A Strange Scottish Shore

by Juliana Gray

  “I do hope to be somebody’s wife one day, however,” she said.

  “Yes, I imagine so.”

  “Oh, please, Miss Truelove. Please don’t be so enigmatic. You must know what he thinks of me.”

  “The duke, you mean?”

  “Yes. Does he care for me at all?”

  “Lady Annis,” I said, “this is really not a question I ought to answer.”

  “Can you answer it, though? Has he spoken of me?”

  I sipped my tea slowly. “Yes, he has.”

  “Oh, you must tell me. You must tell me what he said. You see—I’m going to confess to you, Miss Truelove, I’m going to place my faith in you—you see, I’m so frightfully in love with him! You can’t imagine.”

  “In love with him?”

  She set her tea on the small round table next to her elbow and rose from the armchair, wringing her hands. “Oh, I know what they say about me, how I’m nothing but a fortune hunter. And I suppose that was a little bit true. You can’t blame me for that, can you? So pitifully poor as we are, I was bred to marry well, I was told from the cradle that I must find a man with a fortune at his disposal. I know you don’t understand, I know you must despise me for it—”

  “Of course not. I, more than anybody, understand how a young woman must make her way in the world, with whatever talents she possesses.”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “How little you think of me. What talents she possesses. Yes, all I have is my beauty. I’m not fit for anything but marriage, unlike you. Which is why—oh, Miss Truelove, when I met him, when he walked into the great hall a week ago—”

  “The duke?”

  “Yes!” She began to pace about the room, skirting the bed, moving first to the window with the dark sea beyond, and then to the mantel. A portrait hung above it, some female ancestor or another, dressed in a rich costume of another age. Lady Annis placed her fingers on the brass plate that announced the dame’s identity. “I felt it instantly,” she whispered. “I could hardly speak. The strength of his gaze! It was like looking into an ocean, vast and impenetrable.”

  I considered pointing out to her that oceans were not, by nature, impenetrable, being composed of mere salt water. But she was gripping the edge of the mantel, as if unable to support the force of her emotion, and I withheld the observation, saying only, “He has dark eyes, to be sure.”

  “Such eyes!” she said. “In such a face! He has conquered me, Miss Truelove. He has rendered every other consideration insignificant.”

  “No doubt.”

  She spun around. “You think me insincere?”

  “I think it is no great surprise, when a young woman falls in love with a wealthy man. You will forgive my frankness.”

  Lady Annis’s chin tilted upward. She opened her mouth to make some imperious reply, which she bit back at the last instant, transforming the sound into a noise of anguish. “Of course you don’t believe me. I don’t see why you should. He’s the greatest prize in the British Isles, and I am a notorious fortune hunter, aren’t I? Oh, God. What he must think of me!”

  “But I assure you, the duke is well-disposed toward you.”

  Her face lit. “Is he?”

  “He is a sensible man. Naturally he realizes that his great inheritance renders his personal merit irrelevant, in the matter of matrimony. He doesn’t long for a grand passion; his passions, I’m afraid, lie within the earth itself. In his work.”

  “In his work? But surely—Miss Truelove, you will pardon me—I don’t know how to say this . . .” Her beautiful face turned downward, as if examining the fire, and I couldn’t say whether the flush in her cheeks came from the proximity of heat or the proximity of modesty. “When he rushed away to meet you at the station, Miss Truelove, you of all women—”

  “I hope, Lady Annis, you are not so foolish as to heed common gossip.”

  “Oh, Miss Truelove. Have you never been in love? Never felt the anguish of jealousy? When a woman loves as I do, loves with all her heart, without knowing whether the object of her love reciprocates it, why—why, she finds rivals everywhere, in every woman alive. You cannot possibly understand . . .”

  Driven, it seemed, by the force of her feelings, Lady Annis stepped to her armchair and dropped her figure daintily into the seat, whereupon she lifted her arm and buried her face in the hollow of her elbow, and her back trembled with sobs.

  I stared at her for some awkward length of time. The curve of her spine, the graceful arrangement of waist and legs, the play of light in her red-gold hair, belonged in a painting. I remember thinking how well the anguish of jealousy became her.

  “No,” I said, “I suppose I don’t. Indeed, I find your purpose here a mystery. Do you wish me to convey these abundant sentiments of yours to the duke? Or do you merely wish to assure yourself that you have no rival for his affections?”

  She looked up. “Have I? A rival?”

  I chose my words carefully. “None of any threat, so far as I am aware.”

  “His heart is free?”

  “I did not say that. But his heart is sufficiently open, I should say, for your purposes.”

  “How you despise me.”

  I rose from my chair. “I don’t despise you, madam. On the contrary, I wish you nothing but success in your endeavors. I am, however, most fatigued after a long and trying day, and I beg you will allow me the peace of my own room in which to recover myself.”

  “Oh! How thoughtless of me!” She leapt from the chair. “Of course you’re exhausted. I know I should be. Traveling fatigues me extremely. Do forgive me, Miss Truelove, for intruding on you. My passion was so strong, I forgot all courtesy. Is there anything I can do for you? Is your room comfortable?”

  “Quite sufficient, thank you.”

  Lady Annis forced a smile. “Then I will leave you in peace, as you asked. Perhaps we shall have the opportunity to speak again, after breakfast? The gentlemen will be off shooting again.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Good night, your ladyship.”

  “Good night, Miss Truelove.”

  She made for the door in her queenly way, and I remember thinking, as I watched the noble set of her shoulders, she would make an excellent Duchess of Olympia: she had the part exactly right. She reached the door and laid her hand on the latch and turned to me, wearing a smile of gleaming toothiness.

  “Shall I lock the door, Miss Truelove, or do you prefer me to leave it unlatched?”

  • • •

  Now. A word of advice, if you will allow me. When traversing a country house at night—a house in the midst of a party, that is—it’s best to tread carefully and to keep your eyes cast downward, for you are likely to encounter any number of your fellow guests, intent upon some clandestine connection that will not bear the light of day.

  In my years of service to the dukedom, I have had ample occasion to learn this particular lesson, and you may be sure that when I emerged from my bedroom at a quarter to midnight, I took care to open the door carefully and to examine the hallway before I proceeded. Fortunately, the housekeeper had allocated me one of the lesser chambers, as befitted my imprecise social standing; the corridor was quite empty, and so quiet I could hear the angry, rhythmic smash of the sea against the rocks below, and the faint whistle of the wind in some nearby window. I crept along the flagstones in my slippered feet, wearing a thick dressing gown against the expected chill, but I saw nobody. The staircase, spiraling down one of the turrets, contained no other nocturnal wayfarer except a plump, astonished tabby cat, who froze on the steps and suffered me to pass.

  At the bottom of the staircase, a wooden door blocked my exit. I lifted the latch silently, and as I did so, a voice hissed into my ear. “You are quite mad.”

  The air, as I said, was cold and quite damp, smelling of the sea and of the stone itself. For a moment I thought the icy sensation on the ba
ck of my neck was a natural one, and the voice my imagination, fed by the whistle of the wind.

  Still, I stopped, with my hand on the latch, and waited.

  “Don’t pretend you can’t hear me,” said the same voice, more clearly.

  I turned to my left, from which direction the voice seemed to be arriving, and there she stood, bundled in a similar dressing gown to mine, in addition to a shawl of crimson cashmere. Her round, plump face was tinged in pink: whether from the chill or the slight glow of the shawl, I could not determine.

  “I am not mad,” I said. “I’m going to the duke’s assistance.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Secrecy, I believe, is necessary to the errand. In a houseful such as this, one cannot be too discreet.”

  She made a deprecating noise. “It is not discreet to meet a gentleman in the middle of the night, Miss Truelove. That is the opposite of discreet, in fact.”

  “He is my employer, not a lover.”

  “That may be true, but most people aren’t interested in the truth. They are interested in their own perceptions.”

  I reached again for the latch. “I have never allowed my actions to be guided by the opinions of others.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  “Good night, madam.” I opened the door.

  “Wait!”

  The hinges creaked softly. I looked up and down the hallway and, seeing nothing, stepped forward, allowing the door to close behind me. This action did not, of course, deter the Queen. In the next instant, she stepped directly in front of me, in so swift a movement that the soft fringe of her shawl rustled against her dressing gown.

  “Halt at once! Halt, I say!”

  “I will not. I have an appointment.” I stepped around her and proceeded up the hallway, almost at a run.

  “You must not! You cannot!”

  “I shall!”

  “It might be dangerous. There might be—”

  I stopped and flung around to face her. “Oh, be quiet! For God’s sake! What business is it of yours? What the devil am I to you, that you must torment me like this? Why the devil do you care?”

  Her chest heaved; her fingers trembled. In her blue eyes, a bit of glitter caught the little moonlight from the nearby window cut into the stone wall. She looked as if she meant to speak, and then, just as her mouth opened, she vanished, as if she had never existed.

  For a moment, I simply stood there, staring at the empty stretch of wall. I don’t know why. Perhaps I wanted her to return, for some perverse reason. Perhaps I wanted to hear her answer my question. I closed my eyes and counted in my head, and when I reached a minute, feeling nothing, I opened my eyes and continued down the hallway, listening carefully for any strange sound, any sign of another being, human or otherwise. But there was nothing except the faint rustle of my own slippered footsteps, until I arrived at the Oriental library and stepped inside, shutting the door behind me, to discover the Duke of Olympia waiting for me as we had arranged.

  But he was not alone. He sat in a chair next to the empty fireplace, stiff, red-faced, handkerchief in mouth, fighting the restraint that bound his wrists together behind the chair’s back.

  At his side stood the man from the train, the ginger-haired man, calmly holding the end of a pistol barrel at the duke’s temple.

  On his knees, the Fisherman begged God for her life, and when the sun set his prayer was answered, for the Lady’s fever abated and she opened her eyes, which were the color of the sea itself. ‘Who are you,’ she asked, in a strange accent, ‘and why am I brought to this primitive house, when I am accustomed to every luxury?’ The Fisherman took her hand and answered, ‘Dear Lady, I am only a poor Fisherman, but my love for you is surely greater and purer than any earthly treasure, for by its power you are brought again to life . . .’

  THE BOOK OF TIME, A. M. HAYWOOD (1921)

  Four

  Truelove, isn’t it?” the man said. “Come on in.”

  I was already inside the room, of course. I stayed in place, lifting my hand behind me to grasp at the doorknob.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t do anything stupid.” He waved his other hand, the one not holding the pistol. “Come on. Step forward, where I can see you.”

  “You can see me right where I am,” I said clearly.

  He whistled. “Damn, you’ve got balls. Seriously, though. Chop-chop.”

  “For what purpose? Why are you here? Who are you?”

  The duke made some sound through the material of his handkerchief, a noise of frustration.

  “Oh, shut up,” the man said amiably, and he gathered his fingers in the hair at the top of Max’s head and jerked back violently.

  I darted forward. “Stop!”

  “Atta girl.” The man grinned. “That’s better. Now I can see your pretty face.”

  Max hadn’t made a sound, and he didn’t now, as the man released his hair. But his eyes were bright with pain, or perhaps anger, and he seemed to be communicating some fierce message as he met my gaze.

  I turned to the man with contempt. “You’re a fool. The house is full of people. Men with guns. They’ll shoot you dead, long before the constabulary arrives, and say it was all a terrible accident.”

  “What, are you kidding? I know the score around here. They’re all upstairs, honey. Either fast asleep or f ing each other. They won’t hear anything, trust me. Not a thing. So let’s get down to business, all right?”

  He spoke in a strange accent—English, I guessed, but from which county, I couldn’t determine. It was neither aristocratic nor base, but a strange, slipshod mixture of the two. Back in the cave on Naxos, I had thought he was American, but now I couldn’t say for certain. His language, of course, was vulgarity itself, and I ask your forgiveness for transcribing it here without omission, for I feel it illuminates certain aspects of his character, and the strangeness of the syntax in which he spoke. Let’s get down to business, he said, looking at me with relish, and I thought, My God, he’s enjoying this.

  “Very well. Where’s Silverton?” I asked.

  “Silverton? You mean the blond guy? The guy in your room last night?”

  “You know the man I mean.”

  “How should I know?”

  “Because he caught you searching for my portfolio, didn’t he? What have you done with him?”

  Slowly, he lowered the pistol from Max’s temple, until it hung at an angle near his own waist. “The f ,” he said. “He’s not here?”

  For an instant, or perhaps not even that—a flash, a glimpse—I thought I perceived Silverton’s own face inside that of the man standing before me. I thought I saw a pair of amused blue eyes, crinkled at the corners and without spectacles, and a wide, lush mouth and a glint of gold hair.

  Then he was gone, vanished, and the absence of him seemed to suck my soul from my body, leaving behind nothing but blackness.

  “No,” I said softly. “He’s not here.”

  The ginger-haired man whipped around and drove his closed fist against the wooden table. The table withstood the abuse; the man gave an almighty cry. “He’s got the papers?” he asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “S . S , s , s .”

  An angry growl vibrated Max’s throat; I couldn’t tell whether his captor’s foul language or his mere presence had upset the duke. His eyes found mine again, and he said a short, sharp word into the thick band of the handkerchief. A command of some kind; I believe it was Go!

  I didn’t heed him. I turned instead to the ginger-haired man, because I was desperate now, my belly sick with fear. “What happened?” I demanded. “What have you done to him?”

  “I didn’t do s to him, okay? He chased me out of the room. Ran me down. Grabbed the papers and knocked me down the stairs. By the time I got my gun out, he was gone.”

  “Gone where?”r />
  Until now, the man had remained bent over the table, nursing his fist, biting out his sentences in a mutter. He straightened and turned his head. His pistol lay on the table before him. I considered my distance to the table, calculated the chance of my snatching the pistol before he could react. Too slim, I thought. And I needed him to talk. I needed to know what had happened to Silverton.

  “Gone where?” The man made a shallow, brief laugh and nodded in the duke’s direction. “Ask him. I’ll bet he knows.”

  I startled and looked at Max, whose gaze had turned wide with shock. He looked at the intruder, and then to me.

  “Are you mad?” I said.

  “Mad? Mad, that’s a good word. I like that word. But nope. Not me, not crazy at all. Come on. Don’t tell me you can’t guess what happened to your boy. I sure the f can. G damn it.” He slammed his fist against the table again and picked up the pistol. Turned to the duke, who stared furiously at him, fighting the cords that held him to the chair. “Dude. Duke-man. I should just shoot you now, right? J Ch . If I could just reach inside your f ing brain and grab what I need. Except it isn’t there. Isn’t there yet. Jesus. What the f do I do now, huh?” He let out a furious cry and aimed the pistol at me, and then at Max, and back at me, and in that moment of his frustration I leapt forward to his legs, aiming at the knees, and brought him to the ground.

  As I did so, the duke roared from his seat, furious at his own helplessness, and a tremendous crash shook the floor as he broke the restraints at his legs and rose, toppling the chair. The pistol had dropped from the intruder’s hand and slid across the wooden floorboards, not far, and I lurched toward it desperately, trying to grasp the handle before he could recover. But his arm found my waist, holding me back, and I saw the duke’s feet pass, saw the duke kick the pistol toward my outstretched hand. I grasped it, slipped the handle into my palm, and twisted about, trying to bring the man into range.

  “Feisty b ,” he said, and his hand seized my wrist, while the duke spun about and delivered a kick to his ribs. He swore violently and tore the pistol from my grip and pressed it to my temple. “Touch me again and I pull this trigger!” he yelled, and instantly the duke froze.