Chapter Three
The Strachans lived in a new house of three bays, at the top of the village, and as a sign of their increasing gentility it was at some distance from Mr. Strachan’s commercial establishment. Though the evening was still light and fine, and would be for some hours yet, lamps had been lit in the windows and the hallway was warm and welcoming.
Mrs. Strachan greeted them with cool grace, and Dr. Napier presented Mr. Strachan to his new wife. Strachan was smart and sharp, with black hair and whiskers, and dressed as fashionably as his wife. His smile was welcoming but, Hippolyta felt, assessing: she thought she had been costed from cap to slippers.
Upstairs in the drawing room, Mrs. Kynoch was already in residence, in an evening gown in a shade of lemon Hippolyta did not feel she should have risked. A feather which almost matched peeped out of a red turban on her busy head. She greeted Hippolyta with a pleased expression on her silly face and offered her squeaky congratulations to Patrick.
‘And I daresay you have already met Dr. Durward,’ Mrs. Strachan gestured to the doctor, handsome in evening dress. Hippolyta curtseyed. ‘We are a small party, as you see, Mrs. Napier: that tends to be what is preferred in Ballater.’
Hippolyta thought she caught the least twitch in Dr. Durward’s eyebrow, but she was not sure what comment he was making.
Slim glasses of sherry were distributed, and Mrs. Kynoch leaned across to ask Hippolyta if she had met anyone else in the village yet.
‘I have met the minister and his wife, and the Misses Strong were kind enough to call, too. Everyone has been extremely friendly,’ she added politely.
‘It’s a friendly town,’ Mrs. Kynoch agreed. ‘Usually,’ she added, as if to herself. Hippolyta glanced round at her: she seemed to be looking at her host, Mr. Strachan, who was listening to Dr. Durward tell some kind of amusing story.
‘And last night Colonel Verney invited us for supper.’
‘Did he?’ Mrs. Kynoch turned to her in mild surprise. ‘The Colonel does not entertain very often. Of course, you are fellow members of the English church, so I suppose that encouraged him to honour you.’
Dr. Durward’s story ended, and Patrick and Mr. Strachan laughed with him, just as a servant entered to say that dinner was served. Mr. Strachan stepped across to offer Hippolyta his arm, while Dr. Durward led Mrs. Strachan without looking at her. Patrick was left with Mrs. Kynoch, which did not appear to disconcert him – though lemon, Hippolyta thought fondly, was definitely not his colour.
Dinner would not have disgraced any Edinburgh New Town table, and nor would the setting, where every piece of silver and glass and china was brand new and shiny.
‘Did I hear you say that Colonel Verney had honoured you with a supper invitation?’ asked Mr. Strachan in the course of conversation. Hippolyta was surprised he had heard her across the drawing room.
‘Yes, indeed. We had a lovely evening.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ There was a slight edge to his voice.
‘Yes: Miss Verney has a lovely voice, and performed very well.’
‘I’ve never heard her,’ said Mr. Strachan without interest.
‘And we met the cats!’ Hippolyta felt she was struggling with this conversation. ‘His manservant has a white cat with six charming kittens.’ She glanced at Mr. Strachan but there was no response. She turned a little to the rest of the table. ‘It was most amusing, for they are very lively little things, and one of them had found a way under the floorboards in the kitchen! Forman had had to pull them up to rescue it – and then he very generously gave me the kitten! We have called it Snowball,’ she added, with a self-deprecating smile.
‘Lovely!’ said Mrs. Kynoch. ‘I adore kittens! And cats are so sensible and useful about the house. I have an ancient tabby, myself: he is tremendously good company.’
Hippolyta favoured Mrs. Kynoch with another smile, grateful that someone had responded. Mr. Strachan looked thoughtful.
‘I once had a patient with a cat. Between them they were nearly the end of me,’ said Dr. Durward, and launched smoothly into another amusing anecdote.
‘Have you been to the Wells yet, Mrs. Napier?’ Mrs. Strachan asked when they had all laughed.
‘No, I have not! I hear the path is very picturesque, though.’
‘Of course, you are a painter,’ said Dr. Durward. ‘No doubt you will find all kinds of picturesqueness in these parts that we have never dreamed of, coming in with a new and artistic eye.’
‘I hope to paint a good deal, certainly,’ Hippolyta agreed. ‘The countryside is lovely: and Miss Verney has agreed to be my companion on occasion.’
‘I shall take you to the Wells tomorrow, my love, if you wish,’ said Patrick. ‘I have a patient or two to see, but they should not take long and it is nothing very serious in either case.’
‘Pannanich Lodge is worth a look as well, if it is not too busy,’ put in Mr. Strachan. ‘The old laird built it for visitors to the Wells, you know, but then when he built the bridge he was able to bring people down here instead. A very sensible man, the old laird. Telford himself designed the bridge, you know, and the laird spent five thousand pounds on it only ten years ago.’
‘I understand he is much missed,’ said Hippolyta dutifully.
‘A laird who invests in his lands is much to be desired,’ said Mr. Strachan. ‘Commerce is life, you know.’
‘Does Mr. Strachan think of nothing but trade?’ Hippolyta asked Patrick the following morning, as they walked across the bridge over the Dee. To the right, on both sides of the glinting river, were rich agricultural lands grey green with barley. Ahead she could see only a steep hillside facing them, delicate with birchwoods and juniper. She stopped to note a splash of foxgloves, just going over, in a shaft of sunlight. Her paints were calling to her.
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ said Patrick. ‘I have rarely heard him speak of anything else. Except for the Burns Mortification, and I suppose that is money, too.’
‘The Burns Mortification?’
‘Yes: a native of these parts, who made money in the West Indies, set up a mortification to give bursaries to boys at the school here who want to go to one of the universities. Strachan is one of the trustees, along with Dr. Durward, and, I think, the minister and old Mr. Strong, the lawyer.’
‘Only four trustees?’ asked Hippolyta, daughter of a lawyer herself.
‘Does that seem few? I’m not sure. But I think they are hoping to change that, anyway. I’m a little vague about these things, my dear.’
‘Hm. What a pretty road! I love the way the woods are so busy on this side, then the land drops away to the river to our left.’
‘Broad enough for a decent sheep pasture, anyway,’ agreed Patrick, who was a countryman by birth. ‘And of course for Pannanich Lodge. That’s it, just up ahead.’
Between the road and the river stood a large, squareset building, not more than half a century old, poised confidently over the waters. Beyond it, trees thickly in leaf caught the morning light off the river, and lawns spread to catch the sun. Several people, one or two wrapped warmly in blankets like invalids, sat outside and watched them, having little else to watch. ‘And this is for patients at the Wells?’ she asked.
‘That’s right: a woman runs it, rented from the estate. It’s decent accommodation: families can stay there very respectably. Some still stay nearer the wells themselves, though: apart from the big hotel there are others, usually poorer types, who lodge in a couple of the cottages there, and cannot afford to travel back and forth to the Wells each day.’
‘I’m very glad to see it, having heard so much about it.’
Patrick squeezed her arm contentedly.
‘I’m pleased when you take an interest in my work.’
‘But of course I do!’
It was a public sort of place for an embrace, so they smiled at each other and walked on, not a moment too soon as a man pushed a handcart almost into them.
‘Beg pardon, Doctor!’ he called out. T
he cart was full of empty jars and bottles.
‘Strachan has been sending goods up to the Lodge and the hotel, then,’ said Patrick, ‘and those are the empties going to be refilled. He makes good business from the visitors.’
They were closer to the lodge now, and as they passed it one of the men on the lawns called out to them.
‘Napier! Mrs. Napier!’
They turned, and recognised Dr. Durward coming towards them, smiling cheerfully. He brought with him a young man who did not appear that willing to be brought.
‘This is Brown,’ said Dr. Durward. ‘Dr. Napier, Mrs. Napier, Brown. He’s been taking the waters.’
Hippolyta wondered if they had done him much good. He was a helpless looking fellow, his hair standing all on end and a look of incompetent neglect about him that made her want him to take him in hand and tidy him up. His clothes were fashionable but unloved. He bowed anxiously.
‘You’re a patient of mine in a quiet way, aren’t you, Brown?’ asked Durward encouragingly. ‘But he doesn’t need much attention, so I come up and play a few hands of cards with him now and again, just to stave off the boredom.’
‘Lots of, of sick people,’ said Brown in a snuffly voice. ‘Not much to do. Glad enough to see Dr. Durward, thank you sir, thank you sir.’
‘A ringing endorsement!’ laughed Durward. ‘But I’ll let you get on: going up to see the Wells, Mrs. Napier?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I wish you joy of them! Some of the water is very good indeed – and some is quite foul!’
It was not then much further to the Wells themselves, the source of Ballater’s unexpected prosperity. The first sign was a long, narrow modern building of two storeys, up a steep little slope by the side of the road: the Pannanich Hotel. Like the Lodge, it had a look of fashionable elegance which Hippolyta had not at all expected to find outside Edinburgh. At its front door Hippolyta looked back to see the fine view across the Dee valley, all jagged rocks and softening birchwoods and the river calmly glittering over its shallow, curving bed. This would be a view to paint, too: she hoped the weather would hold until she could at least satisfy some of her longing to paint. She hoped too she had enough in the way of materials – then she considered that Mr. Strachan would probably be able to supply her with all she needed, for a price. He had probably furnished the three or four lady artists she could see across the road, painting the same view.
‘One of my patients is in here,’ Patrick explained at the door. ‘It will be a simple thing to see him, but would you like to wait in a private parlour? You could take tea, or sample the waters if you dare!’
‘I shall sample them some time, but I should love a cup of tea!’ Hippolyta confessed. ‘I had no idea it would be such fine weather this far north! I am quite fading.’
‘You don’t look it! But oh! Here is my patient, in any case. He is a source of deep gratification for me,’ he added, murmuring in her ear, ‘for he asked for me by name, rather than Dr. Durward!’
Hippolyta beamed, ready to love the patient on sight. They had reached a public parlour open to the passage to the right of the main door, and a few guests were seated there reading or writing. One of them, a painfully thin man with a yellow face, glanced up from his place on a chaise longue, a blanket over his legs, and greeted Patrick with a slow nod.
‘Dr. Napier, good to see you.’
‘And you, Mr. Brookes. Shall I ask your man to take you back to your room for your consultation?’
‘Not at all, Doctor: there is little to be done for me today, I think. But is this lady Mrs. Napier?’
Patrick introduced them.
‘Like many in these parts, Mr. Brookes has worked in the West Indies,’ he added.
‘And broken my health in the process,’ Mr. Brookes put in with a wry smile. ‘I have come home in an attempt to recover, or at least to die in a healthy climate.’
‘I am very sorry to hear it, sir,’ said Hippolyta, though having seen his complexion she was not the least surprised. There was something familiar about him, she thought, but she could not place where she might have seen him before. His accent was not local: perhaps he hailed originally from Edinburgh and she had seen him there. Patrick was discreetly taking his patient’s pulse, and listening to his chest. No one else in the parlour took the least notice: most here would have some kind of complaint and medical visits were common.
‘All as usual,’ said Patrick at last.
‘No better?’ asked Brookes.
‘Well, at least no worse,’ said Patrick kindly. Brookes grinned.
‘What a thing to have a positive medical man! Dr. Napier makes me feel better each time he visits,’ he told Hippolyta, ‘and without the least drug or powder. He is worth paying just for his company.’
‘Are you still taking the waters, sir?’ Patrick asked.
‘Faithfully.’ Brookes made a face, twisting his loose yellow skin alarmingly. ‘Have you tried it yourself? You should!’
‘I’ve taken it a few times,’ Patrick admitted. ‘It’s … refreshing.’
‘That’s a word for it.’ Brookes laughed, and Hippolyta decided she liked the man. They stayed and chatted with him for half an hour or so, when he appeared to grow tired. Patrick rearranged the cushions under his head and pulled his blanket up to his chin, and Mr. Brookes settled, with a grin of thanks, to sleep.
‘You’re excused church tomorrow,’ said Patrick with a smile, ‘as far as I can excuse you.’
‘You? You’re a fancy Episcopalian. You’re in no position to excuse a good kirk man,’ Brookes chuckled drowsily, and wriggled himself comfortable.
The other patients Patrick wanted to see were both lodging in cottages, and Hippolyta waited outside perched on a dry rock, planning her paintings. There was a great deal of coming and going around the wells, where stone basins had been set up to make them accessible to those who could not move easily, or indeed those in fine clothes. Ballater was very far from the wilderness her friends had expected, she thought. Yet when she looked out from the hillside, there was very little civilisation to see. Could there still be dangers here, amongst such fashionable people? Could there be wolves?
After Pannanich, Patrick was finished with patients for the day, and as the weather continued very fine, Hippolyta was easily able to charm him into escorting her to a suitable site for taking some preliminary sketches of the rocky headland known as Craigendarroch, the view with which the charming Mrs. Strachan had challenged her. They wandered about at the top of the town for an hour or so, trying to find an angle that pleased, wondering if another time of day would make the cliff seem more or less imposing, present an aspect that was more or less romantic. The debate pleased them, and the sketches went well: at home, after dinner, she tried a little colour in them, experimenting with the effects, while Patrick played some of his favourite music from Oswald and the Earl of Kellie. In between they chatted idly, and Hippolyta felt at the end of the evening that if all married life could continue this way, the world would be a pleasant place indeed.
A young man with close-cropped hair, shiny elbows to his coat and telltale white bands at his collar was handing his horse to a servant as Patrick and Hippolyta arrived at Dinnet House the following morning. He started as he realised they were close behind him, and removed his hat quickly, allowing them to precede him into the house. Forman stood at the open door, and gestured them towards the parlour, where a table had been made ready with a fair white cloth, seats arranged facing it. The man they had met at the door hurried forward, bowed to Colonel Verney who sat in the front row, and laid a small case on a side table. He drew from it a communion chalice and patten and arranged them on the main table, then hurried out again with the case clutched half-open to his chest.
‘Good morning, good morning! Good to see you both!’ called Colonel Verney, and they went to greet him. ‘Plenty of room – come and sit here with me! Basilia’s fussing somewhere. This is Mr. and Mrs. Whitstone, from – where did you say
you were from? So sorry: head like a sieve these days.’
‘From Barnstaple,’ said Mr. Whitstone, ‘in Devonshire.’
‘Here for the waters, too,’ Colonel Verney put in.
‘That’s a very long way to travel,’ said Patrick politely. ‘Have you found the waters efficacious?’
‘Indeed, indeed, sir! I am a new person, as you see!’ said Mr. Whitstone buoyantly.
‘Dr. Napier is a medical man, and this lovely young lady is his new wife,’ explained the Colonel. Murmured congratulations followed, and Mr. Whitstone generously made free of information concerning his symptoms to Patrick, who listened gravely, nodding. A couple of village families came in, children washed and groomed and warned into best behaviour in a gentleman’s house. They sat at the back and adopted an attitude of prayer on the hassocks that had been provided. Hippolyta felt awkward that she was not doing the same: it was like church and not like church, standing in someone’s parlour: one could not help but be sociable, but when would one be expected to go and kneel as usual? At least in Edinburgh they could go to St. George’s with nice Mr. Shannon with his soft Irish accent and his love of church music: here she could see no musical instrument at all, and wondered if they would even sing a hymn.
However, she need not have worried. In a moment Basilia came in, gave her a great smile in greeting, and pulled the cover off a neat parlour organ in a polished mahogany case. She sat herself down at the keyboard and quietly began a little voluntary, as a few more people arrived. Hippolyta and Patrick sat where they had been directed in the front row, then knelt in prayer. After a moment or two, Basilia’s fingers found new, livelier chords, and the little congregation rose to their feet as the young man they had seen earlier strode in, this time covered in a crumpled white surplice and with a long green stole dangling around his neck.
A Knife in Darkness Page 4