Contents
Part One: The Faerie Cat
1889
Duty & Dignity: 1910, Twenty-One Years Later
The Bonniest Cat in Scotland
1893: Seventeen Years Previously
It Has Begun
Ophelia
Part Two: The Changeling
A Legend as Old as Time
1896: Fourteen Years Previously
I Know Who I Love
The Tree
1903: Seven Years Previously
The Silver Case
Part Three: The Tithe
1910: Two Weeks Earlier
The Slide
The Cave
The Spell is Wound
The Hour
Ten Days Later
In memory of my mother,
Margaret Hyndman May
(1919–1985)
PART ONE
THE FAERIE
CAT
1889
S ilence. Dead silence.
The silence was all around them. No birds sang; there was no wind. Here in this desolate place, it seemed to her that even the weather had ceased to be. The sky was white, a blank canvas. No rain fell; no sun shone. There was only death.
She stepped forward. Faint with fear, nauseated by grief, she stood beside the grave for a long time, cradling the almost weightless bundle. The silence was so intense she could almost touch it. She turned quickly, seized by dread. But the man had not abandoned her. There he stood, not looking at her, his pale face shadowed beneath the trees.
“It is time,” he said.
Slowly she knelt down. She slid the baby’s swaddled body from her arms into the waiting earth. As she did so she felt his head loll backwards on his tiny neck, as if it still held life.
She began to weep, her stricken sobs piercing the air while the man shovelled soil into the hole, firmed it with his foot and covered it with sodden leaves, handful after handful until all sign of the disturbance of the earth had disappeared.
Exhausted now, she knelt silently, but she did not listen to his prayer. Her ears were assailed by screams. Inhuman screams. First one, then more and more crows darted between the trees and settled nearby. Their ragged feathers and glittering eyes were repellent to her, a vision of horror.
“This place is cursed,” she told the man. “I will never return here.”
The man’s gaze did not shift from the grave. His voice was a whisper. “Neither will I.” He wiped his hands on his handkerchief and shouldered the shovel. “We will never again pay respects at our son’s grave.”
“What need is there to pay respects?” she asked. “Our son is not dead.”
DUTY & DIGNITY
1910, twenty-one years later
I was melting. My corset constricted my ribs, and the pins that skewered my new hat dug into my scalp. My navy serge skirt was too thick for such a warm spring day, but it was the only garment I possessed that my mother considered sober enough. Over the skirt and my buttoned-up silk blouse, my best wool coat – velvet-collared and cuffed, with a vent at the back and polished bone buttons – enclosed me as airlessly as a pot encloses simmering soup. Slowly, but definitely, I was cooking.
Until now, the only hats I had owned were straw ones. I liked the one with the tipped-back brim, but the boater with the mustard-coloured ribbons of St Giles’s College was hideous. Perhaps, now I’d left the school for ever, my mother would let me throw not only the hat, but the entire uniform, into the dustbin. Especially since I had my first grown-up, plain felt hat. A hat that a women, not a schoolgirl, would wear for an occasion such as this. An occasion that demanded mourning clothes.
You would have allowed the hurling away of the mustard uniform, and laughed while I did it, wouldn’t you, Father?
My throat ached. I swallowed, twice. It went on aching.
So unexpected, people had exclaimed. A man in his prime, they had murmured. Our deepest condolences, they had written. But all I could think of was the fact that he was dead, whatever anyone said or wrote or did. And his love – unwavering, affectionate, true – had died with him. He had taken it with him wherever he had gone, and it was no longer in the world. Other people loved me, of course. But no one inspired me as Father did to love them as much in return.
I forced myself to go on thinking about hats and how hot I was. I must not let the tears fall. Mother, though as bereft as I was, had instructed me in the conduct she expected at the church, and afterwards at the graveside. “Dignity,” she had insisted. “We may weep in private, or with friends of our station. But people not of our station will come to pay their respects to your father today, and in front of them we must remain composed.”
I hadn’t troubled myself to question her judgement. I knew from experience what the answer would be: “It is our duty, my dear.” Father was important; the Grahams were the first family of the district; convention must be served.
Farm and factory workers, servants, shopkeepers from Gilchester, Mr Goddard the bank manager and our family lawyer, Mr Haines, were gathered in St Stephen’s church to hear Reverend Baxter. And as the mourners followed the coffin to the grave-plot in the churchyard, the crowd grew even greater. I saw people I recognized, but many more I did not. Even one of the four pall-bearers – a well-dressed man, neatly bearded beneath his top hat – was a stranger to me. The other three were Jarvis, who had been our butler since before I was born, Mr Groves the factory foreman, and the undertaker’s assistant. Father had no brothers, and his dearest friend, an army officer who had been best man at his wedding, had been killed in action ten years ago.
The coffin was lowered to its rest. I held tightly to my mother’s arm, only half-hearing the vicar intoning the burial prayer and scattering soil on the coffin lid. It was final. Father was gone. Mother and I, Chester House, Graham’s Wholesome Foods and all that went with them remained.
I did not weep. Duty and dignity prevailed. Jarvis stood grim-faced between Mrs Jamison, the housekeeper, and Mr Napier, the head gardener. I knew that every one of them was thinking the same thing: now that Mrs Graham is a widow and there is no male heir, Miss Catriona will inherit the estate and the business. But she cannot be mistress of such a legacy alone, so our future lies in the hands of a man no one has yet seen or heard of – Miss Catriona’s future husband.
This knowledge made me uncomfortable, though I knew the truth of it. But there was another truth the servants did not know. I did not want to inherit Chester House and its servants, and Graham’s Wholesome Foods and its workers. I did not want to be the most important woman in Gilchester. In particular, I did not want to marry a man attracted by the prospect of this inheritance. Such a man, I was certain, would never claim my affection. I had loved my father, and the turnout in the churchyard was evidence of his fairness towards his employees and the respect he commanded from his friends. But my choice of husband was my own, and I would exercise it.
The burial was over. Mother turned from the graveside, and led the way down the hill to the waiting carriages. I was still clasping her arm. All around us, other mourners moved too, conversing in murmurs, bowing their heads as they passed the grave. Susan, my mother’s maid, had her handkerchief at her eyes. Mr Napier blew his nose. Someone was speaking in my ear – Mr Haines, I thought – but I did not comprehend his words. There seemed to be a mist around me. I could not see where I was stepping. I stumbled; someone caught me around the waist.
“Um…” I heard myself begin. Then the mist thickened, and there was only darkness.
“Give her air, if you please.”
When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on the carriage seat with my head on Mother’s lap. Opposite us sat the stranger in the top hat.
“I am a doctor,”
he said. “You fainted, that is all. And who can be surprised, in this heat?” He lifted his hat to the crowd who surrounded the open carriage, trying each to suggest helpful remedies and stop the others from doing so. “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Graham is perfectly well, but needs to go home. Stand back, if you will, and let the driver start.”
They obeyed, though with suspicion. Then I heard the “Hup!”, the wheels crunched on the gravel, and the carriage rumbled forward. “Oh!” I exclaimed, sitting up. “My hat!” It had been removed, and tendrils of my hair had slid free of their pins. “Where is it?”
“It is here by me, quite safe,” Mother reassured me. “How do you feel, my dear?”
“Foolish.”
“No need,” said the man. He held out his hand. “We have not been introduced. I am Hamish Buchanan, your late father’s cousin.”
“Father’s cousin? I never knew—”
“Doctor Buchanan was unknown to us all before this morning,” said Mother. “He sent a note to the house before we went to church, but I must have forgotten to mention it to you. I was distracted. It is a relief,” she sighed, “to have the funeral service over.”
“I arrived late anyway, after my long journey from Scotland,” said Doctor Buchanan, “so I sidled in at the back.” He was not quite smiling, but there was an amiable light in his eye. His voice had a Scottish lilt that gave it a homely sound. Perhaps, as a doctor, he presented what was called a good “bedside manner”. But even if it was a manner, I liked it.
“Then thank you for coming all this way,” I said, “and for looking after me.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mother hurriedly. “We are indebted to you.” Turning her profile to the doctor, she rested her gloved hand on the side of the carriage. “Especially,” she added, shooting him a glance from the shadow of her hat brim, “since we had never heard of any Scottish cousin of David’s before today.”
Doctor Buchanan interwove his fingers on the silver top of the cane he held between his knees. He observed Mother closely, his face alternately in sun and shadow as the carriage passed the line of elms that bordered the drive to Chester House. “I will be happy to explain,” he said, “when we are indoors and Miss Graham has a cup of sweet tea in her hand.”
“Oh, ‘Catriona’, please!” cried Mother, turning once more to face him. “There is no need to stand on ceremony with her – she is only seventeen!”
The doctor frowned slightly, perhaps wondering what, if anything, the one had to do with the other. “Very well,” he agreed. “Then you and your daughter must call me Doctor Hamish, as everyone in Drumwithie does, including my patients.”
“Doctor Hamish,” Mother repeated with satisfaction. The jet decorations on her hat quivered as she tilted her head enquiringly. “Hamish is a Scottish name, I believe?”
“Indeed it is.”
“And so is Catriona,” she told him authoritatively. “It is the Gaelic form of Catherine.”
Doctor Hamish looked at me. “Well, Catriona, you have something of David in the setting of your eyes. His were blue, of course, but the expression is there.” Then he took his attention back to my mother. “The family’s Scottish descent influenced your choice of name for your daughter, I think?”
“Oh, yes!” Mother assured him. “David often said he wanted to find out more about his Scottish relatives, but he never seemed to get round to it. He was a very busy man, you must understand. Anyway, we both liked the name Catriona, and there are so many Mabels and Dorothys these days, we wished to be a little different from the crowd. My name, however,” she added, “is very English. I am called Rose. Please, do use it, doctor.”
“Very well,” said Doctor Hamish, rather stiffly. “Rose it is.”
I reached across and picked up my hat. “Mother, we are here.”
“Already? I shall lead the way!” she declared, gathering her skirt.
I followed more slowly. My legs felt shaky, and I was pleased to take Doctor Hamish’s arm, promptly offered. My stiff skirt slapped my ankles as we approached the house. “Thank you,” I said softly. “I don’t usually faint, you know. I am unnaturally robust, Mother says.”
He smiled, but said nothing. Mother was in the open doorway, organizing. “We would like tea in private in the library,” she called to Jarvis as he and Mrs Jamison hurried up the drive. “Show everyone else to the dining room and make my apologies. We will join them when Miss Graham is fully recovered. And, Mrs Jamison,” she added to the housekeeper, “will you make the guest room ready for Doctor Buchanan?”
“But there is no need!” protested the doctor. “I can put up at the inn in the High Street. I must return to Scotland tomorrow.”
Mother’s shoulders straightened. “I insist you stay with us. It is the least we can do.”
“In that case, I am extremely grateful for your hospitality.”
We settled ourselves in the library armchairs, surrounded by Father’s books and shaded against the westering sun by parchment blinds.
“I hope my housekeeper is quick with the tea!” exclaimed Mother, removing her gloves. “I must confess I am fatigued, though not, I might add, to the point of fainting.”
“Mother, it was not fatigue that overcame me.” Grief surged up; I could not say more.
Doctor Hamish looked from me to my mother, and back again at me. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked.
I nodded, and murmured my thanks.
“Catriona is never indisposed for long.” Mother smoothed her skirt, her eyes on the doctor’s face. “Now, Doctor Hamish,” she said in a businesslike way. “I am very interested in finding out why David never introduced us to you. You said you would tell us when we were indoors, and here we are.”
“The explanation is quite simple,” replied the doctor calmly. “Long ago, before either of us had met our future wives, your husband and I suffered an estrangement. I cannot tell you the reason for it – that has gone with him to his grave, and must remain there – but I have long regretted the loss of his acquaintance. It is too late now to renew it, of course, but when I read the notice of his death in The Times, I resolved to attend his funeral.”
There was a short silence. It struck me that so far there was nothing to prove this man spoke the truth. He could be an impostor who had read the announcement in The Times and set out to try his luck. Mother and I had both warmed to him, but perhaps, I decided bleakly, the ability to be charming is a vital quality of the charlatan.
“It is very pleasant,” continued Mother, “to discover a new branch of the family. I wonder that David never mentioned you to us.”
“The estrangement was such that he would not have done so,” said the doctor solemnly. “It was over twenty years ago, and concerned a personal matter which he would not wish me to disclose, even now.”
“Such a pity!” exclaimed Mother. Her tone was light, but I knew this artlessness was a pretence. Her eyes showed me that she was every bit as suspicious as I was. “Tell me, is anyone else in the family aware of what took place?”
“No one knew of it,” said the doctor crisply. He looked up as the door opened. “Ah, tea!”
Jarvis placed the tray, bowed and left. The sandwiches, scones and fruitcake did not tempt me, but I accepted the cup of tea my mother handed me. “Of course,” she said as she passed Doctor Hamish his own tea, “David was a Graham, and my mother-in-law’s family – also Scottish – are called Hamilton. So as a Buchanan, how do you fit in?”
“Through my mother, who was a Graham. She and David’s father were sister and brother. May I?” He took a sandwich and bit into it with enthusiasm. When he had swallowed, he added, “I always called him Uncle Peter, though I believe his first name was Ernest. His wife, David’s mother, was called Eleanor. David used to refer to them, in private of course, as ‘The Es’.”
Mother smiled. “Indeed he did. And of course, Granny and Grandpa were very well aware of it, weren’t they, Catriona?” Not waiting for my reply, she continued. “But I wonder tha
t my father-in-law never mentioned you, Doctor. You are his blood nephew, the son of his only sister, after all.”
Doctor Hamish chewed his sandwich thoughtfully for a moment. “That is true. But an estrangement such as ours severed all family relationship, so irrevocably that David’s parents could not maintain correspondence with mine.” He sighed lightly, wiping his mouth on his napkin. “And a mere few months after the rift, my dear mother died, ending all connection with the Grahams. Neither her brother nor his wife attended her funeral.”
“Oh! I am very sorry to hear that!”
I hoped the doctor did not detect the relief in Mother’s voice. She was evidently convinced that he was genuine. But I was not. “Mm … but I suppose you know all about my father’s Uncle Augustus and the shipwreck, Doctor Hamish?” I asked solemnly. “What is your opinion of what really happened? Was the captain to blame?”
They looked at me, nonplussed. “I’m afraid I…” began Doctor Hamish. “Er … I have never heard of Uncle Augustus.”
“Neither have I.” I sipped my tea. “He does not exist.”
He was surprised for an instant, then he grinned, and reached for another sandwich. “Here be a braw scholar, ye ken,” he said in an exaggerated Scottish accent. “A’ must watch ma’ p’s and q’s!”
“Oh, yes,” said Mother, with an approving glance at me. “Catriona may be dark, when David was so fair, but her mind is just like her father’s – sharp as a pin!”
Throughout this exchange the doctor had been studying me. I was not looking at him, but I could sense his eyes following my movements as I reached for a piece of bread and butter. I had no appetite, but I knew that if I ate nothing Mother would fuss.
“Please, Doctor,” I said, almost before I had fully decided to speak, “may I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why, after so many years of estrangement from Father, have you approached us so unexpectedly upon his death?”
Mother looked at me in horror. “Catriona!” she cried, with a sideways glance at Doctor Hamish, whose face had coloured, “consider your words, do!”
The Devil's Promise Page 1
