Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
The gurgling changed in timbre, becoming the swish of rain. The wind filled with voices growing first into shouts and then screams, blended with a staccato rattle of guns and the flat reports of cannon. Rebecca frowned, turning her head from side to side, struggling against the images, but still the sounds buffeted her ears and ricocheted across her skull. She felt the sting of sleet against her skin. She smelled gunpowder, cold steel, and the warm stench of blood.
The claymore above her head flashed. It wrenched loose from its brackets and drove right at her breast.
Metal rent, and the world turned upside down. With a short, strangled scream Rebecca crashed backward onto the floor. She lay stunned, her heart fluttering against her ribs, blinking as stupidly at the walls and ceiling as though she’d never seen them before.
Then she focused her mind and caught her breath. Weird! The sword hung innocently in its brackets. The room was quiet except for the rustle of papers and the background murmur of wind and water. And yet for a moment she had been someplace else: Culloden, 1746.
“Oh for heaven’s sakes,” she exclaimed, abjectly embarrassed. She’d dozed off, had a brief, if extraordinarily vivid, nightmare, and upset the chair. She was wedged against the wall in an inverted “V”, the lock of hair crushed in her hand.
Nothing seemed to be damaged except her dignity. But she couldn’t get up. She had no room to maneuver; she didn’t dare struggle too violently, she might break something. Something other than the chair, that is.
A movement in the door was Darnley, sitting with his head cocked to the side as if wondering what amazing gymnastic feat she would attempt next. She could, she thought dizzily, send Darnley for help, like Rin Tin Tin. No, she’d be mortified to have Michael help her, let alone see what she’d done. Even if she had to lie here all afternoon.
No, that wouldn’t work, either. Eric was picking her up at five-thirty. She held her wristwatch before her face and swore. It was almost five. She wriggled, trying to turn herself on her side. The thick arms of the chair seemed almost malevolent the way they clutched at her.
The sound of footsteps reverberated in the floor beneath her head. Darnley whizzed away. In spite of herself she drew her knees close to her chest and tensed. The steps came down the staircase, through the study, to the door. A vast pair of workboots stopped by her eyes, and hands the size of scoops on a steam shovel picked her up and set her on her feet.
“Thank you, Mr. Pruitt,” she said. She carefully peeled the royal lock of hair from her damp palm.
“I was just coming to fix that chair when I heard you go over,” Phil said. “Almost dumped Dorothy last week when she was dusting the desk. Looking through it, more likely. None of her business.”
So Dorothy was a snoop. After finding her wardrobe open Rebecca wasn’t surprised. She restored the hair to its paper wrapper and tucked it away. “Maybe one of the ghosts thought I was her,” she said, not sure just how funny she was trying to be.
Phil was inspecting the metal contraption that had hinged the seat of the chair to its base, turning it over and over in his hand. Sheared through, Rebecca saw. Just old and fragile… . Wait a minute. The jagged rim of the break stopped suddenly at a shining straight edge.
Phil thrust the hinge into his rear pocket and picked up the two pieces of the chair. “The ghosts out here are pretty peaceable ones. I’ll take these out to the shed.” He tramped away, the rhythm of his boots going out not varying from the calm cadences which had brought him in.
Rebecca shook her head. That was an awfully precise break, almost as if the metal had been filed through. Had Phil set a trap for Dorothy? He didn’t look like a practical joker. He didn’t look like the fanciful type, either, and yet he agreed matter-of-factly that there were ghosts in Dun Iain. She followed Phil through the study and onto the landing. Considerate of him, to destroy only something that was worthless anyway. That’s the kind of consideration Michael would show.
In the Hall Michael was smearing white paste over a bowl, completely absorbed. He was the more likely candidate for practical joker, and yet if he were, surely he’d show some interest in the results of his joke. Maybe he hadn’t counted on Phil playing cavalry, maybe he’d been waiting to play the gallant rescuer after she was thoroughly flushed and flustered.
You’re getting paranoid, Rebecca chided herself. It was an accident. There was simply no reason for it to be any more than that.
The front door thudded shut behind Phil. Rebecca turned and hurried up to her room. Almost five o’clock, she wouldn’t have time to wash her hair.
The telephone jangled. An odd ring, in stereo. Oh— there was an extension on the fourth floor. It was probably a salesman, a computer selling aluminum siding, and she hadn’t even decided what to wear. “Hello. Dun Iain Estate.”
“Rebecca!” said a familiar voice. “There you are!”
Her mind hiccuped. She knew who it was— who was it?
It was Ray. “I’ve been worried about you, Kitten. You never called to tell me you’d gotten there safely.”
“You never told me you wanted me to call,” she replied, trying to ignore the accusatory tone in his voice. The man’s timing was incredible, calling her just as she was about to step out with another man. She tapped her fingernails against the table, the rapid
tic tic tic
displacing the quiet creaks and settlings of the house. But that was the protocol— while she was gone, they were to date other people. They were to give each other space. And here he was already violating hers.
“How’s it going?” Ray asked.
“Fine.”
“Have you found that letter of yours yet?”
“No.” She grimaced at her own impatience and tried not to peer through the adjacent door at the clock radio beside Michael’s bed. “There’s an incredible amount of material to sift through. We didn’t even get the inventories until a few hours ago.”
“We? Oh yeah, the guy from England.”
“Scotland,” corrected Rebecca wearily. She straightened and walked the length of the phone cord to look into James’s room. Here, too, was a strong odor of lavender. One of the cut-glass perfume bottles from Elspeth’s dressing table sat on the windowsill.
“I’ll bet he’s one of those funny old guys like our tour guide.”
First Jan, then Ray. Didn’t anyone realize that people were still bearing children in Scotland? It wasn’t all one big museum. “No, he’s about our age.” Rebecca took another step and almost yanked the phone off the table. That bottle hadn’t been there earlier. Dorothy or Phil must have moved it.
“Oh, I see. Good looking?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t noticed.” Liar, she said to herself. He has red glints in his hair, his eyes are as blue as a loch in the sunshine, and he has a tartan chip on his shoulder.
“Oh. Well. I see.” Rebecca pictured Ray settling back in his chair, pipe in hand. “So then. What have you had to eat?”
“Not much. I didn’t come here to cook, I came here to work.”
“The leftover meat loaf is gone,” he said. “I ate it last night. I was thinking of having the spaghetti sauce tonight, but there’s no spaghetti. You must not have put it on your list.”
Rebecca stifled an impulse to throw the phone against the wall. I’m busy, she wanted to blurt. I’m finally doing my own work, not yours. Inspiration struck. “Ray, this phone call must be costing you a fortune!”
“Oh yeah. Well, drop me a letter,” he said briskly. “I miss you, Kitten.”
“Take care,” she replied, and hung up feeling absurdly guilty, as if she’d been kicking a stuffed animal. She’d never suspect Ray of filing through a desk chair when he couldn’t even buy a package of spaghetti.
No, that wasn’t fair. It was her own fault he’d come to depend on her efficiency to smooth his path, just as she’d depended on his cozy banality to smooth hers. He’d provided security, she’d contributed stimulation. He did miss her, she was sure of that. It was startling to realize she didn’t miss him. She felt like a character from “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”, someone entirely different from the woman who’d once loved him.
She seized the glass bottle, whisked up to the fifth floor, and restored it to its place on the dresser. The pillow on the bed was hollowed again. Someone had decided to sneak a nap. She fluffed it up and catapulted back down to her room.
The odor of lavender hadn’t dissipated. Rebecca hoped it hadn’t permeated her clothes. Rejecting a frilly pink dress and her tweed skirt, she seized a dark blue skirt and white blouse topped by a colorful paisley jacket. As she tried wielding her curling iron with one hand and her mascara with the other she heard voices raised outside. Now what?
A ray of sun, slanting below the teeming clouds, washed the landscape in bronze. The Pruitt’s pickup looked oddly yellowed, like an unbrushed tooth. Slash, the monstrous Labrador, sat in the back with his chin draped over the toolbox. Steve lolled on the passenger side, addressing his remarks to the ceiling, while Phil hung on to the open door. The two voices, Phil’s bassoon and Steve’s nasal twang, reached Rebecca’s ears in bursts, fly balls batted by the wind. “… tie up that dog… only friend I have… dig flower beds over again… who cares, the old man’s dead anyway… honest day’s work for honest day’s pay… give me a break… .”
Rebecca shut the window. That was the same chapter and verse her father had repeated with her brothers. Her mother would make placatory sallies into the fray and be repulsed again and again. Her only weapon had been instant accession to every request, if you could call that a weapon.
The engine of the pickup roared. Gravel spattered. The thick metallic light winked out, plunging the house into twilight. Rebecca turned on the bedside lamp, collected her purse and coat, and went down to the Hall.
Michael stood stretching. The bowl-like object he’d been polishing lay shining before him, revealed as a large silver goblet. “Look!” he said to Rebecca. “A copy o’ the Craigievar Mazer. A fancy drinkin’ cup. Accordin’ to the receipt in the package, John had it made in Edinburgh when he couldna buy the original from the Marquess o’ Bute. Worth a packet in the right places, even as a replica.”
“So not everything valuable is on display,” said Rebecca, and braced herself.
“Aye, I was wrong aboot that.” He beamed at his handiwork, rocking back on his heels.
Rebecca’s expression hung between a grimace and a grin. If Ray was aggravating because he was so predictable, Michael was aggravating because he wasn’t. “I’m going out,” she said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Only then did he notice her change of dress. “Ah?”
She couldn’t tell whether his intake of breath was an interrogative or approval of her grooming. “With Mr. Adler.”
“Oh. Well, there’s no accountin’ for tastes.” With a slightly off-center grin he added, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“How should I know what you’re capable of doing?” she retorted with mock indignation. The bottle of Scotch Eric had brought her still sat in pristine condition on the end of the table. Again she thought of hiding it. But she’d been petty enough for one day. “Help yourself to the Laphroaig.”
One of his brows quirked. “Oh aye?”
“Unless you’d rather I brought you some beer. Moosehead, was it?”
“The best is McEwen’s ale, but if you can get it here at all it’s much too dear. I’ll content myself wi’ the whiskey.” And he added belatedly, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” she told him.
He laughed. “Take the key hangin’ by the door. I’ll no be goin’ anywhere. Someone has to stay with the house bogles.”
His laughter was just a bit forced. He had, Rebecca remembered, been here a week by himself. A spooky old house, and the imagination could do strange things. She glanced back to see him in the same position, his face framed by the gleaming strands of his hair, looking at the silver goblet as though appraising it.
“See you later,” she said, and walked down the stairs. As she lifted the huge iron key from its hook by the door she heard a car on the driveway. Five-thirty exactly. She should have known Eric would be on time. Ray would have been early, and while she hurried to dress would’ve passed the time reaming and filling his pipe, dribbling bits of ash and tobacco on her carpet.
“See you later!” she called again.
“Have a good time,” came the reply, echoing in the stairwell.
Rebecca wrenched open the door and once again escaped to the outside world.
The gray Volvo was a phantom shape in the dusk until Eric opened his door and a cheerful puddle of light spilled onto the gravel. “Hello!” he called. “Ready for dinner?”
“Am I ever,” Rebecca replied. A cold gust of wind almost knocked her over and she huddled into her coat. With a fumbling clatter she found the keyhole, locked the door, stowed the key in her purse.
Eric helped her into the warm interior of the car. She closed the seat belt and settled back into the embrace of the upholstery, inhaling the delectable odor of leather.
“I took the liberty of picking up the mail,” said Eric as he slid behind the wheel and slammed his door. The light went out and for a moment Rebecca couldn’t see a thing. “The mailbox is down by the road,” his marvelous voice continued in the gloom. “All that was in it were some advertising circulars addressed to James Forbes.”
“Immortality,” said Rebecca, “is your name on a mailing list.” Her eyes adjusted, and she could see the castle looming with surreal frailty above her. A lamp cast a feeble glow over the door. The window of her room was a dim rectangle, barely illuminated by the light she’d left on. The rest of the windows were dark, absorbed by the enigmatic walls of the house. She let her head drop back onto the headrest and exhaled in a soundless shiver.
Eric turned the car and it purred down the driveway past the dark bulk of the mausoleum. “Tired? Is Campbell working you too hard?”
“Probably not hard enough.” She assumed a more ladylike position. “This place takes a bit of getting used to. I think I’m suffering from too much input, overexcitation of the brain cells or something. I dozed off this afternoon and had a nightmare about the battle of Culloden.”