The Devil's Promise

by Veronica Bennett

  Jamie seemed preoccupied and I was grateful for his silence. I was also thankful that there remained half an hour until suppertime. I would have time to calm myself before I sat down opposite him at the table.

  In my room I washed hurriedly, and tied up my hair, then let it down again. The mirror did not show me the serenity I hoped for, but a solemn mouth and excited eyes. I tried smiling; it did not look sincere. I tried to tranquillize the expression of my eyes; it was impossible.

  I changed my clothes. Not into my evening dress, which had hung abandoned in the cupboard since my second night at the castle, but into my dark skirt and favourite navy blue blouse. I liked the plain cotton the blouse was made of, the neat fit of the sleeves and the modest, pin-tucked front. The collar was not stiff, but surrounded my throat comfortably. It was plainer than anything my mother or her friends would wear, but I considered its lack of decoration elegant. I brushed my hair, loosely securing the front away from my brow with combs and leaving the sides free to swing over my cheeks. As I put the brush down I heard a woman’s voice.

  For a nerve-racking moment I thought it was my invisible visitor. But no. This woman was singing contentedly and the sound was coming in through the half-open window. Cautiously, I opened the window further and put my head out.

  Bridie was in the kitchen yard below the tower. She was wearing a sacking apron, and beside her stood a bucket of soapy water. As she scrubbed the cobbles with a broom, she sang a simple song to a simple tune.

  “I know where I’m going,

  And I know who’s going with me.

  I know who I love,

  And the dear knows who I’ll marry.

  Some say he’s poor,

  But I say he’s bonny,

  The fairest of them all,

  My handsome winsome Johnny.”

  I gripped the window frame. I know who I love. The fairest of them all. Handsome, winsome.

  If ever there was a word for Jamie’s fear of future unhappiness, his disarming confession of an indulged life, his susceptibility to mysticism and his disordered, green–gold appearance, it was winsome.

  “Feather beds are soft,

  And painted rooms are bonny,

  But I would leave them all

  To go with my love Johnny.”

  I listened in wonder, feeling suspended between heaven and earth, between now and the future. Great happiness and great uncertainty flooded over me. Did I know where I was going?

  As soon as I opened the dining-room door I could see that Jamie and his father were arguing.

  “The medical profession is a calling, like the priesthood,” Jamie was saying, his voice filled with frustration. “A calling which I do not possess. And furthermore, I have no wish to engage in a profession that is full of quacks!”

  “Unfortunately,” retorted the doctor impatiently, “sick people are desperate and often they can afford neither a qualified doctor’s bills nor the education needed to know their condition is incurable!”

  “So that is what you believe, is it? That Mother’s condition is incurable? So why do you employ the quacks?”

  Doctor Hamish flushed. “Jamie, that is unfair! You know perfectly well I was speaking generally!”

  Jamie was hunched in his chair, his elbow on the table and his bony shoulders raised. I thought how like a petulant child he looked. “It is, though, is it not?” he said accusingly. “She will never get better. She will die in that horrible place.”

  I was waiting in the doorway, unwilling to interrupt. Doctor Hamish, whose good manners would not allow him to sit until I had arrived, gripped the back of the carver’s chair, his face pinched. When he saw me, he attempted a smile. “Good evening, Catriona. We have Finnan Haddie this evening. Do you like smoked haddock?”

  “I think so.” I was not sure. At Chester House fish was usually served as an appetizer, in the form of small rolls of salmon or potted shrimps. “But I’m sure it will be very good.”

  The doctor sat down, shook out his napkin and took the lid off the serving dish in front of him. His anger was plain, but courtesy prevented him from admonishing his son outright in front of me. “Jamie,” he said, ladling my portion onto a plate, “surely you understand how privileged you are?”

  “Privileged!” Jamie pushed his hair back and frowned. “Father, I have done everything I can to please you, studying for those wretched examinations in subjects quite uninteresting to me, but I cannot – I cannot enter the Medical School next term. The idea simply repels me.” He let go of his hair and looked at me earnestly through the forelock. “Cutting up corpses! Learning by rote the names of every particle of the human body, every revolting ailment! Can you imagine it, Cat!”

  I could, and at the same time could not, imagine it. Doctor Hamish was correct; Jamie was privileged. Before him lay a life that could not be more different from that of the heiress to Graham’s Wholesome Foods. Watching his excited face, I silently repeated a catechism of his privileges. Male. Well educated. Heir to an extensive estate. Shortly to be on his way to the city, to go to university, to train as a doctor like his father, to be a doctor…

  “Actually,” I said calmly, “I am in agreement with your father.” I accepted the plate the doctor handed me. Finnan Haddie was a milky-looking fish stew. It smelled strong. “It is a privilege, and a fascinating one, to study medicine.”

  Jamie was newly bathed and shaven, and dressed artistically in a loose tunic with a silk scarf at his neck. His eyes roamed over my face as he took his own plate. “You have not put up your hair,” he said blankly.

  I avoided his gaze, aware my cheeks had gone pink. “Do not change the subject. Studying is privilege enough, but surely university life brings other pleasures too. I know little about it, but I suspect you will make lifelong friends among the other young men, who will have much in common with you.”

  “And young women too!” The doctor spoke lightly, looking at me with amusement and a hint of pride. “Did you know that Edinburgh is one of the most enlightened universities in the world, Catriona? The number of female students in the Medical School grows every year.”

  I was too amazed to answer him. Who were these women whose destiny led them to become doctors? How wondrous and thrilling to do such a thing! “Can women be doctors, then?” I asked at last. “Surely not! I mean, I have never heard of any.”

  “Their degrees are not at present recognized,” he explained. “Though some of them do practise, privately, particularly in the field of women’s health.” He was looking at me intently and stabbed the air with his fork as he spoke. “But I am fully convinced that not only will women gain the vote they are at present agitating for, they eventually will be awarded recognized degrees and will enter the medical profession on an even footing with men. Indeed, it is my personal belief that they will make exceptionally fine doctors. Of course, the Prime Minister will pontificate and pompous fools will write to The Times, but progress will come without a doubt.” He paused to take a mouthful. When he had swallowed it, he added, “It is clear to me that any right-thinking person understands that women’s minds are the equal of men’s and the only reason women do not fill the pages of history books is their lack of opportunity to do so.”

  I had never heard such words from a man. Incredulous, I turned to Jamie. “What do you think?”

  He shrugged, intent on his fish. “What Father says is so obvious I do not consider it a worthy subject for reflection.”

  “So Jamie and I agree on something, you see!” observed Doctor Hamish. “The world has changed a great deal in this new century, Catriona, and it will change more. The belief is growing that the ambitions of intelligent young people of both sexes should be encouraged.”

  I thought about my grandmother, moving through the nineteenth century as serenely as Queen Victoria herself. I thought about my parents, who had been young when the Queen had died, and had lived these ten rather heady years of the new century under King Edward’s indulgent rule. They had allowed me to
attend school instead of having a governess. They had given me a bicycle, and a schoolfriend had taught me the new style of energetic dancing, which we had practised to the gramophone her brother had brought back from Cambridge. Gilchester was full of cricket-playing, wager-laying, pub-frequenting young men, who seemed bent on enjoying life to the full, with little consistent income and no apparent ambition. King Edward’s son George was now on the throne, and Times columnists were already calling this the “New Georgian” age. What, I wondered, would the next few years bring for us New Georgians?

  We continued to eat in silence. The haddock was more palatable than I had feared, but I ate slowly. Jamie put down his fork, picked up his wine glass, sat back and addressed me. “So, Cat, you consider me privileged. But what would you do if you were in my situation?”

  I hesitated, wondering how to frame a reply that would not offend either of them.

  “You have not made yourself clear, Jamie,” said Doctor Hamish. He tore a piece of bread and dipped it into his sauce. “Are you asking Catriona what she would do if she were a man of twenty-one who has earned a place to study medicine, or herself?”

  I felt Jamie’s eyes on my skin, my cotton blouse and my loosened hair. “Herself,” he said.

  “Then I could never be in your situation.” I tried to keep my tone light, though a familiar resentment was rising. “I am a girl, so it did not occur to my father to provide me with the kind of education that leads to a university. I need not worry about what to do in order to support my dependants. I am a dependant myself.”

  “Why, you have made me wish I were a girl!” cried Jamie. “There would be no arguments with my father and no discussion about inheritance. I would be destined to marry a man who would keep me for the rest of my days.” He smiled, delighted by a new thought. “And if I were to write poetry, everyone would admire me! ‘How clever she is!’ they would say. ‘How accomplished! And we thought she could only do needlework and instruct the servants!’ ”

  “Do not joke, Jamie,” said Doctor Hamish. “Catriona is in earnest. Tell me, my dear, did you quarrel with your father about this?”

  “No, never. I knew argument was futile. He used to say ‘men organize the world and women do not need to know anything about it’.”

  “Then with the greatest respect to David’s memory,” said the doctor steadily, “he was quite wrong.”

  Speaking Father’s words made them sound in my head. I longed beyond reason to be with him again. I placed my knife and fork together; I could not eat any more. “He was a man of his times, I think,” I said, “whereas you are a man ahead of them. Perhaps if I were your daughter, I would be allowed to make my own way in the world and only marry if I really want to.”

  Aware that my face had turned very red, I shrank into my chair, drawing my skirt close and feeling foolish. “I’m sorry,” I said, “now you know what a mean, dissatisfied little vixen I am.”

  Jamie’s eyes travelled tolerantly over my face. His expression was not, to my relief, patronizing. But I waited apprehensively. He was like a firecracker; there was no telling in which direction he might bounce next. “Perhaps, then,” he said gently, “you and I should change places. I will go and annoy your mother, and you can stay here and charm my father.” He tilted his head towards the doctor. “How about it, Father? Would you not rather have an obedient daughter than a disobedient son?”

  The doctor was about to speak, but his eyes drifted to the door, which was creaking ajar. “Ah!” he said, which he always did when servants appeared. “Coffee!”

  Bridie entered, set the tray on the table, bobbed and left.

  “Shall we take the coffee into the small drawing room?” suggested the doctor, pushing back his chair. “The sunset will be fine tonight. Jamie, carry the tray.”

  The west-facing drawing room contained Jamie’s mother’s image in two forms – the painting above the mantle and, in a silver frame on a table, a larger version of the photograph he carried in his wallet. There were several chairs and a low sofa, where I suspected she had often lain during her periods of illness. Walnut furniture and vases of fresh flowers made the room so attractive, it was obvious to my eyes why it was her favourite. If I were mistress of Drumwithie, it would be my favourite too.

  When I had seated myself at one end of the sofa, Doctor Hamish offered the cigarette box to Jamie, who refused. The doctor took a cigarette himself and stood at the window, smoking absently and watching the pink- and yellow-streaked sky.

  I looked at the coffee tray Jamie had left by the hearth. I had never tasted coffee. Here at the castle I had so far refused it after supper, and at home we always had tea or cocoa. “May I have some coffee tonight?” I asked the doctor. “I would like to try it, though Mother considers it bad for the digestion.”

  He laughed. “It may well be! But I will add plenty of cream and sugar.”

  “Thank you.”

  He prepared the coffee and handed it to me. I sipped. It was hot, sweet and delicious. “I like it!” I declared and they laughed.

  “Splendid!” said Jamie, leaning forward to take his own coffee from the tray. “Coming to supper with your hair down, trying Finnan Haddie and drinking coffee! What new experience will be next, I wonder?”

  The doctor said nothing. Jamie’s eyes burned me; I lowered mine, not in modesty, but in mortification. He knew of my love. Of course he knew.

  That night, the girl in the ragged silk dress revisited me.

  I stayed up as late as I could, knowing I would not sleep easily. Jamie went into the library after supper, saying he wished to write. To be out of his company made me feel shamelessly disappointed. I sat with Doctor Hamish in the small drawing room for the rest of the evening, until he began to put lamps out and lock doors, and I had no choice but to bid him goodnight and come up to my room. I was not the smallest bit sleepy. Did drinking coffee stimulate the brain? I had a vague recollection that this was another of Mother’s objections to it, a stimulated mind not being desirable in a manageable daughter.

  Upstairs, I sat another hour in my favourite place by the window, breathing the pine-laden air. There were no clouds and the moonlight gave the landscape a two-dimensional aspect, with objects and their shadows picked out in shades of grey, like a photograph. An owl hooted and another responded from a different part of the wood. It was a comforting sound, reminding me that other creatures apart from myself were awake, yet an eerie one, an invisible lament from the darkness. I recalled my English mistress reading us something about “the witching hour” of night.

  Remembering this fragment of poetry brought my thoughts to Jamie and the scene I had witnessed at the supper table. He and his father were both strong-willed; I could not predict which of them would win the struggle. Perhaps neither. I hoped Doctor Hamish might allow Jamie to go to the University as planned, but study something other than medicine, and follow a different profession, more conducive to his interest in poetry. But it was not my quarrel. I could not take sides or make suggestions. All I hoped for was that they would both, in the end, be content.

  Midnight struck. I closed the window against the chill air, changed into my nightdress, turned out the lamp and got into bed. I lay there for what seemed like a long time, watching the fire die. And then, with no warning and no sound, the darkness of the room seemed to fold in upon itself, like curtains in the theatre drawing back to reveal a lighted stage. She was there: my visitor with the tumbling hair and the dirty pink frock.

  I did not mean to move, but my body stiffened involuntarily. Jamie was correct; I had the power to draw her, and when she wished to, she appeared. Trying not to make a sound, I watched her walk from the end of my bed to the window, where she sat down in the chair I had vacated. When she turned from the window and her eyes sought mine, as they had done before, I was convinced that she grieved for a loss. All ghosts grieve for their own death. And they return because something, some uncompleted quest, is drawing them back. But this girl’s countenance showed suffering m
ore than death itself.

  She looked away again, towards the window. The moonlight shone, but she was insubstantial and cast no shadow. I gazed and gazed, terrified yet thrilled, wondering if she had appeared because she had something to say, something to plead for, or confess, or rid herself of. Something had brought her to my presence and no one else’s. When her dark eyes looked at me, they told me, “I know you and you know me.”

  I did feel as if I knew her. We had things in common. She was near my age and her features were similar to those of mine that had made Jamie liken me to a cat. Dark, with a pale face and almond-shaped eyes. Just as he had said, it seemed she had languished somewhere for a long time, frozen in the moment of her death, until I had entered the tower room. Longing to be free, she sought my help.

  She stood and leaned towards the windowpane. Her movements were graceful, like those of any slender girl, yet they were at the same time spectral, inhuman. I could feel myself shaking as I went on staring. She placed her palms against the glass and her forehead between them. Then she backed away and pointed to a place higher up the window. I followed her finger to the centre pane. What could she mean, pointing there? I could not ask her, but I hoped her expression might give me a clue. When I looked back at her, she was no longer there.

  I threw back the bedclothes, scrambled out of bed and ran to the window. I was not tall enough to see out of the centre pane directly, and neither had the ghostly girl been. I dragged a chair under the window and stood on it, looking eagerly through the middle pane, my hands cupping my face. Disappointment stabbed me. There was nothing there.

  I continued to look, straining for the sight of anything – a shrieking woman, crows, the girl herself – but the tower room window was very high, higher than the trees. As my eyes grew used to the darkness, I became more and more convinced that darkness was all there was. I stood there, indecisive. Then it came to me what I must do. I got down, flung my house robe over my nightdress and tied the sash with trembling fingers. Impropriety or no impropriety, I would go to Jamie’s room.