Out of Sight

by Rebecca Duval

  “Tim.” There was a note of warning in Len’s voice.

  Tim looked between his dad and Isla, holding up his hands. “Jeez, it was just a joke.”

  Isla rolled her eyes. “First of all, Ethan MacRae isn’t an aristocrat, Tim, he’s a property developer. And I’m not some orphaned waif cast at his door by poverty. I’m a fully grown woman, and I’m there to do a job.”

  Tim shrugged moodily. “As you say.” He slid his glasses back onto his face and met her eyes through the smudged lenses. “You’re there to do a job.”

  Len looked between the two of them. “Come now.” He beckoned to Isla. “Tell me what you’ve found so far.”

  Isla followed Len behind the curtain, resisting the urge to poke her tongue out at Tim, who had already turned back to the painting, a sour expression on his face.

  Seated at the leather-topped card table opposite Len, her hands clutched around a chipped china teacup of earl grey, Isla finally felt some of the tension that had been building inside her all day, begin to ebb away. She always felt better when she was back here.

  Parsons & Co had been her first job out of university. It was meant to be a foot-in-the-door of the industry, a stepping stone to bigger, brighter things, but for the first - the only - time in her life, Isla Belmont had fallen in love. She’d fallen head over heels for the dark, dusty corners of the shop, where Regency dining chairs jostled for space alongside Art Deco sideboards, and art of every description adorned the walls so that barely a slither of the milky-green paint was visible between each elaborate frame.

  And then there was Len. Isla looked over at him, slurping his own smoky, sweet tea from a pottery tankard. Len had become the father she’d never had. She shot a glance towards the thick curtain. And Tim was like the irritating older brother that she didn’t want. But at least she’d gained a sister too- in Zoe, Parsons & Co’s newest recruit. Five years younger than Isla and her opposite in almost every way, Zoe worked Saturdays and covered shifts when one of them was out on a job. Isla knew she’d have plenty of opinions about Isla’s first day at Rosehill when she shared it with her.

  Not only had the three of them become her makeshift family, but the shop had become her home, both metaphorically, and quite literally, when she’d taken the flat above it, to provide Len with a bit of extra income, and cut down her commute. Now all she had to do was amble down the back stairs.

  Isla didn’t dare think about what would happen if Parsons & Co really did go under. She couldn’t. So she pushed the thought away like she always did when it surfaced.

  “Well then.” Len interrupted her worrying. “How was it, really?”

  Isla sighed. “It’s a beautiful place, or it would have been at one time, but now? I don’t know...truthfully Len, I’m not sure I’ll find anything spectacular among the ruins.”

  Len slurped his tea thoughtfully.

  “Well, at least it’s not haunted, hey?” He caught the look of surprise on Isla’s face and chuckled. “Come on, my girl. You know as well as I do that one contract was never going to be enough to save this place. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s the big auction houses- we just can’t compete.”

  “But what will we do?”

  “What we’ve always done. Keep going. For as long as we can. I’m amazed we’ve made it this far, truth be told. When my Grandad founded Parsons & Co, he could never have imagined it would still be here a hundred years down the line. I’m only sorry that-” Len stopped abruptly, his eyes catching hers through the steam from his mug. “Well, nevermind. So, this Rosehill contract is a bust? Well, we’ve signed on the dotted line already, so we may as well get what we can from it. Just don’t get on the wrong side of any vengeful ghosts, and you’ll be fine.” Len winked. “After all, we’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Isla’s mind flashed with an image of Ethan MacRae, in all his ill-tempered, semi-naked, dripping-wet glory, her blood heating in her veins at the memory, and she wondered how true that was.

  *

  “You should get that looked at.”

  Ryder’s words cut through Ethan’s rumination. How long had he been standing there, lost in thought? Long enough that the pain in his palm had eased to a dull throb, and his shins were hot from the fire.

  Ethan pushed away from the mantelpiece and dropped his injured hand to his side. “It’s nothing.”

  He had Ryder’s sigh from across the room. “At least let me clean it up.”

  Ethan thought about protesting, but he knew Ryder well enough to know that he’d get no peace from him until he relented. “If you must.”

  He heard Ryder leave, and then return a few minutes later, his footsteps brisk. Then came the tell-tale snap as he opened the First Aid box. How many times had they done this now?

  “This might sting,” Ryder’s voice was low, and came from beside him.

  The soft gauze grazed his palm before Ryder wiped it gently across the wound. Ethan silently gritted his teeth.

  “I think this needs stitches.”

  Ethan grunted. “Can you do it?”

  “I’d prefer not to. Let me take you to A&E, they can examine it properly, make sure there isn’t any nerve damage-”

  “No.”

  “But-”

  “No. If you cannae do it, leave it. But I amnae going anywhere.”

  Ryder let out another sigh- long, and bone-deep. “Fine. You win. As usual.”

  Ethan searched Ryder’s tone for a hint of bitterness or resentment but found none.

  “In which case, can I request some anaesthesia? There’s a bottle of scotch in the sideboard that should do it.”

  Ethan’s palm was on fire, but the burn of whisky in his throat assured him it wouldn’t be for long. He could feel the tremor in Ryder’s hand as he grasped hold of Ethan’s wrist.

  “I should give you a raise,” Ethan said, leaning his head back against the chair.

  “You already pay me too much,” Ryder mumbled.

  “Nonsense,” Ethan snorted. “Whatever you’re on, I’m doubling. You shouldnae have to deal with this.”

  “I wouldn’t have to if you’d just-”

  “Ryder,” Ethan cut him off with a note of warning.

  He tried not to think about the needle piercing his skin, or the nerve-endings screaming in his palm as Ryder slowly stitched up the wound. Instead, he let his mind wander back to the moment he’d stepped out of his bathroom and realised that he wasn’t alone. For a fraction of a second he’d almost thought...but then she’d spoken, with that soft, lilting voice, a trace of an accent coming through. And her sweet, floral scent had carried across to him on the breeze from the open window, and Ethan had felt something long-hidden, and buried stirring within him. A recognition, not of her, but of himself...and he’d panicked.

  A sharp tug snapped him out of his reverie. “Argh.” Ethan clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to yank his hand away.

  “Sorry,” Ryder said. “Almost done.”

  Ethan took another swig of Scotch, and closed his eyes, remembering the first time Ryder had patched him up, after a fall, and the many other times since. Every time, insisting it would be the last, and every time relenting. Ethan dreaded to think what he’d do when the day came that Ryder stuck to his refusal. He couldn’t even consider the alternative without a shudder running through his spine.

  “Hold still,” Ryder muttered. “Unless you want a raggedy scar.”

  Ethan’s mouth raised into a half-smile, despite the pain in his hand- and his head. “You know, somehow I think a jagged scar across the palm of my hand is the least of my problems.”

  “Why make it a problem at all?” Ryder said, his grip tightening around Ethan’s wrist.

  Ethan rested his head against the chair back. “How bad is it?” he asked, after a pause.

  “It’s wide but not deep, and it looks clean, thankfully. It will take time to heal because of where it is. You shouldn’t use it if you can help it.”

  “I didnae mean my hand,” Ethan said
quietly. “I meant my face.”

  Ryder’s hand stilled. He exhaled slowly, but he didn’t answer.

  “Bad, then,” Ethan said.

  Ryder’s hands moved swiftly. A tug across his palm made Ethan wince, then he heard the snip of scissors. “Done.”

  “Thank you.” Ethan closed his hand into a fist and felt the stitches pull.

  “I can’t answer that,” Ryder said.

  “If you’re afraid of hurting my feelings-” Ethan began, but Ryder cut him off.

  “I think we’re well past that stage,” Ryder said dryly. “It’s not that, but Ethan I didn’t know you before. To me, this is just you, it’s how you’ve always looked, and I don’t think about it anymore. Maybe it’s different for people who knew you before, or to anyone just meeting you for the first time. You’d have to be-”

  “Blind?” Ethan suggested wryly.

  “Actually, I was going to say naive, to believe that people wouldn’t notice. People judge on appearances, we’re all guilty of it. But anyone who got to know you would see your scars differently. That’s my opinion, anyway.”

  Packets rustled and then Ryder was gripping his hand once more, winding a seemingly endless bandage around his palm.

  So his scars were bad. It wasn’t a shock, he’d gathered as much from people’s reactions, from running his fingers over them in those early days, trying to learn the landscape of his new face. If his looks had been all he had to grieve, perhaps he’d have struggled more with the adjustment, but of course, it wasn’t. And his altered appearance had paled into insignificance compared with the rest. Truthfully he hadn’t thought about it much...until today. Until his very reflection had petrified Isla and left him standing among the shards of the truth- that he was so disfigured now as to be a ghoul, skulking in the shadows of his own home.

  As for Ryder’s assessment, so tactfully delivered- it was more damning than Ryder could possibly know. It was all very well, Ryder suggesting that anyone who got to know Ethan would view his face differently, and come to accept it, but what Ryder had failed to consider, was that Ethan had no intention of letting anyone get that close. And so he was destined to remain a monster, and alone forever.

  Five

  The castle doors swung open before Isla even had chance to knock.

  “I saw you pull up,” Ryder said, almost apologetically.

  “Right, of course.” Isla winced at the thought of him watching her battered Fiesta wind its way up the never-ending drive, and followed him into the gloom of the entrance hall.

  It was her second day at Rosehill, yet she somehow felt even more apprehensive and uncertain than she had yesterday.

  Ryder’s expression was swallowed by darkness as he closed the door behind her. “Sorry.” He flicked several switches on the wall, and the rickety chandelier overhead flickered to life. It still wasn’t exactly bright, but it was better. “I’m so used to walking around in the dark now- I forget other people aren’t. Let me take your coat.”

  Isla handed it to him. “You’ve worked for Mr MacRae a while, then?” She tried to keep her voice casual.

  “Three years.” Ryder hung her coat on an empty rack beneath the staircase.

  Three years? Isla tried to hide her dismay. She’d been jumpy after a few hours in this place. No wonder the Douglas curse played on Ryder’s mind, after three years rattling around Rosehill.

  “He’s waiting for you in the study, by the way.”

  Isla swallowed hard, her sympathy for Ryder flying from her mind as it filled instead with an image of Ethan MacRae, standing alone in the dark room, glass at his feet. It was the same image that had been haunting her ever since she’d walked away from him last night. He’d told her to, but every step had felt wrong. She should have stayed, whether he’d wanted her to or not.

  “Okay, thank you, Ryder.” Isla tried to keep her voice light, but from the way Ryder looked at her, she knew that some of her inner turmoil must have shown.

  Maybe she was overthinking things. Maybe Ethan had been annoyed by her questions, irritated by her breaking the mirror- and really, who wouldn’t be? It was worth a week's wages at least. Maybe the anguish and despair she’d thought she’d seen etched into his features as she’d moved past him to leave had actually just been frustration and annoyance? Maybe he was sitting in the study with a bill in his hand, ready to lecture her on the handling of valuable property…maybe, maybe, maybe. Her thoughts swirled around and around so that by the time Isla reached the study she was almost dizzy with anticipation.

  The study was dark, the lights off, and beyond the windowpane, the gunmetal sky offered little illumination. A fire had been built but was only smouldering. Wisps of smoke curled from the hearth, and beside it stood Ethan MacRae, with his back to the room. Isla’s gaze slid from the dark tangles of his hair to his worn, muddy boots.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  He turned, his blank gaze falling on her, and Isla instantly regretted her poor choice of words.

  “I meant-”

  “I know what you meant.” He cut her off. “Aye. I thought it would be safer for everyone if our next meeting was planned.”

  Isla felt a flush creep up her neck.

  “Take a seat.” He gestured in the vague direction of the chairs.

  Isla perched on the edge of one of the armchairs, holding herself rigid, to prevent herself from being swallowed up. These were not seats to perch on. They were chairs to flop into, curl up inside, doze in...Did Ethan MacRae doze here by the fire? She wondered And did Ryder sit opposite him, silently watching him sleep?

  Ethan MacRae sat down opposite Isla, jolting her from her vision.

  What was wrong with her? Between Tim’s warnings, and Ryder’s ghostly tales, Isla was letting her imagination run wild. She forced herself to relax back into the chair.

  “Ryder told me he gave you a tour.”

  Isla nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak, and then realised her mistake. Her cheeks flamed. “He did, yes.”

  “And what do you think?”

  What did she think? Isla had had a lot of thoughts these past twenty-four hours, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to share many of them with Ethan MacRae.

  “Can you do it?” he prompted. He was facing her directly, but his golden-brown eyes strayed to one side.

  “Of course,” Isla said, with more confidence than she felt. “But-”

  “But?” Ethan’s head quirked.

  “It would be helpful to know your plans going into the project.”

  “My plans?” His expression remained blank, but Isla thought she detected a hint of alarm in his voice.

  “Yes. Obviously, I know you want the entire estate cataloguing and valuing, but what’s the purpose of the appraisal? Is it for insurance reasons? Division of property? Are you looking to sell?”

  “Everything has to go.”

  “Okay.” Isla nodded. “Are you planning to renovate?”

  “Did Ryder tell you that?”

  “He said that had been your intention when you bought the castle.”

  “Aye.”

  Was that aye, he was renovating? Or aye, it had been his plan originally, but wasn’t anymore? Isla pressed on. “Are there any pieces you wouldn’t consider selling? Anything you couldn’t bear to part with?”

  “No.”

  The force of his answer rendered Isla speechless for a moment. She stared open-mouthed across at Ethan MacRae. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he clenched and unclenched his right hand. It was then that Isla noticed the strip of white bandage slashed across his palm.

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  He closed his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.” Ethan got to his feet and paced across to the window.

  How did he know where it was? Isla guessed he counted paces, but if he did, it wasn’t obvious. She was certain she’d bump into something if she tried it. But then he had lived here for three years, according to Ryder. That was a lot of time to create a mental map.r />
  “You do realise-” Isla started, but then she bit her lip. Why bother?

  Ethan turned, his unscarred eyebrow raised. “Go on.”

  “If you sell everything, the castle will be empty.”

  His brow furrowed. “Aye. What’s your point?”

  “You’ll have to start all over again. Wouldn’t it be better to keep some things back, for the future?

  Something flashed across Ethan’s face, but he turned back to the window before Isla could identify it.

  “I don’t see what concern that is of yours.”

  He didn’t say it harshly, but Isla still flinched. Way to put her in her place.

  “None whatsoever,” she said, as sweetly as she could manage. If Ethan MacRae wanted to sell every last thing he owned, it would only make her job here all the easier, and increase the chances of her saving Parsons & Co from collapse.

  “Well if that’s all, I’d better get on with it.”

  Ethan twisted away from the window, a faint look of surprise etched across his features.

  “Unless there was something else you needed from me?” Isla said. She held her breath, waiting for his response.

  Ethan turned away. “Not at all.”

  *

  Isla laid out the dinnerware on the table, counting the pieces as she went. It was a nice enough set, but it wouldn’t be worth selling unless it was complete. There. She placed the final side-plate on the tabletop and stood back to photograph it.

  Through the camera lens, she caught a flicker of movement outside the window. She snapped a couple of quick shots, before crossing the room to investigate.

  Peering through the grimy panes, she could just make out a figure dressed all in black, striding away from the castle, beneath the leaden sky. Isla rubbed the side of her hand against the glass, and pressed her forehead against the window, squinting at the dark figure in the distance. A streak of white flashed through the long grass, and it took Isla a second to realise what it was. A cane. Ethan MacRae was out walking, alone, and he was heading for Rose Wood.

  *