‘You are a truly evil man,’ I said slowly.
‘It is said to be one of my charms,’ he replied lightly. ‘I suggest now that we agree on some explanation for these marks on my face. I think I will maintain that I fell from my horse into a rather unpleasant tangle of gorse. Would that suit you?’
I turned away, looking over the ravine to the dark roofs of Creagdhubh. He let go of Hazel’s bridle, knowing that I had no choice but to agree.
As we rode back to the bridge he said softly, ‘You’ve got a good hand with a riding crop, Elspeth. A pity you won’t reconsider. I like my women with a bit of fight.’
That evening at dinner, there was a great deal of merriment over Roderick’s unfortunate fall in the prickly gorse.
Chapter Eleven
In London, a ball was the event of a single evening. In the Highlands, where guests came from great distances and the journey, rather than being a short carriage-ride, was more like a long and arduous crossing of open country, a ball encompassed days and days.
A full week remained before the night of the Creagdhubh ball, but already the guests were arriving. Uncle Iain’s carriages rumbled down the hill road to meet the docking steamer each day, and returned filled with new arrivals and their plentiful luggage.
The public rooms of Creagdhubh were soon full of handsome young men, many of them young army-officers, in their regimental kilts, and with them their ladies; pretty young wives, and clusters of young girls in silk gowns. Here and there some elderly matron watched over the flock like a maroon-velvet hen, or nodded to sleep by the fire, to the whispered delight of the young.
Upstairs, the many long-disused guest bedrooms were opened one by one, until all the big house was filled with life, like a great, slow-wakening animal.
For the first day or two of that week I tried my best to maintain Rowena’s routine of morning lessons, but soon I gave up entirely. Her mind was simply not on her work, and I really could not blame her. Once released, she flitted off to the drawing room like a homing pigeon and could soon be found on the arm of one or another young officer.
However, Roderick had only to enter the room and she was away to his side, her slim arm possessively linked in his. Again, not without justification, for the house was full of beautiful women and Roderick had not been the last to notice.
Many of the guests were themselves relatives, cousins close and distant, and cousins by marriage; indeed in this interwoven, close-knit society, it was difficult not to be related. There were Grants from Errogie, and Grants from Glen Urquhart, as well as MacKenzies from Fort Augustus, whose families were linked with Duncan’s own. Others came from Inverness and Beauly, and others from even farther. It was a gathering of folk who had not seen each other since the season in London or even since the previous summer at some other Highland house, and the talk was of old times and old friends.
Uncle Iain introduced me to Mr. Bradley Martin, who came across the loch with his wife, from the great Balmacaan House in Glen Urquhart. Though he shared my name, he had no ties with my family, for he was not even English, but an American. He was a great, round jovial gentleman, popular with all around him. I had long heard of the splendour of Balmacaan House, with its private gasworks for lighting, and how the Martins leased an entire train to bring their entourage, complete with carriages and carriage horses, up from London each spring. Even on the steamer when I first came to Creagdhubh, other passengers had pointed out the great grey house in the centre of the glen with its tall background of imported redwood-trees.
The weather was kind to us that week, and the days were taken up with gay rides on the hills, followed by long, hearty luncheons. In the afternoon, the girls dressed in their frothy, summer frocks and strolled in the formal gardens. Later everyone took tea on the lawn.
It was as much a holiday for me as it was for everyone else, and I admit I enjoyed myself. Duncan however was in the midst of the summer’s work on the high pastures, and I did not see much of him.
When he did appear, for dinner, I sensed that the elegant but frivolous company was not entirely to his taste. He was polite, but withdrawn and quiet. And so, indeed, was Uncle Iain. Roderick however was in his own element. He was well known by the guests, and obviously well liked. He talked with gay animation, surrounded always by a wide audience of appreciative men and women.
It was not only Uncle Iain who trusted and respected him. He had friends everywhere.
On one such occasion, when Roderick was holding court in the drawing room with Rowena at his side, I slipped away early from the gathering. I was missing Duncan and not really enjoying Roderick’s wit.
The door was slightly ajar, and as I stepped through it I almost walked right into Gordon. He had been standing in the corridor, watching through the door, his troubled eyes lit with an odd, angry fire as he stared at the circle of admiring women clustered around his cousin.
‘Why don’t you go in, Gordon?’ I said awkwardly. As always, he made no reply to me, and I wished I had not spoken. He turned and walked quickly to the library, entering and slamming the door shut behind.
I had made use of the generous wage Uncle Iain insisted on paying me, and had a dress made by the village dressmaker. Contrary to Rowena’s complaints, I had found her sense of classical style pleasing, and her careful workmanship worthy of the fashion houses of London. The dress was a simple style of tight bodice and flowing skirt, done in a soft, sea-green silk which I hopefully imagined to bring out the traces of green in my eyes.
On the evening of the ball, Catriona, enjoying the occasion as much as myself, found difficulty containing her excitement in her limited English vocabulary, and from time to time burst its bounds into delighted Gaelic. She piled my hair high with elaborate skill, leaving a few soft neck-curls over one shoulder. I was most pleased with the effect, and went to find Rowena.
She was standing before the floor-length mirror in her room, and looking like a Celtic princess. Rowena had an aesthetic sense to match her beauty. She knew how to dress; what colours to choose to flatter her dramatic features, and what styles most suited her graceful body.
She had chosen to dress tonight in the formal Highland manner. Her gown was white, simple, long-sleeved with a plain, high collar. Her hair was drawn back and loosely tied, so that it fell luxuriantly to her waist. Over her shoulder was flung a brilliant sash in the glowing colours of the family tartan, pinned at the shoulder with a silver shield. The loose ends of the sash were drawn together again at the waist and fastened there so that the fringed tips fluttered gaily on her skirt as she moved.
She whirled for me, so the white skirt lifted on its petticoats, and her black hair tumbled over her shoulder. She shook it back and said, ‘Do you like it?’
‘Of course I do,’ I replied. ‘It is simply beautiful.’ She smiled, satisfied.
‘You look very nice too, Elspeth,’ she added, and I was pleased because any compliment from Rowena was a rarity, and I knew she must mean it.
‘Shall we go down?’ she said, linking arms with me in an extraordinary display of camaraderie.
‘Indeed,’ I said, and like sisters we went down to the hall.
Once there, our relationship returned to normal. To Rowena, women were, foremost, rivals, and as she spotted two of her many suitors of the past week, she released my arm and was away to them with a haughty swish of silk.
I was about to follow her to the grand ballroom which until now had been a cold shell in the far west wing of the house. Tonight however the huge fires and the many-candled chandeliers had been lit, and the whirling music of the fiddle drifted to where I stood below the main staircase. But as I turned a voice called, ‘Elspeth.’
I whirled. It was Duncan, standing quietly in the shadow by the drawing room door.
‘Come,’ he called to me, ‘let us not be spoiling Miss Rowena’s entrance,’ he said, his voice both amused and ironic.
‘I did not see you there,’ I said.
‘Och, well, we were all s
o dazzled by the sight of her ladyship,’ he grinned.
‘Duncan, you must not be unkind. She does look very beautiful.’
‘And she does know it,’ he answered, still grinning. He stepped out of the shadows, and took my hands. He looked very elegant in Highland evening dress, the black velvet and white lace contrasting with his ruddy hair. He took from his ornate, fur-trimmed dress sporran a small box and handed it to me.
‘It is for you, Elspeth,’ he said, ‘because I love you and I want to marry you.’
For a moment I stood astounded, wordless. Then forgetting myself completely I flung myself into his arms, my own wrists crossed behind his neck as I kissed him, improperly and passionately in the great hall of Creagdhubh.
I heard a noise and drew back, and saw over Duncan’s shoulder the sturdy figure of Mr. Bradley Martin descending the staircase. He winked broadly at me, his amusement at my embarrassment evident in a wide grin, and I watched wide-eyed as he carefully directed his lady’s attention elsewhere and swept her quickly from the hall, turning to wave a cheery farewell.
Duncan, his back to the stair, never realized we had been observed. He bent his head to kiss me again.
‘No,’ I said, quickly. The next person down the stairs might not be half so open-minded.
‘You have not changed your mind?’ he said, concerned.
‘Of course not,’ I replied happily. ‘But we mustn’t. Not here.’
‘Och well,’ he said, resigned to the rulings of propriety.
‘But wait,’ he added. ‘You’ve not seen your gift.’ The small box, still unopened, was clasped forgotten in my hand.
‘Oh, I must see,’ I said, reverting momentarily to the child’s delight in a wrapped parcel. I tore off the paper and opened the little box. It contained a silver chain with a silver cross, a Celtic cross with the short, high cross-bar on the long vertical giving it the shape of the Christmas star. It was heavy native-silver and set into the bars were five softly green stones.
‘It is lovely,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much.’ He smiled and fastened the chain around my neck, stepping back to admire the effect of it against my green silk gown.
‘It is an Iona cross,’ he said then. ‘The stones come from the holy island of Iona, west of Mull. They will protect you crossing water.’ He said the last very slowly, as if it had some special meaning to him, and he shook his head slightly, as if to shake away some strange haunting vision that had come upon him.
‘What is it, Duncan?’ I asked, disturbed.
He was silent and troubled and then he said again. ‘It will protect you.’ And he would say nothing else.
We walked arm in arm down the candlelit corridor to the wide double doors of the ballroom. We stood in the doorway, looking through at the gleaming panelled walls, reflecting light from the two great fires, and the tiers of candles. The evening was still light, the long summer dusk showing blue and soft through the half-drawn green velvet curtains.
Tables covered in fine white linen had been arranged around the edges of the room, leaving in the centre a wide expanse of polished oak for dancing.
Uncle Iain stood at the fire with a group of gentlemen who appeared to be contemporaries. They sipped from glasses of malt whiskey and watched the young people on the dance floor.
Most of the ladies were dressed, classically, in white gowns draped with tartan sashes, though none in the room wore the elegant costume with quite the flair and beauty of Rowena. They were rivalled by their gentlemen in the brilliant colours of their dress tartan kilts, their short Montrose jackets in dark velvets set off with splashes of white lace at collars and cuffs. Everywhere there was the glint and glisten of silver; the buttons of the gentlemen’s jackets, the ornate clasps of their horsehair and beaver sporrans, their heavy belt-buckles, all caught the light of the candles and flames.
In one corner of the room the orchestra waited, with fiddle and concertina, drums, and of course Donald Ban, the piper, a young man from the village whose skill with that difficult instrument earned him much respect.
At a signal from Uncle Iain, Donald Ban stepped forward and called the first dance, an eightsome reel. There was a quick scurry on the floor as sets were formed, and two Cameron Highlanders, their ladies in tow, descended on Duncan and myself, hustling us onto the floor.
I gave grateful thanks in my mind to Miss Pringle’s devotion to our good Queen which extended into a shared interest in Victoria’s fondness for all things Scottish. The result was the inclusion of Scottish country dancing in the required course of ballroom dancing at the academy. It had been a while since my last eightsome or strathspey, but I knew the figures and the steps.
The two young officers were casting eyes about the room, seeking a fourth couple for our set, when through the bright crowd of people strode Roderick, Rowena by his side. Roderick rarely wore the kilt, preferring the more modern English styles of dress. But for this more formal occasion he had adopted the traditional Scottish manner. Highland evening dress suited all men; the elderly and portly looked distinguished, the young looked dashing. Roderick brought his own lithe elegance to the costume, and as he and Rowena came through the room to us, men and women turned simply to watch.
‘Jolly good,’ said one of the young officers, ‘you can make up our set.’ He was a boisterous young man, with a round, happy face and he busily organized us into position. Roderick and Rowena stood waiting while we all lined up around them. They were the first couple, ourselves the third, and I found myself facing Roderick’s taunting smile across the floor.
A rich chord sounded from fiddle and concertina, and we bowed and curtsied to our partners and corners. Then the music whirled up and we were away, swinging and turning, hand to hand, the step light and the pace a good deal faster than at Miss Pringle’s. When the grand chain brought me to Roderick, he whirled me an extra time and spun me close against him before releasing me to my next partner.
I was glad that Duncan had not seen; I hardly wanted a fight over my honour in Uncle Iain’s glittering ballroom. As it was, they treated each other always with the bristly awareness of two warring collie-dogs.
We danced reel after reel, eightsomes and foursomes. We danced strathspeys and jigs; the Dashing White Sergeant, Strip the Willow, The Gay Gordons, The Duke of Perth. We danced until we were exhausted and panting, the fiddle singing high and wild, the tunes faster and the dances freer, till there were whoops of excitement from the men and one plump young girl slipped, and slid giggling on the floor in a flutter of curls and petticoats. There were approving cheers from the gentlemen and shocked eyebrows from the dark circle of rounded matrons and maiden aunts, one of whom escorted the still-giggling young lady to the propriety of a neat white table.
The music broke in a final chord, and both musicians and dancers retired for refreshments. A long table had been spread with a bountiful feast of delicacies; smoked salmon and trout, game birds in aspic, fine caviars and other imports. Duncan led me to a table and served me with a tempting platter from the table and glasses of champagne.
Donald Ban, ‘Fair Donald,’ stepped forward, and the light of the fire shone on the blond, curling hair that had given him his name. He carried his bagpipes under his arm, and now he flung the tasselled drone-pipes over his shoulder and filled the bag with air so that it gave forth a loud, toneless shriek. Everyone turned silently to watch as Donald Ban stepped out into the room, his fingers light on the chanter, and began to play.
The sound was strange and sad, almost oriental, and as it rose and filled the vast room it seemed to have a power to make feet move and bodies sway with the keening tone of it. The steady notes of the drones sank into the marrow of one’s bones and all of one’s spirit wanted to be with the piper who strode with measured steps to the rhythm of his own music.
Then the tune changed, something gay and reckless came into it, feet began to stomp and one or two couples whirled onto the floor in time. Donald Ban paced the hall, his step light, his kilt swaying, the tassels
of the drones swinging to his rhythm. I thought of a cockerel parading with its fine, curling plumage, and its proud, sure step.
I did not see Roderick when we next took the floor, and another couple made up our set. Rowena was dancing prettily with her father, and the sight made me happy. I was glad to be free of Roderick, though I wondered where he could be. I searched the room with my eyes, and as I did I realized with a start that I had not seen Gordon all evening. I felt a brief flare of anger; surely he could have at least appeared for his father’s sake. Then I reminded myself that an event such as this, the first since his mother’s death, must be filled with haunting memories, and had undoubtedly proved too much of a strain for him.
A little later in the evening, Roderick reappeared. I was standing with two of Rowena’s young cousins, whose home was across the hills near Errogie, and discussing some aspect of life in London, when the little orchestra took up the strains of a tune in the new waltz-time.
One or two younger couples began the new dance, though most refrained, and I hardly expected Duncan to attempt it.
Then suddenly Roderick was beside me, bowing, his hand reaching for my own. He ignored my attempt to decline, and knowing that further protest could make an awkward scene, I let him lead me onto the floor, watched by the two girls with open envy.
The waltz was neither as new nor as daring in London as it was in the north. I knew the dance, and was in that way at ease as Roderick whirled me off across the gleaming, nearly empty floor.
Roderick was a superb dancer and I realized that the eyes of half the people in the room were on us. I was in a way thankful; I knew he could not do anything shocking. But I was dimly aware of Duncan standing alone, watching, and also of Rowena, impetuously shaking off the attentions of some haplessly adoring young man, her black eyes never leaving us.
Christabel's Room: A spellbinding Victorian gothic romance Page 11
