“That was first-class!” Alaine declared. “I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
Judy glanced at him in open disbelief.
“Who’s kidding?” she said. And when he simply smiled at her with his attractive dark eyes she flushed. “What about turning on the radio?” she said. “It will at least be better than Amanda’s playing.”
“That,” Alaine informed her, shaking his head at her gently, “is where we disagree.”
But he obligingly turned on the radio for her, and shortly after that Amanda excused herself and went to bed. Alaine accompanied her to the door, and stood looking after her as she crossed the dimly-lit hall.
“I meant it,” he said, as she glanced back. “I enjoyed that performance of yours!”
But Amanda was certain that once the door had closed with a soft but decisive click he hurried back to Judy, and it was a full hour later that she heard them both laughing with unassumed merriment as he carried her upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER VIII
MISS Urquhart arrived the following day. Amanda was at the back of the Tower, helping Jean by picking loganberries in the overgrown strip of kitchen-garden, when Duncan rowed her across from the mainland and provided her with his arm to lean on as he beat the nettles out of her path with a switch and they made slow progress up to the massive front door.
A youth came behind with her luggage, and behind the youth came someone else.
Miss Urquhart wore old-fashioned gaiters and a Tyrolean-style hat with a feather in it She picked her way daintily while clinging determinedly to Duncan’s arm, and all the while she criticised the condition of the place, the evidence of neglect and decay that was on every hand, and marvelled that she had been so misguided as to think of paying yet another visit to Ure, which always filled her with rheumatism because of the damp, and was a most unpleasant place in which to pass even one solitary night because the beds were so hard.
“Why my nephew goes on living here I can’t think,” she declared, as she gazed upwards at Duncan accusingly. “In order that you and Jean shall still have a job, I suppose.”
Duncan looked mildly hurt and shook his head at her reproachfully.
“And where would an Urquhart live if it was not at Ure?” he demanded. “Where would an Urquhart be content to live out the rest of his life?”
“In comfort, I should think,” Aunt Grace returned tardy. “Somewhere where he would not have to apologise to his visitors for the barbs attached to his hospitality.” She detached one, adroitly, from her gaiter. “And, by the way,” peering upwards at Duncan more searchingly, “who are these people who are staying with him? I was half hoping it might be someone who was interested in buying the property.”
This time Duncan looked genuinely shocked.
“ ‘When there is no longer an Urquhart at Ure...’ ” he began to quote.
“Aye, I know,” Miss Urquhart interrupted him with the maximum impatience, “the Tower will crumble and the ruins topple over into the loch, the family itself will die out, and there will be no one to succeed Alaine. Well, the obvious insurance against a disaster of that kind is a sensible marriage, since the family coffers are very nearly empty.” She glanced backwards over her shoulder at the young and exceptionally attractive woman, with a mildly amused expression on her face, who was following cautiously in her wake and endeavouring to protect her couturier-designed suit from the clutches of the surrounding forest, and warned: “If you value your stockings be careful of these briars! They grow worse every year! Really, this place is beginning to resemble a bird sanctuary, or an African National Park. No one would ever dream that a man of taste lived here!”
A low laugh answered her, and a bramble was separated from a sheer silk stocking.
“Oh, I think it’s fascinating,” an equally amused voice declared. “Are you quite sure the Sleeping Beauty isn’t hidden away somewhere amongst all this?”
Aunt Grace snorted.
“If she is she’d better have some money when she wakes up. My nephew needs a partnership with a woman of means.”
Once again she glanced upwards at Duncan.
“Tell me about these two girls who appear to have attached themselves to Ure,” she ordered. “What are they like?”
Duncan shook his head vaguely.
“Just a couple o’ young women,” he replied.
“Tourists?”
“I’d say so.”
“Money?” with some urgency.
Duncan shrugged.
“One o’ them’s got a lot of sheep in Australia.”
“Australia?” There was a quickening of interest. “How many, do you know?”
The Scotsman looked dumb and vague again. “How would I know, Miss Urquhart?” he mumbled. “But the other one’s a pretty wee thing ... like the Bride o’ Alaine. And the one wi’ the sheep’s a Macrae.”
“A Macrae?”
“Aye.” Duncan looked dour. “Not that I’d want to claim her as kin. She’s got a sharp tongue, and she’s too clever ... aye a sight too clever,” shaking his head. “But the other one came in out of the mist...”
They had arrived at the great front door, and he could say no more. The host was there to welcome his aunt, and apologise for not escorting her from the boat. Apparently he had had some important business to attend to.
Miss Urquhart searched his face with a very bright, shrewd eye.
“Feminine business?” she enquired, and then presented her companion.
Amanda, juice running out of her mouth because she had consumed quite a few loganberries, lifted her head in the kitchen-garden and caught the sound of their voices. There were unmistakably two female voices, and one was neither Jean’s nor Judy’s, but a far, far lovelier voice than either of those two members of her sex possessed. It was, in fact, almost a deliciously lovely voice ... warm and soft, like water winning over sun-warmed stones, and yet with a curious vibrant quality at the same time. It was the sort of voice that should have accompanied her playing at the piano the previous night and put Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair over in such a way that the audience would have remained glued to their chains, and even Judy would have been forced to give tongue to wondering admiration when it was finished.
It was, in fact, a singer’s voice.
Amanda carried the loganberries into the kitchen, and once there Jean informed her that there were two new arrivals instead of one. Miss Urquhart was accompanied by someone she had met on her journey who had intended putting up at the Three Goats, only unfortunately it was full. So that meant Jean had to rush round frantically and make up another bed and get another room ready, and as she had dinner to prepare as well she was somewhat at her wits’ end, and looked it
“That’s all right,” Amanda said, tying one of her coarse aprons round her slender middle. “I’m not a bad cook, and I can help you. At least I can help you shell the peas, and make a tart, and do things like that. Or would you prefer me to help you with the beds?”
“No, no.” Jean looked at her as if she felt she ought to protest. “You’re a visitor yourself, and I can manage the beds. But the peas take time shelling, and I’m no’ so sure I can make a tart. It would be simpler to open a tin of fruit, if there’s one left in the larder.”
“And let all these gorgeous loganberries go to waste?” Amanda popped yet another one into her mouth, and shook her head with emphasis. “I refuse to allow that to happen. You’ll all have to put up with my pastry, which isn’t really bad. Or I could make a crumble. Would you like me to make a crumble?”
Jean waved her hands vaguely.
“Do as you please, miss,” she begged. “It doesna’ matter to me ... except that I’m grateful for your help,” flashing Amanda a grateful look. “It’s many a year since I’ve known the Tower so o’er-run with visitors.”
And she vanished up the back stairs.
Amanda began to enjoy herself. It was not an ideal kitchen in which to cook, particularly when one was not really an expert cook, and there we
re so few recognisable utensils to hand that the problem became a major one. But, all the same, dark and cavernous though the kitchen was it had a pleasant atmosphere. It was warm and smelt of centuries of slowly drying herbs, game pies and large slabs of home-made fruit cake. There was even a cat on the hearth ... in fact, two cats and a litter of kittens. There were also several outsize mouse-traps set around the walls, proving that the cats did not always do their job, and a litter of guns, fishing-rods, fish-kettles, paraffin-containers and storage jars. The storage jars were so large that, although they mostly held salt and flour and porridge oats, they could with the same amount of ease have kept concealed one of Ali Baba’s robbers.
Amanda’s crumble—surely the largest she had ever attempted—was already in the oven when Jean came rushing back into the kitchen. Miss Urquhart, she declared, was crying out for hot water, and when she had filled an enamel jug from the copper kettle on the stove Amanda offered to carry it up for her.
“Would you?” Jean was flushed, and her hair was on end, and she looked unspeakably grateful. “If you’d be so kind I could get on with making the stuffing for the goose...”
“Then get on with it.”
Amanda took the jug, smiled, and vanished up the stairs.
Jean had given her directions, but even so, finding Miss Urquhart’s room was rather like looking for the source of the Amazon. The Tower, in actual fact, was vast, and contained many rooms that were never in use. Miss Urquhart’s reeked of mothballs and formed part of a suite that had been most impressive at one time. When Amanda, receiving a cheerful ‘Come in’ in response to her light tap on the door, opened it a few inches, cautiously, the impression she received was not, however, one of splendour, but rather a faded grandeur reminiscent of the Hapsburgs.
The rooms she and Judy occupied had the same dismal mouldering curtains and bed coverlet—the same holes in the skirting that gave access to mice—but they had never at any time resembled throne-rooms. This one did.
Miss Urquhart, wearing a trim black dress which she had just zipped up the back, was brushing her wiry grey hair vigorously in front of the mirror. She glanced at the can of steaming hot water and shook her head.
“Too late,” she said. "I made do with cold. After all, it’s good for the complexion, isn’t it?” She glanced at Amanda curiously. “Talking of complexions,” she remarked, “yours is excellent. I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Are you one of Jean’s numerous nieces? Or have you simply come to work here because you’re tired of the towns?”
Amanda felt extraordinarily diffident and shook her head.
“Jean and I are not related,” she replied. “And I don’t think I’m really tired of towns.”
“No?” Miss Urquhart slapped powder all over her face, and caused a fine cloud of it to settle on the black dress. She held out a clothes-brush to Amanda.
“Brush me, please, there’s a good girl,” she said.
Amanda obeyed.
Miss Urquhart screwed a pair of pearl studs into her ears, and then turned from the mirror to indulge in conversation.
“Tell me,” she said, “since you’re in a position to know, is that young Australian girl who’s staying here an attractive young woman? I haven’t met her yet, but I’m dying to find out a few things about her. For instance, in addition to owning all those sheep does she have any looks? Real looks, I mean! A man with the connoisseur’s temperament would have to be confronted by something rather special to be interested.”
Amanda smiled demurely. She had no intention, at that stage, of concealing her identity, but she had already been prepared for Miss Urquhart’s eccentricities and she wanted to prove whether or not her nephew’s estimation of her and her character was wrong.
“She was always surrounded by young men coming over on the ship,” she replied.
“Oh! So you came over with her on the ship?” The diminutive Scotswoman picked up a lorgnette from the dressing-table and swung it into position.
“Her maid?”
“Better say maid-companion.”
“Ah! She must be a very well-to-do young woman. Even that attractive Camilla Greystoke whom I met on the train and brought along with me here doesn’t run to a maid-companion, and she is what the newspaper columnists like to describe as a ‘top-ranking singer.’ Why, when she leaves here she’s going on to Milan and Rome ... all those places.” She tapped Amanda on the shoulder with the gold-handled lorgnette. “You must forgive me if I seem both curious and expansive, but I want to find out a few things. Jean would never let me into any secrets. She’s as close as a dam. But why did my nephew invite the young woman to stay here, do you think? And then take the trouble to ask me to come over and act the part of chaperone?”
Amanda shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m afraid I honestly don’t know,” she replied truthfully.
But Miss Urquhart’s brilliant blue eyes were fixed on her face.
“It’s most unusual, you know,” she said. “He doesn’t do things like that normally. He’s what I would describe as a hardened bachelor with a nervous distrust of most women. Now,” tapping the slim shoulder smartly, “I don’t mind confessing to you that that’s one thing I’m here to correct. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss ... a young woman inside the Tower and another practically marooned on its doorstep! Now, I know nothing about your young woman, except that she obviously likes her personal attendants to be attractive, and most Australians who own a lot of sheep are rich, but I do know that Camilla Greystoke is altogether fascinating, and I suspect that in place of sheep she’s probably got a lot of jewellery and investments and that sort of thing. What they call convertible assets! Do you follow me?” Amanda followed her only too well, but she merely looked mildly surprised. It was perfectly obvious Alaine had not underestimated his aunt’s character.
“Well, I ... well, yes, I suppose I do,” she said. “You’re anxious to see your nephew married to someone with money?”
“Assets, dear, assets.” She poked the girl afresh. “It may sound very vulgar and, indeed, somewhat crude of me, but I’m a woman of the world and I don’t believe in mincing matters. I never, for instance, deceive myself. If I want something, I go after it. If I see someone wallowing about in a mire I go to their assistance. When I possess a nephew who is shatteringly handsome and really quite irresistible to women—though, as yet, no one woman has proved irresistible to him—I say to myself that something has to be done. You see, my dear, Urquhart Tower has to be preserved for future members of the family. One day soon, unless something is done, it’ll fall into the loch. Duncan said as much only half an hour ago. He’s pretty gloomy about it, I can tell you.”
“So, like you, he would like his master to marry ... for money?”
Miss Urquhart shook her grey head a little impatiently.
“Well, no, that’s going a bit far,” she admitted. “Duncan has such a poor opinion of women—like master like servant, apparently!—that he’d much prefer it if he didn’t have to marry, but he also wants to continue living here on Ure, and therefore I’m pretty certain he would soon see reason. He doesn’t seem to have formed a very good opinion of this Miss Macrae, although I gather he thinks the other young woman who came here with her is quite a sweetie. But she doesn’t, according to my information, have any money.”
“So that lets her out,” Amanda said quietly.
“Yes, my dear, that lets her out It may turn out to be quite a pity if I find her pleasant. So often the pleasant people are not the ones with either looks or money.”
“Too true,” Amanda agreed, with a sober face.
“But that still leaves Miss Greystoke. I more or less dragged her here because I simply had to let my nephew see her ... and in my opinion she’s quite a catch. Nice, friendly, rather sophisticated, lots of lovely clothes, and not in too much of a hurry to move on to Milan and Rome. In fact, I don’t think she has an important engagement until next week. So she might be induced to stay here for a week at le
ast.”
“Splendid,” Amanda commented.
Grace Urquhart was slightly taken aback by her composure. She looked at her with just a tinge of suspicion.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a maid-companion,” she admitted. “A companion, yes, but not a personal maid. I’m even surprised you don’t mind carrying cans of hot water up and down those frightful stains. But nowadays people have to do so many things, don’t they, that they wouldn’t normally do. And perhaps you’re fond of Miss Macrae, and she’s good to you.”
“She is—very good to me,” Amanda returned truthfully.
Miss Urquhart flicked her cheek for an instant.
“Well, at least you seem appreciative, and I’m sure you’re very capable. You’ve got rid of all that horrid powder on my dress.” She peered at her reflection in the mirror. “Do I look respectable enough to go downstairs and meet those two wealthy young females?”
Amanda smiled at her.
“You look very nice,” she told her.
Miss Urquhart shook her wiry head at her.
“Don’t try and flatter me, child,” she said. “I know what I am... an ugly old [woman! But I'm also a very determined old woman ... for once! Alaine has been allowed to behave with the very maximum amount of selfishness towards the family for too long. I mean to put a stop to it!” And she sprayed herself with lavender-water and walked purposefully towards the door.
Amanda decided to remain behind and tidy up her room. It would be of some assistance to Jean.
CHAPTER IX
THEY were all in the drawing-room when she entered it about ten minutes before Duncan hammered on the beaten brass gong in the hall as a warning that dinner was about to be served.
Judy had made a somewhat hurried toilet, because there had been no one on hand to run a bath for her or assist her with minor matters like selecting the correct tone of stockings to go with her dinner dress, or the right items of jewellery—always a lengthy proceeding since she had such a lot of jewellery—and she was in a somewhat edgy temper. It was not an acceptable excuse to her that Amanda had been too busy helping Jean in the kitchen to be willing to lend her the all-important hand. And on top of that Alaine had been too preoccupied with the latest arrivals on the island of Ure to remember that she was unable to get herself downstairs. And by the time he did remember she was seething inwardly with resentment and something that was not such a simple matter to recover from, particularly once she had been introduced to Camilla Greystoke.
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