Diary of a Painted Lady

by Maggi Andersen

“You are a complainer, Miss Russo, are you not? You may have some wine.”

  “Water, thank you.”

  “Wine or nothing.”

  She wanted to fling it in his face, but she needed time to think–she had to plan an escape from this madman. She drank the red wine thirstily and nibbled on the chicken, aware she must keep up her strength.

  “This is a tediously long trip we are on, Miss Russo. “It will take another two days. We will shortly arrive at an inn for the night. If you behave, I will leave you alone. If you are going to be difficult, I’ll have no recourse but to render you unconscious.”

  Aware she’d been holding her breath, she tried to calm herself by breathing deeply. “Why have you done this? What did I ever do to you?”

  Ogilvie yawned. “I’m tired, Miss Russo. You shall learn it all in due course.”

  “I want to know now.”

  “You do?” He looked at her with cruel amusement. “I don’t believe you are the one in charge here.”

  She shoved the plate away and watched as Ogilvie put it back in the basket. The horses slowed and the carriage turned off the road. Ahead, the lights from a building appeared through the trees. “Good. We’ve arrived,” he said, pleased.

  Gina’s head grew strangely foggy. A sudden cold realization hit her, that the man enjoyed the cat and mouse game he played. She wanted to slap the smug look off his face and promised herself that sometime soon, she would do it. As the carriage approached the inn, she planned to cry for help, but her limbs grew strangely heavy and her head spun.

  Gina came to in darkness. She lay on a bed. Moonlight swam in through the window, filling the room with silvery light. She hastily felt her clothes, finding herself fully dressed with a cry of relief. She jumped up and then staggered. Stumbling and still woozy, she made her way to the door, pulling at the handle. It was locked.

  Shaking uncontrollably with fear and cold, she rushed to the window. It was barred and too small for her to climb through. She looked around wildly for something with which to smash it.

  She seized the chamber pot and bashed at it furiously, but the bars prevented her breaking the glass. Screaming with frustration she threw the thick china pot to the floor. Holding onto the bars, she stared out.

  She was in some kind of rough cabin surrounded by woodlands. The flickering lights from the inn showed through the trees, too far away for her voice to carry, even if she managed to break the glass.

  She used the chamber pot, planning to throw it at Ogilvie when he appeared in the morning. There was water in the basin on the night stand. She washed her face and attempted to tidy her hair that hung in her eyes. Sick and drowsy, she wrapped herself in a blanket and lay stiffly on the bed, listening for someone approaching. She would hide behind the door and try to escape them by running into the trees. If she could make it to the inn, someone might help her.

  Gina woke suddenly. Daylight streamed through the window. She looked up to find Ogilvie standing beside the bed. He reminded her of a big spider. Her heart began its wild pounding. On the table sat a tray with a slice of cold meat, bread and butter and a glass of milk.

  “Is this drugged with laudanum too, like the last meal you gave me?”

  “You’ll have to trust it isn’t, won’t you? Or starve to death. I’ll give you five minutes before we get back on the road.”

  “You seem to have planned this very carefully,” Gina said, raising her chin. She didn’t want him to know how scared she was.

  A spark appeared in his pale green eyes. “Oh, I have.”

  “I don’t understand why.”

  “You have five minutes.” He left the room locking the door behind him.

  Gina sat dizzily on the edge of the bed and drank the milk. “What did he want with her? He hadn’t touched her and she saw no desire in his eyes when he looked at her, apart from that fiery glance when he wished to control her. No one would ever find out what had happened to her or where she’d been taken. She wiped away a tear. Blair would believe she didn’t love him.

  Ogilvie returned with the coachman. “You’ll be a lot worse off if you struggle,” Ogilvie warned.

  The men tied Gina’s legs and hands and placed a gag over her mouth, then wrapped her in a hooded cloak. The solidly built coachman carried Gina along the path. Through the gap in the cloak saw that she had guessed correctly, the cabin lay at a distance from a small white-painted inn.

  There wasn’t a soul around as he laid her on the seat in the carriage. Frustrated, she tried not to cry, as the gag threatened to smother her. She took even breaths; fearing hysteria would take her over.

  They’d been traveling for over an hour. “I’ll remove the gag, if you promise to behave,” Ogilvy said.

  She sniffed and nodded her head. Her hatred burned so brightly that if she could get hold of his pistol, she would shoot him dead.

  He pulled the gag from her mouth, her lips bruised. Then he barely glanced at her, turning to look out the window. He wasn’t interested in ravishing her, she felt sure. And for now he wanted her alive. For what she didn’t know. Although still frightened, a tiny, flame of hope began to burn within her.

  * * *

  After another full day in the coach, broken by two brief stops where she was carefully guarded, Gina grew afraid she would lose her reason. The only hope she had was to engage Ogilvie in conversation. She tried again, hoping to learn something that might help her escape. “Where are we going?”

  He didn’t raise his eyes from his newspaper. “To my home in Caithness. You’ll like it there. It’s magnificent.”

  Did he intend for her to stay there with him? The thought struck a shaft of icy horror in her. She would rather die. She swallowed. “How much further is it?”

  “We still have a way to go. I’d advise you to stop annoying me with your questions, or I’ll replace the gag.”

  Gina lowered her gaze to hide the flash of anger. She would have to bide her time. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  London

  As Horace sat down beside him, Blair threw down the last drops of his second glass of whiskey.

  “Starting without me?”

  Blair frowned and beckoned to the waiter.

  “So it’s like that, is it? Horace asked.

  “If I’m to be thoroughly in my cups by bedtime, yes.”

  “I know of only one thing that would produce this unusual spectacle. Gina Russo.”

  “Too true, my friend,” Blair said dispiritedly.

  “That’s funny. I think I saw her yesterday.”

  Blair shrugged. “As did I.”

  “It must have been her. In a carriage out on the Northern Road.”

  “That waiter’s damned slow,” Blair said, gesturing to the man across the room.

  “I thought it curious. It was the Earl of Douglass’ carriage. You know that old black vehicle, there’s nothing else like it in London.”

  Blair’s eyes widened. “Ogilvie’s?”

  “Indubitably. I’d know that crest anywhere.”

  Blair sat up. “Going out of town?”

  Horace nodded. “I was returning from a few days in Warwickshire, visiting the Mater. Deuced boring place the country is, don’t know why anyone would want to live there. The lady in question appeared at the carriage window for just a moment. If she wasn’t Gina, she has a twin sister. I supposed Ogilvie had the same designs on her as you and has since struck up a relationship with her.”

  “She did say she had found a way out of her troubles,” Blair said, thoughtfully. “No, her exact words were ‘I’m in control of my destiny.’”

  “Doesn’t sound like she has an arrangement with Ogilvie then, she wouldn’t have a shred of control with him holding the strings.”

  “No. He’s a dislikeable man. In fact, Horace, I remember you saying you wouldn’t want to incur his wrath.”

  Horace nodded. “Indeed I wouldn’t.”

  As the waiter approached their t
able, Blair waved him away again.

  “I say,” Horace protested.

  “We need a clear head for this.”

  “Do we? For what?”

  “Things have gone badly for Gina since I bought that painting,” Blair said.

  “Have they?”

  “First, Russo was murdered. Then there was that fire in the theatre where Gina worked

  Horace leaned forward. “You don’t mean to say….”

  Blair leapt to his feet. “Is it such a stretch to presume that Ogilvie is using Gina to get at me?”

  “Well, a bit of a one, perhaps,” Horace said. “Actually, a drink might clear our heads.”

  “Have one on me.” Blair tossed some money down on the table. “I must go.”

  “I say! We had an evening planned. Two lovelies await us. Where are you going?”

  “Scotland.”

  “Scotland, by Jove!” Horace called to Blair’s back as he hurried from the room.

  ***

  Scotland

  The carriage crossed a bridge over a fast flowing river. “Tha’s the River Wick,” Ogilvie said, a note of pride in his voice. “Not long now.”

  Each time they stopped for food or a change of horses, Gina was tied up and gagged.

  “When we get there, lass, you shall bathe and change,” Ogilvie said. “I can’t have you looking like that.”

  Hope flooded through her. He wasn’t going to kill her, not yet at least. Then it occurred to her that he might still mean to ravish her and her spirits sank again. She constantly struggled with her wild emotions, fighting to stay positive. There was always the chance of escape. She must memorize the route the carriage took; she may well have to find her way back to the village alone.

  “The hill of Yarrows.” Ogilvie pointed to stony hills dotted with grass and heather in the distance. It all looked so desolate. There wasn’t a cottage or farm in sight. The coachman cracked the whip and the carriage raced along the narrow coast road. Gina looked down onto the rocks far below and shuddered, if they should lose a wheel…

  The bleak stone castle came into view. It perched precariously on a narrow promontory above the restless, grey sea. A drawbridge lay open forming a bridge across a wide, rocky chasm.

  “When enemies pursued my grandfather, he jumped over this on his horse,” Ogilvie said. His mood had lifted. He’d become chatty and lively as they approached his home. The carriage rattled across the frightening gulf. Below, waves climbed the walls, skittering over rocks.

  They entered the castle through an archway. The sight of the mighty, stone fortress shocked Gina into silence. It was like a formidable prison with small windows and unassailable walls. When they pulled up in a cobbled courtyard, a loud rattling sounded as the drawbridge rose up behind them and sealed up what must have been the only way out.

  A tall Scot came forward and pulled Gina out onto the uneven cobblestones. She tried to steady herself, her legs cramped from sitting so long. What hell was this? High towers built to repel marauders surrounded them. She could smell the salt heavy on the air. Above came the screeching cry of gulls, below, the ceaseless, pounding waves. There was sleet in the icy wind that grabbed at her hair and tore it from its pins, blinding her.

  Ogilvie strode into a doorway and threw his hat and coat at a scowling servant in a grubby apron. “Bring us hot ale and food and be quick about it.”

  Following Ogilvie, the big silent man shepherded Gina along icy, stone corridors and into a barn of a room, its soaring ceiling supported by flying buttresses that reminded her of a church. But that’s where any similarity ended. Alarming battle armor guarded the door. Massive stag’s heads with glassy eyes gazed down from the walls amid crossed swords and shields.

  A fire blazed in the cavernous fireplace. Gina ran to it attempting to warm her frozen, aching limbs.

  “Come here, girl. Some hot ale will put you to rights,” Ogilvie said.

  “I’d like to wash,” she said coldly.

  His eyes flashed. “Certainly, your majesty.” He signaled to the tall servant. “Take her to the privy. Lose her and you lose everything you care about.”

  When Gina returned, she found Ogilvie at the long table already tearing meat from a joint. In front of him were plates of small pies, oatcakes, strange white cheese, smoked fish and some kind of meat.

  She sat down and drank the hot drink. Ogilvie was right it warmed her although she hated the taste. Nibbling at a piece of the cheese and an oat cake, she prodded the meat on her plate with her fork, as if expecting it to rise up and bite her. “What is this?”

  “Haggis.”

  She took a forkful.

  “We make it from sheep’s windpipe.”

  She gagged and put a hand to her mouth as bile rose.

  Ogilvie looked at her with distaste as she pushed the plate away.

  She crossed her arms across her chest.

  He ignored her, eating heartily. When he tucked into the Haggis, she looked away as her stomach lurched. He finished and sat back wiping his mouth. “Well, what do you think of Castle Douglass, eh?”

  “Big.”

  His hand came down hard on hers. “Be very careful, girl.”

  “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” she said, annoyed that her heart pounded so loudly in her ears.

  “Nor likely to see again,” he said with a sneer.

  “I’ve had sufficient. I’d like to go to my room.”

  Ogilvie gave a dry laugh. “Certainly, my lady.”

  He pushed away from the table. “Come along, then.”

  He shoved her ahead of him through a maze of long corridors and up a flight of stone stairs. In an upper hallway, she paused in front of a row of framed portraits.

  “My ancestors,” Ogilvie said over her shoulder.

  “They look a fierce lot,” Gina couldn’t help saying.

  “Oh, some were,” he answered mildly taking no offence at the remark. “Our history is bloody and cruel. We had a massacre in the chapel here in 1308. In 1590 a mistress was murdered and her body bricked up in a wall. She failed to please her master.” He stared at Gina raising his ginger eyebrows. “I believe that in the 1600’s a girl abducted from another clan was raped before she threw herself from the battlements.”

  Gina rubbed her arms and shivered.

  “Night-time sieges and assaults,” Ogilvie went on. “Clan feuds, great raids and the carrying off of cattle, sheep and women are all part of our violent past. There’s even a secret passage leading down to the sea.”

  “Oh, where?”

  “You think I’d tell you?” Ogilvie gave his spiteful laugh and moved swiftly on.

  Finally, when Gina felt she couldn’t go a step further, he threw open a door and pushed her inside. He followed her in and came up to her, placing his hands round her waist. “We’ll have a wild ride, shall we, lass?”

  His meaty breath on her face repulsed her. “Leave me alone!’

  Ogilvie’s hands tightened in a boney clutch and he shook her. “To the bed, come. Don’t make me hurt you.” Weak from lack of food and revulsion, her empty stomach rumbled loudly. “Can I go to the privy please?” she asked. “My stomach’s upset.”

  With a scowl, he stepped back. “There’s a chamber pot under your bed. You’ll agree to my demands more readily after you’ve been here a while.” He crossed to the door.

  After the door closed behind him, Gina slumped onto a straight-backed chair, shaking with relief. She heard the bolt drive home. It shut her in, but it also shut Ogilvie out. Her lie had bought her some time at least. She shivered; the room was dreadfully cold, with the fireplace bare, and very little furniture, except for a four-poster bed with faded red hangings. A layer of dust, thick enough to write her name in, covered everything. As she moved through the room a cloud of dust motes swirled through the air.

  She went to the window and opened it. The wind rushed in, so frigid it made her blink. At least it reminded her that she was alive. But for how long? She perched
on the window seat, gazing out at the drab, grey landscape; nothing but gulls and sea as far as the horizon. Her eyes watered from the cold and she quickly closed the window.

  Resting her weary head on the sill, she allowed herself to cry.

  Minutes later, Gina sniffed, angry at her weakness. This would not save her. Rising, she went over to the bed. A gown had been laid out for her to wear. An involuntary laugh escaped her lips. The dress of purple and green plaid had a very full skirt, gathered in a bunch on each hip. There was also a flounced petticoat and a fur-lined cloak. She pounced on the cloak, wrapping it round herself and snuggling into it, it took her a while to discover there were no other undergarments. Now was not the time to be fastidious, she told herself. She picked up one of the slippers. It felt soft and dry. She removed her damp boots and put them on.

  They fitted, lifting her spirits further.

  Gina went around the room, looking for spy holes or gaps in the wainscoting, but found nothing. She dragged the chair over and braced it under the door latch. Stripping off her damp, rumpled skirt, soiled blouse, jacket, undergarments and stockings, she hastily washed herself from head to foot with icy water from the basin on the bed stand. She shivered with cold, but her skin glowed and energy flowed back into her body.

  She picked up the gown which had a row of impossibly tiny buttons down the back. After wrestling with it for several minutes, Gina managed to do most of them up.

  The sun began to set and the room darkened. Two brass candlesticks sat on the fireplace mantle, but only one with a candle. She lit it and the small glow was reassuring, although it cast shadows over the room, but neither would she be in total darkness. She took the other candlestick with her to the bed and tucked it under the pillow.

  Wrapping herself in the cloak, she lay down, coughing as dust rose. She stared into the flickering, dark shadows and her empty stomach rumbled. Slipping her hand under the pillow, she took hold of the candlestick, which felt reassuringly solid. She kept her eyes on the door but her eyelids grew heavy and she fell asleep.

  A pounding on the door woke Gina from the deep sleep of exhaustion. She pulled herself upright, her head swimming. The candle had guttered. Grey light shone into the room through the window, failing to brighten the bare, grim room. “Who is it?”