Castle in the Mist E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 356

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.    Somerled Sinclair returned after five years to his Scottish castle home to find it shrouded in mist — a mist symbolical of the doubts and difficulties surrounding it. Everything, he found, was changed — his mother shocked by the loss of her husband; his brother Torquil — Lord Ardlair — burdened by the desperate struggle to save the estate; old servants pensioned off; and a certain Miss Alison Graham very much in charge. There was a possible solution in Jennifer Oakroyd, whose millionaire father was determined that she should become Lady Ardlair. But Somerled's initial dislike and suspicion of Alison increased when she informed him that she herself was engaged to Torquil, and had no intention of giving him up. The Sinclair's problems were overwhelming, but in this story they are at last dispelled, to leave a picture of life in the Highlands most satisfying to anyone who, like the author, knows and loves them.

Leseprobe

Castle in the Mist

Castle in the Mist

© Vivian Stuart, 1959

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-414-9

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

–––

To my friend, Margaret Mackay, from whom, a long time ago, I first learned of the wild grandeur of Ross and of Sutherland. That hers was no idle boast I realized when I went there to find out for myself. In the Inverewe Gardens and by the shores of Loch Duich, the idea for this book first came to me, and the opening chapters were written in Poolewe, in pencil, as I sat by the river one evening.

Chapter one

A thin mist hung like a pall over the loch, blotting out the hills in which it was cradled and swirling this way and that across the track, as the long train, with its shuttered sleeping cars, ground ponderously to a halt. From the single mist-shrouded platform a disembodied voice announced, “Loch Rhua Halt! Loch Rhua Halt! Junction for Loss, Kinlochalder and Ardlair . . .”

As he stepped into the corridor with a suitcase in each hand, Somerled Sinclair heard and recognized the voice, and a smile twitched the comers of his mouth. It was almost five years since he had last alighted from the Night Highlander at Loch Rhua Halt, but still old Rory MacLean’s lilting, softly accented voice was the first sound that greeted him. A voice from the past, a link with his boyhood, bound up with the memory of so many other homecomings, he thought, and breathed a small sigh. Setting down his suitcases on the deserted platform, he limped over to the dim, blue outline of the stationmaster, now planted firmly beside the barrier, and said, holding out his hand, “Good morning to you, Rory!”

Faded blue eyes peered at him uncertainly from beneath the peaked cap, symbol of officialdom. Suspicion was succeeded by doubt and then, very slowly, recognition lit an answering smile in the old man’s eyes and his bony, work-roughened hand came out to grasp the newcomer’s. “’Tis yourself! Indeed, I was not knowing you at first, Mr. Somerled. You will have changed, I am thinking.”

“It’s five years,” Somerled pointed out, “five years since I was home.” He felt curiously chilled by the old man’s initial failure to recognize him and, as if sensing this, Rory MacLean said apologetically, “Ach, sir, my eyesight is not what it was, and with yon mist . . .” He sighed, glancing up at the station clock above his head. “Seven ten, ‘tis time she was away. Excuse me, sir, until I give her the green flag. Go you into my office, will you not? I’ve a kettle boiling, and you would be more than welcome to a cup of tea whilst you are waiting for the car from Ardlair.”

“Isn’t it here yet?” Somerled demanded, again conscious of a faint chill of disappointment. The stationmaster shook his head. “I cannot see it, sir. There is just the small van in the yard.”

He stumped stiffly away. Somerled crossed to the yard, but, save for the red mail van, it was, as Rory had told him, as deserted as the platform had been.

What sort of reception was this, he asked himself bitterly—after five years! No car, no one awaiting his arrival, as he had expected and hoped. Not even a message from Torquil or his mother to explain the delay. Didn’t they want him home, then? Were they still so wrapped up in each other that, after all these years, they had no place for him? His mouth tightened. To his mother he had always been only the younger son. In his father’s day it had been different, but—his father was dead. Torquil was in his father’s shoes now, Ardlair and all it held belonged to Torquil. He himself, he supposed, with a wry little grimace, had become nominally the heir, at least until his brother should marry and father a son to succeed him.

That was his duty, his sacred duty to Ardlair and to the family, and Torquil—unlike himself—had never shirked his duty either. He would marry now, because it was his duty to provide an heir, however much it might go against his personal inclinations, however little he might want to share his solitary life with any woman. But he would have to marry money because that, too, was his duty. Ardlair needed money for its upkeep, for its continued existence even. Death duties had, he knew, drained the estate almost to rock bottom and . . . Somerled shrugged, turning his back on the mail van. In any case, his brother would be given no chance to forget Ardlair’s needs and what was required of him. His mother would not allow him to forget such things; she never had. When they had both been schoolboys, she had said that Torquil would have to marry money, said it so often and so vehemently that it had become a sort of family joke, a catch-phrase which, after a while, they had ceased to take seriously. But Torquil would have to take it seriously now, he . . .

“Mr. Somerled—are you there, sir?” Rory MacLean’s voice broke into his thoughts. Somerled turned, in the act of lighting a cigarette. The train, he saw, was pulling out, its lighted windows gleaming eerily through the mist as the engine gathered speed. In a few moments it had vanished round a bend in the track. He limped back to the platform, finding the old stationmaster, bareheaded now, at the door of his tiny office.

“I’m here. What is it, Rory?”

“’Tis a message for you, sir.” A bony hand gestured to the telephone, which stood on the office table beside a newly set tea-tray. “Miss Graham was on the telephone, from Kinloch alder. She was on her way to meet your train, it would seem, and the motor car broke down—beside Cameron’s Garage, fortunately. Miss Graham was asking me to tell you that the trouble has now been put right, and that she will be here in twenty minutes to pick you up. And she was saying that I should apologize to you, sir, for the delay.”

“Thanks. But——” Somerled stared at the stationmaster with puckered brows. “Who is Miss Graham, Rory? And why should she be meeting my train? What about Fergus? If my brother couldn’t come——”

“Fergus has gone, sir. There have been many changes at Ardlair since his old lordship’s death.” Rory MacLean picked up the teapot, avoiding the younger man’s gaze as he poured the thick brown brew it contained into one of the chipped British Railways’ cups on the tray. His hand shook a little and some of the tea spilled over into the saucer. Grumbling beneath his breath, the old man thrust it to one side and proceeded to fill a second cup, which he passed across the table with an inviting gesture. “Your tea, sir. Will you be helping yourself to milk and sugar?”

“Thank you, Rory.” Somerled spooned sugar into his cup absently, his thoughts a long way away. “Is Miss Graham . . . one of the changes?”

“Aye, sir, she is. A nice enough young lady, you understand. Miss Alison Graham, from Edinburgh. She is helping her ladyship to run the Castle, I believe, sir. What you might call a lady-companion or the like.”

A lady-companion, helping his mother to run Ardlair . . . helping his mother! His mother, who had never needed help, save that which old Elspeth gave her so unstintingly. His mother who, in the past, had always been so self-sufficient, so capable, so well able to rule her own household . . . Somerled’s astonishment was in his eyes as he asked, “What of Elspeth, then? Surely she hasn’t gone?”

Rory inclined his balding head. “Aye, she has, Mr. Somerled. Pensioned off, they tell me, a month or so back. Aye, in May it was, I remember now. ’Twas in May Elspeth went. The others were before her.”

“The . . . others?” Somerled echoed painfully.

“Aye, sir. Most of the old staff. The ones you would be knowing.”

“I see.” He did not see, it was all quite beyond his comprehension, but it was no use saying so to Rory MacLean. Neither his mother’s letters nor Torquil’s infrequent, uninformative communications had hinted at such wholesale changes as these. Stunned, he sipped at his scalding tea, afraid to question the stationmaster further, lest what he learn come as a greater shock that what had gone before. He had realized, of course, that his father’s death would leave Torquil badly off, but surely not so impoverished that he must sack all the old staff, including—of all people—Elspeth, who had been with his family for as long as he could remember. Why, Elspeth would have stayed without wages if his brother were unable to pay her, she adored him and worshipped his mother—she always had. It seemed incredible that she had gone, as well as Fergus. Utterly and completely incredible. He set down his cup and Rory silently refilled it.

Above their heads, the station clock ticked monotonously, its sound reaching them from the platform outside. With it, piercing the mist, a fugitive ray of sunshine entered the small, barely furnished office and, seeing this, Rory MacLean said with satisfaction, “The mist will be clearing. ’Twill be a bonnie day for your homecoming after all, Mr. Somerled.”

“Will it?” Somerled could not keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Indeed it will. You’ll be pleased to be home, will you not, in spite of the circumstances that have brought you back?” It was more of a statement than an enquiry, and Somerled answered it with a brief nod. He was pleased, of course—or had been, until now. This was his native land and he loved it, fiercely and with pride, as he had never ceased to love it during the years he had been away. But—he hated the thought of the changes at Ardlair. The people he had expected to see at the Castle wouldn’t be there when he reached it. In their place would be strangers, people to whom he was a stranger and with whom he would share no memories. He stifled a sigh and, rising, limped over to the door. The mist had all but gone and now he could see the loch, grey-blue in the pale early sunlight, fringed with silver birch and mountain ash, the railway track circling it on one side, the road on the other, rising steeply into the hills. A wisp of mist still clung to the higher hills and the peaks of Rhua and Ben Corrigan were obscured completely by cloud, but memory told him where they were and his heart lifted. This was his home and, in spite of everything, he was glad to be back. Here, rifle slung on his shoulder, he had roamed as a boy, with Fergus, learning from the shrewd old stalker much of the craft he had later practised so successfully in Kenya.

Somerled shivered, gazing towards the unseen mountains, remembering. And then the scene vanished and he was looking again, in memory, at those other mountains where he had lived and had his being for the past five years. He had gone out to Kenya, to begin with, as a farm pupil, but a Mau Mau raid had altered everything. It had changed the whole course of his life, turned him from a peaceful tiller of the soil into . . . what? A hunter. Worse, perhaps, in the end. In the Aberdare Mountains of Kenya he had pitted his wits and the skill he had acquired in a Highland deer forest, not against wild animals but against men. Against men who were wilder and infinitely more dangerous than any natural game to which the mountains gave shelter. Against men of the Mau Mau, avowed killers, who displayed no more compunction in killing other men than a wounded buffalo would have shown when faced by an enemy. As such he had come to think of and treat them, after a time. It had been the only way. Yes, he was glad to be home, glad that that part of his life, at least, was over. Heavens, how glad he was! He expelled his breath in a long-drawn, gusty sigh, and old Rory MacLean, coming to stand beside him and misunderstanding the sigh, flashed him a smiling, sidelong glance.

“’Tis a beautiful sight, sir. Perhaps one of the most beautiful in the world, I am sometimes thinking. Certainly it is one of which I never seem to tire.”

“I think you could be right, Rory,” Somerled agreed.

“Ach, do you now?” The stationmaster was pleased. “All these years I am here, at Loch Rhua Halt, with not half a dozen trains through my hands each day, but—I am content. They are asking me sometimes if I would not like a move, if I would not fancy a larger station, perhaps, with one or two men under me and the chance of promotion. But I am saying no always, for I do not want to leave Rhua. Perhaps, because I am a creature of habit, I do not know. But you, Mr. Somerled, you have been away to foreign parts now . . . to Kenya, wasn’t it? Were you seeing a finer view than this in your travels?”

Somerled hesitated, his mind and thoughts still half with the past. But as he watched, the cloud vanished from the high ground, and he glimpsed at last the lofty summit of Ben Corrigan, saw Rhua’s peak touched to gold by the sun, and knew, in his heart, that he had not. He grinned, suddenly boyish, his firm mouth relaxing. “No, Rory, old friend,” he answered exultantly, “I’ve seen no finer view than this one anywhere.”

“It is perhaps best of all at dawn, though,” the station master asserted, “when the duck take flight and I am standing with my lantern, waiting for the milk train to pass through . . . then I am alone, and it is as if it all belongs only to me. You will not be understanding that, maybe, Mr. Somerled. Dawn is a time when the gentry lie abed, is it not?”

Was it, Somerled thought, was it? Dawn had come with breathtaking magnificence in the Aberdares, he remembered, the sky brilliantly filled with light and colour. But it had found him all too often huddled, wet and shivering, under his thin blanket, the rifle that never left his side cradled in his arms, ready for instant use. He had felt no delight in those dawns, had dreaded his first waking glimpse of the sun-bright sky and the parting mists, for the darkness had been his cloak, the mist his hiding place, and daylight had meant the resumption of a hateful, relentless pursuit, whose end must be death, either for his quarry or himself.

His smile abruptly faded. Even afterwards, when the Mau Mau had been driven finally from their secret lurking places and he had been free to return to his old life, he had found no peace in it, no contentment. The land he worked meant nothing to him, the rebuilt farmhouse had been peopled by ghosts and the beauty by which he was surrounded had been tainted, poisoned for him by memories of which he could not speak but which, try as he might, he could never completely erase from his mind. In particular, the memory of a girl’s face as it had looked when the Mau Mau had done with her haunted his sleep, for he had once believed himself in love with her—once, long ago, dreamed of making her his wife. Since that day, he had avoided women as much as he could.

He shivered again, shading his eyes with a hand that was not, despite his effort to control it, quite steady. This view of Loch Rhua was different. It was calm and peaceful and lovely and he felt its peace reaching out to enfold him. This was his—his country, his homeland, his heritage. “I understand what you mean, Rory,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

“Aye, you have been on the land,” Rory acknowledged. “I was forgetting that you were a farmer out there, Mr. Somerled. I meant no offence, sir, by what I said of the gentry lying in their beds. ’Twas not of yourself I was thinking when I said it.”

Somerled laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know that, Rory. Miss Graham should be here soon.” He glanced up at the clock. “I’d better get my bags, I think.”

“I’ll get them for you, sir. Do not be troubling yourself with that leg of yours.”

“My leg is all right,” Somerled told him briefly. He felt unjustifiably annoyed that the old man should have noticed his limp. The leg had healed perfectly and he suffered little pain from it now. That last operation, performed in Nairobi, had been completely successful, the surgeon had assured him. He had been in hospital, recovering from the operation, when the news of his father’s death had reached him, and the after-treatment insisted on by the surgeon had delayed his return until now. So it had to be successful, he thought savagely, if only in order to absolve him from the attacks of his conscience on this account.

He strode out into the yard again, at pains to avoid dragging his left foot, and Rory MacLean followed him, carrying his two suitcases. The hands of the station clock pointed to seven thirty-three now, on the face outside, and the old stationmaster said, clearing his throat apologetically, “I’ll be needing to leave you now, sir, if you will excuse me. The down express is due in ten minutes.”

“Is it? Then away you go, Rory. Thank you for the tea and for giving me all the news. It was very good of you.”

“Ach, not at all, sir.” A note changed hands. “Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Somerled. I shall be seeing you again before long, I don’t doubt.”

“I expect you will, I——” A large black limousine turned, at that moment, into the station yard and Somerled broke off to stare at it. There was a girl at the wheel, a uniformed chauffeur sitting in the seat beside her, both faces quite unfamiliar to him. “Who owns the Rolls, Rory?” he asked, and was aware of a dry chuckle from his companion as the big car drew smoothly to a halt a few yards from them. “Not my brother, surely? That’s not Miss Graham, is it?”

“Indeed no, Mr. Somerled. ‘Tis from Loss. Mr. Jonathan Oakroyd’s car—you will have heard of Oakroyd’s Ales, will you not? He is that same Oakroyd, and a millionaire, they are saying. Certainly he is living like one. Yonder is his daughter, Miss Jennifer Oakroyd.”

“Are they staying here for the summer?” Somerled suggested, watching the chauffeur alight.

Rory shook his head. There was an odd look, half pitying, half amused, in his eyes as he replied flatly, “Mr. Oakroyd bought Loss House six months ago, sir. ‘Tis said that he wanted Ardlair and took Loss when he could not get it. Excuse me, Mr. Somerled, there’s the express due and Miss Oakroyd will be wanting a ticket, I am thinking. I’ll need to see to it.”

Somerled stood where he was. The chauffeur was unloading luggage from the boot of the Rolls. There was a good deal of it, he saw, all matching pigskin cases of obviously expensive make. The girl got out, a coat over her arm. She was small and slim, dressed in a well-cut tweed suit of an indeterminate brown colour, which she wore with a close-fitting felt hat that hid most of her face. Beside the shining, opulent car and the tall, impeccably uniformed chauffeur, she created a curiously negative impression. Remove these and she would scarcely be noticed, Somerled thought, and was puzzled. For the daughter of a millionaire she was surprisingly insignificant, in both dress and manner. He wondered suddenly what his mother thought of her—and Torquil. For obviously if the Oakroyds lived at Loss, his family must know them. The two estates marched together and if old Oakroyd had wanted Ardlair, as Rory seemed to think, then . . . Somerled drew himself up sharply, recalling the odd look that Rory had given him when he spoke of it. There was no earthly use his wasting time in idle speculation now, though. In due course, when he reached home, he would learn what the situation was . . . if he ever reached home. At this rate, it scarcely looked as if he were going to; Miss Graham’s twenty minutes had already stretched to half an hour and he wondered, irritably, what could have happened further to delay her. If she was going to be much longer, he would telephone for Cameron’s taxi and be damned to her. . . .

“Excuse me . . .” He spun round, startled, to find Jennifer Oakroyd at his side. Seen at close quarters, she was less plain than he had expected her to be. She had frank, intelligent brown eyes, and the faint tinge of heightened colour in her cheeks as his gaze met hers was becoming, he decided. Certainly it was unusual, in this day and age, for a girl to blush when a man looked at her. He took off his hat, smiling down at her. “Yes?” he offered.

“You’re Somerled Sinclair, aren’t you?”

“I am, Miss Oakroyd.”

“Oh——” the flush deepened. “You know who I am. I—Mr. MacLean’s just told me that your car hasn’t arrived yet. I wondered . . . that is, Johnson is driving back to Loss now”—she gestured to the chauffeur—“and if you’d like a lift, he would gladly drive you on to Ardlair. It must be awfully disappointing, when you’ve had such a long journey, to be kept waiting on the last lap, so to speak. You must be so anxious to get home.”

“I am,” Somerled admitted, “but I believe I am being met. Apparently the car met with some mishap on the way here. Miss Graham rang up to say so.”

“Alison? Oh. Oh, I see.” She hesitated. From her tone, he came to the conclusion that, for some reason, she did not like Alison Graham, and wondered why. But he was given no chance to question her. In the distance, the low rumbling of an approaching train brought her head round. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair,” Jennifer Oakroyd said, with what appeared to him very genuine regret, “but that’s my train, I shall have to go—I’m on my way to London for a few days, you see, and so I simply mustn’t miss it. Please let Johnson drive you to Ardlair, if Alison doesn’t get here. I’ll tell him to wait, shall I? I—goodbye. I shall hope to see you when—when I get back.”

She was gone before Somerled could thank her, the chauffeur, carrying her cases, at her back. He heard the express come roaring into the tiny station and halt there with a hiss of escaping steam. Carriage doors opened and were slammed shut and, as it pulled out a few minutes later, Alison Graham drove into the station yard and came to a standstill in front of him.

“I’m most frightfully sorry, Mr. Sinclair——” she greeted him without hesitation and she, too, was flushed, Somerled noticed. But, he quickly realized, with annoyance rather than embarrassment. “This wretched car . . . there was dirt in the petrol, they told me at the garage, and they said they’d put it right. It cut out again, halfway between here and Kinlochalder, and it was ages before I could persuade it to start again. In fact, I had to coast most of the way here.” She regarded him with a rueful smile, a pretty girl, fair and blue-eyed, perhaps a year or so older than Jennifer Oakroyd and dressed, most becomingly, in a pleated skirt and a blouse that exactly matched her eyes. A silk scarf, of a deeper hue, was loosely knotted about her head, making the merest pretence of keeping her thick, curling yellow-gold hair in order. She spoke in an attractive, cultured voice with no trace of accent, and addressed him as an equal—even, Somerled thought, his perceptions sharpened by the need to adjust himself to yet another stranger, even with a hint of authority. Beyond that first, quite casual expression of regret, she offered no apology for having kept him waiting. It wasn’t her fault, of course, that she had, but—he suppressed a sigh. It was now almost eight o’clock and they had a fourteen-mile drive in front of them. “Perhaps I’d better take a look before we set off,” he suggested, moving towards the bonnet of the car.

“Oh, would you? Do you know anything about engines?” Her tone was sceptical and he said, nettled, “Enough to deal with a blocked feed pipe, anyway, Miss Graham. And if by any chance I should find it beyond my capabilities, Miss Oakroyd very kindly offered the use of her car before she left by train for London just now. I can ask her chauffeur’s advice.” He lifted the bonnet of the car, motioning her to resume her seat at the wheel. “Switch off the engine, would you, please?”

Alison Graham did so. She came round to stand, peering over his shoulder, as he worked. “So you met Jennifer Oakroyd.”

“Yes,” Somerled agreed. He went in search of the toolkit. When he returned with it, she asked, as if there had been no pause in the conversation, “What did you think of her?” Both voice and words held more than a suspicion of disparagement, and he found himself resenting it. He selected a spanner with unnecessary care. “I scarcely exchanged half a dozen words with her,” he answered finally, “which isn’t enough on which to base an opinion, favourable or otherwise, is it?”

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Alison Graham conceded. She sounded disappointed, as if she had expected him to say more. “Very few people here do like either of the Oakroyds,” she went on, when he was silent.

“Oh? Do you mind switching on now? Thanks.” The engine sprang instantly to life and, with considerable satisfaction, Somerled met her look of pleased surprise. The chauffeur, Johnson, came over, his brows raised enquiringly.

“Trouble, sir?” he asked politely. “Can I be of any assistance?”

“No, thanks, Johnson. I think I’ve managed it.” He went into details, and the chauffeur nodded his understanding.

“You shouldn’t have any more trouble with her now, sir. But if you like, I could follow you for a mile or two, just to make sure.”

“It’s very good of you. But quite honestly I don’t think it will be necessary, and I expect you’re wanting to get back, aren’t you?”

“I’m in no hurry, sir. And Miss Jennifer’s orders were that I was to drive you to Ardlair if you required me to, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to make sure you’re all right.”

“Then thanks. We’ll start now. If we make it to Kin lochalder, I think you can rest assured that we’ll get to Ardlair.”

“Very good, Mr. Sinclair. Er—let me put them tools back for you, sir. No need for you to get yourself all messed up.”

Alison Graham was smiling to herself when Somerled rejoined her. “You,” she announced sweetly, “must have made quite an impression on Jennifer, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Oh, why?” Automatically he had made his way round to the driver’s side of the car, but she made no move to relinquish her place to him. “Have you a British driving license?” she asked, evading his question. “Because if you haven’t, perhaps I’d better drive. I promise you, in spite of this morning’s contretemps and my ignorance of engines, I’m quite a good driver.”

He shrugged and went round to the other side of the car. Seating himself beside her, he said coldly, “Well, go ahead, Miss Graham. Even if you’re not a good driver, I’m not easily scared.”

She let in her gear. The car moved slowly forward and the big black Rolls came after them. “Have you a British license?” Alison pursued, smiling. “You didn’t answer my question, you know.”

“I have, as it happens. I arranged its renewal from hospital, if it’s of any interest to you, as I anticipated I’d need one when I got home. But please carry on. I don’t want to drive.”

“You’re quite sure? I hate being driven.”

“Quite sure, Miss Graham,” Somerled assured her. “My only desire at the moment is for breakfast and a bath. The sooner I get them, the happier I shall be.”

Alison Graham’s foot increased its pressure on the accelerator.

“Oh, then I’d better drive a bit faster, hadn’t I? I expect you’re tired, too.”

“Not unduly, although I didn’t get a lot of sleep on the train.”

“Did your leg bother you?”

“No.” He resented her inquiry and his resentment was in his voice. He saw her smooth, fair brows meet in a vexed pucker.

“You shouldn’t mind my knowing about your leg,” she told him, quite gently. “I’m a trained nurse, you see, and your mother told me of the trouble you’d had with it. As you’re just out of hospital after an operation, I thought you might need it dressed, perhaps.”

“I’m not just out of hospital. And I can deal with the dressings myself.” He knew he sounded ungracious, but he didn’t care. This young woman took too much on herself, he thought, suddenly aware of disliking her. He didn’t know her precise position in the household at Ardlair, but, when all was said and done, trained nurse or not, she was an employee. She had no right to talk to him like this, to criticize Jennifer Oakroyd or, if it came to that, to insist on driving the car.

“You’re touchy about that leg of yours, aren’t you?” she suggested. “I don’t see why you should be. After all, it was an accident. Nobody can help having accidents. They happen to the best and strongest of us.”

“Mine,” Somerled denied savagely, “was no accident. It was a bullet wound, inflicted by a dum-dum bullet, fired at me deliberately, and with malice aforethought, by a swine of a Kikuyu calling himself General Simba. He was waving a white flag at the time and I foolishly walked right into it.”

If he had hoped to shock her, he had failed, he realized. She said gravely and sympathetically, “Oh, yes, I know.”

“You know? How—who told you?”

“Torquil . . . that is, your brother told me.”

“You’re on Christian-name terms with my brother?”

Alison Graham permitted herself a faint smile. “Why, yes.” Her tone was quite casual and unflustered. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be? I’ve known him for quite a long time.”

The road entered a series of sharp, steeply rising bends, and he waited until she had negotiated them. Then he asked, matching her casualness, “How long have you been at Ardlair?”

“Oh . . . about eight months. I came to nurse your father originally, after he had his first stroke. When he died, I stayed on to look after your mother.”

“She’s ill, then? I didn’t know.” He was shocked. There seemed to be so much he didn’t know and hadn’t been told. But Rory had said that this girl was—what? His mother’s companion. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that she was a nurse. Somerled glanced at her. She had a lovely profile and, her attention concentrated on her driving, appeared unaware of his gaze on her averted face. “Well,” he prompted, “is my mother ill, Nurse Graham?”

“Officially,” Alison Graham told him, “I’m not employed to nurse your mother and I’m not called ‘Nurse’ any more. Lady Ardlair isn’t ill, in the accepted sense. Organically there is nothing wrong with her, Mr. Sinclair, but your father’s death was a great shock to her, a shock from which she hasn’t fully recovered. I run the house for her, deal with the staff, write her letters and drive the car—in fact, I generally make myself useful in any way I can, sparing her as much as I can. I’m afraid”—again her voice was gentle—“you will find things rather changed at the Castle. We live very quietly, we don’t entertain, and your mother doesn’t go out much.”

“I see.” Somerled felt his throat tighten. “Rory MacLean was telling me of some of the changes. He said that most of the old staff had gone.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, offering no explanation. The road narrowed into a single track, with passing bays at intervals on either side and, seeing a cattle lorry approaching them, she pulled into one of the bays and brought the old car to a stand-still. The Rolls drew in behind them. Somerled took out his cigarette case, offering it to her politely. A trifle to his surprise, she shook her head. “I don’t smoke, thanks.”

He lit his own cigarette thoughtfully. “Were you responsible for getting rid of Elspeth?” he demanded abruptly.

“Indirectly I suppose I was. She was old, you know, and the work was getting too much for her. I engaged two girls in her place and they manage all the cooking and the table work between them, which is a great deal more satisfactory than having Elspeth in the kitchen, always wanting ‘dailies’ from the village to help her—and a butler and tablemaid in the dining room.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that MacRorie has gone too?” Somerled was appalled. The butler had been with his family for as long as he could remember. He, like Elspeth, had been more friend than servant, his childhood ally and confidant . . . “You can’t mean that? Why——”

“MacRorie gave notice soon after your father’s death, Mr. Sinclair,” Alison Graham answered coolly. “I did not attempt to persuade him to stay on. He, too, was old and past his work.” She put out her hand, waving to the Rolls to pass her. “We don’t need our escort any longer, do we? I think you must have succeeded in clearing the petrol feed pipe where the garage failed. In any case, I hate having that enormous car on our tail. Johnson’s face is a picture of gloom in the driving mirror—he’s evidently not used to driving so slowly.” She waved again, impatiently. The big limousine glided smoothly past them, the chauffeur touching his cap as he gained the crown of the road. Its gleaming rear quickly vanished from sight as the road twisted upwards to Kinlochalder.

Somerled was silent as they drove through the small town. He had much to think about and digest. At his side, Alison Graham made no attempt to intrude on his thoughts, giving all her attention to the difficult task of avoiding a flock of mountain sheep, being driven, protesting loudly, to the market. Once clear of these and of the town, she increased her speed, taking the lower road which followed the river for several miles. It was narrow and poorly surfaced, and he wondered if she had chosen it deliberately on this account, so as to offer an excuse for putting an end to his questions. He felt resentment rising in him, so intense that it almost choked him.

But, when they rejoined the higher road once more and began to circle Loch Ardlair, he forgot both his companion’s presence and the feeling of resentment she had induced in him. Five hundred feet below, the loch lay shimmering in the sunshine, and as he caught his first glimpse of the Castle, standing gaunt and majestic on its pinnacle of rock, he felt his pulses quicken.

It looked as it had always looked, a fortress, built of locally quarried grey stone, as capable now of withstanding siege or storm, assault or tempest, as it had been throughout its long and turbulent history. The high central keep was pierced by arrow-slits and surrounded by a protective battlement, with a watch tower at each comer, commanding the loch and the hills behind. The site had once been that of a Viking settlement, but the ruined north wing was all that remained of the original Norse Jarlshof or Longhouse, erected there by the first Somerled, Jarl of Thorwald, from whom his family was descended and from whom he himself took his name.

Somerled gazed down at it, his throat contracting. The north wing was a haunt for bats and owls now, but the rest of the Castle, begun during the reign of Robert the Bruce, was in a remarkable state of preservation. It had been added to, of course, during the passing years, and two-thirds of it virtually rebuilt in the sixteenth century, following a disastrous fire. His family had held castle and lands, in almost unbroken line, since the first Viking settlement, save for a brief period—its date lost in the mists of antiquity—when their old enemies, the Gunns of Loss, had wrested both from them, slaying the Chief and his five sons.

A cousin had recaptured the Castle, taking upon himself the mantle of chieftainship and marrying the old Chief’s sole surviving daughter. The line had continued from him, Somerled recalled, until 1513, when his heirs had fallen with the flower of their clan at Flodden, leaving Ardlair to yet another cousin, a woman this time, Margaret Sinclair. Her portrait hung in the Long Gallery of the Castle, together with that of her husband, a Mackenzie of Rhua. From these two and their son Roderick, who had adopted the name of Sinclair, he and Torquil traced their own ancestry. Roderick had been the first Baron Ardlair, ennobled by James the Fifth, on his visit to the Clans in 1540, and among the fortunate few who had escaped betrayal by their treacherous monarch, on his return to Dumbarton from the Highlands. It was Roderick who had built the North Watch Tower and . . .

“Well?” Alison Graham spoke softly, but the sound of her voice irritated him. Somerled spun round in his seat.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, Mr. Sinclair. I was only going to ask you if we should drive on now. If you want breakfast, perhaps we should.”

She had stopped the car, he realized, drawn it on to the grass verge, but he had been so lost in his contemplation of the lovely, familiar scene below him that he hadn’t been aware of it. Or of her . . . He said curtly, “By all means drive on if you want to, Miss Graham.”

“It’s for your benefit,” she reminded him, restarting the engine. “You said you were longing for your breakfast.”

“And I suppose your two paragons in the kitchen don’t like having to cook any breakfasts after eight o’clock?”

“It does rather upset their routine. And anyway, it’s after nine now.” Her foot, neatly shod in a brown brogue, moved on the clutch pedal, brushing against his own. Somerled glanced down involuntarily and then, reddening a little, back at the Castle. A shaft of sunlight glinted against the glass of one of the tower windows, creating the momentary impression that a light was burning behind it. His father had occupied that room in the North Watch Tower, he remembered with a pang. He had used it as a study when he had begun work on a family history . . .

“Does anyone use my father’s study?” he asked, and added, as she looked blank, “The room in the Watch Tower where he used to write.”

“I don’t think so.” The fair brows contracted in a slight frown. “It’s shut up, as far as I know. Unless your mother——” she broke off, the frown deepening. “I hope she hasn’t gone up there.”

“Why?” He flung the question at her suspiciously. “Why shouldn’t my mother go up there?”

Alison Graham’s reply was a shrug. “I think,” she said, after a barely perceptible pause, “that you will understand better why she should or should not when you see your mother again, Mr. Sinclair. As I told you, your father’s death has been a severe shock to her—that, and the strain of his illness. Not to mention financial worries. Perhaps you should wait to pass judgment on me and on the way I’m trying to handle the situation until you reach home and are better able to do so. It would be fairer, wouldn’t it?”

“Fairer, Miss Graham?”

“Yes,” she told him steadily. “You haven’t even tried to be fair to me so far, have you?”

He ignored her reproach, filled with a dreadful sense of foreboding. “Miss Graham, you don’t mean that my mother is . . . that she’s had a—a mental breakdown, do you? You can’t mean that! Why, I’ve had letters from her. Perfectly normal letters. Oh, she was upset, I know. She and my father were very close to each other, very devoted, and I’m aware that his death did come as a shock to her. It was so sudden, he was ill for so short a time. It’s natural that she should feel his loss very deeply, but—it’s no more than that, is it? For heaven’s sake, tell me it’s not!”

The small, brogue-encased foot moved again, uneasily, but it avoided contact with Somerled’s, as if its owner had sensed his dislike of her touch. “Perhaps,” she said, so quietly that her words were only just audible above the steady hum of the car’s engine, “perhaps that, too, is a matter you should judge for yourself when you have allowed time to form a considered judgment, Mr. Sinclair. And when you’ve talked to Tor . . . to your brother. I prefer, if you don’t mind, not to influence you by offering an opinion. And, of course, there’s the doctor. You should talk to him.”

“The doctor!” A wave of relief swept over him. Of course there was the doctor—there was old Dr. Aneas Farquhar, who had treated the whole family since childhood—his and Torquil’s, at all events, and who had brought them both into the world. “Is Dr. Farquhar seeing my mother regularly?” he asked, never doubting for an instant what her answer would be. But, to his shocked astonishment, Alison Graham shook her head. “She’s not under Dr. Farquhar, Mr. Sinclair. He’s . . . a little old-fashioned, isn’t he? Your brother thought it wiser to call in a specialist. We got a very good man indeed, from Edinburgh—a consultant from my own hospital. He examined your mother and outlined the treatment he advised to Dr. Mudie at Kinlochalder. I’ve been carrying this out, under Dr. Mudie’s supervision. Anything you want to know, Dr. Mudie will, I am sure, be pleased to tell you.”

“I see.” Somerled’s mouth was a tight, hard line. He was so angry that, for several minutes, he couldn’t trust himself to speak. But finally he managed, his tone harsh, “And calling in Dr. Mudie was Torquil’s idea?”

“Actually, it was mine. I knew him, you see. But Torquil approved. He thinks a lot of Dr. Mudie and so do I, he’s extremely well qualified.” Unexpectedly, she smiled. “Mr. Sinclair, must I ask you again not to judge—judge and condemn me—until you are in a position to do so fairly? I promise you, we’re both doing our best for your mother, Torquil and I. And everything I’ve done has been with your brother’s full knowledge and approval.