The Master of Blacktower, page 6
I tried to open one of the presses. At first I thought it was locked, but then the stiff hinges gave way with an uncanny squeal, and I almost fell over backward. The shelves inside were filled with dishes and glassware. The china was thick, coarse stuff, with a crest, which I took to be that of the Hamiltons, but everything was covered with a layer of dust as thick as gray velvet.
I wiped my fingers on my skirt and looked about. The antique weapons and old furniture would have been interesting to an antiquarian. But I was not an antiquarian today; I was only a busybody, and there was nothing for me here.
I crossed the room, and found, under the minstrel’s gallery, a door of massive oak studded with nails. Somewhat to my surprise, it opened easily. The hinges had been freshly oiled. Standing on the threshold I lifted my feeble candle high, and saw another stone-floored passage. It was pitch black. No other light showed, and the passage ended in darkness.
Suddenly Toby, crouched at my feet, began to growl.
The sound, in that place, was enough to start me shaking. Then I saw what the animal’s keener senses had already caught. Something was moving toward us from the far end of the corridor.
I stood rooted to the spot, unable to retreat even to the doubtful safety of the Hall. As the form drew nearer I heard a shuffling sound and hoarse, asthmatic breathing. At that I took courage. Whatever approached, it was something that breathed—something alive.
Then a face thrust itself forward into the yellow circle of candlelight. I didn’t recognize it at first, so grotesquely did the candle shadow its features. The mouth opened, displaying a row of brown, broken teeth.
“Aye, I thocht as much,” muttered a croaking voice. “Peekin’ an’ pryin’ aboot the house, as if ye were already mistress.”
It was hard to understand Angus even when he condescended to speak his vile brand of English, but I caught his meaning at once. No longer moved by superstitious fears, I frowned at his ugly face.
“How dare you say that!”
“Och, I ken weel it’s Hamilton yer after—ye fule of a lassie! Better wed wi’ the Black De’il himself!”
“I don’t want either, thank you.”
“Yer lying,” said Angus pleasantly. “But ye’ll not have him—not Hamilton. Aboot the ither, I canna say.” He emitted a series of croaking grunts which were evidently meant to be laughter.
Decidedly, Angus in a temper was more endurable than Angus amused. I stepped back involuntarily to escape the horrid parody of mirth. Angus’ head followed me, like that of an old turtle. His wrinkled yellow claw shot out and caught my hand.
“Ye’ll not have him,” he repeated. “Not Hamilton. He’s had enough o’ weemen, wi’ the ither one.”
I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to. The bony fingers were clamped like a vise.
“What other one?” I hardly recognized my own voice. “You mean Mrs. Hamilton, don’t you? Angus—you were here then. I know you were. What happened to Mrs. Hamilton? How did—how did she die?”
Angus’ knotted fingers relaxed. He blinked at me, as if startled.
“Ask th’ Master,” he growled.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the ainly one who kens.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “She rode awa’ one day, fourteen years ago—out toward the falls. An’ he rode after her. An’ she niver came back. No mon alive saw her again—but Hamilton.” He dropped my wrist and bent over in a paroxysm of gasping laughter. “Aye, ask Hamilton how she died! Why dinna ye ask him?”
I fled then, with Toby spitting and snarling behind me—back through the Hall and the cold stone corridors. The candle flame flickered and went out as I ran. And all the way down the length of the Hall and into the corridor beyond, the sound of Angus’ goblin laughter followed me.
Chapter
5
HUDDLED ON MY BED, WITH TOBY IN MY ARMS FOR comfort and every candle in the room alight, I still couldn’t rid my ears of the echo of Angus’ laughter. I had locked and bolted my door—the first time I had done such a thing since coming to Blacktower House. Why, I wondered, as my fingers soothed Toby into a rumbling purr, why did the Master keep a demon like Angus about? There was no love lost between them; often I had seen Angus’ eyes blaze with hatred as he looked at the man he was sworn to serve. And Mr. Hamilton despised Angus. Yet, when Annabelle was hurt, he had dismissed the other servants and kept Angus.
Mrs. Cannon had exaggerated, of course, when she said all the servants had been away. Some of them had to stay, to tend the sick child, and it should have been obvious to me from the first that Angus had always been here. Angus, and…
And Davey? The old minstrel who had sung for me the night I came?
Davey was Scottish, certainly. He was an old man, from his voice. My fingers tightened on Toby’s fur, bringing a warning growl from his throat. Once again I was sitting in the frigid hall, where the torn banners hung like cobwebs overhead, hearing the Master’s furious voice saying, “He knows he is never to sing that song in this house!”
What a fool I had been, to forget the minstrel! Surely he would talk to me; he wouldn’t be cruel and frightening like Angus. I coaxed Toby into purring again. Yes, tomorrow I would talk to Davey.
That night the rain stopped. When I went out into the stableyard after breakfast, the world glittered as if newly washed. I was looking for Ian. He was the only one of the servants, besides Betty, who was neither rude nor stupid; he would tell me where to find Davey. I hadn’t seen the old man, or heard him, since that night so many weeks before. Perhaps, I thought, he lives in the village. But when I found Ian, stitching harness in the leather shop near the stable, and asked him my question, he scratched his head.
“Auld Davey? I’m feared ye canna speak wi’ Davey, miss.”
“Why not?”
“Why, ye ken, auld Davey’s deid.”
“Dead?” I repeated numbly. “How—when did he die?”
“He was an auld mon, miss, verra auld. He deied in his sleep. It was a month ago—twa months, even.”
He was very old. He died in his sleep. Two months ago…not long after he had sung a forbidden song, and been bitterly reprimanded by his master. An old man who had been at the house from the first, dead now, before I could speak to him—question him.
I came out of a gray fog of suspicions to find myself standing in front of the house, between the two tall pines that flanked the carriage drive before it swept around into the courtyard. Under one of the trees was a big rock shaped like a rough seat. I sat down on it, and in the cool shade my head finally stopped spinning.
From this place I could look out over the glen toward the Cairngorms. The soft blue slopes seemed very near; I could see the silver line of a waterfall on Ben Macdhui. A group of black dots detached themselves from the tree line and wandered out across a stretch of mountain pasture—red deer, perhaps, those beautiful, graceful trophies of Highland hunting. A bird soared high over the glen, the musical trill of its song sinking like drops of water.
I realized that I was not watching the bird, or seeing the mountain slopes. My eyes were fixed on the road that wound through the glen and disappeared. It was the road to Edinburgh on which, at any time, Mr. Hamilton would come riding home.
I wanted him to come. I had a fancy that, if I saw him, the black, ugly suspicions that had planted themselves in my mind must appear in their true light—as unpleasant imaginings, nothing more. I had been making mysteries out of a man’s natural reticence about his private emotions, and an evil old servant’s attempt to frighten me. I had too little to occupy my mind. Since Mr. Hamilton was gone, I had missed our rides. I had missed him….
And why not? I asked myself defiantly. He was the only intelligent, stimulating person in the whole glen. But—but it would not be wise to grow dependent on him, or any other person. I’d be wiser to find some healthy occupation—something dainty and ladylike, something that required concentration.
The wild beauty of the scenery gave me the answer. The next day I brought my sketching pad and pencils to the bench under the pine. I can’t say my efforts were ever successful; the bold grandeur of the terrain was too much for an amateur’s skill. But it pleased me to go on, to see if I could improve; and it did occupy the time. Mr. Hamilton still did not come home.
One afternoon I sat in my usual place, drawing. The day was so clear that I could see the purple shadows in the canyons and corries that laced the slopes of Ben Macdhui, and the air was so warm that I had unbuttoned the first two buttons of my black crepe basque. The drawing was not right—not quite—and yet it seemed to me that I had finally caught the stern yet graceful slope of the peak. Now if I could trace the line of trees just below…. I glanced up from my sketch to look at it. Then I leaped to my feet, letting sketch and pencils fall to the ground. Just behind me sat a gentleman on horseback.
He was a young man and a handsome one. Waving yellow hair crowned his head, and a neat moustache of the same straw-blond drooped over a well-shaped mouth. His chin was small and pointed, his nose as narrow as a woman’s. He was elegantly dressed in a brown riding suit and high polished boots. A golden stickpin glittered in his cravat. His hands held a black hat, which he had removed on seeing me; they were covered with fine kid gloves, of a pale primrose shade.
This apparition was off his horse as soon as I moved. He made me sit down again, restored my drawing materials, and begged my pardon, in one impulsive breath.
“Not at all, sir,” I said, recovering myself. “It’s not your fault that I was absorbed in my work.”
“I can see that you were.” The young gentleman peered at my crumpled drawing. “Exquisite work! Admirable taste! One can see that you have had the best drawing masters.”
“Oh, no. My father—”
“Yes, of course. I know him by reputation.”
“Indeed?” I studied the gentleman. He didn’t look like the sort of man who would admire my father’s abstruse scholarship, and on closer examination I found he had one feature that was not so pleasing—his eyes. They never met my gaze squarely, but darted from my black dress to my hands and—I thought—lingered too long at the open neck of my basque.
I put my pencil down and buttoned up my bodice. “Were you looking for someone?” I asked. “You are a stranger here, I believe.”
“Forgive me!” The gentleman bowed gracefully. “I am Sir Andrew Elliot. My sister and I have taken Glengarrie for the summer.”
“Really? I’m surprised I hadn’t heard of it.”
“This is a rude, isolated spot, where news travels slowly.” Sir Andrew sat himself down on the ground at my feet, and sighed pathetically. “I vow, a horrid spot! How does a lady like yourself endure it?”
“If you feel that way, I wonder that you came here.”
“Oh, but—I was thinking of a continuous, year-round existence. For one summer it is well enough. My sister, Lady Mary, is not well. The air of the Highlands was recommended to us.”
“I am sorry to hear that your sister is unwell. Is she receiving visitors?”
Sir Andrew’s blue eyes shifted. “As to that—her health varies so, from day to day—”
I didn’t press the subject. Certainly I had no desire to sally forth in bonnet, parasol, and gloves, to pay formal calls. Even if a secretary was supposed to pay such calls! I rather thought she was not.
Sir Andrew broke into my idle thoughts. “Your social activities, I observe, are also curtailed. I trust that his lordship—that is to say, it is not for Lord Dunnoch, I hope, that you wear mourning?”
“Lord Dunnoch?” I repeated in astonishment. “I know his name, of course; he is said to be the wealthiest peer in Scotland. But I would hardly put on mourning for him, even if I knew him to be dead. Which I don’t.”
My words astonished Sir Andrew as much as his question had surprised me. His mouth dropped open, and he was on the verge of speaking when we were diverted by the sound of a horse approaching at full gallop. Sir Andrew rose to his knees, his hands filled with the wild daisies he had been idly plucking, and turned to look toward the road.
I knew the rider, although he and his horse were still miniature figures at the foot of the hill. Somewhere on the road he had changed into his favorite Highland garb; the dark-green tartan stood out strongly against the silver-gray of his horse’s flank. They seemed to fly, they came so quickly; before long the animal came to a halt, in a cloud of dust, and Mr. Hamilton was staring down upon Sir Andrew.
“Who is this?” he demanded curtly.
Sir Andrew was at a disadvantage, squatting at my feet and still clutching his handful of daisies. He rose without his former grace.
“My name is Elliot. Sir Andrew Elliot…”
“Sir Andrew and his sister have taken Glengarrie for the summer,” I explained, when the young man’s tongue failed him.
Mr. Hamilton transferred his attention to me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Poor Sir Andrew was at a loss. He tried not to look at the Master’s face; but his gaze would go creeping back. I knew it was a startling sight for someone who had never seen it before. But when Mr. Hamilton addressed me the young man started.
“Miss—Miss Gordon?” he stammered.
Really, I thought, the man is impossibly gauche. Must I make all the explanations?
“Sir Andrew had only just arrived,” I said. “I hadn’t yet introduced myself. I am Damaris Gordon, Sir Andrew, and this is Mr. Hamilton, who owns Blacktower House.”
“I see,” said Sir Andrew.
“Do you?” The Master’s face hardened. “Miss Gordon is a young relative of mine, Sir Andrew, who has obliged me by consenting to act as my secretary—and as my daughter’s friend.”
I had no idea why they were staring at one another so oddly, nor did I care. All at once I was seized by one of those moods of lighthearted gaiety, when everything seems amusing. The behavior of the two men struck me as particularly comical; Mr. Hamilton invited Sir Andrew to come into the house, although he obviously wanted him to go away; Sir Andrew politely declined, but his desire to come in was equally obvious. Sir Andrew explained about his sister’s delicate health and Mr. Hamilton expressed his regret, without, it was clear, feeling the faintest interest in the lady or her health. Sir Andrew made his bows; Mr. Hamilton bowed; I bowed. Sir Andrew mounted, and rode off—still bowing.
Mr. Hamilton stared after his retreating figure.
“There goes a pretty specimen,” he said, half to himself. “I wonder what he’s after.”
“Why should he be after anything?”
“Everyone is—man, woman and child,” said Mr. Hamilton, with a grimace. “It only remains to discover what it is they want.”
He rose and went off toward the courtyard. Being used to his abrupt ways, I prepared to follow at my leisure. I tried to smooth out my poor drawing, but it was spoiled. One of the horses had set a hoof in the center of it.
On the whole, I thought, as I strolled toward the house, I was glad Sir Andrew had come to the glen. At least he would give us something new to look at. And what a handsome fellow he was! Certainly his pink-and-white complexion was easier to look at than Mr. Hamilton’s swarthy, scarred face.
Sir Andrew called, and called again. He seemed to find our society fascinating—heaven knows why! Although Mr. Hamilton made it a point to be present at each meeting, he was gruff and, at times, barely civil. The conventional social inquiries became, in his hands, a form of inquisition.
“There are Elliots in Inverness and in Glen Airlie. Which branch are you connected with, Sir Andrew?”
“You say, Sir Andrew, that you attended school in England. What school was that?”
And so on. Not only did Sir Andrew have to face the Master’s questions, but he had to run the gauntlet of the servants as well. I suppose they found life so dull that any new face was interesting. Every time Sir Andrew called, one or another of them discovered an errand in the front part of the house, or “happened” to be outside taking a breath of air. Even Angus condescended to some “peekin’ and pryin” of his own; and once I found Sir Andrew in conversation with Janet, Annabelle’s rawboned maid. She scuttled away as soon as she saw me, and Sir Andrew greeted me with relief written plain on his face.
“Gad, what uncouth gabble these local peasants speak! I vow, I couldn’t make out a word the woman was saying.”
I dismissed the matter without a second thought, which was utter folly on my part. I ought to have known at least part of what was happening, but I was too concerned with private feelings of my own, which left me contused and unsettled. I soon found out what Janet had been doing with Sir Andrew when I received a royal summons from Annabelle.
I went to her, feeling a bit guilty. I had neglected her of late, being busy with my inquisitiveness. Annabelle made it clear that she felt neglected.
“I wish to go downstairs this afternoon,” she announced.
“Your father has asked me to write some letters. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
Annabelle took a deep breath, stiffened her back, and went into a violent fit of hysterics.
I was frightened out of my wits. I thought she was dying. Her face turned blue and the whites of her eyes showed all around the pupils. The veins in her throat stood out like ropes with the violence of her screams.
I caught at her flailing hands. “Annabelle, Annabelle—what’s wrong? What hurts you?”
The screams became intelligible. “You don’t want me to see him! You’re trying to keep him for yourself! Acting as if you were the mistress here—and you’re nothing but a cheap, vulgar—”
Luckily, her vocabulary was inadequate to express her feelings. She took a deep breath and screamed again. I put my hands over my ears. Then it occurred to me that they might be better employed; I slapped her.
Annabelle stopped screaming and began to cry.
“It isn’t fair,” she sobbed. “I’m the lady of the house—not you! Why can’t I see him?”
