I had almost finished eating when Uncle Ebeneezer himself came striding into the kitchen. He grabbed the last of the oatcakes from the plate and stuffed them rudely into his mouth, talking through the crumbs.
‘Come along, girl! I’ve been waiting this half hour past!’
Ellen jumped up so abruptly she almost overset the table. Uncle Ebeneezer did not even glance my way, which made me wonder if Ellen had mistaken the invitation and it was for her alone. But when she dragged me out into the stable yard—I was still chewing the last of my breakfast at the time, and shrugging myself into my coat—the gig was drawn up with cushions for two, so from that I gathered that I was to travel with them. I was glad, for I had been away from the sea for over a month and was happy to be bound for it again.
Uncle Ebeneezer drove. He did it as he did most things: carelessly, dangerously and with absolutely no consideration for Ellen and me. We hung on to the sides for dear life as the gig rattled over the bridge and swung onto the road to Gairloch, which was scarcely less rough and rutted than the track to Glen Clair.
The autumn wind tugged at our bonnets, and I was extremely grateful for the thick tweed rug about our knees, for the breeze off Loch Maree was stiff and cold. All the same this counted as a fine day in the Highlands, because it was not raining. There was blue sky and high white clouds and, praise be, very few midges.
As the road climbed towards the Kerrysdale Pass, Uncle Ebeneezer pulled out to overtake a peddler riding a pony, and almost collided with the Ullapool mail coach in the process. There was much swearing and trading of insults, but Ellen did not appear to notice the commotion because she was busy exclaiming over the beauty of the scenery. To our right rose the sandstone bastion of the mountain Slioch, vast and red against the sky. In the valley the waters of Loch Maree sparkled and danced. Ellen was of a mind to be enchanted by everything, and perhaps if I had not left Glen Clair for three years I would have been too, but although I thought the mountains looked vastly pretty in the sunshine, I was still cold and travel-sick with Uncle Ebeneezer’s driving.
By the time we rolled into the little seaside town of Gairloch the poor horse was exhausted, and my fingers were stiff from gripping the side of the gig to avoid being thrown on the floor. Uncle Ebeneezer drove into the yard of the Five Bells, muttered something about seeing a man about some business, jumped down and disappeared into the inn.
‘Perhaps we could take some refreshment here before we walk around the town?’ I said to Ellen, for the journey had taken a good couple of hours, despite our speed, and I was already sharp set again. The scent of broth was wafting from the inn and it smelled good. My stomach rumbled in an unladylike manner.
Ellen’s face fell. ‘I do not think we should,’ she said. ‘This inn is accounted very rough, and Papa’s business is private and anyway, I wished to visit the gown shop on the Parade.’ She glanced over her shoulder in the direction that Uncle Ebeneezer had disappeared. ‘Papa was supposed to have given me some shillings to spend,’ she said sadly, ‘but I think he has forgotten.’
This did not surprise me. I suspected that Uncle Ebeneezer had forgotten on purpose, never having intended to waste his meagre fortune on ribbons and bows. Ellen probably thought this too, but being a far sweeter natured person than I, was refusing to acknowledge it.
‘I could go in and ask him for the money—’ I began, but she turned pale and her eyes looked stricken.
She grabbed my arm. ‘No!’ she said, casting another fearful glance towards the inn door, as though something dark and dangerous dwelt inside. ‘No, don’t disturb him. We shall window-shop instead.’
It seemed to me that pressing our noses against the glass of a dress shop like the penniless urchins we were would be poor entertainment, when we could buy a paper twist of clams for a few pennies and eat them down by the harbour. The sight of the ships bobbing at anchor in the bay lifted my heart, reminding me of home. Nevertheless I allowed Ellen to pull me along the narrow pavement and through the jostling crowds, past sedate villas and fishy alleyways, until we reached Madame Aimée’s gown shop.
Gairloch was crowded: fine ladies drew back their skirts to avoid the uncouth sailors from the merchant ships. The air was full of the scent of the sea, the cry of the gulls as they hung on the wind, and the shouts of street sellers in the market on the quay.
Ellen wrinkled up her nose. ‘The smell of fish is quite dreadfully strong,’ she said, stepping delicately over a couple of severed heads that a fishmonger had thrown from his basket to a lurking stray cat. I forbore to point out that this was probably because Gairloch was a port built on the fishing trade.
The gown shop was a pretty little building on the promenade, an avenue that was set back from the quayside and bordered most attractively by gardens. It had bow windows, with an artful show of gowns and shawls, gloves, scarves and reticules to tempt even the most parsimonious of purchasers. Everything was pale pink and green and blue and spring yellow. As soon as Ellen saw the display a faraway look came into her eyes.
‘Oh, Catriona, are these not fine? Oh, if only Mama could see the pale pink silk and lace gown! It would suit her so well.’
She looked at her reflection in the windows and her smile slipped a little. I knew that she was thinking that even her best spencer was five years old, probably more, and that in this company she looked shockingly dowdy. As though to underline the fact, a lady paused beside us on her way up the steps into the shop, and looked us up and down as though we were exhibits in a freak show. Her hair was auburn, like mine—though not in the least like mine, in fact, for it had seen the ministrations of a comb more recently, and was piled up beneath a striped green and gold bonnet, whilst my curls had escaped their ribbon and were blowing in the breeze. Her eyes were green and her nose especially designed to look down. She wore a matching gown and spencer in emerald-green and gold, and little green slippers peeped from beneath her hem.
A haughty smile curved her lips. She inclined her head to us with just the right degree of condescension, and I saw myself through her eyes as a tumbled waif in a faded gown, a pauper without a feather to fly. I could almost smell the scent of money on her. Even Ellen’s glowing prettiness faded into shadow beside her.
‘Oh, how fine!’ Ellen said reverentially, when the beauty had passed by.
‘How gaudy,’ I said. ‘How brash.’ Envy beat in my blood.
On a wild impulse I ran up the steps and pushed open the door of the gown shop. ‘Come along!’ I called to Ellen over my shoulder. I think she was almost too scared to come, but in the end, unable to resist, she followed me inside.
The shop smelled divinely of fresh flowers and perfume. There was a low hush of voices as ladies discussed their purchases with the smiling shop assistants. The patronising beauty was over at the counter, sorting through a pile of embroidered silk stockings that cost seven shillings a pair. She had already put at least half a dozen on one side to buy. Madame Aimée swam towards us, her expression of warm welcome cooling slightly as her needle-sharp gaze took in the shabbiness of our clothes, and in particular my darned pelisse.
‘How may I help you, ladies?’
Ellen shot me an agonised glance.
‘We would like a pair of the pale blue silk embroidered gloves, if you please,’ I said recklessly.
‘Catriona!’ Ellen said, looking as though she would like to sink through the floor.
‘They will suit you,’ I said. ‘They match your spencer.’
In fact they far outshone poor Ellen’s outmoded spencer, but I was determined to have them. Something in Madame Aimée’s gaze, contempt barely masked by courtesy, brought out the very worst in me.
‘They are seventeen shillings a pair,’ she said.
‘Splendid!’ I proclaimed. ‘And I will have matching ribbons and bows, to make it up to a round guinea.’
Those of you with a good memory will recall that not only was I in possession of Mr Campbell’s pound from the collection plate, but that I had also le
ft Applecross with no less than an additional five pounds from the school trustees and five from my father’s colleagues. It was certain that they did not intend me to spend this money on anything as frivolous as feminine fripperies. Nevertheless, as I gazed on a pale bronze evening gown with matching slippers, shawl and reticule, I was sorely tempted to squander the entire amount. I knew that the colour would suit me, and I could see myself wafting up an imaginary staircase in an equally imaginary mansion on the arm of some devastatingly handsome gentleman whose face was disturbingly familiar…I even stretched out my hand to touch the material…
‘Catriona,’ Ellen said again, and this time there was warning and dread in her tone.
The shop door opened, the bell gave a ‘ping’—and I was facing the image of my dreams.
‘Neil!’ Ellen cried, beaming. ‘How delightful to see you here!’ Her relief that my purchasing madness had been stopped in its tracks by Mr Sinclair’s arrival made her far more fulsome than she would normally have been.
‘Neil!’ cried the lady in the green and gold stripes, only a second after Ellen. She stopped, glared at Ellen with something close to hatred, and looked at us as though we belonged in the gutter with the fish heads.
‘Do you know these…ladies?’ she asked Neil, with arctic chill.
Now, although I am not always the most observant of people, being in far too much of a hurry to take action before I have thought matters through, it did appear to me that Mr Sinclair disliked the lady’s proprietorial attitude towards him. A hard expression came into his eyes, and his firm mouth set in a slightly disdainful curl. The other ladies in the shop had all stopped talking now, in order to listen. Or perhaps they were just struck dumb by the sight of Mr Sinclair, for he did look far too dark and dangerous and virile for such delicate and refined surroundings.
‘These are my cousins, Celeste,’ he said, his tone bored. ‘Miss Ellen Balfour and Miss Catriona Balfour.’ He bowed to us. ‘Ladies, may I introduce Miss McIntosh?’
That placated the lady nicely. She even smiled at us. ‘Cousins!’ she cooed, as though we were still in the schoolroom. ‘How charming!’ Once again her gaze appraised us. ‘Distant ones, I assume? I had heard that none of the Balfours has a penny to rub together.’
‘I will take both the gloves and the ribbons, if you please,’ I said, producing a guinea in the manner of a magician with a rabbit in his hat.
Celeste McIntosh smirked and turned back to her stockings. ‘Come and give me your opinion of the quality of these, Neil,’ she said, smiling at him over her shoulder. ‘After all, you are paying for them.’
Well, that was fairly self-explanatory. I felt a strange stab in my stomach akin to indigestion. So this gilded creature was Neil Sinclair’s mistress. Truly I did not care except to deplore his bad manners in introducing her to us, his relatives, as though she were a lady. I stole a glance at her from under my lashes. This was how elegant and burnished and bright Iwould look if I had accepted Neil’s utterly indecent proposal and used his money to turn me from an ugly duckling into a pampered swan. But I had not, and he had moved on to Miss McIntosh quickly enough. Or perhaps he had already had her in keeping when he made his offer to me…Yes, very probably. Neil Sinclair was just that sort of unscrupulous, arrogant man.
Neil leaned forward close to my ear. ‘I would take the bronze gown as well,’ he murmured. ‘It will become you vastly.’
‘Don’t let me keep you, Mr Sinclair,’ I said coldly. ‘Miss McIntosh is waiting to discuss stockings with you and your wallet.’
His smile was mocking. ‘I do believe you are jealous,’ he whispered.
I felt the same squirm of excitement inside that he had always been able to arouse in me. ‘I do believe you are conceited,’ I said. ‘Good day.’
Madame Aimée had already passed my purchases to an underling to wrap, and had hurried away to tend to Miss McIntosh’s every need. It seemed to matter nothing to her that Miss McIntosh was a demi-rep. In fact I imagined that tending to the fashionable needs of mistresses was far more profitable for her. Husbands were probably less inclined to spend generously on their wives than they were on their lovers.
Neil strolled over to join Miss McIntosh at the counter, and Ellen and I went out onto the street, the precious parcel tucked under her arm.
‘You should not have done it, Catriona,’ Ellen said. ‘That money was meant for your dowry.’
‘Dowry?’ I laughed. ‘When am I going to have the chance to wed? Far better to use the money to bring you some happiness, dearest Ellen, when you have made me so welcome in my new home.’
Ellen turned pink and looked very gratified. ‘You are very kind, cousin,’ she said. She caught my arm. ‘Miss McIntosh,’ she whispered. ‘Do you think that she is…intimate…with Mr Sinclair?’
‘I am sure of it,’ I said tartly. ‘Unless he is so generous a gentleman that he buys stockings for all the ladies of his acquaintance.’
Ellen looked disapproving. ‘I know that gentlemen are permitted to indulge their desires in such a way—’
‘So society decrees,’ I snapped.
‘But even so I would like him better were he not to be so…’
‘Licentious?’ I said crossly.
‘I suppose so,’ Ellen said sadly. ‘Only think, though, Catriona. That could have been you!’
I paused. Indeed, it could have been. I thought about being Neil’s mistress and felt a mixture of virtuous pride at refusing him balanced by an equal amount of unmaidenly curiosity in what the role might entail. Actually, the curiosity was rather stronger than the virtuous pride. I admit that now. Although I would never have admitted it to Ellen then. But I had always had an inquisitive nature.
‘That gold and green gown would have suited me well,’ I said solemnly. ‘I suppose it is not too late to change my mind…’
For a moment I think Ellen actually thought I was about to run back to the gown shop, push Miss McIntosh out of the way and throw myself at Mr Sinclair’s feet. Then she saw my face and burst out laughing.
‘For a moment I believed you,’ she said.
It was in a state of high good humour that we arrived back at the Five Bells. The church clock was striking the hour of two, and this time I was absolutely determined to eat before Uncle Ebeneezer dragged us back to seclusion at Glen Clair. This might be the last time Ellen and I saw the outside world for another three years. But as soon as we walked through the door of the inn parlour Uncle Ebeneezer grabbed the parcel from Ellen and tossed it onto the table.
‘What’s this?’ he said contemptuously.
Ellen shot me a terrified look. ‘Gloves and ribbons, Papa. Catriona bought them.’
Uncle Ebeneezer picked the parcel up and threw it casually into the fire. Ellen gave a little horrified scream. I ran forward as the paper curled in the heat and started to blacken and char. I could see the ribbon starting to burn, orange flames leaping and dancing in the grate. But it was the smell of the gloves burning that made me dart forward and plunge my hand into the flames in a hopeless, desperate attempt to save them. I knew it was stupid and pointless. The silk was so delicate, and it was already flaking away into ash, but I was damned if I would allow Uncle Ebeneezer’s careless cruelty to beat me.
Ellen screamed properly when she saw what I was about, but it was Uncle Ebeneezer who moved, grabbing my arm and dragging me back so brutally that my shoulder wrenched.
‘Papa, no!’
‘Too much spirit,’ Uncle Ebeneezer said. His face was a mottled grey colour. I could smell the sourness of wine on his breath. ‘I said I’d break you, girl. And so I shall, before you take back all that should have been mine.’
He spun me around to face him and I saw his upraised hand too late. I did not have time to think, or even to feel fear. He hit me hard, and I went out like a blown candle.
Chapter Nine
In which I am kidnapped.
‘Catriona!’
Someone was calling my name in a tone edged with
urgency. Through the terrible ache in my head I wondered if it was my papa. He felt close.
‘Catriona! Wake up!’
Papa’s voice again. I wanted very much to please him and obey, but his very insistence drew me back to places and thoughts I would rather escape.
I opened my eyes reluctantly.
It was dark. I tried to move and realised that I was bound hand and foot, trussed up like a chicken for the plucking. My head ached fiercely. I gave a small, heartfelt groan and wished myself unconscious again. Unfortunately my wishes were not answered.
The noise was deafening, and now that I was awake I could not blot it out. The sound of water roared in my ears, along with the thrashing of waves, the crack of sails, the shouts of men and the scrabbling of what sounded to be rats’ claws on wood. The whole world rocked and tumbled around me, first up in a giddying heave and then down in a rush that made my stomach somersault.
We were out at sea. The knowledge slid into my mind as my stomach gave another sickening lurch. Furthermore, I knew enough about ships and had sailed enough in my childhood to realise that I was lying somewhere in the depths of the hold, and that we were already out of the shelter of the harbour with the wind blowing a gale. The ship groaned and juddered about me, and I rolled with each blow of the waves against the side.
Someone moved beside me—moved and spoke.
‘Catriona,’ he said for a third time. ‘Thank God. I was afraid he had hit you so hard you would never recover your wits.’
I recognised Neil Sinclair’s voice, though I could see nothing of him in the darkness. He shifted a little, and I realised dimly that he was tied up next to me. This seemed odd, but even as I tried to grasp the thought it slipped from my mind like water. Strange, disconnected memories drifted through my mind. I thought that I had seen Neil recently, but could not recall the circumstances. I remembered going to a gown shop with Ellen and buying the beautiful gloves. I remembered a little stray cat in an alleyway and the sights and smells of Gairloch, ships bobbing at anchor in the harbour. I saw all of this as a series of images flashing across the surface of my mind in quicksilver colours, but I did not seem able to thread the whole together and recall what had happened to me.
Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress Page 9