Ryder looked away, both from it and her. “That’s the tower entrance.”
Isla’s curiosity was peaked at last. “Ah, the tower.” She raised an eyebrow. “So...what exactly is he hiding up there?”
“What do you mean?” Ryder turned back to her now.
“Come on. There’s got to be something. A mad wife, a cursed portrait, a rose under a bell jar...I mean, what are we talking here?”
Ryder looked at her like she’d grown an extra head. “I don’t understand-”
“Jane Eyre? Dorian Grey?”
Ryder blinked. “These are people?”
Isla sighed. “Not a reader, I take it?”
“Not since school,” Ryder admitted. “As for the tower- it’s a safety issue, although…” he bit his lip, and Isla could tell that he was deliberating something.
“What?” she prompted.
“Well...legend has it that it’s cursed.”
Isla guffawed. The sound echoed in the empty space and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Sorry, but you can’t be serious?”
Ryder looked serious. His pale eyebrows knit together with concern, and he shot a wary glance towards the tower entrance as if he expected someone to burst through it at any minute. Isla felt a sudden chill and rubbed her hands over her arms.
“It’s well known in the area,” Ryder went on, “at least to those who know the history of the castle, anyway. Rosehill originally belonged to the Douglas family.”
“I gathered that from the portraits on the staircase.”
Ryder only nodded solemnly. “It was in their possession right up until the turn of the century, when the last Douglas- Lady Elizabeth, died.”
“Let me guess, she died in the castle, and has been haunting every peasant that’s lived here since?” Isla rolled her eyes.
“No, well yes- she did die here. In her chamber, in the west wing, but it’s not her that the legend refers to.” Again, Ryder gave a nervous glance at the tower entrance. “You know, maybe we should talk about this somewhere else.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Isla couldn’t believe someone as big as Ryder could be this unnerved by a ghost story, but if his body language was to be believed, then this whole curse thing really had him spooked.
“It’s cold up here. Why don’t I show you back to the study?”
Isla raised one eyebrow, but she had to admit, he was right about that at least. It was cold. She rubbed her hands over her bare arms. “Fine.”
Ryder’s relief was obvious, as he led her back down the staircase.
The study was well-lit and warm. A low fire burned in the grate, and Ryder jabbed at it, absentmindedly with a poker.
The hardwood floor was partially covered by rugs- a large Persian carpet in reds and golds, long since faded in the sun, and then before the hearth, a plush sheepskin. Two high-backed leather seats stood on either side of the fire, and an image popped into Isla’s mind of Ryder and Ethan sitting together of an evening. The fire crackling...the shadows creeping closer to the castle...
Ryder glanced over his shoulder at her. “Take a seat.”
Isla sat down and glanced about the room. One wall was taken up entirely by bookshelves, which struck Isla as odd, in the study of a man who couldn’t see, but then maybe they’d been left behind by a previous owner, like so many of the other items in the castle. The other walls were a deep wine colour, the thick gold curtains brushed the parquet floor. There was a claw-footed chaise longue with floral upholstery beneath the large window, and on the opposite side of the room stood a sizeable cherry wood desk. Its surface gleamed with polish, and Isla thought it was the first thing she’d seen all day that wasn’t obscured by a thick layer of dust.
Ryder settled into the armchair opposite. “You really want to hear about the legend?” His piercing blue eyes met hers.
Isla held his gaze. “Yes.”
Ryder sighed. “William Douglas had a son. Just one. John. He would have inherited the entire Rosehill estate, which at that time was even bigger than it is now.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“He died. His father died days later, and the estate passed to his mother, although she only lived a few more years herself, and died here alone, and that was the end of the Douglas line. A string of wealthy folk have bought and sold it over the years, but none of them lived in the castle for long before leaving under unhappy circumstances. They say Rosehill is cursed. That everyone who lives in it is doomed to misery.”
Isla opened her mouth to protest, but something stopped her. After all, hadn’t she thought something similar herself? The castle had an air of melancholy that made her uneasy. But surely that was just the state of the place? Once it was cleared out, scrubbed up, the atmosphere would lift...there was no such thing as a curse.
“But why?” she asked eventually. “Why do people believe that Rosehill is cursed?”
“Because of John- the son. Legend has it that he fell in love with someone he shouldn’t have. His parents stepped in and ended the affair, and John took his own life- up in the tower.”
Isla grimaced. “How awful.”
Ryder nodded. “When his father found him, he collapsed and never recovered. Lady Douglas had to watch both the men she loved carried from the tower- one in a shroud, and one on a stretcher. Nothing has ever been proven, but local gossip suggested she was the one who had discovered her son’s illicit romance and put a stop to it. That’s why she never left the castle again.”
“Jeez, how depressing. When did all this happen?”
“Oh...a hundred and twenty years ago now, easily. But Rosehill has had a colourful past even since then. The stories are exaggerated of course, but it’s true what they say about no one settling happily here. There have been affairs, bankruptcy, family tragedies, one owner just upped and left without even bothering to put the place on the market. Disappeared without a trace.”
Isla frowned. “Are you making all this up?”
Ryder looked offended. “Absolutely not. By the time Eth- Mr MacRae bought Rosehill five years ago, the castle’s reputation preceded it, and he got it for a steal. Of course, he didn’t move in straight away, but this is the longest that the place has been under single ownership since it passed out of Douglas hands.”
Isla studied Ryder’s expression. She wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t fabricated the Douglas legend to wind her up, like some kind of bizarre initiation ceremony to see if she was brave enough to work at Rosehill alongside him. But more than anything he looked distracted and pensive.
“And Ethan...Mr MacRae...is he happy here?”
Ryder had been staring into the fire, but he turned back to her as if he’d just remembered she was there. His eyes caught hers for a beat before flickering away. “I couldn’t say.” He stood abruptly and walked to the fireplace.
Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? Isla watched him kneel beside the fire, and jab at it with the charred poker. Surely he didn’t honestly believe that his employer was being affected by some centuries-old folklore?
“I should let you get on,” Ryder stepped back from the fire suddenly. “I’m sure you have a lot to do.”
Isla raised her eyebrows at his sudden end to the conversation. He was right though, she’d come to Rosehill Hall to do a job, not to listen to ghost stories. She got to her feet reluctantly. “Thank you for the tour.”
Ryder nodded. “Any time.”
As Isla pulled the study door closed behind her, she knew one thing for certain- Ryder had been far more willing to discuss Rosehill’s former inhabitants with her, than its current one.
*
The light was starting to fade, and Isla knew she should call it a day. There was just one item remaining in the ballroom that she needed to list- a silver-framed Rococo mirror that had been propped up against one wall.
She knelt down to examine it, marvelling that such an eye-catching piece had been left to gather dust on the floor of an unused room. She swept the side of her hand across the glass,
and Isla’s own dark blue eyes stared back at her through the patches of dust.
Photographing mirrors was notoriously tricky. She glanced around the room. Maybe if she propped it on that side table, and angled it just-so, she could get a decent shot that didn’t include her own reflection.
Isla slung the camera around her neck and lifted the mirror. It was heavier than she was expecting, but that was often the way with these pieces. She braced her arms and began carefully making her way towards the table, the mirror reflecting the room at her back, with its peeling ice-blue walls, and panelled double-doors...and the silhouette of a figure in the doorway.
Isla screamed.
The mirror slipped from her fingers, smashing instantly against the hardwood floor.
Shit. Isla’s heart hammered against her ribs. There’s no such thing as ghosts, she told herself, and even if there was, they wouldn’t have a reflection...or was that vampires?
Isla turned slowly, her pulse racing.
“What the fuck?” The dark figure stepped forward, and Isla’s heart stuttered, before continuing to gallop at a breakneck pace.
Not a ghost, or a vampire, but Ethan MacRae. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, so Isla could see his wide, brown eyes clearly as they roved from one side of the room to the other. The harsh lines of his scars were softened by the gentle glow from the corridor behind him. He was clothed now, not that the effect was any less devastating. The sleeves of his dark grey t-shirt cut across his biceps in a way that was almost obscene, his black jeans hung low on his lips, and his feet were bare. He took another step towards her.
His movement broke the spell Isla was under, and she remembered the shards of broken glass at her feet.
“Stop!”
He froze instantly.
“I dropped a mirror. There’s broken glass-” she looked down and gave a small groan “-everywhere.”
Fragments of the shattered mirror littered the floor between them. She dropped to a kneel and began collecting the jagged pieces together.
“Leave it,” Ethan said quietly.
Isla ignored him. “It’s fine. It’s my fault, I-”
“Miss Belmont. Please.”
Her gaze snapped up. Ethan MacRae was looking down at her, from beneath thick, dark lashes. Well, not looking, she supposed, but Isla certainly felt under scrutiny, as she slowly got to her feet.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it-”
“It doesnae matter.”
Not to him maybe, but to her it did. Since when was she so careless? So jumpy? This was her first day of what could potentially be weeks at Rosehill, and already she could feel a change in herself. Legend or no legend, ghost or no ghost, there was something about the place.
And it wasn’t just the castle.
Ethan MacRae tilted his head, as though he was considering something, and Isla ran her eyes over his features, trying to make sense of the tangled veil of scars, and the man beneath them.
“Can I ask you something?” she blurted.
Ethan’s posture stiffened like he was bracing himself, and it dawned on Isla that he already knew what she was about to ask. She hated herself for it, but how could she not?
“I haven’t always been blind,” he answered before she could even ask.
“I’m sorry, you must get asked that a lot.”
“Not often, no.”
“Really? I assumed it would be the first thing most people would ask.”
“If I ever met anyone, perhaps it would,” he said dryly.
What was that supposed to mean? Isla frowned. “So how did you know that’s what I was going to say?”
Ethan lifted one shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug. “A hunch.”
“When did it-”
“Five years ago.”
“When you bought Rosehill?” The words slipped from Isla’s mouth.
He gave a curt nod. “Shortly after.”
No wonder Ryder believed in the curse. The question was, did Ethan MacRae?
“What happened?” It came out as a whisper and hung in the air between them. For the longest time, Isla thought he wasn’t going to answer. She’d pushed him too far. Shame engulfed her. How could she be so nosy? So insensitive?
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that-” Isla took a step back, and a piece of the broken mirror cracked beneath her heel.
“It was an accident.” Ethan’s voice was flat and hollow, his face devoid of any emotion. The hairs raised on Isla’s arms. Part of her wanted to reach out to him, to offer him the comfort he so clearly needed, but that wasn’t her place, and besides, what made her think he’d take it?
Isla wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. As if that would make a difference.
Ethan’s head jerked towards her as if he’d just remembered that she was there. “You should go. Ryder can clear this up.” He gestured around them at the mess.
“Right.” Isla didn’t move. She couldn’t move. It was ridiculous, she knew, but she didn’t want to leave him standing among the shattered remains of a mirror she’d broken, reeling from the memory of whatever accident she’d just forced him to recollect.
The air seemed to grow thicker around them, but still, Isla couldn’t bring herself to leave. She caught the flicker of a frown cross his scarred brow.
“I really am sorry,” she said, eventually. The words sounded as lame as they felt. But what else could she say?
A cloud fell over Ethan’s face. “So am I.”
*
He’d lied to her.
An accident, he’d said. As though it had been some blameless occurrence that nobody could be held responsible for. When the truth was that he, Ethan, held the blame, and not just for his loss of sight, and scarred face, but everything else as well.
He dropped into a crouch and reached one hand out. His fingers found a jagged shard of the mirror, and plucked it from the floor, turning it over in his hand.
For a minute, he let himself imagine what his life might have been, what Rosehill could have been - who he would be - if things had worked out differently. Images flashed behind his eyes before the inky black truth blotted them out. The contrast left him reeling, and Ethan closed his fist instinctively, barely feeling the sting and swell of blood in his palm, over the piercing agony in his chest.
Four
Parsons & Co stood in Edinburgh’s Old Town, the final shop in a long row, that had stood for centuries. The sign above the door was painted the same cherry-red as the window frames, a gleaming contrast to the pale, Medieval stone. Wide windows either side of the door offered a glimpse of the treasures that lay within, antiques from all eras arranged side-by-side, aiming to tempt shoppers into its cave of wonders.
The bell above the door jangled, and the smell of polish and old wood rushed to greet Isla.
Tim glanced up from the painting he was examining, shoving his glasses up into his fair hair, when he saw it was her.
“Well, how did it go at Castle Mc Creepy?” He winked as if to show her that all was forgiven, but somehow Isla doubted that was true. From her five years working alongside Tim, she knew he wasn’t the type to let things go that easily, but she also knew it would upset Len if there was an atmosphere in the shop, so she forced herself to smile.
“Not a ghost in sight, I’m afraid.” Isla rounded the counter and leaned across the painting. “Wilson?”
“Danby,” Tim corrected.
“It’s no use. I’ll never be able to tell the difference.”
“It’s obvious when you know what to look for. See there?” Tim pointed to the flecks of silver-blue paint that formed the surface of the lake. “See how he’s created the feeling of movement in an otherwise still scene?” He leaned in close enough that Isla could smell the coffee on his breath. “That’s characteristic of his work.”
“Yes, well.” Isla jerked away. “I think I’d better leave the art to the expert.”
Tim flushed, but Isla wasn’t su
re if it was at the compliment or her reaction.
When Isla had first started working alongside Tim, he’d seen fit to appoint himself her mentor, despite only being a couple of years her senior, but at some point - with the exception of art - her knowledge had begun to overtake his own, and Isla got the distinct impression he didn’t like it.
Len’s decision - to send her to Rosehill instead of Tim - had been a further blow to his ego. She knew it would take more than a compliment or two to smooth over the rift growing between them.
“Ah, I thought I heard your sweet voice.” Len’s head appeared around the faded curtain separating the front of the shop from the back.
Like his son, Len wore thick glasses but his were eternally perched on the end of his hawk-like nose. He peered at Isla over the top of the frames, his wiry silver eyebrows raised.
“How did it go?”
Images of an unclothed Ethan MacRae and a shattered Rococo mirror flashed through Isla’s mind.
“Erm...okay, I think.” She hated to lie to Len, but it wasn’t a lie exactly, and besides, she didn’t want him worrying. If Mr MacRae changed his mind about the mirror, she’d pay for it...somehow. “It’s a pity though, the place has practically gone to ruin.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. How could a blind man single-handedly keep on top of a place that size?” Tim scoffed.
“He’s not entirely alone,” Isla said. “He has a…” butler? Manservant? “...personal assistant,” she finished.
Len nodded. “Ah yes, that would be the young chappy I spoke to over the phone, I expect. Riddler, was it?”
“Ryder,” Isla corrected.
“That’s it. He sounded nice enough.”
“He seems it,” Isla said. She caught the upwards dart of Tim’s eyebrows, a sandy version of Len’s. “He’s in remarkable shape for someone who works as an assistant, and obviously extremely devoted to his employer…” Isla continued, almost to herself.
“He probably helps him hide the bodies,” Tim muttered.
“What?” Isla spun to face him.
“You know, like in films. The wealthy aristocrat who drains innocent girls of their blood- he’s got to have a servant to help him bury their scantily clad bodies in the crypt…”
Out of Sight Page 3