“Or ten,” he qualified.
“Even when I be that old, Peattie might not be dead.”
“Good heavens!” gasped Yolande. “What things you do say! Oh—see, Dev! There is Castle Tyndale!”
They had passed through a hilly area of lush pastures dotted with black-faced sheep and threaded by the hurrying sparkle of the river. Ahead, the hills fell back to reveal, far off, the wider sparkle of the sea and a distant misty looming of islands. The skies were threatening over the Firth of Clyde, creating a fitting background for the castle that soared at the top of the cliffs. A tall structure, its three conical topped towers upthrusting stark and grim against the clouds, its Gothic windows dark holes against the massive grey walls, it presented, from this distance, a desolate picture of brooding power.
“Jupiter!” Devenish exclaimed. “Old Craig cannot mean to dwell alone in that great pile?”
“It could be spectacular, were it brought up to style,” mused Yolande.
“Yes, but that would take a mountain of blunt, and—What’s wrong now, elf?”
Clinging to his jacket, Josie whimpered, “I don’t like it! It’s a bad place! I don’t want to go there!”
Devenish experienced a deepening of his own inner apprehensions. Those were the battlements from which his youthful father had plunged to his untimely death. Within those walls his heart-broken mother had lost her babe and grieved herself into an early grave. He shivered suddenly.
He was not alone in his apprehensions. Surveying his birthright with troubled eyes, Craig was deeply shocked, not because it looked so forbidding, but because it was so exactly as he had pictured it. He had no sense of strangeness or unfamiliarity, but rather a feeling of inevitability; of a homecoming that had been planned and long awaited—not by himself, but by that great grey pile of stone and mortar and memories. He turned to find Walter Donald’s keen brown gaze fixed upon him with so gravely speculative a look that he flushed and was seized by the feeling that the gentleman knew more of the tragedy at Castle Tyndale than he had said.
They still had several miles to drive before they came to the heavy lodge gates and the winding drive that led up to the castle, and with every mile Devenish’s unease increased. When Tyndale dropped back to ride beside the curricle, he said, “Well, there’s your ancestral pile, coz. What d’ye think of it?”
His face expressionless, Tyndale countered, “What do you think of it?”
“I don’t like it!” whimpered Josie, holding tightly to Yolande’s hand. “I got a bad tummy about it!”
“It’s—rather grim,” said Devenish.
Tyndale nodded. “Certainly not Prince Charming’s castle.”
“Lord, no!” Devenish elaborated tactlessly, “More like Bluebeard’s demesne. I pity the poor princess who was carried in through those doors!”
Yolande kept her eyes on the child. “Pity the poor princess, indeed!” she thought.
They soon came to the gates, hanging rusted and broken upon massive pillars. The lodge house was abandoned, the windows boarded up, and a padlock upon the door.
“Small need of a lock!” the General snorted.
“None at all,” Mr. Donald agreed, watching Tyndale.
Tyndale met that grave regard squarely. “Why?” he asked curtly, his chin well up, and irritation gnawing at him. If this man fancied he was ashamed, or held his father guilty, he was vastly mistaken!
Donald smiled and said rather apologetically, “Your pardon, but—it is said to be haunted, you know.”
They passed through the gates and began to clatter up the winding, neglected drivepath.
The General declaimed his friend’s fears as “gillie-maufrey nonsense!” To which Mr. Donald responded by asking Sir Andrew if he had ever been inside. “I have,” he went on, “and I’ll no deny it had me shaking in me shoes, and I’m no a supairsteetious mon! Not,” he went on in purest Oxford accents, “that I mean to deter you, Tyndale.”
“You would be wasting your time, sir,” said the Canadian determinedly.
The General grinned his approval. “And that gave you back your own, Donald! Gad, it’s no wee cottage, is it?”
It was not. And the closer they came, the larger loomed the castle until they were in the dark shadow of it, as it towered above them.
With a stirring of pride, Tyndale thought, “How grand it is! The home of my ancestors! And it is mine now.”
His thoughts taking a different direction, Devenish noted that there were no small boys intrepidly exploring the great pile. And how odd that a hush seemed to have fallen upon their own small party, even the shrill titters from the chaise having been silenced.
The General pulled his mount to a halt beside the spread of some great old trees, and swung from the saddle. “Shall we picnic here?” he called with rather determined gaiety. “What d’ye say, ladies?”
Tyndale dismounted to hand Mrs. Fraser from the chaise. “It’s well enough,” she allowed, her shrewd eyes flickering over the bulk of the castle.
Following, Mrs. Drummond clutched nervously at Tyndale’s arm. “Oh, my!” she twittered. “I think I shall not awaken Socrates. The dear little fellow would be petrified.”
Mrs. Fraser threw a disdainful glance at the terrier, who snored on the seat. “’Twould take a mighty fearsome bogle tae scare that wee grouch!”
Innocently watching Arabella, the General asked if the ladies would prefer that they picnicked inside.
Mrs. Drummond uttered a small squeak. Mrs. Fraser cast disgusted eyes to heaven, and the General chuckled.
Yolande shook her head at him. “Wicked rascal!” She slipped her arm around her aunt’s trembling shoulders. “We will do nicely out here. There is still plenty of blue sky, but if it begins to rain you and the gentlemen may go inside and light a fire for us.”
“May we?” the General said with an amused chuckle, “Well—let us have the baskets down! I’m famished.” The two footmen busying themselves at once, Sir Andrew said that the ladies could supervise the disposition of the picnic whilst the gentlemen took “our new property owner to view his home, the noo.” He and Devenish led the way. Walking beside Mr. Donald, Tyndale asked softly, “Am I mistaken, sir, or do you know something of my … background that causes you to hold me in aversion?”
“Let us say rather that I have recently learned that which causes me to believe Drummond will be vastly incensed when he hears it.”
Tyndale drew a deep breath. “I see. I trust you will believe me, sir, when I tell you that when I first arrived here, I thought everyone knew the—the details.”
“And when did you find your assumption to be incorrect?”
“Last night. Which decided me upon leaving this morning.”
“You do not mean to return to Steep Drummond?”
“No, sir. My man was packing and is likely already following.”
Donald nodded and said a judicial, “As well, perhaps.”
Angered, Tyndale lifted his chin, and, noting that prideful gesture, the older man said, “When the word gets out, you’ll be cut—I warn you.”
“And I warn you, sir. Whatever you have been told is not truth!”
A twinkle coming into his eyes, Donald said mildly, “If ye dinna ken what I’ve heard, laddie, how can ye know it for a lie?”
Tyndale flushed, his mouth tightening.
Taking pity on him, Donald gripped his shoulder briefly. “I’ll tell ye what I do know, which is precious little. I was acquainted with your sire. Oh, never look so hopeful, lad! Not well acquainted. But enough to know that if Jonas brought about Stuart’s death, it was because of a blow dealt in anger. Not a deliberate attempt at murder. Of that I am perfectly sure.”
Mollified, Tyndale said, “Thank you, sir. But—may I ask who told you of it? And when? Yolande thinks it a deep buried secret.”
“Aye. It was, that. For four and twenty years. Who let the cat oot o’ the bag, I dinna ken. But oot it is! And—whisht! I’d as soon not be nigh when Andy learns of
’t!”
Before Craig could respond, the General called a testy summons, and they hastened to join him atop the debris-strewn steps before the main door. The castle rose from a veritable jungle of overgrown shrubs and trees. Several window panes were broken, but it did not now appear to be in as sorry a state as it had seemed at a distance. It was perched at the very edge of the cliffs, and from below came a steady booming as waves broke against the great rocks offshore that rose as if to shield the bay from further inroads of the hungry tide. Devenish gazed up at the soaring battlements. Donald glanced meaningfully at Tyndale, who flushed darkly, drew from his pocket the heavy key his solicitor had given him, and fitted it in the lock. He had expected the door to prove recalcitrant, but it swung open smoothly enough, and like guilty schoolboys, they did not at once enter, but all stood at the top of the steps, peering inside.
They looked into a great, flagged, baronial hall. About forty feet distant, there was a gigantic fireplace, with beside it a steep flight of stone stairs, leading to a railed balcony. To the left of the fireplace an enormous door, half-open, offered a glimpse of a long corridor, and in the right-hand wall was a similar door that they later discovered led to the kitchens, servants quarters, and stableyard. Several well-preserved bishop’s chairs were grouped about the hearth, and the walls were hung with occasional large and faded tapestries. At the foot of the stairs, a suit of armour had toppled, and lay rather pathetically strewn on the dusty flagstones.
Tyndale gathered his courage and walked inside. The General and Mr. Donald followed, but Devenish stood as one frozen, making no attempt to accompany them. He had never fancied himself to harbour a belief in the occult, but now he was gripped by an all but overpowering terror, so that it was literally impossible for him to put one foot before the next. It was as much as he could do, in fact, not to dash madly back down the steps.
Jove,” Tyndale murmured, considerably awed, “but it’s big!”
“It was a bonnie sight when I was a lad,” said the General. He turned to Donald. “D’ye recollect when—” He stopped and, following his friend’s gaze, called, “Well, Devenish, d’ye not mean to come inside?”
Devenish wet his lips. Glancing at him, Tyndale said, “I fancy the ladies are ready. We can leave this until later.”
“Hoot-toot!” exclaimed Sir Andrew, irascibly. “What ails the boy? He’s no afraid o’ ghosties, I—”
Donald frowned and leaned to murmur something in his ear, and Sir Andrew looked mortified. He said contritely, “My apologies, Devenish. I must be getting daft in my dotage! I’d clean forgot that both your parents died here.”
“It was—just an odd sort of—feeling.” Devenish gave a ghastly grin. “I shall do very well now, thank you.” Nonetheless, to make himself walk forward was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do, and it seemed an age before he stood beside Tyndale, who was inspecting one of the tapestries.
“I would really as soon look over the castle by myself,” the Canadian muttered. “And I am sure you would rather be with Yolande, so—”
“Stuff! I mean to stay and lend you a hand. Besides, I want to see—” The words ended in a yelp of shock as Socrates shot between his legs and disappeared into the dimness beyond the half-open door.
“That imp o’ Satan!” growled the General. And then, brightening, “Happen a bogle’ll get him!”
“I would never be forgiven,” Craig said, going over to swing the door wide. There was no sign of Socrates, but he went into a broad corridor that gave onto several large rooms, some provided with heavy doors, and others having only broad archways to afford entrance. The first of these latter led into a formal dining hall that boasted two modern chandeliers above a fine oak table lined with about thirty ponderously carven chairs. There were fireplaces at both ends of this large chamber, and daylight shone dimly through three sets of closed curtains.
Devenish wandered in, remarked that the atmosphere in the room was less frigid, but dashed gloomy, and went over to fling back the draperies. He was at once enveloped in a dense cloud of dust, his resultant explosion of sneezing amusing the General and Mr. Donald, who mocked him gleefully.
Tyndale, however, paid no heed to his cousin’s plight, but stood staring down at the oaken table top, his brows drawn into a thoughtful frown.
* * *
Clouds began to drift in from the sea while they were still sitting around the luncheon cloth, but the sunshine, although not constant, was sufficiently warm to take the chill off the air. The chef had provided a varied and tempting repast, to which they all did justice. Yolande was surprised to find herself hungry, despite the fact that she was heavy-hearted. Josie was prey to no such affliction, and soon forgot her initial fear of the castle. Not for as long as she could remember had she eaten as well as during her travels with Devenish, and she applied herself to the food with joyous appreciation, yet with a mannerliness that brought curiosity to Sir Andrew’s eyes.
“I’d give a few guineas to know where you hail from, Mistress Storm,” he said, waving a bannock at her.
“‘So would I, sir,” she replied, serenely unafraid of this old gentleman before whom grooms trembled and maids were tongue-tied.
“D’ye hear that?” he demanded of Donald. ‘So would I, sir.’ Proper as you please! D’ye recall nothing, child? Nothing of your lady mother, or a fine papa, belike?”
“I only remember Akim telling me I’d fetch a good price at the Flash House,” she said. And watching Mr. Donald choke on the tart he’d just sunk his teeth into, went on, “Only Benjo said I might not, ’cause I ain’t pretty.”
“Whatever is a—a Flash House?” enquired Mrs. Drummond naïvely. “A place where they manufacture gunpowder, I suppose. Though,” she tilted her head dubiously, “why one should be pretty for that occupation, I cannot understand.”
Devenish gave a muffled chortle of amusement.
“Your supposition is incorrect,” said the General, irritated. “And never mind what it does mean!”
“Ladies,” conveyed Mrs. Fraser grandly, “are not supposed to know such things, my dear Arabella. Or so the gentlemen hold.”
“Then that would certainly explain why it is I know nothing of such a term.” Mrs Drummond replied with a smug smile. “For indeed, I have been sheltered by gentlemen all my days. My late husband, God rest his soul, would have flung up his hands in horror had any unsavoury remark soiled my ears.” She raised her brows, all arch innocence, and enquired, “You, certainly, do not comprehend what the poor waif said, do you, dear Caroline?”
Mrs. Fraser fixed her with a look of searing contempt. “Ay, I do. My late husband was not one to value a widgeon.”
The General, his thoughtful regard on the child, now daintily wiping greasy fingers upon her petticoat, asked, “How would ye like to stay at Steep Drummond, girl? My housekeeper could instruct you in the ways of a parlourmaid, I don’t doubt. ’Twould be a good life. A clean life, y’ken. And ye’d not go hungry or abused—I’d see to that!”
Josie stared at him and wondered what Peattie would wish her to say. Mr. Dev was gazing at an apple he held and gave no sign of having heard the offer. She thought it a grand one, but sighed, scrambled to her feet, and dropped the old gentleman a curtsy. “Thank ye, sir General,” said she. “But I’d liefer stay with Mr. Dev, if you please.”
“I do not please! And nor will Colonel Tyndale, let me tell you. Ain’t fitting! ’Tis a bachelor’s dwelling, and they’ll no be needing a young female growing up there.”
The child paled, and her lips trembled. “No, b-but—I will soon be growed! I won’t be no trouble!”
“Mama may be able to help, sir,” Yolande put in kindly.
His own heart touched, Mr. Donald suggested, “Or perhaps Devenish will make her his ward.”
The General slanted a glance at Devenish, who still tenderly contemplated the apple in his hand, wholly unaware of this conversation, torn between joy that he had secured his lady’s promise and unease bec
ause of his reaction to that blasted great castle wherein he’d given his word to remain for a few days.
“Well?” fumed the General, eyebrows bristling. “Well, sir?”
Tyndale nudged his cousin and Devenish jumped, saw every eye upon him, and gulped nervously. “Eh? What’s to do?”
“God! What a block!” snorted Sir Andrew.
Laughing, Tyndale said, “General Drummond is interested in Josie, Dev, and wants to know what you plan for her.”
“Me? I have not the vaguest notion. Lady Louisa will have some splendid scheme, I expect.”
Close to tears, Josie pleaded, “But, I want to stay with you!” And turning to the General, explained, “He don’t mind if I’m not pretty, do you, Mr. Dev?”
“Lord, no. I don’t mind if you’re plain as a mud fence,” he said, carelessly.
“Really, Dev!” scolded Yolande.
The General glared at him. “Insensitive puppy!”
These words exercised an extraordinary effect upon Mrs. Drummond. Her eyes widened alarmingly, and she became rigid. She squawked, “My sweet love has gone!”
“Been gone for twenty years at least, Arabella,” the General pointed out, viewing her askance. “Don’t go into a funny turn, now!”
Ignoring this, the distraught dowager, her eyes searching about frantically, wailed, “He was but now nibbling my fingers!”
“Nibbling … your fingers?” gasped Sir Andrew. He drew back a little and glancing to Donald, muttered, “She’s off the road! Suspected it this twelvemonth and—”
Mrs. Drummond, lost in anxiety, shrieked, “My angel! Where are you?”
“Good God!” whispered Drummond, goggling at her.
His daughter-in-law’s cry rose shrilly, “Soc-ra-tees—? Oh! Surely he has not fallen over the cliff?”
The General cast her a look of both relief and disgust, and muttered something about “unlikely blessings.”
Tyndale stood. “I think he is in the castle, ma’am. I’ll go and find him.”
Reaching out to be helped up, Yolande said, “Dev and I will come with you.”
He lifted her to her feet but when she attempted to pull away, his grip tightened. He said a quiet, “Thank you. But Dev or Mr. Donald will help.”
The Noblest Frailty Page 20