yes.”
“What are your plans?”
“I have no plans.”
I couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadows, but I thought his eyebrows lifted in a familiar, mocking gesture.
“Cousin Randall has plans—enough for both of you.”
“He can keep them to himself,” I answered shortly, drawing the shawl closer about me and preparing to go in. Gavin’s hand stopped me.
“Wait a moment. I want to talk to you.”
“What is it?”
“Am I to understand that you haven’t revised your original impression of Randall? Since you summoned him here to your rescue, you ought to be civil to him, at least.”
“I didn’t summon him. You know that.”
“Yes, I know. But that makes his gallant gesture all the more romantic. Not duty, but love, called him over the mountains to your side.”
I no longer wanted to cherish sentimental memories of Gavin’s youth. I wanted to slap him. I framed a withering retort and prepared to deliver it; but, to my consternation, out came words I had never planned to say.
“Why are you saying these things?” I whispered.
He turned so that I saw only the back of his head.
“I don’t know. Because I’m only human, I suppose. No, Damaris, don’t go in yet. I wanted to know whether you had any alternative to Randall, and whether you wanted an alternative. Don’t—don’t worry. I’ll speak with you tomorrow morning, before you leave.”
“Why not tonight?”
“For reasons of my own which I find good and sufficient,” he said curtly, without turning.
It was too much. I could feel my self-control cracking.
“Your reasons—always yours! Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself? Are other people only objects, chess pieces, to be moved to and fro according to your whims?”
He turned, putting out his hand. “Damaris—please don’t—”
“Please don’t!” I mimicked him savagely. “Why don’t you let go, and say what you really think? I intend to! Just for once, I mean to have the infinite satisfaction of speaking my mind. Oh, I know I have no reason to reproach you. You’ve always been the perfect gentleman, haven’t you?”
“Be still,” he said, in a voice that shook despite his efforts to control it. “Someone will hear you.”
“I don’t care! So, I’m not to worry, am I? Have you made arrangements for me? You’re no better than Randall—passing me about like a piece of furniture, or a horse, or—I hate you both! Oh, God, if I were only a man and could—could—”
“That, my dear, is a wish I can’t share,” said Gavin, and I finally identified the emotion that shook his voice. He was laughing.
I forgot where I was and who I was. I forgot everything but my rage. Words came into my mind that I never realized I knew, and I lifted my clenched fists to strike at him. He took me by the shoulders and shook me until my hair came unbound and hung down my back.
I was crying by then, but they were tears of rage, and when he pulled me into his arms I tried to bite him. He stopped my mouth with his, in a kiss that drew blood; he caught my flailing hands and twisted them behind me. And even while I raged, and struggled, and writhed, some hidden, shameless part of me reveled in the struggle, and in the way he subdued it, breaking my body and my will to his.
When at last he raised his head I lay against him, spent and shaking, and, as my agonized breath quieted, I could hear him speaking in disjointed phrases against my hair.
“You wish you were a man, do you? That would be a waste—a terrible waste. Do you let Cousin Randall kiss you like this? I hope not. It’s a shameless way to behave, Damaris…. Damaris?”
“What?” I murmured, against his shoulder.
“Cousin Randall. Do you let him kiss you like this?”
“I don’t let him kiss me at all.”
“Good. See that he doesn’t.” His arms tightened. “Randall can’t have you. You belong to me. How do you like that, you fiery feminist?”
I replied, but not in words. For some moments the conversation was too chaotic to be reported.
Finally I withdrew—not far—and asked breathlessly, “Are you convinced now—that Randall need not worry you?”
“I should be.” He laughed softly. “But men, Damaris, are irrational animals. When I think of you and Randall together in the carriage tomorrow—by heaven, I’ll tie the fellow to a horse with my own hands.”
Even in the circle of his arms the wind grew colder. “The carriage,” I repeated, falteringly. “But—you don’t mean to send me away…not tomorrow….”
“You must go. Tomorrow.” His mouth brushed mine as gently as the wind. But I felt his will, unchanged, inflexible.
“You can’t. You can’t ask me to leave you.”
“You must go. Tomorrow.”
The cold was not only in the air, it was inside me. I tried to draw away from him.
“Then—you’re playing with me. You do mean to marry her.”
He had resisted my efforts to withdraw. But at those words his arms loosened. “Marry—her? My God, Damaris, what are you saying?”
“I knew it,” I said, watching his face, with its clearcut look of disgust. “I knew there was something. What hold has she over you, Gavin? Why did you give her the brooch? Or did you give it to her?”
The moon hung over the dark treetops. It was cold and remote; a dead, silver world. The pale beams shone on his face. I watched the play of emotion across it, and saw it twist, finally, into a look of agonized mockery.
“Yes. I gave it to her.”
“Why?”
He let his arms fall and turned away with a groan. “Damaris, you mustn’t ask questions.”
“Is it because of your wife?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Gavin, can’t you ever trust anyone? Don’t you know the tales they tell in the village, about how your wife died? Lady Mary knows them. What else does she know?”
“My wife,” he repeated dully. “Is that what you think, Damaris? That I killed her?”
“No, no! You couldn’t do such a thing.”
“But if I had?” His voice was very quiet. “How would you feel about me then?”
“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I said; and I knew I spoke the naked truth. “Or what you’ve done. I’ll go on loving you till the day I die.”
He drew a deep, shaken breath, but made no move to touch me.
“Trust me, then, just for a little while. It won’t be long, I swear; and then—”
He stopped, staring past me out into the pinewoods. The fine beauty of the night was passing. Veils of cloud obscured the moon, and the wind was bitter cold. I shivered, even in my shawl. Then I saw what Gavin had already seen: a shadow dragging itself slowly out of the shadow of the pines.
Gavin vaulted the low balustrade and ran toward the stumbling figure. It struggled upright, and then the moon came out from behind the clouds and shone on the staggering body of Ian the groom.
I gathered up my skirts and ran toward the steps at the end of the terrace. When I reached them, Ian had collapsed onto the ground. Gavin knelt beside him, supporting his shoulders. The fallen man’s broad chest heaved in and out like that of a winded horse. Along one side of his face was a long dark streak, like a scar. I looked again, and saw that it was dried blood, from a cut along the hairline.
The groom’s eyes were closed when I came up; but as I dropped to my knees beside him he forced them open and caught at the arm that supported him.
“Miss Annabelle,” he gasped, fighting for breath. “They’ve—taken her!”
Chapter
11
I FOUND MY HANDKERCHIEF AND WIPED IAN’S FACE. It was streaming with perspiration, despite the chill of the night.
“Who has taken her?” I asked.
“The one they call—Sir Andrew.”
The effort took all the breath he had husbanded, and he fell to panting again.
“Good heavens—have you run all the way here from Blacktower?” I exclaimed.
“Aye. The blackguard—loosed the horses. Donald—was in his pay.”
“But—” I tried to sort out my tumbled thoughts. “But Sir Andrew is here.”
“Have you seen him recently?” Gavin spoke for the first time. His voice was calm, but I recoiled at the sight of his face. “No, I think he left soon after the first dance. Ian, lad, I must know a little more. Save your breath as much as you can. Did Miss Annabelle go with him willingly?”
Ian nodded.
Gavin’s face was stone hard. “But how?” he muttered. “We have the coach, and she—”
Ian plucked at his sleeve. “She was walking, master. He mounted her on horseback—and they rode off.”
Then I remembered, and went sick with regret and shame. “Oh, Gavin—she was trying to walk! She has been trying for weeks. And I knew, and didn’t tell you!”
He glanced at me coldly. “No time for that now. So she could walk. But I think that trip, on horseback, will be hard for her. How long ago, Ian? Were the two of them alone?”
“I dinna ken—the time. There was another mon, a stranger—he struck me down—when I fought with Sir Andrew. I lay for a time—not long—then I came here.”
“An hour,” Gavin muttered, “or two. But they must go slowly. There may be time…. Take care of him, Damaris.”
He was gone, running fleetly toward the front of the house. Ian struggled to his feet, pushing at the hands with which I would have restrained him.
“Na, mistress. I’m no’ hurt. Only winded—and that’s passing.”
He followed his master, and I followed him; so we were in time to see what was happening at the front terrace. A broad beam of light spilled out through the open door where Lady Mary stood, bidding farewell to her departing guests. An antiquated carriage stood at the steps, and at its window I saw the lined face of Mrs. Duncan. Her husband already had his foot in the stirrups of his horse.
Gavin picked the little man up and set him aside. In one movement, so wild and beautiful that it sent my heart up into my throat, he swung himself into Mr. Duncan’s saddle and turned the horse with a force that brought it up on its haunches. Then he was off, pounding along the road to Blacktower.
Poor Mr. Duncan was still standing on one foot, staring, when the horse and rider disappeared into the darkness.
“What? What?” he stammered, as I ran up to him.
“Oh, Mr. Duncan, you must help! Miss Annabelle has eloped with Sir Andrew. Mr. Hamilton has gone after them.”
Then I saw the mettle of which the Scot is made. Mr. Duncan—fat, middle-aged, scant of breath—turned without another word and pelted away toward the stables at the back of the house. He flung a word of command over his shoulder at his coachman, and the carriage rolled away with Mrs. Duncan’s astounded face still framed in the window.
At the door Lady Mary stood still as a statue. Then she came down the stairs toward me, walking with slow grace.
“Do I hear aright?” she asked. “What has my brother done?”
“He has stolen Annabelle,” I said. “A gentlemanly act toward a neighbor.”
“There must be some mistake. The groom is lying.”
I gave her a look of scorn, but didn’t bother to contradict her. She had known all about the plan, I felt sure; she, of all people, would have noticed Sir Andrew’s absence during the evening. In fact, I suspected that the ball had been designed for that very end. And Annabelle had made sure, with a subtlety that spoke of someone else’s suggestion, that Mrs. Cannon was away from the house. Janet was the only one left to attend to the girl, and Janet was surely open to bribery. No doubt she had been in Sir Andrew’s pay from the first.
Mr. Duncan came galloping around the corner of the house, mounted on one of Sir Andrew’s horses. He had two others by the bridle. He drew rein by the steps just as the other guests, aroused by the noise, came out onto the terrace; and, with unerring aim, he called to the only two of them who might help him.
“Easton—Mr. Gordon! Sir Andrew’s away wi’ the lassie and Gavin after them. There’ll be murder and worse if we canna catch them before he does. Hurry!”
There was a moment of shocked silence and then a babble of exclamations. Randall came rushing down the stairs to me. His face was still flushed, but he seemed almost sober.
“Good heavens, Damaris, is this true?”
“Yes, I fear so. Ian brought the news.”
“But I thought Miss Hamilton was an invalid,” said Randall.
“So did we all, and we were wrong. Oh, Randall, don’t waste time! Mr. Duncan is right. Gavin will kill him. Please hurry!”
“It’s the most damnable thing I ever heard of,” muttered poor Randall, wiping one hand across his hot forehead. “Oh, very well, Damaris, if you want me to go. But I must see you home first.”
“No time for that,” called Mr. Duncan, who had taken command of the expedition. “Here are the carriages. Easton, put your ladies in, and send them off home. Where’s the old body who came wi’ you, Miss Gordon? Get her inside, in God’s name, and be off wi’ you.”
I ran up the stairs and seized Mrs. Cannon, who was blinking and shaking in the doorway, quite overcome by it all. I propelled her down the stairs at an undignified trot, and shoved her into the carriage amid a whirl of petticoats.
“My cloak!” came a wail from the dark interior; but I paid no heed.
“In with you,” I said to Ian.
He tried to protest, but I paid no attention. I thrust him also into the carriage. I think he stepped on Mrs. Cannon, for I heard her shriek. Then I turned to Randall.
“Hurry, hurry!” I said again.
Easton was already mounted, and as I shoved Randall toward the third horse, Mr. Duncan also bade him make speed. I didn’t wait to see them go. I climbed into the coach and shouted at the coachman. With a jolt the heavy vehicle lumbered into motion. Within a minute the three horsemen streamed past, overtaking us, and I heard the beat of galloping hooves before the sound was lost in the thunder of our own rapid progress.
I put my head out the window, at the risk of being brained by a branch, and looked back. I caught one flash of the scene, miniature and brightly lit, like a scene on a puppet stage—Lady Mary, her hair an aureole of bright gold, standing like a doll at the foot of the steps, while her motley guests crowded behind her in their tawdry laces and faded satins. Then the trees engulfed us and the scene vanished.
Never has a night passed so slowly. The minutes dragged by and the hours seemed like days. At first I found sufficient occupation in settling the disorganized household at Blacktower House. I got Mrs. Cannon into bed and out of my way, made sure that Ian was taken care of, and then tried to get a coherent story out of Betty.
She was oddly embarrassed, and reluctant to talk to me. I couldn’t imagine why, for I had already discovered that it was her vigilance that had discovered the plot, and I was ready to praise her to the skies. But when I insisted that she sit down she perched on the edge of her chair, twisting her hands in her lap, and keeping her face averted. It took me a long time to find what the difficulty was, and then I understood her reluctance.
She and Ian had arranged to spend the night together. He was in her room when she went down to check on Annabelle, and that was why she had been able to summon him so quickly, before the eloping pair left the house.
When she realized that I was going to accept this part of the story without comment (who was I, after all, to censure her?) she relaxed and spoke freely.
She had been strongly affected by my request to “look after Miss Annabelle.” The very meaninglessness of the words fixed them in her mind, and they didn’t leave even after she and Ian (here she blushed furiously) were together in the darkness. At last, moved more by irritation than by any other impulse, she had gone tiptoeing out to listen at Annabelle’s door.
She found Sir Andrew there, with Annabelle, hooded and cloaked, in his arms.
She got out one scream before Sir Andrew, dropping Annabelle unceremoniously into a chair, leaped on her and covered her mouth. But the alarm had been given. Ian came rushing down the stairs. Seeing her struggling with an intruder, he had leaped to her aid.
“He would have had the rascal,” said Betty, weeping with the memory, “but for the other man. He was on the lower stairs. He came on Ian like a fury and struck the poor lad down.”
With Ian out of the way and the other male servants (who were not worth much in any case) snoring in their own part of the house, the rest was easy. The miscreants had bound Betty to a chair and gagged her; then they had simply walked out.
“He carried the lassie down the stairs,” Betty whispered. “She looked at me over his shoulder, and laughed. Her arms were about his neck and she kept giving him little kisses on his cheek. I never thought Miss Annabelle had so little heart! She must be a wicked girl.”
“She knew you would come to no harm,” I said feebly.
