“There would be Lance,” she suggested, “and the girls at the flat.”
“Holmes has taken Lance to the Channel Islands,” he said, mentioning the fact quite casually, “and I don’t really think you need to go visiting your tenants, Laura.”
“But, Julius!” she protested, “they are my friends.”
“One doesn’t need friends—intimate friends—once one has married,” he said.
She stared at him incredulously.
“I just don’t see that,” she said. “Gillian and Anne were my bridesmaids. I thought later on, when we were more settled, that they might even be able to come up here for a week or two—if you didn’t mind,” she added tentatively.
“Mind?” He turned to look at her. “My dear Laura, I certainly do mind. I have no intention of letting you turn Dunraven into a hostel for tired businesswomen.”
“Oh!” Laura gasped, unable to believe that they were on the point of quarreling for the first time.
But were they? Julius did not quarrel. He had simply made a statement and it was up to her to obey. He was intolerant, secretive, domineering, she raged inwardly. And then, like an icy hand laid suddenly against her heart, she was aware of something more. It was part of that vague disquiet she had sensed lying so uneasily beneath the surface of their relationship when she had first met Morag Finlayson and had felt the strange reserve in her frank blue eyes. It had something to do with Julius; something to do with the past.
Impulsively she attempted to thrust the disturbing impression to the back of her mind.
“How long will you be away?” she asked.
“Not any longer than I can help.” He appeared to be marshaling the events of the next few days and dismissing them as swiftly as possible. “This is something I did not expect to happen, but I can’t evade the issue. It’s a matter of professional integrity, I’m afraid.” He paused for a moment before he added: “I may be bringing a patient back with me, by the way. One of the nerve cases I spoke to you about. I’ve been seeing him in London and he has agreed to the experiment, but you needn’t worry about him. He will be going straight up to the lodge. I have made all the necessary arrangements up there.”
The shooting lodge lay in a fold of the hills about four miles inland, high up and almost as isolated as Dunraven itself, but Laura had never been there. She presumed that there was a caretaker in charge and perhaps a nurse, but Julius had cut all her enquiries short. His one visit to the lodge had been paid while Morag had been teaching her how to bake shortbread, and he had not spoken about it on his return.
Now, however, it seemed that the lodge was ready to receive its first patient, but that was all she was likely to hear about the progress of Julius's experiment unless he decided to change his mind about allowing her to help.
He took the car with him to the train the following morning, presumably to leave it there till his return, and Laura was faced with at least three days of loneliness.
Curiously enough, the isolation did not seem to matter so much now. She had become accustomed to it and Dunraven was really a charming spot, while loneliness was more or less impossible with Mrs. Finlayson.
Morag seemed to expand as soon as Julius had gone, and they spent hours together in the sheltered kitchen garden where the Highland woman grew her herbs and the delicious raspberries of which she was so justly proud.
“I brought them from Skye,” she explained. “There are no others like them for size and flavor anywhere.”
Laura laughed outright.
“Spoken like a true native of the Misty Isle!” she said. “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Finlayson?”
“I came seven years ago to take care of the old lady at Garvie Lodge,” Morag said almost guardedly. “When she died the family spoke to the first Mrs. Behar about me and I came here.”
Swift color flew into Laura’s cheeks at the mention of Helene Behar’s name. Morag had hesitated for no more than an instant before using it, but she had been quick to detect the reluctance behind the words, the reserve in the quiet Highland voice and the look of watchfulness in the vividly blue eyes.
“Mrs. Finlayson,” Laura asked directly, “were you a nurse?”
Morag nodded.
“I trained in Glasgow before I was married,” she said. “Then, when I was widowed early in life and I had need of the money to support myself, it was the only thing for me to do. It was the job I knew best and loved most.”
“And—Mrs. Behar was your patient?”
Laura asked the question as if it had been forced from her. She supposed she had no right to question Morag like this, but somehow it seemed imperative that she should know the truth about Helene.
“She was my patient toward the end,” Morag said slowly. “I came here in the first place as a housekeeper. Mrs. Behar was a lovely young woman, but she was far from strong.” She gave Laura a penetrating look before continuing in the brief, matter-of-fact way that made all her statements ring true: “She was not the sort of woman he needed. The air up here seemed to sap her vitality right from the first, and perhaps the doctor got tired of her always ailing. He never took her to London with him. She sort of—withered here. But I shouldn’t be saying that to you,” she added hastily. “You’re part of this world. The young mistress wasn’t.”
Laura turned away. She did not want to hear any more. She should never have listened to so much.
“People differ, Mrs. Finlayson,” she said briefly. “We are not all made alike.”
“No,” Morag said, presumably unperturbed by the snub. “And we should be thankful for it. Would you be visiting the MacKellars while the doctor is in London?”
Laura looked at her in amazement.
“The MacKellars?” she repeated. “But—”
“They’re your nearest neighbors,” Morag informed her with a touch of firmness in her voice. “Near as distance goes in these parts. Garvie Lodge is no more than five miles away across the moor.”
The information hit Laura like a pot of cold water flung full in her face. Surely Julius had said repeatedly that they had no neighbors within visiting distance?
“These people at Garvie Lodge are the people you worked for, Mrs. Finlayson?” she asked, serving sugar over the raspberries with a slightly unsteady hand.
Morag nodded. “They have lived there for four generations. Mr. Zachray farms the land. It is sheep mostly. I don’t think he will go away now.”
There seemed to have been some doubt about Zachray MacKellar staying at Garvie Lodge in the past then, although these old families generally accepted the tradition of son following father on the land from one generation to the next Perhaps Zachray MacKellar hadn’t been the eldest son, of course.
Laura thought about the MacKellars a great deal during the next two days, wondering why Julius had almost gone out of his way to deny their existence up there on the moor. She could not understand his reluctance to make friends locally. Friendships, she would have thought, would be essential here.
These two days had passed much more quickly than she had expected them to. She experienced an odd sensation of lying back and drawing breath, almost as if Julius’s lovemaking had exhausted her. It was as if she had been granted some kind of respite, a time to think, yet she could not bring herself to think clearly. Still bemused by the wonder and swiftness of his wooing, she viewed Julius once more from a distance and found him desirable.
She wondered what he was doing in London, what “matter of professional integrity” could have induced him to curtail his honeymoon and go off alone. It would be something of importance, she felt sure. A new honor, perhaps.
She had no idea when Julius would return, but it did not seem possible that he could come back before the following day. Twenty-four hours stretched ahead of her. It was a windless day with a high, bright sun in the sky and a lark singing its heart out far above her. Her own heart lifted at the sound of it and she walked with a light, quick step, taking the only road there was. It penetrated dee
p into the narrow glen that ran down to the Loch.
She had walked for over a mile without seeing any sign of human habitation when, far up on the hillside, she saw the blue reek of peat smoke and smelled its scent after a while, borne on the wind. It was a smell that would always remind her of these first days at Dunraven, she thought.
The hidden house up there among the pines would be the lodge where Julius hoped to bring his patients, but she could not attempt to reach it. Julius had made it forbidden territory, much as he might have put it out of bounds to a schoolgirl.
Biting her lip, she tried not to feel annoyed by the fact, but the thought that she was not entirely free to please herself irked her.
A vague path that was no more than a sheep track wandered off at a tangent, and without thought, she began to follow it. All the way up among the pines the birdsong had delighted her, but here on the edge of the open moor, there was only the cry of the peewit, lonely and rather desolate under a cloudless sky.
But the moor itself held beauty. When she stumbled upon a hidden lochan it was aglow with yellow waterlilies, and heavy-headed reeds nodded in the breeze about its edge. There was color, too, in the bright pink stars of the bog pimpernel and the purple of small marsh orchids close beside the path. The ling was coming out and bees and a dozen species of butterfly were busy above it.
Then, high above her, a dark shape hovered into view. For a moment it seemed to come between her and the sun, shutting out all light, and then she saw it for what it was. A large bird of the hawk type—probably a kestrel—swerved and hovered above an unseen object on the ground. Its wingspan appeared to be tremendous, and suddenly there seemed to be nothing else on the moor but the unidentified plunderer and herself. Her heart began to hammer madly, although she knew that the bird was far too intent upon its prey to trouble her. It rose and swooped and there was a high, terrified squeak of surprise and fear as the unsuspecting victim was carried away.
Laura was too far away to discover what it was, but the incident had unnerved her and she turned abruptly to retrace her steps, only to find the path by which she had come guarded by two sleek gun dogs.
Behind them at some little distance walked a man with a third dog, which he appeared to be training.
“Down, Roy! Down!” he commanded as it sprang toward her. “Don’t worry,” he called when he saw that his command had been ignored. “He’s very young and this is no more than a friendly overture!”
The pup had reached Laura and almost knocked her down, but she was no longer afraid. She suffered the welcome for a second or two before echoing his master’s command.
“Down—good boy, down! We’re sufficiently introduced now, I think!” she said.
When she looked up the dog’s owner was no more than a yard away. At that first meeting she thought Zachray MacKeller small and almost insignificant looking, yet when she looked again she was instantly aware of his eyes. They were wide-set and very dark, with a depth to them like the pool beneath the Measach Falls that first day when she had stood there looking down into it with Julius by her side. They were the clear mirrors of a deep integrity, giving character and individuality to a face that might otherwise have been plain almost to the point of ugliness. The smile behind them was friendly and warm.
“I see you’re not in the least afraid,” he said, “although you had every right to be with Demon and Rauiri blocking your way!”
“I think they were just as surprised to see me as I was to see them,” Laura smiled. “One doesn’t expect company so far up on the moor. As a matter of fact,” she added, “I was rather afraid a little way back. A colossal bird came streaking down out of nowhere, and for a moment I imagined it was going to attack me, but it shot off with something else!”
“It would most likely to be a kestrel—or a hoodie crow!” He smiled, looking at her with frank curiosity in his eyes. “Where are you from?” The direct question could only be met with an answering candor on Laura’s part.
“Dunraven.” She glanced back down the glen. “I’ve come quite a considerable way.”
“Dunraven?” he repeated. “You mean the lodge, of course.”
Laura shook her head.
“No, I’ve walked all the way up from the shore. Perhaps I should introduce myself,” she added. “I’m Laura Behar. We are here on our honeymoon, but my husband has had to return to London on business.”
He stood looking at her, as if her explanation had left him bereft of words. It certainly seemed to have left him without his former friendliness.
“I see,” he said, at last. “I don’t suppose it will mean anything to you to tell you that I am Zachray MacKellar.”
“I’m afraid not,” Laura answered regretfully. “I know so little about you.”
“No,” he said, I dare say your husband forgot to mention that you had comparatively near neighbors at Garvie Lodge.”
Laura flushed, aware of a strong current of animosity flowing beneath the words. She had liked Zachray MacKellar on sight, had felt that he might be someone to be trusted, but if there was some sort of enmity between him and Julius they could not hope to be friends.
“Mrs. Finlayson mentioned that you lived quite near,” she told him, trying to keep her voice from sounding too stiff. “She worked for you at one time, I believe.”
“She nursed my mother until she died.” His mouth when she looked at him was a grim, straight line, but he did not add the information that Morag had also nursed Helene. “We were all very fond of Morag, but we could not afford to keep her. My sister, Cathie, manages the house—when she is indoors at all!” he added with a return of the quick smile that completely transformed his face. “I left her fishing the upper reaches of the burn when I came up here with the dogs,” he added. “Why not come down and meet her?”
Laura hesitated, and while she did so the decision was taken out of her hands. A shrill halloo echoed up from among the scattered birches along the burnside and a girl appeared in the grip of a salmon. Or so it appeared. She was a very small girl, short and dark, like her brother, with long flowing hair swept back from her face that Laura suspected should have been pinned neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. But everything about Cathie MacKellar suggested a freedom only to be found on her native moors, and the salmon was clasped in her arms.
“It’s a forty-pounder, or my name’s not Murdo MacFee!” she cried before she became aware that her brother was not alone. “I gaffed the old devil by myself, too, seeing that you weren’t within hailing distance! Oh!”
She broke off short and stared, as if the last person she would have expected to see anywhere on the moors was a girl Of her own age in faultlessly tailored tweeds with a town cut about them and her hands encased in hogskin gloves.
“Oh,” she repeated a trifle lamely, “I didn’t see you.”
“Apparently not,” her brother said, and then suddenly they were all laughing. Cathie had dropped the salmon on the rough grass at her feet to rub the scales from her hand so that they could be introduced.
“This is—Mrs. Behar, Cathie,” Zachray MacKellar said. “She has walked up from Dunraven.”
Automatically Laura found herself watching for the same look of shocked surprise in Cathie MacKellar’s eyes that had been in her brother’s, but instead she saw nothing but pity.
The shock was her own then. Why should Cathie feel sorry for her? “We had no idea that Julius had married again,” Cathie said quietly, the laughter gone from her face. “Of course, we haven’t seen Morag for quite a time. She went to Skye for a holiday in May and she hasn’t been up to Garvie since.”
“Morag has been kept very busy these past few weeks,” Laura heard herself saying. “We were married rather quickly in London. I—Julius didn’t think there was any need for a long engagement.”
She felt awkward, explaining her marriage away to these two strangers, but Cathie MacKellar was quick to help her over the brief embarrassment.
“Of course not,” she said almost li
ghtly. “They’re not at all fashionable these days, are they?” She shot a quick, challenging look in her brother’s direction which had compassion in it too. “Now that we have met, though,” she added, “I hope you will come to Garvie Lodge. It’s all rather rough and ready, you will find, but we will try to make you feel welcome. You see, there aren’t very many of us living up here. Some people would feel it terribly isolated, but it isn’t, really, if you have friends and lots of interests.”
“I could imagine that,” Laura said eagerly. “You farm, of course, which gives you a very big interest to be going on with.”
“You’d be surprised at all the other things we do!” Cathie grinned. “But come and see! Come any day, just whenever you feel you would like to.”
Zachray was putting the salmon in the game-bag slung across his shoulder.
“If this fish turns the scale at twenty, you’ll be lucky!” he challenged, turning to his sister. “You’ll have to get your weight arm tested, my gal!”
“It’s thirty if it’s an ounce!” Cathie argued. “Anyway, we ought really to hand it over to Mrs. Behar. It has been poached out of one of her burns!”
Laura did not know what to say or how Julius would have handled the situation. This delightful pair were as unconcerned about poaching a salmon as she would have been about picking the little white spears of true heather which she had seen budding on the high moorland half an hour ago before she had watched the kestrel swooping on its prey. They were entirely natural, yet they were in no way lacking in education or poise. This was their country, and at one time there had been no recognized boundary between Garvie Lodge and Dunraven.
Now, perhaps, things were different. She thought of Julius, wondering how he would react to the incident of the salmon, but she was certainly not going to take it back with her down the glen.
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