‘I can understand how you feel,’ ventured Dawn.
He turned on her. ‘You can’t possibly understand how I feel! This fortress has stood inviolate against outsiders for over five centuries—I can see no reason to surrender now in the name of progress. We islanders are an exclusive people,’ he explained, somewhat more patiently. ‘We hold our privacy very highly. The entire concept of bringing boatloads of tourists in to swarm all over the island violates a sacred heritage of our people—and we’re very proud of our heritage.’
Dawn continued, firmly, ‘I understand how you feel. But don’t you think you’re being a little selfish?’
‘If I am,’ he replied, ‘it’s my right.’
She tried a different tactic. ‘The people who come here,’ she said, ‘will come in search of a different way of life. A small, untouched part of the world that can have for them, for a time, a very special meaning. There are so few places like that left on this planet. I don’t think anyone has the right to keep one entirely to himself.’
For a moment she almost thought her argument touched a valid note with him, but then he said, ‘And your solution to that is to bring in more and more people to desecrate what little there is left that’s untouched by the outside world?’
She shook her head. ‘Why must you persist upon assuming they’ll desecrate anything? They don’t want to destroy your way of life—only share in it for a moment! This castle—so rich in Scottish history—things the textbooks don’t record. The beautiful works of art locked up here—never to be seen by anyone but yourself. How could you—why could you want to—keep all this away from the rest of the world?’
From far away she heard a telephone ring down the hall. Discreetly, Maggie, slipped out to answer it.
Byron looked at her for a time, and gradually she noticed his features soften, perhaps a faint hint of a smile in his eyes. ‘You’ve been here for such a short time—you’ve seen so little of the castle or the island, but you speak as though you know it, You make a very persuasive devil’s advocate, Miss Morrison, and I almost think you could make me change my mind. But then,’ he added, his eyes softly raking her from bosom to calf, ‘given half a chance I imagine you could change any man’s mind about almost anything. That’s your advantage in being born a female, and such a delightfully constructed one at that.’
Dawn almost stamped her foot in impatience. ‘It doesn’t require a feminine body,’ she told him, ‘to see the logic in what I’m saying. But perhaps it does require a male mind to refuse to see it and hide behind flimsy evasions and irrelevant and ineffective flattery.’
Immediately she could have bitten her tongue, watching as the echoes of her words died away and his eyes darkened and grew remote. The air between them was static as he cautioned , ‘Careful, Miss Morrison. Your chauvinism is showing!’
The electric moment was broken by the reentrance of Maggie, and Dawn turned abruptly away from her, her cheeks flaming, once again cursing herself for that uncontrollable temper which would one day cost her a job. She only hoped, with sudden desperation, that it would not be this one.
‘It’s for you, Byron,’ Maggie said quietly. ‘Thomas.’
A pause, then he said curtly, ‘Doesn’t he know it’s the dinner hour?’
‘He said it was important.’
He set his glass down on the table and stalked towards the door. There he turned back, however, and said smoothly, ‘I’m so sorry you find my flattery ineffective, Miss Morrison, I shall try to do better in the future.’
‘Business, you know,’ explained Maggie when he was gone. ‘Thomas Mann is Byron’s partner in the distillery.’
Dawn smiled in what she hoped was an understanding manner, and appreciated the chance to let her cheeks cool. Although the telephone was some distance away from the room in which they were seated, it was impossible to ignore the sound of Byron’s voice, growing louder and more heated as the minutes ticked on. The two women could only look at one another uncomfortably, trying to smile, though rather weakly, trying to pretend nothing was amiss.
In a matter of moments Byron reappeared at the door, his trench coat flung over his arm, his dark face suffused with a choleric tint. ‘Don’t count on me for dinner,’ he said curtly. ‘I don’t know how late I’ll be.’ And, after a few striding footsteps, they heard the front door slam.
Maggie glanced at her apologetically, and Dawn was aware of a vast disappointment that he was gone. Mostly she was thinking, angry and impatient with both herself and the circumstances, ‘What rotten timing! Just when we were beginning to communicate!’
CHAPTER THREE
When Maggie only stood there, looking after him, moment after anxious moment, Dawn felt it was important to say something. She ventured, ‘I do hope it’s nothing serious.’
Maggie sighed, and dragged her eyes away from the empty doorway to focus on Dawn. She said, ‘I suppose you’re entitled to some explanation.’ For a moment she looked as though debating what to tell her, and when, and if at all. Then, with an abrupt resumption of her brisk efficiency, she decided, ‘What matter, you’ll hear the gossip sooner or later. Come along then, let’s go in to dinner, and I’ll see what I can do to excuse my brother’s abominable behaviour.’
As they walked through two, or perhaps three, stone corridors, Dawn anxiously divided her attention on trying to make note of her surroundings so that she might find her way back again, and listening to what Maggie was saying. Soon she lost interest altogether in the making of a mental map for total absorption in the subject of her discourse.
‘I know it’s no excuse,’ Maggie was saying, ‘but Byron has problems right now—business and personal. He’s not usually quite so ill-mannered, or short-spoken, with strangers ... although he can be when the mood strikes him or he takes one of his inexplicable dislikes...!’ She glanced at her anxiously and added quickly, ‘Which is not the case with you, I assure you, if only you’ll allow me to explain...’
Dawn shook her head sadly and tried to smile through a dry spot in her throat. ‘But I’m very much afraid it is, Maggie. I think I represent to your brother all that he most dislikes—the threat to his “fortress”, as he likes to call it, and he retaliates to me exactly the way he would like to do to a busload of tourists ... Don’t worry,’ she assured her, ‘it won’t influence my piece at all.’ She smiled a little. ‘There’s no room in my outline for a personal opinion of the proprietor of the establishment!’
Maggie shook her head. ‘It’s true, you know, that Byron was against this entire idea from the beginning, but he was very tolerant with me, and I thought, until recently, he might even eventually adjust ... But that’s not really the problem, you see...’
By this time they had entered a moss green dining room, very cosy and not overly large, and she interrupted herself to explain, ‘This’s not, of course, where we will seat our guests. This is the family dining area, the Great Hall has a banquet table and a seating capacity of fifty, and I had intended a true medieval flavour with the evening meal, with torches on the wall and perhaps period costumes...’ She gestured her to be seated and Dawn slipped into a carved oak chair with green velvet padding while Maggie murmured something to the maid and the place setting at the head of the table was removed.
Tactfully, Maggie did not continue the conversation until the soup was brought, a rich, flavourful broth, laced, Dawn noticed in some surprise, with what appeared to be whisky. It was surprisingly very good. ‘You see,’ Maggie resumed somewhat reluctantly as the maid withdrew and the heavy oak doors were pulled discreetly closed behind her, ‘there’s a problem with the distillery ... Thomas Mann is Byron’s partner. He was in partnership with our father before Byron inherited, so you see it’s a long-standing—and very profitable—arrangement. But...’ She dropped her eyes briefly. ‘Thomas has a daughter, Hilary. She and Byron were engaged to be married, but only last week she broke it off.’
The candelabra in the centre of the table seemed to gleam less brightly, the d
ark panelling around the room seemed to harbour more shadows, the heavy moss velvet curtains seemed less elegant than funereal. Dawn was not certain she wanted to hear more. After all, it was none of her concern. Her limits were to architecture, accommodation, meals and entertainment. The personality and personal problems of her host had nothing to do with her assignment. Yet she took another sip of her soup and did nothing to discourage Maggie from continuing.
‘Above all,’ said Maggie, fastening her intensely with her eyes, ‘Byron values loyalty. He’s very strict about that in his dealings with others and there can be no compromises. It’s—rather of a family trait, you see. What Hilary did was unforgivable.’ A man who had succeeded to his heritage through five centuries of fiercely loyal and domineering rulers of the island would have those characteristics, thought Dawn. Unbreakable pride, and unswerving distaste for anyone who dealt with him less than honestly. It was understandable.
Maggie kept her eyes on her soup, dipping the spoon in and out and letting the liquid slide back into the bowl without ever lifting it above the rim. ‘Perhaps you can understand if his attitude with all women is a little hostile now—even with me! He was deeply hurt.’
Dawn said, ‘Certainly I understand, and as I told you before, none of this will influence me in the least.’
Maggie sighed. ‘It’s likely to go on for some time. You see, Byron has some foolish notion in his head about severing all dealings with the Manns...’
‘But he surely can’t let his personal life influence business decisions!’ Dawn cried, and reminded herself a moment too late that it was none of her business.
Maggie tilted her head slightly, as though half in agreement. ‘But you see, Hilary will eventually inherit everything that’s her father’s—including his interest in the distillery. Even now, she holds an executive position with enormous decision-making powers. Byron simply refuses to deal with her; he doesn’t trust her.’
Part of Dawn understood his position, another part insisted that a woman should not be judged in the business world according to the way she managed her personal life. The other part told her sternly, once again, that it was none of her concern.
‘Until now, Byron has refused to deal with either of them except through his lawyers. He wouldn’t even go to Thomas’s house for fear of running into Hilary in some situation where he couldn’t close his office door on her or crowd her out with other people. But now...’ she looked slightly encouraged, ‘perhaps his going over there tonight means he’s softening a little, and is ready to start acting civilised again.’
Remembering the look on Byron’s face as he had left, Dawn did not think a desire for civilised behaviour was one of his driving motives, but Maggie obviously knew him better than she did. Perhaps the colour in his face and the tension in his carriage had not been anger at all, but passion. And perhaps his leaving his dinner guest—if Dawn could properly refer to herself as that—and rushing to the side of his former fiancée meant their little quarrel would be patched up, and everyone would live happily ever after.
It really did not concern her.
With the next course, flaked baked trout which Maggie told her had been caught only that morning in a nearby stream, they moved on to lighter subjects, and Dawn recalled little that was said. Perhaps they discussed a little of Maggie’s plans concerning the itinerary and projected summer opening, but it was desultory table conversation, nothing Dawn could not get down in her notebook in detail later on. She found herself keeping an eye on the polished grandfather clock in the corner, and as the hour passed and they rose from the table, she thought the reunion must be going very well. After all, Byron had said he did not know how late he would be. Perhaps he would not be back at all tonight.
And it was not as though she would really notice whether he was or not. What business she had with him—finding a guide to show her about the island, requesting permission to photograph some of his works of art—could very easily wait until morning.
Maggie took her through the downstairs rooms, switching on lights as they went—library, sitting rooms, a large, efficient office which once again smelled hauntingly of Byron’s cologne, passageways and staircases winding up and down, and it was all a maze to Dawn. ‘You need to get a map for your guests!’ she laughed.
Maggie smiled. ‘They’re being printed now.’ Then, ‘Of course you realise this floor is an extension of the family living quarters. The upper floor will belong to the guests, with its Great Hall for dining and lounging, their own rooms just around the corner, and the exhibitions right above.’
‘The architecture,’ mused Dawn, as they made their way back towards the foyer, ‘is strange. It’s not at all like I expected to find in a castle. It all seems so—well planned, and convenient.’
Maggie laughed. ‘I’m glad you think so, because that impression is achieved as the result of five generations of enterprising Boyds, too stubborn to leave their ancestral home, too fond of luxury to put up with the inconveniences of castle life. Of course you realise what we’re standing in now is no older than three centuries, and when it was rebuilt I believe there was a French bride who brought many progressive ideas on architecture to the island from her homeland.’
‘What parts remain of the original structure?’
‘The dungeons, of course, although no one ever goes down there. The two lowers on the front—they’re going to be open for exhibition. You can see there the marks made by cannonballs on the stone, the powder burns, the little slits in the walls through which the archers used to fire, and the spiral stairways which made it almost impossible for an enemy to wage an offensive attack, and very easy for the lord of the castle to defend. In one of these is the scarred railing Byron told you about.’
‘Naturally, I’ll want to photograph that.’ As they reached the elevator Dawn reached out lightly to graze a cold stone wall. ‘How long has the castle been here?’ she asked again.
‘Five centuries,’ replied Maggie proudly.
The girl shook her head in amazement. To Dawn, who had not lived in any one place for more than a year at a time since her parents’ divorce when she was in high school, such permanence and stability was a matter of the sheerest wonder.
At ten o’clock Maggie walked her back to her room and they said goodnight. She felt she should be tired, so she dressed for bed, and even went so far as to turn back the puffy satin coverlet before she realised the extensive nap she had taken that afternoon had completely eliminated any possibility of sleep in the immediate future.
Though conservative in her daytime wear, Dawn was extravagant with nightclothes. Tonight, despite the chilly spring evening, she wore a sheer white nylon peignoir printed all over with tiny blue flowers. The inner garment was sleeveless and cut low across the bosom, fastened from bodice to waist with only three small blue ribbons, which left a great amount of bare flesh exposed. The outer garment, which she slipped on now as she padded across the carpeted room to the window seat, though it had full, long sleeves and a cascade of lace around the shoulders, fastened with only one ribbon at the top and could in no way be considered modest.
She took up the brush and began to stroke her hair into long cords as she sat in the window seat and gazed out across the still and silent garden. The moon was so bright it was almost like day, brushed with the special softness only a full moon can bring. Every detail of the garden was clear, the colours, the glowing stones of the path, even the reflection of the still castle rippling in the lake. And that gave her a sudden idea.
Night shots were especially effective, and if she could capture this setting in this once-in-a-lifetime manifestation of moonlight, the accomplishment would not only impress her editor beyond measure but possibly even merit submission to higher authorities—perhaps to be considered for one of the coveted photographers’ awards. It was too good an opportunity to miss.
Because timing was very important where natural lighting was concerned, and because she did not think anyone would be about at this ho
ur, it did not occur to her to stop and dress, or even throw a light coat over her shoulders. She merely plunged her bare feet into satin slippers, swept up her equipment, and stole out into the hall towards the lift.
The lift deposited her right where she wanted to be—in the front foyer, and she remembered Byron’s jeering words, ‘Do you like to play it safe, Miss Morrison?’ As she made her way through the dimly lit foyer and pulled open the front door she told herself sternly that in the dead of night in an unfamiliar environment the only sensible thing to do was to play it safe. It did not occur to her that she was at that moment doing exactly the opposite.
First, she found the path which led around the side of the house to the garden, stumbling a little, scuffing her slippers and her exposed toes on the stones. Strange, it had seemed much brighter from her window. She supposed the oaks cut out a great deal of the light as it made its way towards the ground, giving the illusion of brilliance from a height, when in fact it was dark and shadowy on the ground.
As she came into the high hedges of the garden she was acutely disappointed. From the ground angle, there was none of that lustrous brilliance bathing the garden which she had remarked from her window. The hedges were at least six feet tall, overshadowing the beds, even dulling the curving stone walkways. Only the little fountain in the centre still sparkled whiteness, and it was a very ordinary fountain. Dawn placed her camera bag on a low stone bench and then sat down beside it, looking about her discontentedly.
The night was still and peaceful, beautiful despite its lack of photogenic capability, and she would have liked to have sat there a while longer. But it was chilly, a slight breeze blew across the lake and caused her to shiver; she was suddenly aware that the stone bench was very cold against her scantily-protected thighs.
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