The Master of Blacktower, page 2
“I see.” Even after the first shock had subsided, I still found it difficult to look at his face. I dropped my eyes to his hands, and got a second shock. Although he was dressed for indoors, in a dark-gray morning suit and white shirt, he wore gloves—not proper kid gloves, but black silk ones that clung to his hands as if they had been painted on.
He observed my reluctance to look at him, and he sat down in a chair where the sunlight fell pitilessly across his scarred cheek.
“You seem ill at ease, Miss Gordon. Do you see the open door on your right? Within the next room is a lady in my employ, who is chaperoning me. Mrs. Cannon!”
Within the doorway he had indicated a lady appeared. Her wrinkled face and white hair were those of an elderly woman, but her frock of peacock blue trimmed with bows of crimson velvet would have been more suitable on a girl. The white hair was a mass of braids and coquettish curls, and the reticule she carried in fat, mittened hands was trimmed with pearls and silk. I was to learn that a harmless love of fine dress was one of Mrs. Cannon’s weaknesses. On this occasion I was startled by her appearance, but reassured. The wide blue eyes were as candid as a baby’s, and almost as vague; the puckered rosy mouth widened in a smile which I couldn’t help returning. Then, at a gesture from her peculiar employer, she retired.
“Do you feel that the proprieties have been observed?” Mr. Hamilton asked sardonically. His voice was deep and harsh, with a hint of a burr. “Then we will proceed. I had thought of offering you a position. But I had not expected to find you so young and so…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, which left me to wonder, uneasily, what he had omitted to say. My cheeks burned and I was tongue-tied—an unusual situation for me!
“I must say,” remarked Mr. Hamilton, without removing his keen black eyes from my face, “that your advertisement astounded me. What is your family thinking of, to allow you to do such a thing? Surely your aunt has a home for you?”
He did know my family, then. I was so relieved at discovering this that I answered him honestly. “If I must be dependent on charity, I prefer a stranger’s to that of my aunt.”
“I see your point. I have met the lady. But what about your Cousin Randall?”
“What about him?” I demanded, stiffening.
“Why, it is generally understood that he is your betrothed. Have you quarreled? I warn you, Miss Gordon, that my need of secretarial assistance has limits. I won’t help you tease Cousin Randall.”
I forget precisely what I said in answer to this outrageous statement. By the time I finished my back hair had escaped its net and was coiling furiously about my neck; and Mr. Hamilton was in a convulsion of mirth.
“That’s enough—that’s enough! I have the picture.”
I took my gloves from my lap, and rose. “I bid you good morning, Mr. Hamilton!”
He sprang to his feet and intercepted me as I swept toward the door. “Wait. My laughter was in poor taste, but you invited it. Sit down, and listen to me.”
I was still very angry—but not so angry as to forget why I had come. I sat down.
Mr. Hamilton, back in his own chair, studied me across the table for some moments without speaking. Finally he said, in a businesslike voice, “Your duties would consist of cataloguing and arranging my library. You would also take dictation. I am prepared to pay a salary of fifty pounds per annum. Does the arrangement suit you?”
“Yes…”
“Those are the advantages of the position. Because I am, for all my sins, honest, I will tell you the disadvantages. My present home is in northern Scotland, far from the comforts of civilization. The only ladies of your own class are Mrs. Cannon, whom you have just seen, and—a young lady.”
He stopped and frowned at his hands, encased in those extraordinary gloves. Then he said, without looking at me, “The young lady is my daughter. She is an invalid, unable to walk. Because of her handicap she has been badly spoiled. She seems even younger than her sixteen years.”
“What a tragedy,” I said, thinking I understood what he wanted to say. “I’d be happy to do anything possible for Miss Hamilton. No doubt she’s had governesses, but when one is bedridden further study helps to pass the time. I might tutor her in Greek, or—”
His shout of laughter stopped me in mid-sentence.
“Annabelle, and Greek lessons! You have no idea how comical that is, Miss Gordon. The girl hasn’t the brains of a gnat, and her character is no more pleasing. I was only trying to warn you what you can expect from the little idiot. Personally, I advise you to avoid her. I do.”
I was aghast at his brutal speech, and I suppose my face showed it, for he said irritably, “Stop scowling. I know you don’t like me to laugh at you, but I really can’t stop to apologize every time you say something absurd. Well—what do you think? Do you want the position?”
The question was like a dash of cold water. I forgot my indignation in a surging tide of simple, ugly fear. Here it was, the chance I had stopped hoping for—and without the unpleasant conditions of the first two interviews. I had an illogical, but certain, impression that Mr. Hamilton would not offend me in that way. Nor was I daunted by his rudeness or his brusque manners. Then why, why did I hesitate?
He was watching me intently, a half-smile pulling his twisted mouth still further awry. The long black fingers of his right hand drummed impatiently on the desk.
“You hesitate?” he said, in the same harsh voice I had first heard. “I don’t wonder.”
I raised my bowed head and looked him squarely in the face.
“I accept the position.”
I don’t know why I said it. It was as if someone, or something, else spoke through my lips. But, oddly, once the words were out I was no longer afraid.
Mr. Hamilton’s smile vanished, and his brows drew together in a formidable scowl. “I withdraw the offer!”
“No, you don’t. I have a witness.”
“I doubt that. Mrs. Cannon is probably asleep. She usually is. One last chance, Miss Gordon. Haven’t you a friend—a solicitor, at least—whom you might consult before putting your head into the lion’s jaws?”
I pictured Mr. Downey, listening to an account of this mad interview. It was a terrifying thought.
“No indeed! I accept, and that’s that. When do we leave for—for—”
“Blacktower House.” Mr. Hamilton rose when I did, and came toward me. When he stopped I had all I could do not to retreat. He was so tall that the top of my head barely reached his chin, and he seemed to loom over me like a mountain.
“Blacktower House,” he said again. “We leave two days hence, at ten in the morning.”
All the way down the stairs I went over the details of the strange interview just concluded. No, I was not afraid of Mr. Gavin Hamilton, despite his looks, his manners, and—I was sure of this now—his deliberate attempts to frighten me. But I could imagine how the rest of the world would react to him, and his method of hiring a secretary. Mr. Downey—oh, dear, how he would scold! The idea charmed me so that I burst out laughing in the middle of the lobby, and the sedate clerk behind his respectable desk gave me a scandalized look. Once out in the street I sobered. The situation had its humorous side; but, all the same, there was something a little sinister about my new employer. I had offered him my hand upon leaving, and he had deliberately put his own hands behind his back and given me a formal bow. Perhaps he wore gloves because his hands, like his face, were disfigured. That was natural enough. But if a gentleman refuses to take a lady’s hand, the least he owes her is an explanation.
The sun was shining brightly on the dusty street and on the massive Ionic facade of the Museum, but a cloud gathered over my spirits as I walked toward the corner to wait for an omnibus. Blacktower House…it had an ominous sound.
Chapter
2
FOUR DAYS LATER, AS MRS. CANNON AND I EMERGED from the Royal Arms at Dunkeld, the wet drops that fell on our faces were more snow than rain. We had reached Dunkeld late the previous night, after an exhausting journey by railroad; and I, for one, stifled yawns behind my hand as I shivered on the steps of the inn and watched the pale light of morning touch the east with gray.
Dunkeld was then the terminus of the railroad. Mr. Hamilton’s coach was waiting to carry us over the remaining distance; but Mr. Hamilton was not with it. The ostler told us he had already departed, on horseback.
I had scarcely seen him since our first interview. When I arrived at the railroad station in London with my worldly goods strapped on top of a hired carriage, he had shut me and Mrs. Cannon into a coach reserved for ladies, and disappeared. At Dunkeld he reappeared long enough to escort us to the inn, and then he vanished again.
As soon as the carriage left Dunkeld, Mrs. Cannon fell asleep. I was tired, too, but the strange new scenery fascinated me. After we left the village the road climbed steadily, and we passed a few stately houses surrounded by ample grounds. Overhanging rocks and trees, still bare of foliage, lined the way. In summer, of course, the scenery would be magnificent. The barren elms and beeches would be green, the heather would make a purple carpet over the moors, and the distant mountains might not look so grim against a blue sky in the sunshine. But now the prospect was dismal, and the wildness of the terrain increased as the morning wore on. The ascent grew steeper, and enclosing rocks drew in. A white waterfall slid down the dark rock wall, breaking in clouds of spray. And always the hills loomed higher—bare brown peaks with snow crowning their tops.
I felt extremely small under those frowning slopes—small and foolish. Independence was very well, but perhaps I ought to have been independent at less distance from my only relatives. What did I know of Mr. Gavin Hamilton, after all? That he had a scarred face and an uncouth manner, and employed an elderly housekeeper who was never more than half awake. Hardly enough information to justify placing myself so completely in his power.
I looked at Mrs. Cannon, and my dismal mood lightened a bit. Swathed in a wonderful mantle of purple taffeta lined with fur, Mrs. Cannon slept as placidly as a baby in its cradle. Her mouth was slightly ajar, displaying a set of china teeth too perfect to be natural. On her head was the latest style in bonnets—a broad-brimmed straw with ribbons three inches wide. They were tied in a huge bow under her chins, and she looked for all the world like an enormous lavender pussycat.
We stopped for dinner at Castleton, a straggling collection of huts on a small space of broken ground. And this, I thought in discouragement, was the nearest town to Blacktower House!
Dinner consisted of mutton, a thick soup of lentils, and boiled pudding. Mrs. Cannon ate enormously and fell asleep again as soon as we went on. I sat with Black’s Picturesque Guide to Scotland open in my lap, but the carriage bumped so badly that I couldn’t read. I knew, already, what the Guide had to say about my new home: “The wildest, most desolate part of the Highlands.” It was not overstating the case. The rugged slopes of the Cairngorm Mountains were all around us now. The road was hardly more than a cart track strewn with stones. A stream, sullen and gray, ran along beside the road.
As the red ball of the sun dropped below the mountain horizon, we came into a region which, even after the wilderness we had passed through, brought a gasp to my lips. The road plunged into a canyon, barely wider than the carriage. The dim light that might have penetrated from above was cut off entirely by pines that ringed the canyon mouth and clung precariously to the steep walls. I was thrown back against the seat as the carriage began to climb. A sudden shower of water struck the window, and I saw a wavering white curtain, ghostlike in the gloom, on my right—a waterfall that thundered down the cliff to break just beside the road.
“The Gorbals,” said a drowsy voice. “This is the entrance to the glen, my dear. We’ll be home soon….” A muffled snore followed.
The homely sound restored my equilibrium; but I didn’t care for the Gorbals. I had never seen anything less like earthly landscape. I was glad when the panting horses reached the top of the incline and we shot down an equally steep slope into the glen.
There were no stately homes here, only rock and brown, dead heather, and once a flock of dirty black-nosed sheep. The light drew in behind the enclosing hills, and all the land grew dark except for the glowing tapestry of scarlet in the west. At last we passed through a tiny village—low thatched huts that huddled flat on the stony ground. Then we were on the last slope, and the vision of the Black Tower rose before my startled eyes.
At the top of the slope we came out onto a wide sweep of gravel and passed through heavy walls into a courtyard lit by red flaring torches. Mrs. Cannon awoke, rolled out of the coach, and hurried toward a door.
It led into a stone-floored passage that was even colder than the out-of-doors had been. Somewhere near at hand I smelled cooking and assumed we were in the back part of the house, near the kitchens. Mrs. Cannon trotted briskly on ahead of me, through corridor after corridor, and finally we passed through a door into an entrance hallway. Wooden floors had been laid down over the original stone, and there were carpets; my cold ankles were very grateful. In one wall was a heavy oak door, probably leading to the main carriage entrance. A handsome sweep of stairs went up to the first floor.
“We use only the West Wing,” Mrs. Cannon explained, puffing, as she mounted the stairs. “The rest of the house is ruinous, and far too large.”
The West Wing alone seemed immense to me. The corridors here were also carpeted, and lit by candles in wall brackets. At last Mrs. Cannon stopped before a door and threw it open.
“This is my room. Now do sit down, my dear, while I see what arrangements have been made for you.”
She tugged at a bellpull, and before long a maidservant answered the summons. She was young and sturdy-looking, with flaxen braids wound around her head, and wore brown homespun with a white apron and cap. Her plump rosy face would have been pretty if it had not been so sullen.
“Come in and close the door,” said Mrs. Cannon sharply. “Miss Gordon, this young person’s name is Betty. She will answer your bell as well as mine. Speak up, you foolish girl,” she added, and for a startled moment I thought she was speaking to me. “What room have you prepared for Miss Gordon?”
“The Red Room, ma’am.”
“Quite suitable. Well, Betty, don’t stand there gaping; show Miss Gordon to the Red Room.”
The old lady had already settled herself before the fire, with both plump feet on the fender. I rose, not surprised at her cavalier dismissal; I had already found her to be kind, but chiefly concerned with her own comfort.
As I went toward the door she said drowsily, “I dine here, Miss Gordon. Will you join me? Betty will fetch you….”
I thanked her; but I think she was asleep before the door closed behind me.
The Red Room, three doors down the hall from Mrs. Cannon’s room, was as cheerful as its name. A fire leaped in the hearth, casting a warm glow upon crimson draperies and bed curtains. The floor was covered by a bright-figured Turkish carpet.
Betty had scarcely closed the door behind us when it burst open again. Without even a knock, a sour-looking manservant entered, threw my boxes unceremoniously on the floor, and departed.
I looked helplessly from my poor maltreated boxes to the empty doorway, and then at Betty. Her face was expressionless, but I thought I detected a gleam of sympathy in her eyes.
“Well,” I said, smiling, “the boxes are here, at any rate. Will you please unpack for me, Betty?”
After the girl had gone, I pulled a chair up to the fire and sank into it with a sigh of relief. I was almost drowsing there in the warmth when Betty returned.
“If you please, miss, I am to ask if you wish help in dressing.”
“I am dressed, thank you. If Mrs. Cannon dines formally, she will have to excuse me.”
“The Master has sent to say that you will dine with him.”
The Master, indeed, thought I. My first reaction was negative. I opened my mouth to say that I was too tired to dine in state that evening. But then I realized that I was being naïve. I was not Mr. Hamilton’s guest, but his servant. The invitation was a command.
Some perverse impulse made me dress in my best frock, although its low neckline and short sleeves left my shoulders coldly exposed. The black moiré was becoming to my hair, at any rate, and the skirts rustled when I walked. Four stiff petticoats underneath made them flare—and the extra layers of clothing kept out some of the chill. I had no jewels, even if I wanted to wear them; the mourning brooch of jet with a strand of Father’s hair was my only ornament. I twisted my hair up from my face and let it fall from a high crown in back, binding it with a black ribbon.
When I turned from the dim image in the mirror, Betty was gaping at me.
“Will I do?” I asked, with a smile.
“You look beautiful, miss!” I had been right; she was a pretty girl.
Feeling much more cheerful, I followed her down to the drawing room. It was nice to know that I could win a response from someone in the house, even a servant. The drawing room surprised me, though. Traditionally it is a woman’s apartment, but there were no dainty Dresden figures or flowered draperies in this room. The furniture was massive, old-fashioned stuff, heavily carved and black with age. The walls were hung with hunting prints, and bristled with the antlers of poor dead deer. Oddly enough, that was the first time I thought of Mrs. Gavin Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton had a daughter, so presumably he had once possessed a wife. Evidently he was a widower. But I wondered why his wife had never redecorated this room.
Mrs. Cannon was like a butterfly in a blacksmith’s shop against the dark, masculine furniture. For once, she was wide awake, and it seemed to me that she was also slightly popeyed with surprise. Certainly she had given me the impression that she didn’t dine with the Master. She had dressed herself, to suit the great occasion, in a blue-and-silver brocade with a lace bertha and puffings of silk. I estimated that she must be wearing at least eight petticoats; her stoutly corseted little body rose up out of the mass of skirts like a bust from a haystack. There was a strong suggestion of lavender water from her general vicinity.
