For a time he only looked at her, his cool expression not changing, and the silence was excruciating. Then he said, casually, ‘That seems fair enough.’ He straightened up and draped the towel over one shoulder. ‘Perhaps it’s best—for our professional relationship—if we forget the unfortunate personal matters which have passed between us.’ He started to walk away, then turned back to her with an obeisant inclination of his head. ‘Do you mind if I have my shower now, or—was there something else?’
‘No,’ she said a little shakily. ‘That was all.’ And she went quickly back into her room.
A reprieve. A few more days to work as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, a few more days to be here, sharing, however peripherally, in the essence of all that was Byron. Arrogant, remote, enigmatic, infuriating, it was all true. Yet possessing the power to send her heart into cascades and spirals whenever he was near, to reduce her to quivering femininity with a single one of his dark, penetrating gazes, to make her forget about her work and her own self-image and all those dearly-held values she had set up for herself over the years with no more than a few well-chosen, drawling words. It was maddening, it was unpardonable, it was positively perverse, the hold he had over her. She knew it would come to nothing and soon she must deal with the fact. She knew that in staying she was only subjecting herself to further hurt and humiliation and would never be more than a passing amusement to Byron, a faint memory to take out over glasses of Scotch whisky with his friends—‘the spring that American photographer was here’. Perhaps one day she would come to view this interlude in the same fashion ... ‘my assignment in Scotland, the spring I spent in the Hebrides...’ But never would she recall it with Byron’s smooth sophistication. Always there would be wistfulness in her tone, pain in her eyes, and perhaps she would never be able to speak of it at all...
Only a few more days. That was all she could ask.
She breakfasted alone, then went to the foyer to retrieve her camera. It was still there, as she had left it, and she flushed at the emotion which had allowed her, once more, to leave a valuable piece of equipment and her livelihood lying around all night, unguarded, forgotten. There were six or seven people milling about farther along the corridor, and Maggie, who was standing among them, talking, raised her hand to Dawn and beckoned her over.
‘You might be interested in this,’ she said. ‘It’s court day. Every Saturday,’ she explained, ‘until noon, Byron holds what the islanders still refer to as “Council”—a direct descendant, believe it or not, of the old feudal custom of the lord of the castle’s legal jurisdiction over his fief.’ She took Dawn’s arm and began leading her towards the office. ‘Of course what we have today is a very simple variation, but I do believe you won’t find anything else like it in this part of the world. What it boils down to, mostly, is just giving advice—a great many islanders can’t read English, you know—but it’s the gesture that counts. One of the traditions we simply won’t part with. I’m sure Byron wouldn’t mind if you watched for a little while if you’d like.’
‘Very much,’ agreed Dawn. This was what Vernon had told her about yesterday, but she had not imagined so much ceremony was involved. It was a part of island life she simply could not miss.
When they entered the spacious, dark wood and leather office, Byron was sitting behind his desk, leaning over it to speak in soft, rapid Gaelic to the supplicant in dusty corduroys and scuffed boots who sat before it, twisting a battered hat in his hand. He did not glance up at them, but continued speaking until slowly, watching the expression on the other man’s face, he smiled, spoke a few more unintelligible words which appeared to conclude the conversation, and the man stood up, bowing and murmuring his thanks.
‘Do you mind if Dawn watches for a while?’ enquired Maggie. ‘I’m certain she’s never seen anything like it.’
Byron leaned back in his chair, regarding her impersonally, through lazy, half-closed eyes. ‘No, of course not.’ He gestured her to be seated on the far side of the room. ‘No pictures, please, and no interruptions. These people expect what goes on in this room to be confidential.’
‘Of course,’ replied Dawn, a little insulted, and took her seat.
‘That last man,’ he explained, as Maggie left the room, ‘wanted to buy his neighbour’s horse, and he wasn’t sure he was getting a fair price. I quoted him a price, with which, fortunately, he seemed to agree, so that’s one problem solved.’
The next couple who came bursting through the door were middle-aged, married, and in a bad temper. ‘I want a divorce,’ declared the man before the door was even closed behind him.
Byron looked up in what Dawn suspected was exaggerated astonishment. ‘Why, Donald Burns, whatever for?’
‘This is what for!’ He whipped off his hat to reveal a tiny square of plaster on the side of his head. ‘I’ll tell ye, Mr. Boyd, I’ve had about as much as I can take from this woman! I don’t no sooner set foot in the door but she wallops me on the head with a wooden spoon—and for no good reason!’
‘I’ll give ye reason!’ interjected the woman shrilly. ‘Sneaking in the house in the dead of night falling down drunk, that’s good reason! And after twenty-four years and four children if divorce suits you it never sounded finer to me! No, indeed, it never sounded finer!’
Byron sat back, shaking his head sadly.
‘Matilda, Matilda, what am I going to do with you? Now I’ve told you before you can’t go taking a wooden spoon to Donald every time you get angry—one day you’re going to hurt him, and how will you feel then? And you,’ he turned to the man, ‘how would you like it if I gave Jenkins orders not to sell you any more whisky—not a dram?’
‘Won’t make no difference,’ the man muttered. ‘I want a divorce.’
‘And that just suits me, it surely does!’ reiterated the woman.
With a loud sigh, Byron made a note on a pad before him. ‘All right. If that’s what you want, I’ll have to send to the mainland for a magistrate. It will take two or three months.’
‘I’ll wait,’ replied the man with satisfaction, and stalked out of the room. Without a backward glance, his wife followed him.
Byron watched them go, smiling. ‘They’ll be like two newlyweds before sundown,’ he said. ‘It’s the same thing every month—poor old Donald can’t take the stuff, you know; about once a month he has a cup and it goes right to his head. Matilda gets angry and the next morning they’re right here, talking divorce. Actually we have very few divorces here.’ He chuckled a little. ‘Perhaps because it’s so inconvenient!’
Dawn had to speak up. ‘Perhaps it’s better, if two people are that unhappy, to be divorced, than to stay together—for convenience.’
‘Donald and Matilda aren’t unhappy!’ he objected incredulously. ‘They just deal with their problems in an unusual way. If coming here to me, and acting out their fantasy of divorce, making threats and letting off steam, helps them keep their marriage together, then there’s nothing wrong with that. Marriage is held very sacred here, Dawn. A lot of thought is given to it before a couple marry, and a lot of work goes into it afterwards. I think that may be what’s wrong with the family structure in your part of the world—people just aren’t willing to think about it beforehand, or work at it afterwards.’
‘Maybe they just don’t know about honour,’ she volunteered, and when he looked at her in surprise and enquiry, she explained, ‘Keeping promises.’ She thought his expression changed slightly as he looked at her, as though he were seeing her for the first time, and what he saw pleased him. It pleased Dawn, too, more than she wanted to admit.
Then he said softly, ‘Is that what it is with you, Dawn? Afraid to make the commitment?’
‘Maybe,’ she responded carefully, ‘like you, I simply chose to give it a lot of thought.’
Byron shook his head, rejecting that. ‘Choice implies trial and error. You’re afraid to make an error, afraid to trust anyone enough to give it a chance.’
She did not unders
tand why, after his remarks that morning, he was once again attempting to get personal with her. She did not particularly like the turn of the conversation, she felt, in fact, that she was stepping on dangerous ground, but there was something in his eyes as he looked at her which warned her, inviting confidence. Perhaps it was no more than he gave to anyone else who came into this room seeking to unburden their problems on to his broad shoulders, but she grasped it like a drowning man clutching at straws. She admitted, ‘That may be true—to an extent. My parents were divorced when I was in my teens and I just—never wanted that to happen to me. Maybe I am a little over-cautious because of it. I don’t mean to be, but I can’t help it.’
The look in his eyes was sympathetic, and it made her heart swell to overflowing with gratitude and—love. He said, ‘Let me tell you something, Dawn, that’s been handed down in my family for generations. It has to do with our motto—I trust. Because, you see, the secret of obtaining loyalty from another is in being able to first give your trust. It’s a two-way street.’
The door opened to admit another petitioner, and suddenly the moment was gone. ‘And that little piece of advice,’ Byron told her lightly, turning already to the next business at hand, ‘comes to you with absolutely no charge whatsoever. Compliments of the house.’
Dawn spent the rest of the day practically sailing through her scheduled tasks, laughing at lunch with Byron and Maggie over some of the petty quarrels which had been solved that morning in his office, feeling ridiculously high-spirited and content. And it was all because Byron was no longer angry with her.
She tried to remember whether she had ever felt this way about a man before. Men were competitors, they were employers, they were predators, and she acted a different role for each of them. No, there had not been, in her adult life, a man whose opinion of her mattered that deeply, who could send her into the deepest of depression with a scowl, or ecstasy with a smile. There had never been a man whose approval she cared to win, or whose very presence could make her hot with anticipation and at the same time cold with dread, who made her long for nearness, desperate for more, and desolate at the thought of separation. Such dependency frightened her as it thrilled her, for never before had she allowed herself to become a victim of her emotions. And she must be careful, she told herself throughout that swift, busy day, very careful...
It began to rain late in the afternoon, and continued in a steady downpour which flowed in an unbroken stream down the windows throughout dinner. ‘This is typical springtime weather,’ Byron told her. ‘It was just a streak of odd luck that your first week here was so clear. I hope you’ve got all the outdoor shots you needed.’
‘Not entirely,’ she answered. She did not in any way want to bring up the excursion with Vernon which had precipitated such violence between them, so she carefully skirted the subject. ‘I thought some shots of your new construction site would be a nice touch ... progress side by side with antiquity.’
He nodded. ‘Maybe we’ll have a clear morning before you leave.’
Before she left ... not even a week from now. She must leave, it was true. She was only a temporary fixture around here, she had a job and friends and an entirely separate life back in New York. It wasn’t for ever. But she knew that when she did leave a part of her, a very important part, would remain behind.
The dessert was that creamy confection of sponge cake and cream and fruit that the English call trifle, laced extravagantly with sherry. It was delicious, and they lingered over it, Byron and Maggie chatting in a desultory fashion, Dawn sitting back and absorbing all of it lovingly.
Then Byron, pushing away his dish, leaned forward and took one of the candles from the centrepiece. ‘Come along, Dawn, this is the perfect night for the tour I promised you.’
‘Tour?’ She had almost forgotten.
‘Certainly.’ He stood and extended his hand to her. ‘Not afraid of a few ghosts, are you?’
No, she thought as she followed him out of the room. That’s not what I’m afraid of.
‘Do you really have ghosts?’ she chatted as they went into the office to retrieve his keys. She felt it necessary to keep up the light stream of conversation begun at dinner. ‘Because that would really add impact to the article, you know. You couldn’t keep the tourists away if they thought there was a chance of catching a glimpse of a real, live ghost!’
He looked at her oddly as he took the keys from his desk, and she thought she had said the wrong thing. But he only replied lightly, ‘Ghosts are seldom “real” or “live”. But yes, we do have one or two, just for appearances’ sake. What castle would be complete without them?’
But as they started up the hall he added in a slightly different tone, ‘I thought that perhaps now, having got to know us better, you might have wavered a little in your enthusiasm for opening the island to tourism.’
Dawn hesitated. ‘In a way,’ she said at last, ‘I think I almost have. I understand so much better what you’re trying to protect, and that it’s worth protecting. But then...’ her voice softened, became almost shy, ‘I think of what I would have missed if you’d kept the island private, and it doesn’t seem fair to deprive others of the same experience. Yes, I still think you’re doing the right thing.’
They had reached a doorway, and as Byron paused to insert the key, he stopped and smiled down at her. ‘Do you know, I think you’ve almost convinced me, too.’
He opened the door and ushered her up the narrow stairway ahead of him. It was damp and musty, smelling of a cupboard seldom opened, and his voice echoed and re-echoed as he warned, ‘Watch your step now.’ His hand was steady and supportive on her back, the candle he held high overhead cast a dim, wavering circle of light over the next step. ‘Put your hand out to the right.’ She did, and felt a sturdy, rough wooden rail. Byron moved the candle to illuminate the rail which appeared to be no more than the trunk of a slim tree, and beside it a stone wall scarred with time. ‘This is it—the stairway where the battle took place. It should be right about here ... Yes, there it is.’ He lowered the candle to reveal a long, deep gash in the wood, and another a little above it.
He bent close over her as he examined the ancient scars of long-ago violence and valour, and the warmth of his body seemed to offer a physical protection against the damp chill rising from the stones. His breath smelled faintly of the wine they had had for dinner and other, less distinct, exclusively masculine scents—his cologne, the wool of his suit, his freshly-laundered shirt—all overwhelming in their subtlety, all wonderfully reassuring and at the same time exciting in that that spoke of his nearness. ‘I don’t know,’ he continued, in a softer tone, as though they were conspirators discovering a secret, ‘whether he was trying to dislodge the railing—it’s a sheer drop below, you know—or whether this is where the mortal blow was struck.’ He moved the candle now to point to the steps below, and in the uncertain light irregular, dark stains were visible, melded into the stone. ‘Legend has it that those stains were made by the blood of the enemy.’ Dawn shuddered slightly, and he added in a more normal tone, ‘I think it’s more likely they were made by weather.’
Suddenly there was a bang, reverberating like an explosion through the confined space, a swift draught of wind, and the candle went out. Dawn cried out and clutched for him in the blackness, immediately she felt his strong arms go around her, protecting her, comforting her as one would a small child. And when he spoke there was a note of amusement in his tone, although it was gentle. ‘Only the door. The draught blew it closed. Hold on a minute; let me find a match.’ He hesitated, one arm still holding her close, and enquired so that she could almost see the teasing gleam in his eyes, ‘Unless you’d rather I didn’t? I don’t mind the dark, if you don’t.’
Forcefully, she pushed away, reaching for the rail. ‘No,’ she said a little unsteadily, ‘I’d prefer the candle.’
It seemed like hours that Byron fumbled with the match, and once she reached out and touched his coat, just to assure herself of
his presence. She was surprised to feel in return the gentle pressure of his own hand briefly on hers before he moved it away to strike the match. When the chamber flared and dimmed into welcome light again, he was smiling. ‘Better?’ Then, ‘You’re shaking!’
‘It’s—a little cold,’ she offered, for she would not for the world admit to him she had been frightened, and, in truth, the dampness was beginning to penetrate her silk shirt and the slim skirt open at the knee.
He quickly shrugged out of his own jacket and draped it over her shoulders. ‘I forget. You Americans aren’t accustomed to our northern hemisphere temperatures. It can’t be below fifty in here; that’s warm!’ He looked at her, the devastating, teasing glitter back in his eyes. ‘Now, how’s your sense of adventure? Ready to turn back?’
‘Of course not,’ she insisted proudly, starting up the stairs. ‘I’m still waiting for your ghost!’
‘Then I’ll take you to him straight away.’ Emerging on to another floor, they walked down a narrow winding hall, cautiously, for the candle did little to penetrate the stuffy blackness, and even their footsteps were muffled.
‘You can’t even hear the rain up here,’ Dawn whispered.
‘The walls are six feet thick all around, stronger, in places. And there are no windows. Fresh air was considered bad for the health in those days—not to mention the vulnerability to attack an open window offered. Here we are.’ They paused before another scarred wooden door, and it creaked dramatically as Byron opened it with his key.
He swung the candle over head to reveal a small, empty chamber, stone from floor to ceiling, with not even a fireplace to break the monotony. It looked like a prison cell.
‘That’s exactly what it is, in a manner,’ Byron answered her observation. ‘There’s a Gaelic folk song written about Elspeth and Grant. He was the youngest son of the baron; she was a village maiden. He lost his heart to her; she betrayed him with a local boy. He locked himself in this room— who knows for how long, years, maybe—and grieved himself to death. Some say you can hear his footsteps from the room below, pacing up and down, to this day. And on nights such as this,’ his voice lowered to a dramatic whisper, ‘when the wind howls and the rain lashes against the castle walls, you can hear his voice, if you listen carefully ... crying with the torment of the damned for his Elspeth.’
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