‘Mr. Kinkell,’ whispered Beatrix from behind her. ‘Son’s in service.’
‘Hello – it’s Mr. Kinkell, isn’t it?’ Deborah called. ‘How are you? And your family?’
‘Miss Scoggie,’ said the man, pushing himself away from the wall and straightening his waistcoat, which was his outermost garment. ‘Thank you for asking, Miss: we’re all as well as can be expected, praise the Lord. You see young Peter here,’ he nodded to a bench at his front door, where young Peter, a man of around twenty, sat taking in the sun on his broad, happy face. Bea remembered hearing that he had never been quite right in the head. ‘The wife’s not so good, now, but she says she’s comfortable.’ He gave a little smile and a nod, as if the situation was quite satisfactory. Miss Deborah frowned.
‘Has my mother been to see her?’ she asked sharply. ‘I had not heard that there was illness in the house.’
‘Oh, no, Miss, but never fret. We’re managing very nicely, and Bessie Smith next door does us a grand dinner when we cannot see our way to one ourselves.’
‘And has the minister been to see you?’ persisted Deborah.
‘Oh, aye, Miss. He’s been a few times. He’s a grand man for the visiting.’
Deborah looked at Beatrix. Beatrix was perplexed. It was rare for Lady Scoggie to miss visiting any house in the village or its environs on any pretext, but sickness certainly attracted her attention. And if the minister knew of it, then Lady Scoggie would know, for the two worked as a team – the minister was young and unmarried, and could not have stood up to Lady Scoggie’s legendary charity even if he had wanted to. Beatrix made a mental note to mention the Kinkells to Lady Scoggie when she saw her.
Beatrix hoped, for the sake of the village, that Mrs. Kinkell’s illness was nothing infectious. Behind her, she could sense Mr. Tibo twitching with impatience: the poor bored him excessively, and she doubted he had even glanced at Kinkell since they had arrived at the cottage. Deborah was hesitating. Beatrix wondered if Mrs. Kinkell would hear them standing out here discussing her, and if so, was she wishing that they would come in or praying that they would stay outside and leave her in peace, to force her to make the effort to be polite and grateful. She wanted to do something now, to go in and see the poor woman and find out if there was anything to be done for her improvement or comfort, but she could sense that Deborah did not want to go. Deborah was wearing her best afternoon dress, and was intent on meeting new and pleasant neighbours, not trying to help old poor ones, and she could be right. Beatrix wrestled briefly with her uncertain conscience. It would be better to come back tomorrow with some soup and some medicine, and do the job properly. Anyway, it was not up to her to decide: that was Deborah’s place, and Deborah had decided.
‘I shall let my mother know your wife is unwell, Mr. Kinkell. I do hope she feels better soon. And your other son – in service, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right. We haven’t seen him for a bit, now, but we expect to soon, Miss.’ He beamed again, showing two neat rows of even teeth. He was a handsome man, Beatrix thought, though his skin was pale from indoor work.
‘We must be going,’ Deborah went on. ‘My mother will no doubt call soon.’
‘Good day to you, Miss Scoggie. Thank you, thank you.’ He went on smiling as they passed by, so that you would have thought his only feeling was warm gratitude. But Beatrix had an odd feeling that there was more to Mr. Kinkell than met the eye, and when she turned, irresistibly, to look back at him, there was a look on his face that, try as she might, she could not put a name to.
Mr. Tibo was as good as his word, and saw them to the very gate of Aberardour Lodge, a leafy entrance some distance from the weavers’ cottages. Beatrix could see Deborah’s relief even as the lawyer and his man bade them goodbye – no doubt she had dreaded that Mr. Tibo would decide to visit at the same time, thus linking his name with hers in the eyes of the newcomers. Beatrix laughed to herself. Deborah was very pretty, but it often caused her more trouble than it seemed to bring her benefits. Beatrix was pleased, she told herself, that no one found her at all pretty. It made life so much more simple.
After Scoggie Castle and the brisk chill of the walk along the lane, it had to be said that the Boothams’ new home was at least warm. The drawing room, though small and awkwardly shaped, was glowing with a bright fire; the windows were thickly curtained and a carpet covered the floor, so luxurious that for a moment Beatrix, country girl that she was, thought she had stepped into a bog. The colours, after the faded grandeur of the Castle, were intense: new curtains and upholstery, new marquetry like rainbows in woodwork dazzled the eye. Little lamps here and there chased the October shadows, and pretty shawls were draped across the backs of chairs. Paintings, almost all landscapes, were arranged tastefully on the walls and another stood on a little easel on a table, as if for closer study. Other tables held objets and conversation pieces, inviting examination, asking to be touched and lifted and talked about. On the mantelpiece, pastille burners seeped sweet perfume into the air, making it feel heavy, like summer. It was all so unusual and interesting that that awkward feeling that Beatrix felt amongst strangers was altogether dispelled.
The Boothams were both taking advantage of the cosy room, with books and papers scattered about them and some lacework on a cushion. Nevertheless they rose quickly when Miss Scoggie and Miss Pirrie were shown in. Mr. Bootham stood aside as his wife hurried forward to greet them warmly.
‘I am here on behalf of my mother, Lady Scoggie,’ Deborah explained, sounding much less apologetic than she had over the dinner table. ‘Welcome to St. Monance: it is a real delight to see new faces in the neighbourhood.’
‘We feel at home already,’ Mrs. Bootham assured her. ‘Will you have some tea? We are about to have some.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Deborah established herself with elegance on a low sofa, and Beatrix sat beside her. Mr. Bootham watched them both with approval as he again leaned back into his shady seat near the fire, and his wife leaned over to tug on the bell rope. ‘Do you find the house quite comfortable? Is there anything you need? Sir John is rarely here, you know.’
‘Yes, the agent warned us. No, I cannot think of anything – we are perfectly comfortable, as you see.’
They certainly looked it. Mrs. Bootham’s white cheeks were rosy from the fire, and her hazel eyes were bright with reflected flames. Her gown, as fashionably cut as the latest Paris fashion plate, floated as she moved, and an airy paisley shawl was draped across her shoulders. She was small and slim, and graceful, with a face like some magical woodland creature. Her dark hair curled about her pale brow and cheeks. Beatrix thought that Mr. Tibo’s dismissal of ‘very pretty’ was not in the least fair.
‘You have certainly cheered the old place.’ Deborah looked about her critically. The walls had been papered, and the furniture and curtains were not Sir John’s old tat. ‘You’ll know it was without a tenant for some time.’
‘I cannot imagine why! It seems quite charming!’ Her English accent drew out the last word in a musical swoop which in anyone else would have been quite irritating, but in her was delightful. Deborah’s lips tightened a little, Bea noticed.
‘You do not find it at all impractical? Other tenants, I believe, have found this room very awkward for fitting furniture, and the cellars are known for being rather damp.’
Mrs. Bootham laughed.
‘You are very kind to warn us of these faults, but as you can see, we have managed our furniture quite well. As to the cellars, I believe the maid did mention something about them, but I am sure we shall cope very well.’
‘I’m sure you will. And when you see Scoggie Castle, I assure you, this place will seem even more delightful!’ Deborah relented, though Beatrix guessed she would come back to the subject later, when they were alone. ‘How long are you hoping to stay in the area?’
Mrs. Bootham looked to her husband.
‘For some time, I believe: some time.’ Mr. Bootham’s light voice came out of the shado
ws.
‘Does it differ greatly from your previous home?’ Beatrix asked, when it seemed that Mr. Bootham was not to be more forthcoming.
‘The house is rather smaller. The landscape, too, is more – inspiring.’
Beatrix wondered where on earth they could have been, but left the question.
‘Yes, indeed, Miss Scoggie and I often paint and draw in the park or by the shore. If you are so inclined, I am sure Lord Scoggie would not mind you doing the same.’
Mrs. Bootham glanced again at her husband, this time with what Beatrix thought was anxiety. It was hard to see his face, and anyway, when Mrs. Bootham’s face was in the light it was hard to resist watching only her.
‘That would be delightful. I, indeed, would be very happy to take up my pen and paper again in this countryside.’
‘And how do you occupy your time, Mr. Bootham?’ Deborah asked.
‘In reading, of course, and in contemplation, and if I am fortunate, in a little writing.’
‘You are an author?’ Beatrix was thrilled.
‘A poet,’ he replied, and leaned forward suddenly into the light.
She found it hard not to gasp. Hair the colour of white corn, dark brows and lashes, and eyes of the darkest brown, offset a head as perfectly carved as a statue, with strong chin, high cheekbones, and a high forehead as smooth as marble. It took a second to realised that he was rather older than his wife: it hardly showed, even in his pale, perfect hands, or the firm line of his lips. Only a little loosening round the eyes betrayed him. Beatrix found herself staring, and looked away, back at Mrs. Bootham. They were an extraordinary couple.
The tea arrived, perfectly timed to distract them, and with it muffins, caraway cake, tasty little rout cakes with fruit in them, and bought iced biscuits of a sophistication rarely seen in St. Monance.
‘We brought several boxes with us,’ Mrs. Bootham explained. ‘They are Mr. Bootham’s favourites.’
Mr. Bootham, however, did not indulge, but watched with veiled eyes as the girls nibbled at theirs. His abstinence seemed to make Mrs. Bootham nervous.
‘And – and is it a large family, at Scoggie Castle?’ she asked, dabbing at crumbs on her plate.
‘No, not really,’ Deborah replied. ‘My father and mother, my two younger brothers, Henry and Robert, and my cousin Beatrix here, and me. Though soon we shall be joined by another cousin, Major Keyes of Seringapatam – you have probably heard of him?’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Mrs. Bootham. ‘He was terribly heroic, was he not? He and General Baird and Mr. Wellesly between them.’
‘And rather marvellous treasure brought back, I seem to remember,’ added Mr. Bootham smoothly. ‘I published a sonnet at the time, on the theme of exiled beauty captured in the coldness of the English winter.’
‘How wonderful! May we be permitted to hear it some time?’ Beatrix found herself saying.
‘Oh,’ said Mr. Bootham, politely surprised. ‘Would that kind of thing be appreciated hereabouts?’
Deborah laughed.
‘It certainly would – at Scoggie Castle, anyway. I can’t vouch for anywhere else in the neighbourhood, but my father in particular appreciates scholarly endeavours of all kinds. And we have a very clever tutor for the boys – my father’s secretary. He’s a graduate of St. Andrews University.’
‘St. Andrews – oh, yes: that’s quite near here, isn’t it? I was at Oxford, myself.’
‘Well, of course, we can know little about these places,’ said Beatrix, diplomatically. ‘Do you come from a scholarly family too, Mrs. Bootham?’
Mrs. Bootham smiled.
‘Oh, not particularly, Miss Pirrie. But many of my father’s friends are very clever, and the conversations at home were often very entertaining and witty.’
‘And where is home, Mrs. Bootham?’ asked Deborah, but at that the door opened. The maid who had admitted them earlier appeared and curtseyed. As Deborah and Beatrix had noticed to their surprise earlier, she was dressed entirely in white, though her apron now had smudges of food on it.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ she said, speaking very clearly in her local accent. ‘The cook wants to know if you will kindly tell her what you will be wanting for dinner today.’
‘What? Again?’ Mrs. Bootham looked annoyed.
‘It wants but two hours to your appointed dinner time,’ said the maid. The edge to her voice was not reflected in her obediently blank face. ‘The cook needs to know what you wish to eat, ma’am.’
Beatrix and Deborah looked quickly at each other. Mrs. Bootham fluttered her hands amongst the trails of her shawl.
‘Oh, Mr. Bootham, what shall – what – do you have any preferences, my love?’
Mr. Bootham pressed the tips of his fingers together, and half-closed his eyes.
‘Let us have simple food,’ he spoke after a moment. ‘Such food as the humble draw towards them in wooden dishes, when they return from the honest toil of their fields and hedges. Nourishing, health-giving, and filled only with such meat and vegetables as grow within the lands around us.’
Mrs. Bootham clapped her hands.
‘The very thing! Miss Scoggie, what passes for food in these parts?’
‘Brose,’ said Miss Scoggie, with no hesitation.
‘With kale,’ added Beatrix, who felt that she had some claim to authority on the subject.
‘Then tell the cook that that is what we shall have. Brose – yes? Brose, and kale. How wonderful!’ To Beatrix’ astonishment, she had tears in her eyes. Mr. Bootham nodded in approval.
‘Brose, ma’am, and kale.’ The maid’s expressionless face gave nothing away for a long moment. She repeated it, more slowly. ‘Brose and kale.’ A look of astonishment crept from her eyes to her mouth, and it twisted, despite her best efforts. Mrs. Bootham frowned.
‘Do you doubt these ladies?’
‘No, ma’am. There is no doubt that the workers in the fields around us usually dine on brose and kale.’
‘I am delighted to receive your approval. Now, go and tell the cook.’
The maid left the room, and Beatrix thought she heard a snort as the door closed. Mrs. Bootham looked about her with satisfaction.
‘Brose and kale,’ she repeated, feeling the unfamiliar words on her lips. ‘Brose and kale. And what may we expect from these local delights, Miss Scoggie?’
‘A kind of barley broth,’ said Deborah impassively, ‘and kale is a green vegetable, cut and boiled.’
‘And will you be good enough to stay and enjoy our humble meal with us?’
‘We should be most honoured,’ Mr. Bootham added.
‘I fear,’ said Miss Scoggie slowly, not particularly wishing to admit to being of so unfashionable a household, ‘we have already dined. My father prefers to dine in the middle of the day – so old-style, I know!’
‘In the middle of the day? Indeed!’ said Mr. Bootham. ‘I am surprised. But we must accustom ourselves to these curious ways, my dear, now that we have settled here.’
‘A little like moving abroad, is it not?’ said his wife, excitedly. ‘What is Italy, compared with Fifeshire?’
‘Perhaps a little warmer. My dear, your shawl.’ Mr. Bootham rose in a smooth movement from his seat, and bent to rearrange his wife’s pretty shawl with a tender gesture, which finished with a finger running across her pure, pale cheekbone.
‘We must be going, I’m afraid,’ said Deborah, clearly feeling a little awkward. ‘Beatrix, don’t you think so?’
‘Oh ... yes, we must. And with Major Keyes arriving tomorrow, we still have so much to do, don’t we?’
‘He arrives tomorrow?’ Mr. Bootham turned quickly.
‘You must call and meet our tame hero!’ said Deborah lightly, rising from her sofa.
‘We shall be honoured, indeed,’ said Mr. Bootham. Mrs. Bootham had her eyes on her husband’s face, and said nothing, smiling faintly. ‘Let us show you to the door, then, if you feel you must leave, ladies.’
He led his wife by the hand so t
hat she stood, and followed her into the hallway. Miss Scoggie and Miss Pirrie adjusted their bonnets and drew on their gloves. Outside it was growing towards dusk. Mrs. Bootham shivered, and tugged at her shawl. Mr. Bootham gave the trees about the drive a distant look, as though he saw things there that no one else did. Then he turned back to them.
‘Goodbye, then, ladies: we look forward to seeing you again soon.’ He bowed over Beatrix’ hand, looked up, and met her eye. After a second, he smiled, and she would have sworn that every ounce of blood in her body froze and melted again in the same instant. If Deborah had not slipped an arm through hers and led her off in her usual way, Beatrix did not know if she could have left the drive at all. Behind them, the Boothams stood at the doorway, waving as their first guests disappeared amongst the trees.
Chapter Four
Scoggie Castle had been a double tower house with a curtain wall to join the towers, extended once to the rear to house the Great Hall and kitchens, then again later to house such peacetime frivolities as the drawing rooms, schoolroom and extra bedchambers. Lady Scoggie and the girls slept in the ancient Lady’s Tower, chambers one above the other like drawers in a tallboy. Murray and the boys slept by the schoolroom, and Lord Scoggie retired at night to the Lord’s Tower, the eastmost, with its views of lake and woods and, distantly, the sea. His Lordship’s room was on the second floor. Beneath it was the library. At Scoggie Castle, the library was the room which received all the attention Lord Scoggie knew how to lavish.
It was probably the largest room in the castle, after the Great Hall. The afternoon sunlight, glancing off the lake and filtered through fine trees, lit it through windows on two levels in broad bays. It filled two floors of the large east tower, the upper floor accessible from a gallery off the main staircase and also by long, unstable ladders from the ground floor. The ceiling, creamy from years of smoke from the uncertain chimney, was a dim dome. The floor was stone, polished with age and use, with a few turkey carpets scattered about as thin concessions to a weaker age. There were two long, broad tables, lying parallel to each other in the centre of the room. The walls were thick with books, collected and cared for by generations of Scoggies, who had always had a bookish disposition – young Henry was clearly destined to inherit it himself. Winking with faded gold letters, volumes of sermons looked down, with instructive books on agriculture and estate management, atlases and travel accounts, collections of military tactics, Greek, Latin and Hebrew works familiar from Lord Scoggie’s time at St. Andrews and Murray’s own years there, devotional diaries kept by widows and unmarried sisters, poetry and novels, new, crisp leather bindings or old soft ones, pale with age, that left tan dust over hands and cuffs. Murray had sorted out some books for the boys and arranged them on a lower shelf to try to deter them from using the ladders, unsuccessfully, but they enjoyed nonetheless Cook’s voyages, selected passages from Henry Fielding and Oliver Goldsmith, and even poetry by Burns and Fergusson. On a waist-high ledge between bookshelves lay unbound volumes, either stripped by Murray for rebinding or brought home impatiently by Lord Scoggie from the bookseller to be read before they ever saw a binding. The air was thick with the dust of paper and leather, polished wood and old smoke, sunlight and firelight.
Knowledge of Sins Past (Murray of Letho Book 2) Page 5