Winds from the Sea

by Margaret Pargeter

  She looked away from him with a scarcely audible sigh, her voice full of unconscious pleading. “I can only ask you to give me another chance. You can’t possibly send me home because of this one incident.”

  “Not an auspicious beginning, you must admit.” His hard mouth twisted wryly. “However, we’ll see how things go. The chances of finding someone else at this late hour are remote, and I’m relying on you to look after my sister.” His glance still lingered on her pale face and sharpened intently. “Right now I suggest you go and get something to eat, or you’ll not be fit for anything this morning.”

  His broad shoulders lifted dismissively beneath his thick sweater, and Sara fled without another word, not stopping until she reached her room.

  Breathlessly ignoring a longing to throw herself on her bed, she threw off her rock-stained clothes and rinsed her hot face. Her side still hurt from the cruel grip of Hugh Fraser’s hands as he had hauled her on to his horse. A highway brigand might have been kinder! She winced a little both from pain and humiliation as she drew a neat navy dress over her head and combed her tangled hair into gleaming order. Her reflection in the mirror was trim and businesslike and she hoped rather bitterly that he would approve.

  In the dining room where breakfast was laid she only took time for a cup of coffee and one piece of toast before asking Katie where she might find the library.

  “Straight along the hall, miss. It’s the last door on the right.” She was obviously put out when Sara refused to eat any more. “Miss Jill always eats a good breakfast when she comes. She says the air gives her an appetite.” She eyed Sara’s empty plate disapprovingly.

  Sara smiled but didn’t stop to argue or try to explain about her foolish adventure on the cliffs. That was something which she only wanted to forget, and Katie, like Hugh Fraser, might not be at all sympathetic.

  She hurried down the hall and knocked carefully on the library door. As she had feared, he was already there and she was conscious of his swift glance of appraisal as she walked into the room. Had he expected her old blue jeans? She was glad that her hair was tidy and that she had applied a minimum of make-up.

  He dispensed with preliminaries, getting straight down to work, making no reference to their earlier meeting on the beach. He indicated a small desk by the window. “I’ve had it specially brought in for you,” he told her. “There’s not much room to spare on this.” Frowning, he contemplated the littered top of the larger desk at which he sat.

  Sara followed the direction of his gaze with bewilderment. Piles of correspondence were stacked everywhere and the large, capacious drawers seemed full to overflowing. Well, he had warned her!

  While he waited passively she crossed the room, sitting down self-consciously, tucking her long legs neatly beneath her chair, hoping fervently that she would be able to cope. She had never seen such a muddle before. In the surgery at home everything had been systematically filed. She wondered what her parents would have thought of this!

  “I collected that from London a few days ago.” He watched while she removed the cover from a new portable typewriter. “My uncle apparently had no use for such things, but I don’t think we could manage without one.”

  As Sara smiled politely and studied the machine with interest, he picked up some hastily scribbled notes. “To begin with I’d like to dictate a few rather urgent letters which you can type while I’m out after lunch.”

  Sara picked up her pad in readiness, only to find that he had laid his notes down again as he paused reflectively, his eyes on her face. “It might be easier if you understood, Miss Winton,” he said with emphasis, “that as well as the backlog here I have a sizeable farm to run, so I don’t have unlimited time to devote to this lot. I shall probably have to leave you quite often to manage on your own, as I expect James Kerr told you.”

  “He did say you were busy.”

  “That’s putting it mildly!” He reached impatiently for a cigarette and matches, tipping back his chair as he inhaled deeply, staring at her narrowly through the smoke. “There are times when you might feel overworked, but when I go down to London you can forget most of this and play with Jill. Explore the island together. Jill knows it very well and will enjoy showing you around.”

  Her chin tilted sharply with annoyance. He talked as if she was ten years old. Was he trying to run her life as well as Jill’s? “I expect we’ll think of something,” she retorted coolly.

  “In the meantime your hours here will be erratic.” His eyes briefly touched her mutinous mouth. “Sometimes I work in the evenings, after dinner. I hope you won’t mind?”

  Sara disliked his habit of issuing an order in the guise of a question to which she couldn’t possibly object. In all fairness, Sara conceded, he must be very busy with all his different enterprises, and now that he had mentioned them himself this might be a good chance to put a word in about Biddy and Katie. Even so, how could she ask about their future on her first day here? He might well think it sheer impertinence if nothing worse. But in spite of her doubts she couldn’t help asking impulsively, “Do you intend to farm Lochgoil yourself?”

  “I might, eventually.” His eyes glinted slightly, as if he guessed a little of what she was thinking, “But I didn’t anticipate having to change jobs at my time of life. I’m quite a good engineer.”

  He would be! Sara’s nerves tensed. He would be satisfied with nothing less than top-rate efficiency in both himself and others.

  The telephone rang, shattering the momentary silence, and she was aware of his steady regard as he picked up the receiver.

  As he talked her eyes strayed from his impatient face around the book-lined room to where a huge, single log smouldered sulkily in a massive stone fireplace. A beautifully patterned but faded carpet covered most of the old oak floorboards, and two big leather armchairs stood on either side of the wide hearth. Sara could imagine the snug comfort of the room in winter with the heavy curtains drawn against the wild Atlantic gales.

  Lochgoil must be an attractive proposition for any man. How would Hugh Fraser decide? Sara’s eyes returned to his dark face, surprised by her own eagerness, not entirely because of his employees on the estate. Her own curiosity was too near the surface and, she told herself severely, ought not to be functioning in his direction at all, especially on such short acquaintance!

  “That was the chap I dined with last night.” Sara almost jumped as he replaced the receiver abruptly and returned to his notes. His thick brows drew together sharply as he glanced up. “He particularly wants to see me after lunch. A small business matter has cropped up, so perhaps we’d better forget about anything else and get on.”

  During the next few days Sara felt she might well have been glued to her office chair, with her whole life revolving around her typewriter. If Hugh Fraser was satisfied with her efforts he failed to say so, but Sara consoled herself with the thought that at least he didn’t complain. In the mornings he dictated and left numerous instructions. After lunch she sorted and filed. By tea time she usually had most of the work cleared and the letters typed ready for his signature. Sometimes she saw a light burning late beneath the library door as she went up to bed, but so far he had not asked her to join him. The evenings she mostly spent reading and doing odd jobs for Biddy, who sometimes suffered painfully from her rheumatism. Biddy had a fund of stories about her childhood on the island, and Sara felt more than repaid for her labours as she listened to her.

  “You ought to get out more,” Biddy said sharply, coming to the end of a particularly long tale and noting Sara’s pale cheeks with some concern. “The evenings are nice now, you ought to take a walk occasionally, not sit with an old woman, Miss Sara.”

  But Sara had not gone down to the sea again, not after that first morning, although why, she could not say. Instead she contented herself with exploring the castle, studying the early architecture with inexpert but growing interest, and getting to know some of the other people who worked out on the farm.

  “I
do go out sometimes,” she protested, glancing at Biddy, smiling. “But there’s plenty to keep me busy here.”

  “I do know that!” Biddy’s frown deepened instead of disappearing as Sara had hoped it would, as she went on. “Mr. Hugh certainly believes in hard work, but his uncle would hardly look at a bit o’ correspondence if he could help it, and he’s left quite a muddle behind him, and no mistake. His accountant, poor man, had an awful time with him, but Mr. Fraser would only laugh and promise to do better, but he never did. Mr. Hugh, now, he’s a different kettle of fish altogether. No doubt he’ll soon get things sorted out ... She paused, still frowning at Sara dubiously, “It’s the future that I keep worrying about, as I told you. You see, at my age one takes badly to changes.”

  As Sara rose to go upstairs she couldn’t help wondering why Biddy should persist in confiding in her. She could only imagine that Biddy was nervous about approaching Hugh herself, and vaguely hoped that a word from Sara, as his secretary, might solve her difficulties. Surely it must be quite clear that she had no more influence than anyone else on the estate, probably not as much. Sara doubted if Hugh ever really noticed her outside office hours.

  One morning several days later he asked her to go with him to Tobermory. She was gazing wistfully through the office window, unaware that he was watching her until he said crisply, “I’m going to Tobermory this afternoon and I’d like you to come with me. That’s really an order.”

  Sara didn’t intend to argue, the bright May sunshine was too tempting. An unexpected glow of pleasure surged through her veins even while her eyes strayed guiltily to the piles of correspondence still to be sorted.

  His eyes followed the direction of hers impatiently. “You’ve managed to get through quite a lot of work since you started, Miss Winton, but I don’t expect you to remain here without a break.”

  Sara felt herself colouring faintly. It was the sort of back-handed compliment at which he excelled! Did he suppose that she might jump to the wrong conclusions if he showed more than a lukewarm appreciation? Well, he needn’t worry. She only wanted to finish this job as quickly as possible and get back to London. His remarks when he had rescued her from the cliffs had proved quite clearly that he had little time for a girl like herself. But for a few hours it might be fun to take advantage of his impersonal offer and see something of the island before she left it for ever!

  As she slowly murmured her consent he crossed to the door, smiling a shade sharply. “I’ll see you after lunch, then,” he said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sara dressed quickly. She wore a shapely, short wool skirt with a matching blue sweater which clung neatly to the slender curves of her young figure. Brushing out her long fair hair she tied it loosely back, loving the freedom of it after the rather severe style which she had worn lately for work. A dusting of powder on her fine smooth skin, a dash of pink lipstick on her wide curved mouth and she was ready. Swiftly she ran downstairs.

  Hugh wasn’t there, so she waited in the hall, studying a Raeburn which hung beside the fireplace. She was no art expert, but Jane had taken her to one or two lectures in the Tate Gallery, and she recalled someone saying that they thought Raeburn’s style a bit like Reynolds, who had been born earlier, but in the same century. It was surprising, she thought, gazing around, that so many valuable paintings should be hanging unprotected in the castle.

  “A good dog is probably as good a deterrent as any,” Hugh Fraser smiled, when she asked him about burglars as they started out. “But we don’t seem to have many thieves in this part of the world. We might envy other people their possessions, but we rarely steal them.”

  “Your principles don’t seem to apply to women,” Sara retorted lightly. “Wasn’t it here that young Lochinvar stole his lady-love?”

  Hugh glanced at her laconically as he adjusted his seat-belt. “Aren’t you thinking of Lord Ullin’s daughter and her Highland chieftain? I think that Lochinvar operated somewhere else. In the Border country, I believe.”

  Hurriedly Sara concentrated on her own seat-belt, trying to ignore his raised eyebrows. “You could be right,” she replied coolly. “It’s a long time ago. Things like that don’t happen any more.”

  His dark eyes still mocked as they drove smoothly away from the castle. “You might recall that you were carried off yourself by a wild Highlander the other morning.”

  Sara flushed as her pulse gave a traitorous jerk. “You’re twisting the circumstances,” she said shortly. “That was something quite different.”

  “I wonder?” His eyes flicked enigmatically, from her face to the road. Along Loch na Keal the road turned right. Across the water opposite them lay Ulva. The surface of the sea between was flecked lightly by white horses. “Not far from here,” Hugh waved his hand seaward, “on the Mull shore, is a grave alleged to be that of Lord Ullin’s daughter and the Chief of Ulva. According to local legend they were wrecked while running away together as they crossed Loch na Keal from Gribun on the ferry. The poet, Thomas Campbell, probably heard the story when he worked here as a tutor in 1795.”

  “I remember the poem.” Sara’s blue eyes clouded as she stared out through the car window over the wild rocky headlands. She shivered. “Nothing seems to have changed, it might have happened yesterday.”

  “An island like this can be curiously timeless.” Again Hugh flicked his hand. “If you look beyond Ulva you’ll see more islands. There’s Little Colonsay, Inch Kenneth, and the Treshnish group.”

  Entranced, Sara let her gaze wing towards them. Pale lilac, low-set in a waste of seas, they lay westwards across the horizon, on the edge of the world. The sheer beauty of the scene held her silent. It was places such as this that men wrote poems about, and wasn’t it somewhere near here, on Staffa, that Mendelssohn wrote the overture Fingal’s Cave?

  She heard Hugh saying, “My uncle loved the Islands. The Hebrides! He was a Scot with a passionate love for his native land. It’s a pity he didn’t apply himself quite so assiduously to his own affairs.”

  The dryness of his tone didn’t escape Sara, and for a moment she disliked him intensely. He might profess an interest in the past and be receptive to its romantic legends, but he would never allow himself to be influenced by it to any great extent. There was only so much of the dreamer about him. “Haven’t you ever been at the mercy of your emotions?” she asked recklessly, a vivid likeness of the unfortunate Chief of Ulva springing clearly to her mind.

  His eyes touched her lightly. “Come now, Sara, you couldn’t expect me to answer that one!”

  His use of her name blotted out the evasiveness of his reply. A warm confusion swept over her. ‘Sara’ was a welcome change from ‘Miss Winton’, but it seemed to put their relationship on an entirely different footing. Her eyes widened uncertainly. Her comparatively sheltered existence hadn’t armed her with a mental resilience adept enough to cope with a man of his calibre. For the first time in her life she felt emotionally disturbed by a man, and at loss for words.

  The sun struck obliquely across the side of his head. He gave the impression of great vigour and what she construed to herself as ruthlessness. He threw her another glance, a wicked gleam in his eyes, as if he was entirely aware of her inexperience and amused by it. “From now on I’m going to call you Sara. Miss Winton is too time-consuming.”

  Sara looked carefully away from that tantalizing smile. “Of course,” she murmured. “I hope your sister will, too.” The road swung darkly. She sensed that her conventional little speech would divert him and felt her nerves tighten with resentment. She turned to him, her eyes smouldering. “You enjoy teasing me,” she said faintly, controlling her anger with difficulty, trying to remember her position.

  He smiled, a real smile this time with laughter springing to his eyes, not just a twist of his ironic mouth. “You’re too provoking,” he replied lazily. “There’s a lot to be said for the gentle art of retaliation, but sometimes you do answer back.”

  “You do happen to be my employer,” she
reminded him coldly.

  “Tut, tut.” He grinned again at her obvious displeasure. “Don’t let such a small matter as that inhibit your natural impulses.”

  Sara could cheerfully have hit him! Could nothing penetrate the facade of his easy urbane manner? He played with words, treating them lightly, uncaringly, almost as if at times he enjoyed the discomfort they could inflict. “Have you heard from your sister yet?” Hastily suppressing her baser instincts, she clung tenaciously to safer grounds.

  “Yes—that reminds me!” His humour appeared to desert him with startling suddenness. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, Jill rang after lunch. She arrives tomorrow.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her.” In spite of her previous reluctance there was more than a hint of sincerity in Sara’s voice. Jill might act as a buffer between herself and this man whose moods could swing like a pendulum between hard complacency and a disturbing tolerance.

  He shrugged and she stared away from him out of the open window, attempting to steer her thoughts to safer channels. They were making their way up the west coast of the island towards the village of Burg and Calgary Bay. This way, Hugh told her, they would see something of the coastline before going on to Tobermory. The seaward views changed from headland to headland, the land seemed wilder, the moors bare and open.

  Sara s eyes bright with interest travelled across the heather, then, without thinking, she clutched his arm so that the car swerved over the road as he applied the brakes. ‘I’m sorry,” she gasped breathlessly, pointing to where a huge bird sat silently on top of a long pole. “I’ve never seen an eagle so near at before!”

  “And you’ll probably never see another if you make a habit of grabbing my arm like that when I’m driving!” His eyes followed hers to the telephone pole as he corrected the car and pulled into the side of the road. “I’m afraid you’re going to feel disappointed. That’s a buzzard, not an eagle. A lot of people make the same mistake.”