by Anne Mather
‘What’s wrong with her?’ she insisted, refusing to be appeased by Makoto’s dramatics, and the little Japanese woman finally waved her arms in defeat.
‘See,’ she indicated, gesturing towards Melissa’s head, and guessing what she meant, Alix laid her hand on the little girl’s forehead. It was quite hot, and she withdrew her fingers quickly, looking resignedly at Makoto.
‘Has she a chill?’ she asked flatly, and Makoto shrugged in typically Eastern fashion.
‘My Missy not used to getting feet wet,’ she averred, and Alix gasped.
‘When did she get her feet wet?’ she demanded.
‘Walking yesterday,’ Makoto answered, her hands resuming their normal position within her sleeves. ‘Missy’s shoes not suit English weather.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Alix couldn’t suppress the exclamation. ‘Hasn’t she any boots? Any Wellingtons?’
‘What is Welling tons?’ asked Makoto, frowning, but Alix merely shook her head and walked towards the door.
‘Will you tell Mr Morgan, or shall I?’ she inquired, grasping the handle with all the pent-up strength of her frustration, but Makoto shook her head.
‘No need to trouble Morgan. I take care of Missy. Better soon.’
Alix sighed. ‘Are you sure? Don’t you think she ought to see a doctor?’
Makoto bowed. It was her way of telling Alix that so far as she was concerned the conversation was at an end. Alix hesitated, tempted to insist on getting a second opinion, but then she changed her mind. If it were only a cold, Melissa would be up and about again in a couple of days. If she went running to Oliver Morgan just because his daughter had a cold, he would think her even less capable than he already did.
Nevertheless the cessation of the barely-begun lessons left Alix with more time on her hands, and she chafed against the restrictions placed on her. Could any reasonable person be expected to exist in this state of limbo? How long before Oliver Morgan considered her trustworthy enough to make a trip into the village on her own? If she could just reach a public telephone, she could ring the office and explain to Willie that things were not going to be as straightforward as he had expected. He would understand—so long as he heard something. She need not go into details. They could come later. At the moment, she didn’t stop to analyse her reasons for withholding information.
It rained in the afternoon, which curtailed her plans of going for a walk, and in the evening after her solitary dinner she retired to her room again to watch television. But the following afternoon it was fine, and as Makoto had vetoed any chance of lessons that day, Alix decided to put a plan she had had into operation.
She dressed in slim navy cords and a chunky white sweater, putting on a navy anorak instead of her sheepskin coat. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, and instead of telling Seth she was going out, she let herself out of the heavy door singlehanded.
Outside the air was crisp and sharp, with the smell of frost to quicken her step had she needed it. But the knowledge that the wolfhounds were about somewhere was more than sufficient to send her scurrying across the grass towards the belt of trees that shielded the stables. A boy was in the stable yard, grooming one of the horses, and he looked up in surprise when Alix appeared.
‘Putting on her most charming smile, Alix approached him casually. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Alix Thornton, Melissa’s governess. What’s your name?’
‘Thomas, miss.’ The boy straightened politely, and Alix saw that he was as tall as she was. ‘Can I help you?’
Alix nodded, her hands thrust into the pockets of her anorak. ‘I hope so. I—er—Mr Morgan said I might borrow one of the horses. Is there a mount I could use?’
Thomas looked doubtful. ‘Mr Morgan said nothing about it to me, miss. Which horse did he say you could ride?’
‘Oh, he didn’t.’ Alix smiled again, inspiring confidence if not feeling it. ‘I expect he thought you would know best. I should tell you—it’s years since I did any riding, so I shan’t want anything too frisky.’
The boy still looked uncertain, and determinedly she moved towards the stalls where a glossy dark head was extended. The animal shifted restlessly at her approach, and Thomas hurriedly left what he was doing to interpose himself between her and the horse.
Alix frowned and he said hastily: ‘I shouldn’t come too near Poseidon, miss. He’s an unpredictable beast, and not at all suitable for you.’
Alix halted immediately. She had a great respect for horses, and had no wish to be bitten because of an idiotic urge to prove herself. ‘What is suitable for me, then?’ she queried, and was relieved to see that temporarily at least, Thomas had accepted her story. And after all, why not? Oliver had said she could ride—albeit with himself and Melissa.
Thomas opened another door and brought out a chestnut mare. Smaller than the bold-eyed Poseidon, the mare had sturdy legs and a broad back, and Alix guessed was a much older animal.
‘This is Cinnamon,’ he said, and Alix came forward to stroke the silky muzzle. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble with her.’
‘I’m sure I shan’t.’ Alix was charmed as the mare’s gentle nose nuzzled her palm. ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Is this Melissa’s horse?’
‘No, miss, Miss Melissa rides her own pony. Mr Morgan bought it specially for her. Cinnamon used to be Mrs Morgan’s horse.’
‘Oh!’ Alix was taken aback. She opened her mouth to ask whether perhaps Mr Morgan might object to her riding his dead wife’s mare, and then closed it again. If she started casting doubts into Thomas’s mind now, he might well decide that he needed permission from his employer before providing her with a horse at all, and that would spoil everything. So instead she hid her real feelings, and waited with no small degree of impatience for him to saddle the beast. There was always the chance that Oliver Morgan himself might appear on the scene, and she had no wish to suffer that embarrassment.
Ten minutes later she cantered away across the sloping parkland, heading in what she hoped was the general direction of the boundary fence. If it hadn’t been for the uneasiness she felt whenever she contemplated Oliver Morgan’s reactions to what she planned to do, she would have enjoyed the ride, but she tried, without a lot of success, to assure herself that there was no reason why he should ever find out.
Cinnamon’s pace was steady, and in spite of the lapse of time since she was last on a horse, Alix felt quite at home in the saddle. Her ears stung and she wished she had had the forethought to put on a headscarf, but apart from that the actual feat of riding required no effort whatsoever.
She saw no sign of the dogs, and her hopes were rising when she came in sight of the high fence bounding the property. At first she hoped its height was a temporary thing, signifying some particular section of the boundary, but after galloping beside it for some distance she had to accept that Oliver Morgan had meant what he said when he told her she could not stray off his property.
She reined in the mare, and pulling her head round looked back the way she had come. Faint spirals of mist wreathed and curled from the damp leaves where Cinnamon’s hooves had rested, but apart from that she might have been alone in the landscape. Anger and resentment seethed inside her. There was no other way out of Darkwater than the gates beside the lodge, and she might as well accept the fact.
Cinnamon nodded her head, as if in silent agreement with her thoughts, and Alix patted her neck reassuringly. ‘I guess we have to go back, old girl,’ she murmured, shivering involuntarily, as if the idea of riding a dead woman’s horse in this lonely place invited thoughts of another kind. Digging her heels into Cinnamon’s sides, she impelled her forward again, deciding that the sooner she got back to the limited kind of normality to be found at Darkwater Hall, the better.
But, curiously, Cinnamon began to play up. When Alix tried to urge her back the way they had come the mare showed no inclination to obey her, and instead sidled round until they were facing in the opposite direction.
‘C
innamon!’ exclaimed Alix impatiently, trying not to show alarm. ‘Come along, girl! This way!’
Cinnamon whinnied and shook her head, putting up a good show of disagreement, and when Alix again dug in her heels, she set off at a trot through the trees, taking her unwilling rider over ground she had not yet explored. Alix sighed, looking back over her shoulder at the way they should have taken, and prayed that wherever Cinnamon was headed, she would find her way back to the house before nightfall. She didn’t consider dismounting. They were quite a distance from the house already, and at least on horseback she had a better chance of finding her bearings.
They seemed to go for miles, although Alix guessed her methods of deduction were as dubious as her control over the horse, but presently Cinnamon entered a wood where pine needles crunched under her hooves, and Alix had to duck her head to avoid low-hanging branches and twigs that snatched painfully at her hair.
‘This isn’t the way home, Cinnamon!’ she exclaimed, realising that she needed the sound of her own voice to reassure her. But the memory of what Oliver had said about Darkwater Pool was invading the forefront of her mind. What if the mare was making for the pool? What if she couldn’t persuade her to take her back to the house?
Then suddenly they emerged from the wood on a sweep of hillside where the grassy sward was shadowed by the dark walls of a stone-built tower. Jutting up towards the deepening gold of the late afternoon sky, it evoked all that was pagan and mysterious in this lonely landscape, and Alix shivered again, aware of her own frailty in the face of a building which had stood for hundreds of years. Looking at its stark isolation, she could almost sense the apprehension of the families who must have gathered for safety within its walls, awaiting attack or burning or worse. Horses and cattle would be gathered in the lower courtyard, and above, men and women and children would huddle together for warmth, the smoke from their fires mingling with the pungent scents of the animals. She gazed in amazement at the smoke rising from a tall chimney, and in her ears was the drumming of hooves as a reiver band came on a marauding raid…
The sudden panting breath of a hard-ridden animal and lean fingers reaching for Cinnamon’s reins, set the mare plunging nervously, and Alix, bemused by her vivid imagination, was unable to hold on. It was all over in a moment, and she was scrambling up from the turf when Oliver Morgan dismounted and confronted her. In his dark attire, his dark face flushed with exertion, he was not unlike a reiver himself, and his first words were not intended to relieve that impression. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Alix, still trembling from reaction, was indignant. ‘Don’t you think I should be asking you that question?’ she exclaimed, brushing damp moss from her sleeves.
‘Who gave you permission to ride Cinnamon?’ he snapped, ignoring her protest, and she had the grace to colour.
‘I did,’ she declared, sniffing. ‘Why? You yourself said I should take up riding again.’
‘Not alone,’ he returned coldly, viewing her uneasy defiance contemptuously. ‘Are you aware that you were heading in the opposite direction from the house?’
‘Of—of course.’ Alix continued brushing down her hips and thighs, anything to avoid his scornful gaze. ‘Cinnamon refused to go back.’
‘Really?’ Oliver snorted. ‘What an admission!’
‘Well, I have admitted it, haven’t I?’ she gulped, unable to go on tidying herself indefinitely.
Oliver rescued Cinnamon’s rein and handed it to her, his eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘You weren’t spying on me, then?’
‘Spying on—you?’ Nothing had been further from her thoughts, but suddenly her eyes went to the smoking chimney of the peel tower, and they widened in comprehension. ‘You mean that—that’s the North Tower?’
‘You didn’t know?’
He was sceptical, but she shook her head vehemently. ‘No. If I had, I shouldn’t have been so—well, I didn’t know, that’s all.’
‘What were you about to say?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Oliver’s lips thinned. ‘I think it does.’
Alix sighed, playing nervously with the mare’s reins. ‘I was lost. If I’d known you were—well, here—I should have felt less alarmed.’
‘Indeed?’ Oliver’s lips twisted mockingly. ‘You’ve never given me the impression that you felt secure in my company before.’
Alix bent her head. ‘Needs must…’
‘…when the devil drives, I know.’ He paused, looking at her strangely. ‘As you’re here, would you care to see my—humble abode?’
Alix quivered. ‘I—I should like that,’ she said, but as she accompanied him on foot across the spongy turf, she felt more than ever like the fly that was enmeshed by the plausibility of the spider.
CHAPTER SIX
THEY tethered the horses outside the tower. A narrow door was set into the stone wall, and Oliver unlocked this and went inside to switch on lights before inviting Alix to join him. She did so gingerly, stepping across the threshold into a huge barnlike area, made eerie by the canvas-shrouded blocks of stone and marble that stood like human monoliths between wooden crates and tins of varnish and other paraphernalia. In the centre of the area, lifting tackle was erected that disappeared through a hole in the floor above, and Oliver closed the door behind them and led the way towards a curving stone staircase which ran round the outer wall of the building and gave access to the upper floor.
Alix followed him nervously, reluctantly aware of what a fascinating feature this place would make; and yet curiously unwilling to contemplate making it public knowledge. It wasn’t just her fear of the man himself, although in all honesty she could not be unaware of his unpredictability and of how easy it would be for someone to disappear around here and never be seen again. This tower they were in now, for instance: as they reached the upper floor, she could see the gaping hole in the middle of the floor where the tackle was erected, and guessed that a fall through on to the stone floor beneath would break every bone in her body. But more than ever she was becoming intrigued by this man, and occasionally she found herself wishing she was not here under false pretences. Of course Willie would have something to say about that, but right now his opinion didn’t seem too important.
The upper floor was different from the lower one. Here there was daylight, albeit weakening now as the afternoon waned, coming through two long windows which had been let into the stone wall on the north side of the building. That explained why Alix had not noticed them from the ground; they were on the other side of the tower, and they admitted a maximum amount of light into this unusual studio. There was an unfinished sculpture on a plinth, casually covered by a muslin cloth, and the tools of his profession were strewn about the working area. But as well as these indications of his occupation there was also a narrow bed, unmade as yet, a small cooking stove, and an open fireplace where a dying log fire gave off an inadequate supply of warmth. There was also a steady humming sound, which Oliver briefly explained was a small electric generator.
Oliver let her look around for a few minutes without speaking, standing squarely before the windows so that his face was in shadow, and then he said sharply: ‘Well? Disappointed?’
Alix’s eyes turned from a small camp table on which reposed a half-eaten loaf, some cheese and an empty bottle of wine, and shrugged awkwardly. ‘It’s not what I expected,’ she admitted, glancing about her. ‘Why do you work here and not at the house?’
He moved so that she could see the wryness of his expression. ‘Can you imagine what it would be like, working at the house?’ he inquired. ‘Apart from the noise I make, do you think Melissa wouldn’t want to come and see what I was doing every five minutes?’
Alix shook her head. ‘But this is so—so—’
‘Primitive? Yes, I know. But I like it.’
‘But you must be cold here!’ she protested. ‘Shouldn’t you at least come back to the house to sleep?’
His eyes narrowed mockingly. ‘Why should that matte
r to you?’
Alix pressed her hands down into the pockets of her jacket. ‘It doesn’t, of course. I—I was just stating facts…’
‘I see. I thought for a minute…’ His smile was sardonic. ‘But no matter.’
Alix resented being made the brunt of his twisted sense of humour. ‘Where you sleep matters as little to you as it does to me!’ she stated hotly. ‘And I should be obliged if you wouldn’t imply otherwise!’
Dark eyebrows quirked. ‘That was said with great feeling! Did I imply that? I didn’t think so.’
‘You’re always implying things,’ she retorted recklessly, ‘and probably not only to me!’
He frowned then, and she realised she had said too much. ‘Explain that remark!’
Alix backed off, coming up against the flimsy table. ‘It’s getting dark,’ she said. ‘I ought to be going back to the house.’
He came towards her, and her heart almost stopped beating, but he halted beside the plinth and flicked the muslin sheet aside, studying the roughly-formed marble beneath. ‘What do you know about sculpture?’ he asked, startling her.
‘Not—not a lot,’ she stammered. ‘Mr Morgan, I—’
‘For instance,’ he went on, almost as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘do you know that there are two types—statuary and relief? Statuary being sculpture in the round, so to speak, and relief work being projected from the surface?’
Alix measured the distance from where she stood to the stairway. There was no guarantee, of course, that Cinnamon would take her back to the house, but her instincts were telling her that she had to get out of here right now.
‘Have you ever been to Italy, Mrs Thornton?’ he was going on. ‘No? But you have heard of Michelangelo, of course. He showed that a block of marble could express emotions and feelings just as surely as any painting—that an inanimate slab of stone could be made into a thing of warmth and beauty, that could be touched as well as admired. That’s the real secret of sculpture, Mrs Thornton, the ability to mould…and touch…and feel…’
