He led her to another room filled with vats, each as large as a swimming pool, and the musky, unhealthy odour that prevailed was like a physical thing. ‘This is where the mash ferments,’ he said, stepping inside and watching her for a reaction. ‘The temperature has to be carefully controlled and the entire process checked periodically.’
It was warm and humid, and the vile odour of decay seemed to permeate every step she took, clinging to her hair and her clothes and darting towards the back of her throat. She felt nausea rising and it was difficult to breathe. But she took a few pictures and followed him as he crossed the room to check the temperature gauge.
‘Every part of the process is important,’ he was saying, ‘but this is one of the most crucial.’ He glanced at her, then reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. ‘Put this over your face,’ he suggested gently. ‘It will help a little.’
Dawn swallowed hard and shook her head. ‘No—thanks. I’m okay, really.’
He slipped his arm about her waist as they walked towards the door. ‘A lady,’ he told her, ‘would have at least had the decency to swoon in my arms.’ But she thought there was a glint of admiration in his eyes that she had not.
Back out into relatively fresh air again, he paused and tilted his head, listening above the clatter to a P.A. system: ‘Mr. Boyd ... extension two-one ... Mr. Boyd, please.’
‘Come on up to the office for a minute,’ he said, his hand on her back lightly guiding her towards another flight of stairs. ‘This won’t take long.’
The office area was the perfect antithesis to the nether regions of actual distillation: clean and bright and plushly decorated with powder blue carpeting and bright blue and brown wallpaper depicting various labels off the centuries-old Falkone’s Whisky bottles. There was a display of these old bottles on one wall of the reception room, and a busy, middle-aged secretary at the desk. Suddenly Dawn was struck by a title for her article: Falkone’s Acres, Past and Present—Five Centuries of Scottish History. And she excitedly began to snap pictures of everything in sight.
The secretary looked at her curiously, but spoke to Byron. ‘It’s London. Mr. Clark.’
‘I’ll take it in my office,’ he replied, and just then the door to another office opened and two people emerged.
He was bald and middle-aged, she was tall, slender and strikingly beautiful. She wore a tailored suit whose colour must have been chosen precisely to match the decor of the office, the skirt was slit to reveal a line of shapely calf and knee, a powder-puff fur collar brushed against her thick, gleaming red hair. With a sinking heart, Dawn saw the muscles in Byron’s face tighten, and she knew who the girl was.
After a moment he spoke, although apparently with some difficulty. ‘Dawn, I don’t believe you met Hilary Mann, and her father, Thomas. This is Dawn Morrison, from Americans Abroad magazine.’
The other girl nodded at her, though her eyes were glittering strangely, and Thomas Mann stepped forward to take her hand. Byron abruptly excused himself and closed the door to his office.
‘Charmed to meet you, Miss Morrison,’ said Mr. Mann. ‘Byron is taking you on a little tour, I see. Is there anything I can do to show you around while he’s occupied?’
‘Thank you, no,’ she replied, trying not to return the stare of the other woman, which was beginning to make her uncomfortable. ‘I’ll wait for Byron.’
‘Very well, then, I do have some work to finish up...’ He turned to his daughter. ‘I’ll see you at noon, then, my dear.’
He left them alone, and Dawn turned to face that discomfiting gaze being directed upon her. Hilary’s lips were upturned coolly in a smile, as though Dawn had been measured and found wanting. ‘Well, well,’ she said softly, at last. ‘So you’re his next victim!’
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ returned Dawn stiffly.
‘You will, my dear,’ the other girl drawled. ‘You will.’
And just then the door to Byron’s office opened.
Ignoring Hilary, he said pleasantly, ‘Come in, Dawn, and sit down while I finish up some papers for the morning post. It won’t take long, I promise.’
She was so grateful for the rescue that she went gladly.
Byron sat upon the edge of the desk and smiled at her as she took the comfortable leather chair opposite. ‘So. What do you think of the operation so far?’
‘It’s fascinating. It’s really going to add something to the article. But I thought you had work to do.’
He lifted his shoulders lightly. ‘Not really. You just looked as if you could use an interruption out there. It wasn’t very kind of me to leave you in her clutches.’
Dawn answered carefully, ‘She is rather— intimidating.’
He stood up and came over to her. ‘Let’s not talk about her just now.’ He bent over and took her shoulders, lifting her gently to her feet. ‘I’d rather talk about something I’ve been wanting to do since I first saw you this morning ... maybe longer than that.’
She could see it in his eyes, very close to hers, but still she had to whisper, ‘What’s that?’
‘Kiss you.’
His lips touched hers lightly, gradually pressing into a tenderness and a warmth she had never known before, and she welcomed him gladly. Her arms slipped around his neck and her fingers caressed the fine material of his worsted suit, her heart was leaping and cascading with unrestrained joy. She admitted for the first time that of all the men she had known, all the times she had been kissed, he was the only one by whom she had ever really wanted to be kissed, he was the only one by whom she had ever really wanted to be held, and with that admission came a new freedom in the joy of exploring her feelings. She wanted him to never stop.
But of course he must. When he released her and lifted his head she whispered, ‘Oh, Byron ...’ And then froze at the cold and calculating look in his eyes.
She twisted to the direction of his gaze, and there, watching them through the glass window, a coolly superior smile on her lips, was Hilary. And Byron had known it all along. He had brought her in here, deliberately arranged her to stand before the window, knowing all along ... Hilary raised her hand in light greeting, then moved out of their range of vision.
Dawn stepped away with no resistance from Byron, a miserable feeling churning in the pit of her stomach.
Once again, she had been royally used.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the days which followed Dawn completely immersed herself in her work, doing her best to avoid Byron. This was made somewhat easier by the fact that he was spending most of his time at the distillery, in angry telephone conversations with Thomas Mann, or closeted in the office with Vernon, going over accounts. Dawn told herself this was best. She had come dangerously close to becoming involved in a distracting and self-destructive situation which could only shatter her peace of mind if she allowed it to go further. She needed every ounce of concentration she could preserve to complete her assignment, for it would be the best thing she had ever done.
In those days she came to realise she was in love. She loved every nook and cranny of the stalwart, impenetrable fortress. She loved the centuries of proud, aristocratic Boyds who gazed down at her fiercely from the portrait gallery in the upper floor. She loved every winding path and sculpted hedge in the garden, the placid black lake which reflected the foreverness of the castle, through joy and sorrow, victory and defeat, never changing, day after day. She loved the indomitable tradition of loyalty and mastery which was the Boyd heritage, and every shred of that emotion would go into her photographs. It was a labour of love.
She met Vernon in the foyer one morning as she was planning to take a brief excursion around the castle grounds. She had planned to ask Maggie for the use of a car to make a tour of the village and perhaps some of the more scenic areas of the island, but she had already left the house and Dawn decided to make best use of the time by exploring on foot.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted her cheerfully. ‘How’s it going?’
‘How about sending us a preview copy?’
She laughed. ‘That’s not really my department, but I’ll see what I can do.’
Byron came clattering down the tower staircase just then, his eye on his watch, briefcase in hand. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, jacket unbuttoned to reveal a silk shirt of a lighter blue patterned silk, and the colour, as always, softened his features and made him look much less formidable. His manner of dress was usually much more casual, and Dawn knew before he spoke that he did not intend to spend the day at the plant.
He greeted Vernon abruptly. ‘Sorry, old man, but I have to fly to Glasgow this morning. I’ll be back later tonight, but that won’t give us time to get much work done. Let’s have a fresh go at it in the morning, shall we?’
He did not look at Dawn, or even acknowledge her presence. She wondered with a stab of unplanned hurt whether that, too, were part of the tradition of Boyd men. To use women for their own purposes and then cast them aside, forgotten, as soon as they became no longer necessary.
When he had gone Vernon turned to her with an uncertain smile and Dawn quickly masked her own eyes. ‘Well,’ he said, a little too exuberantly, ‘it looks as if I’m free for the day. What about you?’
‘I’d planned to take some outside shots, a little of local colour, that sort of thing...’ she began.
‘Good.’ Gallantly, he scooped the camera bag from her shoulder. ‘This is the perfect day for me to take you on a first-class tour of the island.’
Vernon drove an old jeep which had seen its share of unpaved roads and long miles. With the canvas top down it was a little chilly, but it provided an unimpaired view of the surrounding countryside, and Dawn did not have to bother with windows and frames when she asked him to stop for her photographs. They drove through unpaved, wooded paths first towards the range of ragged mountains jutting towards the sky, and Vernon explained, ‘This is part of the castle’s original game park. The lord of the island had exclusive rights to the hunting here, and anyone caught poaching usually ended up minus a finger or two. Incredible, isn’t it, to think some of these trees have been standing since the time of knights and fair damsels? What tales they could tell!’
Dawn agreed that it was, indeed, incredible, and almost forgot her camera as she allowed herself to be transported by the spell of the forest. It was cool and dark beneath the trees, and the smells of rich earth and moss and fragrant flowering shrubs rose on every breeze. She allowed her imagination to run rampant. She could hear the gentle clip-clop of a destrier’s hooves on the turf, see rounding the corner a tall knight in plated armour bearing the azure and silver colours of the Boyd standard, and when he lifted his visor the face of the knight was Byron’s ... She smiled a little at her foolishness and turned her attention back to what Vernon was saying.
‘Of course you know how Falkone’s Acres got its name.’
She shook her head curiously.
‘The island used to be a nesting ground for falcons. Back then, a well-trained hunting falcon was very valuable. The first baron used to capture and train them and became very famous for his birds. Unfortunately they’ve all disappeared, now. Civilisation, I guess.’
Dawn wondered if the real reason Byron objected so to the opening of the island to the public was that he feared his own way of life would go the way of the falcons.
When they emerged from the covering of the trees they noticed that the illusion of darkness had not been due entirely to the forest. The tops of the mountains were swathed in circular clouds and the sky was hazy and grey. ‘Oh-oh,’ said Vernon. ‘Looks as if we might get a shower before the day’s out.’
The entire island was less than fifty miles square and could easily be driven around in a day. Dawn marvelled at the vast geographical differences compacted into such a small space, and agreed with Vernon that the possibilities for successful tourism were limitless. ‘Byron has been sitting on a goldmine all these years,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to tell him, but...’ He shook his head helplessly and Dawn understood. She thought she was beginning to understand more of Byron every day.
They stopped for lunch of crispy fried fish, and crunchy chips in a little cafe in the village. They had a window table, and Dawn was delighted by the colourful sights and sounds from the street. Vendors barked their wares from brightly painted handcarts, slim dark girls strolled through the streets in sari-like garments tucked up at the waist and bare feet, a strolling musician passed by, and when he smiled at her it reminded her of Byron.
‘I know it’s none of my business,’ Vernon was saying, and she quickly brought her attention back to him. He looked uncomfortable, staring into his tea cup, and then glancing at her. ‘But have you and Byron had some sort of tiff?’
She was startled. ‘Why, whatever makes you say that?’
He shrugged, now avoiding her eyes. ‘I don’t know. As I said, it’s none of my business. It’s just that he’s been so moody and irritable lately, and when your name is mentioned he practically goes through the ceiling. You haven’t noticed the way he watches you? I imagine he doesn’t mean for you to see. But I’ve noticed, and—well, I would just hate to think there’s some misunderstanding between the two of you that could be patched up.’
‘No,’ said Dawn, and managed a smile. ‘No misunderstanding.’ But this she could not comprehend at all. Why should Byron be giving any thought to her, pleasant or unpleasant? She thought surely it was Vernon who had misunderstood.
They walked about the town under the lowering sky, stopped in at a fresh fruit market, bought a pastry from the baker, and Vernon talked about Byron. It was a subject with which Dawn never got bored.
‘One nice thing about living on a private island,’ he said, gesturing about him. ‘There are no parking meters. No traffic courts, either.’
That brought up an interesting question. ‘There must be some civil disputes, with so many people living together. Who settles them?’
He smiled. ‘Byron does. Very informally, of course. Nothing he says or does is legally binding except as it applies to his employees, but it’s always worked about very well, and no one has questioned his judgment yet. He has such a marvellous way with people.’
This she found hard to believe, and it must have registered on her face.
Vernon said, ‘You’ve got to understand that Byron has been under a lot of pressure lately. This thing with the tourism, and business matters and—personal problems. He hasn’t been exactly himself. He’s really a wonderful chap, you know. Only an extraordinary person could manage all this the way he does—over a thousand people living and working together and perfectly content with themselves and their lives. He’s directly responsible for it all.’ Dawn thought that if Byron were still playing the role of ancient lord of the island, Vernon fitted perfectly into the part of his loyal serf and number one admirer.
It was late in the afternoon when they got back into the car again, and the sky was beginning to look ominous. Vernon, glancing at it with an air of assessment, said, ‘I think we have time for a quick drive around the beach, if you like.’
It was the long way back to the castle, and getting a little too murky for the kind of outdoor shot Dawn wanted, but she had nothing pressing her to return to the castle, so she agreed. They drove along a winding coastal road, overlooking at points a sheer drop over the jagged cliffs where the greying sea pounded against the rocks, and Dawn was astonished to notice fishermen wading chest deep into the vicious surf with their lines and poles.
‘What are they doing?’ she gasped. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Not if you know how. Weather like this brings the good fish—mackerel and sea trout—right into the shore. Naturally, fish is a major part of the diet of islanders, so it’s worth it.’
The road wound down closer to the beach, where patches of the luscious pink thrift grew wild in the grass and seemed
to melt right into the ocean. ‘On my first day here,’ Dawn remembered, ‘I found a patch growing way up in the woods, near the castle. I wondered at it growing so far from the sea.’
‘There must have been a salt-water pond or lake there at one time or the other, and it left enough sea minerals in the soil to support ocean vegetation.’ Vernon laughed a little. ‘The natives will tell you that thrift growing inland marks the gateway to a house of romance and heartbreak. I suppose that description could fit the castle well enough, all things considered over the centuries.’ Dawn shivered in the rising wind and drew her cardigan more closely over her shoulders. She wondered if that, too, had become a tradition of Falkone’s Acres.
She was surprised to find on the northern end of the island a barrage of silent bulldozers and cranes surrounding a shallow pit of cleared land large enough to easily accommodate a shopping centre. It was a shock to stumble upon such obvious signs of industrialisation after being immersed all day in the primitive beauty of the island, and Dawn found herself hoping deeply that civilisation had not gone that far.
Vernon laughed at her suggestion about the shopping centre. ‘What in the world would we do with something like that? No, I’m afraid those marvellously convenient monstrosities are limited to your part of the world, Dawn. This is going to be the new packing and distributing plant for the distillery. We’ve outgrown the old one. It’s a necessary evil, and besides, it keeps men in jobs.’ That last statement echoed hauntingly of Byron. It became misty as they drove towards the castle, clinging with clammy dampness to Dawn’s face and neck and clouding her eyes. ‘Oh dear,’ said Vernon. ‘We’d better head for shelter pretty quick. The cover on this old rattletrap hasn’t worked since I bought it.’
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