Women of the Dunes

by Sarah Maine

“And the treasure itself?”

  “Melted down and sold, I suppose. Talk to my aunt, she’ll remember the old stories. Pity we can’t get her up here to point out where those bones were found, but we could take her those drawings you made, see if she remembers.” Then he gave Oliver his open, engaging smile. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to find you here, Oliver. This is a desert, you know, Mungo and Pa haven’t an intellectual thought between them and there’s so much I’d like to discuss with you. I don’t plan to stay long, mind you, I want to get back to Edinburgh. It’s just throbbing with new ideas there, it’s such— Oh look, splendid! Tea.”

  Oliver turned and saw Ellen clambering over the rocks behind them, carrying a basket, and Alick went forward to offer a hand, taking it from her.

  As she rounded the edge of the ruin, she stopped, aghast. “Whatever are you doing?” she said, a hand on her breast.

  “We’re excavating, m’dear. Like that German fellow did at Troy. Did you read about that, Oliver? Extraordinary discoveries. And he was following a legend too, wasn’t he? Homer, I believe. Just think what we might—”

  But Ellen was staring at the pile of stones in dismay. “But this is a holy place!”

  Alick pulled out a metal flask and two mugs and examined the basket’s contents. “Scones too! Splendid girl. We are being meticulous, don’t you worry, and Mr. Drummond is recording each stage, and we’ve agreed that no burials will be disturbed so there’s no—”

  “But what about the spirits? You’re disturbing them!” The girl shot Oliver a reproachful look. “Why are you allowing him to do this?”

  “It was his idea, actually.” Alick had filled the two mugs and passed one to Oliver, adding cheerfully, “All in the name of scientific enquiry.”

  “But you mustn’t!”

  “Whyever not, m’dear?” Alick sat on one of the boulders and grinned at her, and Oliver was struck by the familiarity with which they addressed each other. “We’re being very respectful.”

  “There were bones found here.”

  “Do you know precisely where, by any chance?”

  “Some say they were Ulla’s bones!” So that was not just Miss Sturrock’s fancy then, Oliver thought.

  “Or Odrhan’s,” Alick suggested, seemingly unaware of Ellen’s stricken expression.

  The girl had clasped her arms about her. “Whoever it is, this is their resting place and they should be left alone. How can you be doing such a thing! Don’t you feel the wrongness of it?”

  She looked truly shaken, and Oliver felt a twinge of unease. He remembered their previous conversation and her flights of fancy; he had thought her simply naïve and credulous then, but suddenly realised that he had no idea how the locals regarded the headland. He should have considered—

  He was still searching for the right words to reassure her when he heard someone else clambering up the rocks. “Is this a private picnic, or can anyone join in?” Mungo Sturrock asked.

  “Only two mugs and the last scone just went,” his brother replied, taking it and biting into it.

  “Perhaps the good Ellen would go back for more,” Mungo suggested, his eyes sliding between them and lingering on the girl. She looked away and gave no reply.

  “Refreshments are for the workers, and we neither want nor expect you to assist,” said Alick. Ellen began collecting the mugs. Oliver sensed that she was anxious to be off, but Alick took his back and refilled it, offering the can to Oliver.

  “Any gold doubloons yet? Pieces of eight?” Mungo asked.

  “Not a one.”

  Mungo sat down on the rocks and seemed inclined to stay. “If I can’t join in, then I’ll watch.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.” Alick drained the mug and packed it away in the basket. Ellen, eyes down, picked it up and left without a further word. “You’re a distraction. Go away.”

  Oliver saw that Mungo’s eyes were following her departure. “Perhaps I will,” he said, “but if I do, what’s to stop the two of you sharing the spoils between you, and cutting me out?”

  “Risk it,” said his brother.

  Mungo laughed and rose, surveying their handiwork. “I suppose I must,” he said, then added: “I count on you, Drummond, to do the decent thing.” Oliver watched him go, feeling a swelling of unease, and decided to keep a lookout for when Ellen might reappear on the sand at the end of the causeway.

  “Ellen’s always been a bit superstitious, you know, and very keen on the legend,” said Alick, “so you mustn’t mind her. I’ll smooth things over when I see her next.”

  “Do you see her often?” Oliver asked, still watching for her.

  “At the house, I meant.”

  “Ah, yes—” And then he saw them both. Ellen was walking fast along the shoreline, half-running, as much as the basket would allow, head averted, with Mungo beside her. Oliver went and stood at the highest point on the headland, where he would be silhouetted against the skyline.

  “What’s the—” Alick climbed up and joined him, and then, seeing where Oliver was looking, said in tones of repulsion: “Oh God! Not Ellen, Mungo, you goat—” Their movements must have caught his brother’s attention; Mungo looked in their direction, and they saw him fall back while Ellen ran on, head down, towards the gate in the garden wall.

  “What do you mean?” Oliver asked, though he could guess.

  Alick gave him a chagrined look. “Mungo can be a bit of a nuisance, sometimes, with the housemaids. Bit of a ladies’ man. Always was. After last time, though, he swore—and, dammit, Ellen’s practically family.” He turned to look at Oliver, a lock of hair blowing across his face. “You know about that, don’t you? About her mother, I mean. Mrs. Mackay?”

  “It seems I don’t.”

  Alick looked embarrassed. “Poor woman’s a by-blow of my grandfather’s. Not her fault, of course, and it’s all rather awkward, really.” He began kicking at the pile of stones, glancing at Oliver and then away again. “What must you think of us? He was a dreadful old goat by all accounts, saw himself as some sort of medieval overlord who could do as he pleased in his little fiefdom. Pa’s had his moments too, from what I gather, but not on the estate, Mama would never forgive him if he did, so when Mungo got one of the housemaids in trouble there was a hell of a fuss. Pa bought off the family and they left, but Mama was furious, threatened Mungo with all sorts. He promised her it wouldn’t happen again.”

  Oliver looked back at him. “And you think he’s bothering Ellen?” He had enjoyed this morning, the chance to cast aside the mantle of his ministry, but he felt it settle heavily again.

  “No, no.” The denial was unconvincing. “He’s just being a nuisance.”

  A nuisance. Oliver continued moving the stones, tight-lipped now and angry. Goading the minister was one thing, but making unwelcome advances towards an unprotected girl was quite another. Especially a girl like that, half fey and with her head in the clouds. The matter needed handling with tact, but with resolve.

  The incident had taken the joy out of the morning, and once the centre of the ancient structure had been revealed, the two men paused and looked at it. “It’s sort of rectangular,” said Oliver.

  “With rounded corners.”

  The middle of the structure, once its floor, was now visible in places, but neither of them suggested that they went any further. Oliver got his notebook out again and they took some measurements, which he jotted down beside his simple sketch, intending to expand it later into a measured drawing. Ellen’s distress at what they were doing had somehow transmitted itself to him, and he began to wonder if they were justified in going any further. Alick had gone quiet too, ever since they had seen his brother in pursuit of the girl, and the incident hovered, unremarked, between them.

  Then Alick said with sudden ferocity, “We used to play together as children, you know, with Ellen, and with the other tenants’ children too. But Ellen mostly, because she lived so close. And then her father was lost at sea and her mother took ill and couldn’t w
ork, and so Ellen had to find employment. Mama took her on at the house, which was rather marvellous of her, I think, and then things changed between us. They had to, of course. She was always such a bright little thing, weaving her stories, but neither fish nor fowl, caught between the big house and the tenantry. It’s been hard for her and her mother, and I’m not sure that my grandmamma did them a favour, really, insisting they were given that cottage; they’d have been better moving away. But with Ellen’s father dead, they at least had a roof over their heads. It’s been a bad business all round—”

  Oliver looked gravely back at him. “For which Ellen must not suffer further.”

  “I’ll speak to Mungo.”

  “Do.”

  And he would speak to Ellen himself.

  Two days passed before Oliver had his chance. He was returning home on the rough track which connected Ullaness to the next bay, having visited the injured fisherman’s family again. It had been an uncomfortable experience; he had been treated with courtesy, but with distance, and he was not sure that his visit had been welcome. The man’s leg had been set but was giving him a distressing amount of pain, and it would be some time before he was fit for any sort of work. What, he wondered, might be the best way to persuade Sir Donald to give the poor fellow some sort of employment? If successful, Oliver might win these people’s trust, although success could serve to further underline his close association with the estate. But something would have to be done, and soon. Oliver had taken them some food of his own and would mention to Lady Sturrock how much another basket would be appreciated. The weather was closing in again and it was cold for May, more like November, and the air was heavy with imminent rain.

  He looked up then, and saw Ellen standing stock-still in the middle of the road ahead of him, backlit by the sun, and he was struck again by the loveliness of her. “I came to find you,” she said.

  No wonder she had caught Mungo Sturrock’s eye.

  He went up to her, and spoke quietly. “And I wish to speak with you, Ellen.” He was reminded suddenly of the painted glass in the Sturrock House library, and of the figure of Odrhan confronting Ulla. “Let us walk back together.”

  Ellen did not move. “You must put those stones back, Mr. Drummond.”

  Her words surprised him. “Ellen, I promise you, there’s—”

  “Some places ought to be left alone! That’s a special place and should not be disturbed.” She looked about her anxiously, as if the wind that shook the yellow gorse and sped the clouds across the skies was driven by a malign hand. “My grandmother says the same. And others too—”

  Her grandmother? Surely— But she must mean her father’s mother, a local woman, steeped no doubt in heathen mythology. He adopted a chiding tone: “Ellen, as a Christian you ought to know better. Excavating the ruin is not desecration, and it’s entirely appropriate that we are furthering our understanding of the early days of Christianity.”

  Her chin went up. “Ulla was a pagan—”

  “Whom Odrhan converted.”

  “Some say she died a pagan, cursing him.”

  What nonsense the girl’s head was filled with! Oliver began to lose patience. “I’ve never heard that said! Not in the book I read.”

  “It’s what people say, though. And writing it in a book doesn’t make it true.”

  Oliver contemplated the fierce creature who stood scowling before him. It was a reasonable point, and Alick was right, she was a bright little thing, but ignorant, and with such an imagination she was prey to foolish fears.

  But was she equally attuned to earthly dangers? “Does Mungo Sturrock make a nuisance of himself, Ellen?” he asked abruptly, using Alick’s bland words but confronting the matter head-on.

  Her face changed colour. “What’s been said?” she asked, stepping away from him.

  “My dear girl!” He put out a hand, but she backed away, so he dropped it. “Nothing has been said. I simply observed the other day that you seemed to be running from him, and I wondered. He has something of a reputation—” Her colour began to return to normal. “You can speak in confidence to me, Ellen. Does he make advances?”

  She was silent for a long time, looking down at the track. Then: “Sometimes.”

  “Did he do so the other day?”

  “He tried.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Not Mrs. Dawson?”

  “No!”

  She was not making this easy, but he needed to know more. Just how serious were these advances? “Does he try to kiss you?” Silence. “Does he . . . touch you?” More silence, and then a brief nod.

  Oliver felt anger rising in him, but kept his voice quiet and calm. “And what do you do?”

  “I get away quickly, and hide.”

  Dear God! But what else could she do? “You must endeavour never to be alone with him, Ellen. Do you understand?”

  She gave a sort of despairing laugh. “But I’ve my duties in the house, sir. I can’t pick and choose.”

  “I shall speak to Mrs. Dawson myself.”

  “No!”

  “Whyever not?”

  “I don’t want trouble, and I’d not be believed. Maria wasn’t. And Mr. Mungo is Mrs. Dawson’s favourite.”

  Maria? Was she the girl Alick had spoken of? He regarded Ellen with growing concern. “But you cannot be expected to put up with—”

  “I’m alright as long as Mr. Alick is at home.”

  This was a surprise. “How so?” he asked.

  “Mr. Alick wouldn’t let anything happen to me.” Her face coloured again, and Oliver was worldly-wise enough to recognise that this was for quite different reasons. Different, but really just as bad, and he recalled their easy manner with each other. Did the poor girl fancy herself in love with him? He thought back to his conversations with Alick, but there was nothing in his tone or words other than a friendly, and detached, concern.

  And yet, with Mungo in lustful pursuit and Alick cast as hero, Oliver feared that between them these two brothers could do Ellen real harm.

  Chapter 17

   Libby

  Libby and Rodri spent the rest of the afternoon sifting through the papers, working opposite each other at the old dining table, exchanging few words. Occasionally they drew one another’s attention to something, or got absorbed by a newspaper clipping or some other item, and occasionally Libby would look up and find that Rodri was watching her—

  The other drawings that he had shown her had been equally fascinating. They were in the same hand and depicted a plan of the ruin with the centre cleared of fallen stones. It too had been carefully measured and annotated, and proved that the ruin had once been cleared. Might it be possible, she wondered, to persuade Rodri to let them clear it again and maybe, just maybe, put a test pit in the centre? She glanced across at him, head down again absorbed in one of the ledgers, and decided to bide her time.

  The papers offered a treasure trove for a social historian, she thought as she waded through old household accounts, lists of game bagged on various shoots, badly written letters from tenants begging for leniency, and gilt-edged invitations from other gentry families. “Someone should catalogue this lot,” she said, as she pulled over another box. “It’s extraordinary. But what was your brother looking for?”

  “Treasure.” She laughed, then saw that he was serious. “He was convinced there’d be something which would lead him to a hoard of Viking gold.”

  “But no luck?”

  He gave a twisted smile. “No. It kept him occupied, though. He was in bad shape, poor bugger, invalided home from Afghanistan with a massive hole in his leg, and his head messed up from things he’d witnessed there. My mother dragged out all this stuff to try to keep him off the booze.”

  “Oh.” What else could she say?

  He pushed his chair away from the table, crossing one leg over the other, and twirled his pen on the green cloth, staring down at it.

  “When was this?” she asked, af
ter a moment.

  “Eleven years ago.” He went on staring at the table, still spinning his pen.

  “But he’s made a full recovery—” she said.

  “Has he?” Rodri’s tone was bleak, and she thought she’d blundered, but after a short silence he answered her. “His injuries healed up pretty well, but he started having periods of depression, interspersed with fits of riotous joy or reckless fury—and always the booze. And then Laila. The two constants in Hector’s life. Laila and the bottle.”

  She opened the next box file, saying nothing, and began to sort through it. This was a troubled house— Then Rodri made an exasperated sound and rose, going over to stand by the window, hands deep in his pockets again, and stared out at the neglected garden. “I should have let her take the damn painting,” he said, as if to himself. “It’s a small price to keep her on board. God knows what she’ll tell Hector.” Still Libby said nothing—it felt too much like intruding. “Wretched woman. She never fails to get a rise out of me.”

  He stood there for a long time, saying nothing; then, still with his back to her, he said: “So treasure was what Hector was looking for, but what he got was Laila and an addiction to whisky, despite my mother’s best endeavours.” He didn’t seem to expect an answer but continued to look out of the window where starlings jostled and bickered on the path. Then he swung round to her. “And what is it that you’re looking for, Liberty Snow?”

  The sudden shift took her entirely by surprise.

  He was looking intently at her, the frown back in place. “There’s something, isn’t there? More than just the dig. And I think it’s time I understood. So, let’s start with this.” He shunted a piece of paper across the table towards her. It was a page of the same yellowing paper as the diagrams of the ruin, and on it, drawn with the same meticulous care, was the chalice, and beside it the cross, drawn front and back and annotated: Discovered on the headland? No hallmark.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? The one we found.”

  It was and it wasn’t. “Not exactly,” she said, after a moment.

  “Quite.”