But it was done, and here she was, and why shouldn’t Dunrannoch be as good a place to hide-out as any. If she only kept a cool demeanour, she could pull off what was required.
It was certainly preferable to having stayed in London with her vile uncle.
Having utilised the pan, Ursula slipped on her coat. She’d nip outside and empty her offering, then give it a rinse in the snow.
Opening the door, she was struck first by how dazzling the sky had become. The clouds had gone entirely, leaving an expanse of brilliant blue and, though still low on the horizon, the sun was shining brightly.
It was hard to believe the mist had ever existed.
The snow, however, was another matter. It must have long-since stopped falling but it lay deep outside—almost to her knees, and drifting deeper either side of the door. She could see where Rye had pushed his way through the powder, making a channel which led off to where he’d stabled the stallion.
Damn!
She could hardly throw the pan’s contents from where she stood. He’d be bound to see the result. Unless she did so and then scooped some snow to cover over the tell-tale yellow.
As she was pondering the best approach, there was a deep, rumbling groan from just beyond the threshold—a lowing, throaty, bovine bray that concluded with the appearance of a huge, shaggy head in the doorway.
The pan seemed to leap from her hand at the same moment as she let forth an almighty scream. The monster, undeterred, pushed its nose forward.
Ursula screamed again, although more with surprise than horror. The beast was an alarming shade of orange and its horns were certainly fearsome, but it was only a cow.
“Out!” She shoved back against its wet snoot. “Off! Go! Skiddadle!”
“Ursula! You alright in there?” Rye’s voice drifted over from somewhere behind the cow.
“Yes. Absolutely fine.” She gritted her teeth.
“A grand dame of a critter, ain’t she?” He gave the cow a slap across the behind, followed by another, making the creature turn its head and shamble round. Another prod and it shuffled off through the snow, lowing disconsolately.
When Rye came into view, he was holding the pan. “Were you throwing this?”
“Of course not! I was just…” She scowled. “It doesn’t matter. Just give it to me!”
“Keep your petticoats straight.” He gave her a grin. “We should move out while we can. Snow’s too deep for them to send the carriage. Train’ll be coming in about now anyways. We can say you came in on it and I found you waitin’. No-one’ll be any the wiser that we spent a glorious night together.”
“We did no such thing!” A flush of heat rose to Ursula’s cheek
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t remember?”
Ursula frowned. She was certain nothing had happened but she’d been very sleepy. He’d promised to be gentlemanly, after all, and everything she’d seen of him so far seemed honourable.
“My apologies, Miss Abernathy.” He must have realised her anxiety for he stepped forward and touched her shoulder. “I’m just teasin’. Your virtue’s intact. I kept you warm; that’s all.”
“Of course.” Ursula smoothed down her skirts and shrugged off his hand. “I knew that all along.” Her tone was more clipped than necessary.
They’d overstepped boundaries in the forced intimacy of the night and, for that, Ursula blamed herself.
It might have been the pounding in her head, or the embarrassment she was feeling, or anxiety over what awaited her that day, but Ursula felt a hollow nausea as he helped her back onto the horse.
A flock of crows rose, cawing above Castle Dunrannoch.
It loomed sheer from the white expanse of the moor—a forbidding edifice of granite, its crenellated towers and sentry walks surrounding a central gate. Far off, to the north and west, mountains soared upward, snow-topped and formidable.
The castle didn’t look as if it would have a great deal of comforts, and Daphne’s warnings came to mind, of draughty corridors and fireplaces that refused to draw. Ursula could put up with many things, but she hated being cold. The idea of visiting Daphne at her own castle residence had seemed rather a lark. Gazing up at the fortress before her, Ursula felt altogether differently.
This was where she’d be spending the festive season—not in London, with the gaiety of shops and colourful street illuminations and every sort of fancy to tempt one. And not with her father.
No one here meant anything to her; nor she to them. It was a sorrowful thought.
Meanwhile, an awkwardness had fallen between her and Rye. He’d said barely a word as they’d drawn closer to the castle, passing through the snowy moorland landscape.
“I s’pose it’d be frowned upon for you to arrive at your new place of employ with my arms around you.”
She couldn’t see his face but he squeezed his elbows inward, making her aware of how closely she was tucked into his chest.
She nodded. It was good of him to think of it.
“I’ll let you ride in while I walk beside.” In a single, fluid motion Rye dismounted, taking the reins to lead Charon from ahead.
They entered under the iron portcullis, its spikes set high above the arching gate. Ursula almost expected it to come rattling down, some force having divined the false pretences under which she was invading these ancient walls, but none barred their way.
Someone had shovelled the snow into great piles, to leave the main courtyard accessible; Charon’s hooves clattered loud upon the cobbles.
Rye guided the stallion towards the stables. “He’s about ready for some hay. I’ll see to him before…”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be fine from here.”
The fresh air had lifted Ursula’s headache somewhat. She unhooked her feet from the stirrups and accepted his hands upon her waist, helping lift her down. He held onto her slightly longer than was necessary, looking at her mouth all the while. The bizarre thought came that he might kiss her and that, if he did, despite everything, she wouldn’t stop him. But the moment passed and he stepped back.
Embarrassed, Ursula cleared her throat. “It was very nice to meet you.” Without raising her eyes to his, she held out her hand for him to shake.
He gave a nervous laugh, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Likewise, Miss Abernathy—and I hope you’ll forgive me…” His voice trailed off. His teasing demeanour had passed and he looked regretful.
A stable lad was already coming out to them.
It was time to part.
Ursula looked around the courtyard. While the exterior of the castle had arrow slits rather than true windows, the interior walls boasted tall panes of leaded glass. Anyone might be watching. She couldn’t tell.
Already, they might have formed an unfavourable opinion of her, watching her and Rye together.
On the far side, a door opened and someone in staff uniform stood waiting for her.
“Goodbye then.” She took the bags and turned her back.
It was time to become Miss Urania Abernathy.
Chapter Nine
Castle Dunrannoch
Mid-morning, 14th December
Stamping her feet, Ursula shook off the snow.
“This way, Miss Abernathy.” The housekeeper, Mrs. Douglas, did not smile; nor did she offer to help Ursula with her bags.
It was hardly the warmest of welcomes but, of course, she wasn’t a guest in the traditional sense. She was a servant of sorts. Mrs. Douglas, no doubt, considered herself superior.
The corridor was most certainly for servants’ use, being narrow and dark. Ursula followed behind. Mrs. Douglas’ silvered hair had been pinned so tight into its bun, Ursula wondered how the older woman could bare it. It was some people’s way though, she knew, to take pleasure in a little stoic suffering.
It appeared that electricity had yet to come to Castle Dunrannoch, for Mrs. Douglas carried a lantern. They made their way to the end of the passage and up a twisting stair, the lamplight revealing worn-dow
n steps and rough stone walls. It was no easy task to carry her bags and ascend but, at last, they emerged onto an upper passageway.
“This is yours.” Mrs. Douglas pushed open a door half-way along. Light filtered through three slim openings in the outer wall but only dimly, despite the bright sunshine of the day. They looked to be five feet thick, the slits deeply recessed.
No fire had been lit, though there was a basket of peat and some kindling. She’d have to see to that herself.
The chamber smelt damp but the bed looked comfortable—boxed on three sides and with a curtain for the side facing the room. Embroidered prettily with cruet flowers and intertwining vines, it matched the coverlet. The single armchair, though it had seen better days, had been likewise adorned with an embroidered cushion. A wardrobe and table—upon which stood the customary pitcher and jug, were the only other furnishings.
“I’ll wait while you tidy yourself.” Mrs. Douglas gave a disapproving sniff. “The countess is in the morning room and will see you as soon as you’re presentable. Don’t take too long about it.”
“Of course; thank you.” She was aware of how rumpled she must look—her hair especially. Ursula reminded herself to smile. It wouldn’t do to get on Mrs. Douglas’ bad side.
Quickly, she changed into a skirt of plain green wool with matching jacket. With her hair repinned, she hoped she’d do.
Returning down the steeply spiralled stairs, they took a different direction at the bottom, stepping through into the cavernous hallway of the castle. The doorway they’d used was concealed within wooden panelling, becoming invisible once closed behind them. Here, the staircase was much grander, of the same dark oak, sweeping majestically to a half-landing before splitting off to either side.
The ceiling, high above, was similarly panelled, while the walls were covered with dusty tapestries, their threads coming loose along lower edges. The floor was cold flagstone, devoid even of a rug. From the far side, Ursula heard conversation. Someone laughing.
That was more like it. Not everything in the castle could be veiled in dismal gloom.
Mrs. Douglas opened the door and ushered her through.
The woman who rose to greet her was undoubtedly the countess. Though it was barely eleven in the morning, Lady Dunrannoch was resplendently dressed in purple silk, with ruffles of black lace at her neck and cuffs. Expertly coiffed, her pure white hair was set off by droplet jet earrings. She cut a striking figure. Clearly, she’d been a great beauty in her time, carrying herself with the bearing of one accustomed to admiration.
The room meanwhile, bore none of the austerity of the entranceway. Here were signs of the Yuletide season, for wreaths of bright-berried holly and twining ivy, spruce and pine swagged the rafters and mantlepiece.
A huge fireplace filled a portion of the inner wall, its grate stacked high and producing a considerable amount of heat, before which lay a rather despondent looking wolfhound, its head down on the rug.
Every available section of wood panelling had been adorned with the head of a stag, and there were perhaps fifty in all, encircling the room, looking down on the assembled women of the family, the faces of whom were turned to appraise the newcomer.
Lady Dunrannoch inclined her head, peering at Ursula with slight puzzlement before collecting herself to make introductions and Ursula found herself obliged to drop multiple curtsies.
“The Dowager Countess,” began Lady Dunrannoch.
Of most ancient years, the lady in question—hunched in her chair and wearing a dress out of fashion these forty years—gawked beadily at Ursula before returning her attention to a plate of cake upon her lap.
“Lady Arabella Balmore and Lady Mary Balmore—widows to my dearly departed step-sons, and my step-daughter, Lady Iona.” They stared at Ursula with interest, the two Lady Balmores sharing a furtive glance with eyebrows arched.
“And my five granddaughters, Ladies Fiona, Bonnie, Cora, Elsbeth and Blair.” The young ladies varied in age from perhaps sixteen to twenty.
“Lady Iona’s son, Cameron, is attending to business in Pitlochrie but you’ll meet him soon. The earl, sadly, is recovering from a head cold and confined to his room at present.”
“Do have a seat, Miss Abernathy.” The countess indicated a space on the sofa opposite, upon which was a liberal sprinkling of orange hair.
The ginger cat sitting at the countess’s feet paused from licking its paw to give Ursula a look of disdain.
“Some tea? I expect you’re gasping for a cup after your arduous journey. Really most kind of you to come at such short notice.”
The countess turned to the maid standing to one side. “More hot water, Winnie.” She waved her hand at the platters set upon various tables about the room. “And shortbread. See if Mrs. Middymuckle has any of her drop scones for us, if you please.”
“Thank you.” Ursula accepted a mince pie. Being quite ravenous, she took a large bite but, brimming with hot sultanas, it burnt her mouth, causing her to splutter.
Two of the younger girls tittered.
Lady Dunrannoch merely added a lump of sugar to her own cup and stirred vigorously.
“I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable here, Miss Abernathy. We’re rather lacking in modern conveniences—still using oil lamps and candles, since we haven’t the electricity here. There’s no telephone of course, though we go to town every few weeks or so. You can post letters from there, or send a telegram.”
Producing a sardine from her sandwich, she reached down to offer it to the cat, who accepted with utmost daintiness, its sharp, white teeth closing around the morsel.
“McTavish has a delicate constitution.” The countess beamed down at the generously proportioned cat, now wiping its whiskers on her skirts.
She gave a tinkling laugh.
“It was a condition of my marrying the earl that he have decent plumbing installed, so we don’t want for hot water, at least. Apart from that, Castle Dunrannoch is little changed since the days of Robert the Bruce. He’s said to have stayed here, you know, in 1306, shortly before his crowning.”
The dowager stirred, looking up from her fruit cake. Her voice rang out with remarkable force, her eyes suddenly blazing. “Hosted by Camdyn Dalreagh, the Wolf of Dunrannoch, whose ghost walks among us still.”
She leant forward, her gnarled fingers grasping the armrest of her seat.
“The curse is upon us! Beware the bagpipes! Each clansman shall meet his death!”
“Now, now, Flora! Enough of that.” The countess patted the old woman’s hand, then turned to Ursula with apologetic eyes. “The dowager sees the supernatural in everything. Of course, there’s no denying that the castle has a grisly history—bodies holed up in the walls and what have you, but there’s a chair on the upper passageway that she declares is possessed by the spirit of her old Pekinese. She leaves out a tidbit on the cushion every night and swears blind it’s the spectral visitation that polishes it off.”
McTavish stretched and yawned, then leapt to sit on the Countess’ lap, looking decidedly smug.
“As for the curse, it’s all nonsense. Lyle McDoon, being a lecherous old reprobate, was refused the hand of Camdyn’s youngest daughter, and vowed that every male heir of the Dalreagh line would perish an untimely death.” She rubbed McTavish’s ears. “Of course, ‘untimely’ is a bit vague. The earl is nearly eighty, after all. As for the bagpipes, it’s said that Camdyn plays them on the battlements on the eve of one of the clansmen meeting his end.”
She looked over at the Lady Balmores, both of whom were looking rather pale. “Forgive me, my dears. A sensitive subject, I know.”
“Now, Miss Abernathy.” She turned again to Ursula. “I must say that you’re considerably younger than I was led to believe. Lady Forres indicated that you’d many years’ experience.”
“Ah well. Actually, I’m thirty-eight. I just look rather younger.” Ursula bit her lip. Truly, God would strike her down for the lies she was telling. A bolt of lightning was sure to come
down the chimney and smite her on the spot.
“Goodness me!” exclaimed the Countess. “Another day, you must tell us your secret.”
With eyes downcast, Ursula selected a liver paste sandwich. She’d save some ash from the fire and draw on a few wrinkles before she next joined the family.
“And what an unusual accent you have, Miss Abernathy. Which part of Scotland did you say you’re from?”
Ursula gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, my accent?”
Clearing her throat, she emulated the rhythms of the countess’ own gentle lilt. “It comes and goes. For my work, you see, I need to soften my native brogue. Our seat is to the south but I haven’t ever lived there. My father having married against the wishes of his family, we’ve moved about rather a lot.”
“Ah, a love match.” The countess nodded. “Such as between the earl and myself. Second marriages are advantageous in that respect, though our union came too late for me to provide dear Dunrannoch with more children. A man may remain virile to the end, but we ladies ripen younger on the vine.”
She looked wistfully towards the fire. “Fortunately, Dunrannoch married me without expectation of our passion bearing fruit.”
One of the Lady Balmores coughed loudly and offered Ursula the plate of macaroons. “I believe you were most recently with Baron McBhinnie, of the Kilmarnock McBhinnies? A most respected family.”
Ursula felt the colour rising to her cheeks. She really must guide the conversation onto something through which she could weave some semblance of the truth. “Ah yes, the McBhinnies! But it was my previous family that I vouch to know best—the Surrey Arringtons. Three young ladies all most keen on music and riding.”
“Indeed.” Lady Balmore eyed Ursula over the rim of her teacup, looking as if she didn’t believe a word of it.
The countess cast her eyes over the assembled party. “My darlings, if you’ve finished, might I have some time alone with our guest? Fiona and Bonnie, would you escort your great-grandmother back to her room. And, Cora, perhaps you’ll find young Lord Balmore and ask him to join us. I must introduce him to Miss Abernathy, and we can discuss her various duties together.”
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