‘I’m Emma Falkland,’ she introduced herself. ‘Chay and I are lifelong friends.’ For a moment a guarded hostility masked her candid hazel eyes. ‘I live here,’ she added. ‘I’m “poor Emma” who never quite made it anywhere else.’ The admission was ruefully amused. ‘I help my mother to run the hotel, but perhaps Chay has already told you that?’
‘No.’ Katherine moved nearer to the hearth into the circle of firelight where she could study Emma Falkland to better advantage. ‘He hasn’t told me very much, as perhaps you know,’ she said.
It was no use pretending that she had come here willingly as Charles Moreton’s guest, she thought, for these were his acknowledged friends who would know all there was to know about Sandy and Coralie and perhaps about her own part in this strange adventure. They would have prejudged her as Coralie’s friend and would be ready to treat her as a potential enemy.
‘I know that Chay’s terribly worried about Sandy,’ Emma Falkland informed her almost aggressively, ‘and I can’t imagine what you hope to gain by all this. Surely you can’t expect to win when you have Chay to contend with,’ she added. ‘He’s the most ruthless man I know when he believes himself justified—the complete adversary. Having said that, I suppose I should wish you luck.’ She continued to study Katherine. ‘How long have you known Sandy’s mother?’ she demanded.
‘We went to school together.’ Katherine was tired of so much explanation. ‘She was slightly older than I was and I suppose I looked up to her from a distance, as schoolgirls do.’
‘And now?’ Emma demanded sharply.
‘We met at a party in London a few days ago.’
Emma’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise.
‘As recently as that?’ she said. ‘The infatuation must have been complete!’
Katherine’s steady gaze held hers.
‘You can call it fascination if you like—even a schoolgirl crush—but I felt compelled to help Coralie when I saw how distressed she was. Wouldn’t you have done the same?’
Emma hesitated.
‘I may not be so easily taken in,’ she said, switching on the wall lights as Charles appeared at the outer door.
‘You still have my car keys,’ Katherine reminded him. ‘May I have them back, please?’
‘They’ll be needed in the morning,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been to look at your car, but I can’t do anything. Someone will take it to the garage in the morning. Hullo, Emma!’ he added, giving the older girl a warm, if not to say affectionate smile. ‘How’s the latest sculpture coming along?’
‘Not too well.’ Emma seemed to be avoiding his direct gaze. ‘I’ve had other things to think about these past few weeks.’
‘Of course.’ He turned back to Katherine. ‘Emma is our local artist,’ he explained. ‘She fashions marvellous little animals out of wood and stone which Sandy finds irresistible, but we’re finding it difficult to persuade her to make a proper career of it at present.’
‘How can I do that when I’m mostly up to my elbows in flour and baking powder?’ Emma demanded. ‘Besides, I like being here. “Making a proper career” would mean branching out, going to Edinburgh or London where I would be recognised if I was good enough.’
‘But you are good enough,’ Charles said with conviction. ‘You have a considerable talent which you’re hiding under the proverbial bushel at present.’
‘Chay, don’t exaggerate!’ Emma’s protest was accompanied by an affectionate smile. ‘You know that what I do is quite ordinary and I do it largely to please myself. It’s a grand hobby, making the days pass more quickly, and in the summer months I get to know the tourists who come to the studio to watch. And buy!’ she added with a touch of modest pride.
‘You don’t take yourself seriously enough,’ said Charles, but somehow Katherine knew that he didn’t believe that. Emma was very serious indeed.
Morag Falkland came through from the kitchen to announce that their meal was ready.
‘Emma has set it in the snug,’ she said. ‘We’re only family tonight.’
The intimate meal in the small room off the dining-hall was something Katherine hadn’t expected. Seated between Charles and her hostess with the watchful Emma facing them, it was difficult to relax, although Morag Falkland seemed to be friendly enough. She was a cheerful little woman who had news of everyone for miles around which she dispensed for Charles’s benefit, pausing occasionally to sketch in a background here and there for her guest.
‘Everybody knows everyone else in these parts,’ she explained. ‘We’re a scattered community, but we keep in touch. Distance is no object when we visit, for instance, and when anyone is going to Perth or Oban they generally set out with a formidable list of shopping to do. It has been known for the odd ram to be brought back in the back of a Range Rover, or a freezer or even a suite of furniture!’
It was general information, Katherine realised, with nothing personal to distinguish it from the ordinary run-of-the-mill conversation which could have been expected in a wayside inn, yet underneath it was the suggestion of reserve, a caution which must be largely due to her own presence among them.
Charles was a little more relaxed in his friends’ company, she noticed, probably because he was now master of the situation, but he, too, kept the conversation general as the meal progressed.
‘We’re not quite as isolated as you might think,’ he told her as Morag produced a plate of home-baked oatcakes to eat with their cheese, ‘and we’re busy enough not to worry about it.’
‘Sandy spoke of a place called Glassary,’ Katherine remembered.
‘As I see it, Glassary is Sandy’s home,’ he returned grimly. ‘We’ll be going out there in the morning.’
It had all been taken care of, planned, no doubt, even before he had left for London in search of his son. Katherine looked across the table at Emma Falkland, wondering what part she had to play in the drama of Glassary, but Emma was busy with their empty plates, gathering them on to a tray to be carried into the kitchen when the meal was finished.
‘We’ll have our coffee by the fire,’ said Morag, rising to lead the way. ‘The Forestry boys will be in later on and then there’ll be no more privacy! It’s early yet for visitors,’ she turned to Katherine to explain, ‘but we’re the nearest rendezvous for the Forestry settlement in the glen. They come for darts and the odd dance from time to time, but there’s nothing special this week. Just the usual high spirits plus an argument or two!’
‘Do you mind if I go to bed early?’ Katherine was genuinely tired now. ‘If we’re leaving again in the morning ’
‘There won’t be any particular hurry,’ Charles assured her. ‘We’re almost at Glassary.’
Wondering why he hadn’t gone straight to their destination instead of coming to the hotel, she supposed that ‘almost’ could mean anything up to another fifty miles or even more, and he had been genuinely concerned about Sandy’s fatigue. When the first of the Forestry workers made their appearance she drank what was left of her coffee with undue haste, rising to go. Escape, she thought, might be the better word. Charles crossed to her side.
‘Had enough for one day?’ he enquired casually. ‘It’s going to be noisy down here for a while, but you won’t hear it in your room. The walls are very thick.’
Like the walls at Glassary, she thought; prison walls, shutting out sound.
‘How far is Glassary?’ she asked.
‘Less than thirty miles. There’s no need for you to feel lost. I’ll find you a map in the morning,’ he offered.
‘It sounds remote,’ she suggested.
‘Not too remote. It’s a sizeable house with a village settlement at the head of the glen.’
‘Your own particular kingdom!’ she observed dryly.
‘More or less.’ He looked satisfied with the suggestion. ‘I take a certain pride in it, though part of my time I have to work elsewhere.’
‘In London, for instance?’
‘Edinburgh is nearer home.
I’m an accountant, but Glassary has always been my first love, quite apart from being a splendid investment. I run sheep in the glen and breed cattle to please myself.’
‘And that’s why you want Sandy so much,’ she concluded. ‘You need the satisfaction of knowing Glassary will always bear your name, that you have an heir to inherit all you’ve built.’
‘I don’t think I’ve looked so far into the future,’ he said, opening the door for her.
The hall was rapidly filling with big, tough-looking men, most of them in hand-knitted Aran sweaters and rubber boots up to their knees, looking as if they had just come off the hill. A few had made a concession to convention by donning shirts and a tie, but most of them were heavily bearded and didn’t seem to think them necessary. They were quiet men, ready to relax after a long day in the open, and they regarded her with surprise.
Charles was quite well known to them, but they treated him with obvious respect, although they used his Christian name.
‘Your friends?’ Katherine suggested.
‘I’m glad to say.’ He walked with her to the stairs. ‘We need that sort of contact up here, and you know about friendship, I think.’
It was an oblique reference to why she was in her present situation, she realised, remembering how he had asked what she was prepared to give to her own friendship. ‘Are you an obliging friend, Kate?’ he had asked when they had first met, and perhaps that was what he was thinking about now.
‘Goodnight,’ she said. ‘I hope someone will waken me in the morning.’
‘In case I go off with Sandy without letting you know?’ he queried with a sardonic smile. ‘I have no intention of doing that. Sleep well, Kate!’
He had used her Christian name with a new kind of caution, but she knew that he could not be offering an olive branch. He was still suspicious of her actions in taking Sandy from London, still angry and possibly seeking revenge.
CHAPTER THREE
IN the morning she rose early enough, but someone was up before her. She opened her window to a clatter of pails in the paved area below and the sound of hens clucking as they gathered round the back door. The air she breathed in was cool and sweet, coming straight from the hills with a hint of pine in it, and she saw the trees marching in their neat ranks up to the skyline, clothing the once barren moorland with lush green and the paler fronds of larch.
It was a magic world to discover after a restless night in which she had dreamed of pursuing Sandy and Coralie to the edge of a cliff where she inevitably lost them.
Shivering a little, she washed in ice-cold spring water which had come straight off the hill without the benefit of passing through an inadequate heating system, thinking that it was obviously too early in the day to expect the luxury of hot water and that it didn’t matter, anyway. It was no more than seven o’clock.
As she dressed she listened for the sound of movement in the adjoining rooms, but the walls were thick, as Charles had observed. Yet small children were often noisy when they first woke up in the joyous anticipation of a new day, and she wondered if Sandy had really been spirited away to Glassary in spite of Charles Moreton’s promise.
Finishing her dressing in haste, she pulled open her bedroom door and hurried towards Sandy’s room.
‘Are we awake?’ she asked before she saw that the bed was empty.
The curtains had been drawn back to their fullest extent, letting in the morning sun, but Sandy and his small tartan holdall were nowhere to be seen. Katherine ran to the window to look out. The hens were gathered in a squabbling clutch around some scattered corn, but the yard itself was deserted. Her heart seemed to miss a beat. They’ve gone, she thought. Charles has taken Sandy and double-crossed me!
When he had discussed Glassary so freely the evening before it had all been a tremendous bluff. A vague disappointment struggled with the anger she felt as she hurried down the stairs to the hall below. Someone had cleared up the debris of the evening before and the sound of voices came from the snug, Sandy’s high-pitched treble and a deeper masculine voice which she realised with a surge of relief belonged to Charles.
She found them both seated at the table supping porridge from white, blue-banded bowls.
‘You must have been up very early,’ she remarked, trying to keep the sound of relief out of her voice.
‘Sandy had to feed the hens.’ Charles rose to his feet. ‘Do you take porridge?’ he asked formally.
‘I will this morning,’ she agreed. ‘I suppose it’s the change of air that makes one feel so hungry.’
‘After London,’ he said, ringing the bell on the wall by the fireplace, ‘fresh air and an appetite comes as a surprise.’
Katherine looked at her watch.
‘I thought I might be up before anyone else,’ she said.
‘It’s quarter to eight.’ He pulled out a chair for her. ‘I’m going to take another look at your car—and don’t put sugar on your porridge!’ he warned in a tone he hadn’t used before.
Sandy greeted her thoughtfully.
‘This is the way you take it,’ he said, dipping his spoonful of porridge into the small side bowl next to his plate. ‘It’s—’ He hesitated before a word he had heard often enough. ‘Trinishinal,’ he declared on a note of triumph.
‘I must remember to be traditional!’ Katherine laughed, sitting down beside him. ‘You’ll have to show me how at first, because it seems I’ve been away from Scotland for far too long!’
A young girl in a flowered pinafore came in with fresh porridge.
‘That’s Kirsty,’ Sandy announced, spoon pointing. ‘She helped me to feed the hens.’
‘So I did,’ Kirsty beamed a shy smile in his direction. ‘And now you’ve eaten all your porridge you can have an egg.’
Sandy laid his spoon in his empty bowl.
‘Will I drink the rest of the cream?’ he asked obligingly.
‘As much as you like!’ Kirsty laughed. ‘I’ll bring some more.’
Sandy looked up from his bowl as Emma Falkland came in. She had evidently had her breakfast and no doubt she had tidied up in the lounge after she had finished.
‘I’m going down to the studio,’ she said after she had greeted Katherine with a brief nod. ‘Would you like to come?’
Sandy was on his feet in an instant, taking her hand, and Katherine was quick to recognise the affinity which existed between them.
‘What about that egg?’ she asked. ‘Kirsty was going to bring you one.’
‘I’ll wait till you finish,’ Emma promised, sitting down on the window-seat. ‘Did you sleep well, Miss Rivers?’ she asked.
‘Very well, and I thought I was up first this morning, but evidently I was last!’ Katherine wanted to be friendly. ‘Can I come to the studio, too?’
Emma looked surprised.
‘There’s nothing much to see.’ She hesitated. ‘Come if you like.’
‘There’s the bear with the funny nose,’ Sandy interjected as he battled with his boiled egg.
‘I’ve done something about his nose,’ Emma laughed. ‘Eat up your egg and then you can tell me how much improved you think he is!’
Sandy led the way through the garden to a makeshift shed where Emma evidently worked away from the house. It was full of an artist’s paraphernalia, brushes and old jars and squeezed-out tubes of paint jostling each other for pride of place on the work bench, while wonderfully lifelike little animals looked down at them from the shelves along the walls. Sandy went straight to a table in a corner, standing before it with a look of awe in his round blue eyes.
‘Can I really have it?’ he asked, gazing at the beautifully carved figure of a little bear without actually touching it.
‘I made it especially for you.’ Emma’s voice was exquisitely tender.
When she looked at Sandy her eyes lost much of their hardness and she was no longer cynical. Her work evidently meant a great deal to her and she had carved the little bear with love in her heart. Looking at her, Katherine saw
Emma’s rather plain face transfigured by her affection for the child, a little boy who might have been her own.
Hastily she turned away to examine the other sculptures and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. It seemed as if Sandy had been a frequent visitor to the hotel when all was well with his parents’ marriage and he had been happy and content there with Emma. And Emma herself? There was a strange new glow about her as she spoke to the child which could be a reflection of what she felt for his father.
They’re not suited, Katherine thought—the arty-crafty Emma and down-to-earth Charles!
Emma came to stand by her side.
‘I hear you’re going to Glassary,’ she said.
‘I’m being taken to Glassary!’ corrected Katherine. ‘Charles thinks I’ll be safer there under his command. It’s outrageous, of course,’ she added angrily. ‘It’s going right back to the Middle Ages when people did these things!’
Emma smiled.
‘He won’t keep you at Glassary any longer than he can help,’ she declared. ‘You’ll be free to go as soon as your car is repaired, I understand. Charles isn’t the ogre you appear to think him and he’s far from being the feudal overlord, believe me. He’s a very busy man, as a matter of fact, running an estate and a lucrative business in Edinburgh into the bargain. Don’t underestimate him.’
She turned back to Sandy, who was now clutching the wooden bear.
‘Your work is beautiful,’ Katherine said impulsively, ‘but why are so many of your sculptures unfinished?’
Emma looked thoughtful.
‘Let’s say I’m out of inspiration,’ she decided. ‘It sounds better than having to admit that I’m lazy.’
The bitterness had crept back into her voice, although she still looked at Sandy with a fondness which could not be denied. It would be little use appealing to Emma for understanding, Katherine thought, far less help.
Charles came in search of them.
‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘I’d like to make Glassary before lunch.’
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