‘Whoa.’ Zoe sat back. ‘Naughty Ailsa. Unless they miscounted?’
‘The dates are there in the church records. Ten and a half months after the burial. And Tamhas had been away for the best part of two months before he died. You can imagine, in a village like this, the gift that would have been to the gossip mill. But that was the point at which she truly became an outcast.’
‘She doesn’t sound like someone who would have cared too much about that,’ Zoe said.
‘Apparently not. She kept to the house after her son was born. Dismissed the maid, saying she intended to care for the child herself, which of course was unheard of for a woman of means at the time. The maid was less than delighted – there was little work available on the island. It’s my view that much of what was passed down had its roots in malicious rumours put about by the maid in anger at losing her position.’
‘Like what?’ Zoe sat forward, intrigued.
‘Oh, that there was something wrong with the child. Ailsa didn’t send for a midwife – only the maid was present in the house when the child was delivered, and she swore it was stillborn. Ailsa never had the boy baptised either – you can imagine the scandal of that. The cook continued to visit every day but she said she never once heard the child crying, nor ever saw him, though Ailsa was always sewing clothes for him. This went on for a couple of years. This cook said Ailsa McBride was growing stranger and stranger – more remote, as if she was in another world most of the time.’
‘Losing her mind, you mean?’
‘That’s what the new reverend implied in his letter to William Drummond. Though you must remember how quick people were to diagnose madness in women in those days. But even that was principally among educated people. Rough-hewn island folk jumped to other conclusions first.’ He raised a finger, as if he were giving a lecture. ‘Consider it. A woman living alone, who shuns church and refuses to answer the door to the minister, with an unbaptised child no one ever sees?’
‘They said she was a witch, I guess?’ Zoe felt the goosebumps rise on her arms and the back of her neck. ‘Did the rumours never imply who the father was?’
‘Oh yes.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘They said it was the Devil himself. There was even a rumour that she had murdered the child at birth in some kind of blood sacrifice, which was why no one ever saw him.’ Charles’s face tightened in anger, as if he took such ignorance and prejudice personally. ‘But that is a real mystery – with all the gossip flying, there was never a finger pointed at any of the island men. Not even the disgruntled maid could confect any plausible evidence of male visitors in the year after Ailsa was widowed. Even the minister didn’t cross the threshold.’
‘Wow. She really knew how to keep a secret.’ Zoe felt a growing admiration for Ailsa McBride and her disregard for convention.
‘So it seems. But after the child was born, Ailsa left the management of her financial affairs to the one solicitor in the village, a Mr Richard Bonar,’ he continued. ‘Bonar would go out to the house once a month to discuss the estate. His letters to William Drummond are fascinating.’ He leaned forward, eyes bright. ‘He says despite the talk, he’s never found Ailsa anything less than entirely lucid. She is always impeccably dressed, the house clean, and she displays a sound understanding of her accounts and investments together with an impressive grasp of arithmetic for a woman.’
‘Big of him,’ Zoe remarked.
Charles laughed. ‘Yes. Though it’s curious – I can’t help but wonder about the effect of those letters. What might have happened if Bonar had been less pragmatic, if he had encouraged William to come back and see his sister. But William was evidently reassured by Bonar’s words. Especially when, a couple of years later, the solicitor said he’d seen the child.’
‘So the son was alive?’
‘Most definitely. A frail boy, Bonar says, very pale, but to all appearances well cared-for, though he suspected he might be mute. So William saw no need to get involved. He was engaged to be married by then, to a girl from an Edinburgh clergy family of some standing – he was moving up in the world and had no wish to be burdened with the care of a widowed sister and sickly nephew on a remote island, particularly when that sister had more than enough money to look after herself and there was a rumour of illegitimacy hanging over the boy. He writes encouraging Ailsa to sell the land and move to Edinburgh so they can see more of each other, but he doesn’t make much effort to persuade her.’ He stopped for another gulp of coffee and shook his head. ‘Perhaps if he had taken more trouble with her, the story might have had a different ending.’
Zoe watched him with a frisson of excitement, waiting for the reveal.
‘Would you like to see her?’ Before she could answer, he crossed the room to a vast walnut cabinet against the back wall, crouched to unlock the top drawer and drew out a leather folder crammed with documents. After some riffling through papers he held out a yellowed photograph, curling at the edges. She reached out for it, aware of a strange tightness in her throat.
‘I’ll put another pot of coffee on,’ Charles said, setting the folder down on the desk and leaving her with the picture.
Zoe looked down. The photo in her hand was a formal portrait, the woman sitting stiff-backed in her black dress with its high lace collar and wide skirts, hair severely parted and pulled back into a bun. The face was stern, not beautiful but strong-featured, with fierce dark eyes that stared into the lens as if issuing a challenge. No wonder the locals left her alone, Zoe thought; the force of that gaze would make anyone step back and apologise. Around her neck, Ailsa wore a silver Celtic cross patterned with ornate tracery.
‘Formidable woman, isn’t she?’ Charles’s voice over her shoulder made her jump. ‘Shall I get you a refill?’ He leaned over for her empty mug. ‘You wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her, to judge by that expression. You can see why she made the villagers nervous.’
‘So what did happen to her?’ Zoe called, as he pottered back to the kitchen.
‘I’m about to tell you,’ he said. At the same time, the bell above the shop door chimed. Charles emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel, as Mick appeared in the archway to the main shop. His gaze alighted on Zoe with the photograph in her lap and she watched his face working to suppress a reaction. Again, Zoe felt she had incurred his disapproval; guilty, she glanced at her watch.
‘Thought I might find you here.’ Mick pressed his lips together, but his reproving look was directed at Charles.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Zoe said, half rising. ‘I didn’t realise how quickly the time had gone.’
‘It’s my fault entirely,’ Charles said, with his charming smile, flipping the cloth over his shoulder. ‘I persuaded her to stay for coffee, I’m afraid.’
‘And a wee history lesson, I see.’ Mick nodded to the picture in Zoe’s hand.
‘I asked him to tell me,’ she said, looking at Mick. She did not want to be the cause of ill feeling between the two men, but she found Mick’s efforts to hide the stories from her both irritating and a little ridiculous. Perhaps he was ashamed of having a family history that included witchcraft, or madness. That sort of thing still mattered in a place like this. ‘The island is so fascinating. I thought it might be inspiring for my painting.’
Mick’s face clouded further. ‘I don’t think—’ he began, but changed his mind. ‘I need to get back up the pub in a minute. If you do a quick dash round the shop now, I can run you home, but we’ll need to get a shift on.’
Zoe stood. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Couldn’t I get a cab? That way I can take my time and explore a bit more.’
Mick laughed. ‘A cab, she says. Good luck with that.’ He folded his arms and appeared to relent. ‘Nae bother. You’ve my mobile number – if you can’t get a lift, I’ll be free again after about four, you can try me then.’ His eyes darted back to the photograph. ‘And don’t believe anything he tells you.’ He turned and stalked briskly out of the shop, leav
ing the bell jangling as the door banged behind him.
Zoe caught Charles’s eye and he grimaced.
‘We’re in the doghouse,’ she said, handing back the photo, avoiding a last look at the woman’s stare. ‘I shouldn’t have kept him waiting, when he was going out of his way to help me.’
‘It’s me he’s angry with,’ Charles said, though he didn’t sound as if this troubled him unduly. He picked up the document case and tapped it with a tobacco-stained forefinger. ‘But I only ever promised not to write publicly about the story without his blessing. I certainly never agreed not to discuss it. And as a publican, he should have a better grasp of human nature. The more he tries to stop you hearing, the more curious you’re bound to be.’ He took a long look at Ailsa McBride before slipping the picture back among the other papers. ‘How was your first night in the house, by the way?’
Zoe hesitated. For one reckless moment she considered telling him about the singing and the locked door, the figure on the beach. It would be a relief to voice the strangeness of it aloud, to have someone as unflappable as Charles reassure her that she had imagined it. But in the same instant she recalled the dream that had preceded it, her own nakedness and fierce desire, and felt unaccountably ashamed, as if he would be able to read traces of that dream in her face. Besides, he had seen her at the pub; he must have noticed how quickly the whisky had gone to her head. He would be too polite to tell her it was the drink, but she could hardly expect to be taken seriously. She shrugged and smiled.
‘Fine. I needed the sleep.’
He raised his head, eyebrows cocked in a question. ‘You didn’t find the silence unnerving? People often do.’
‘I’m OK with silence,’ she said, still smiling, though her face had begun to feel rigid.
‘That’s good. Few people really know how to be comfortable with it, I find.’
‘Will you tell me the rest of the story?’
Charles appeared to be on the point of answering when the shop bell rang again and a wavering voice called out as the door banged shut.
‘Anyone there?’
Horace lumbered up from under his chair to greet the newcomer. An elderly woman in a clear plastic rain hood picked her way through the piles of books, nosing the air like a woodland creature.
‘There you are!’ Her watery eyes alighted on Zoe. ‘Oh, but I don’t want to trouble you if you’re busy, Professor.’
‘No trouble at all, Betsy. It’s always a pleasure to see you.’ He pushed his chair back, turning to wink at Zoe over the woman’s head. ‘Do help yourself to more coffee, Ms Adams, and a book, if you like.’
But Zoe sensed the earlier intimacy had been broken; Mick’s appearance had cast a shadow of guilt over their conversation. She picked up her jacket and tucked The Myths That Make Us inside it.
‘Thank you – I should get on with my shopping. I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
‘Not at all.’ He waved a hand. ‘I’ve left you on a cliffhanger so you’ll have to come back and see us.’
The old dog followed her to the door, sniffing at her legs. She scratched his head between his ears on her way out and he made a low, throat-clearing noise of appreciation, sitting down solidly in the doorway. Zoe turned to see the elderly woman watching her through the glass as she walked away.
5
She spotted the young teacher as he jogged across the empty playground, clutching the hood of a waterproof hiking jacket around his face against the downpour, while she cowered under the brick archway of the bike shop yard, peering out at the sky, bewildered by its sudden betrayal. She took a bold step forward into his line of sight, one hand protectively clamping the saddle of her new bicycle, pretending she hadn’t noticed him. The plastic carrier bag from the supermarket knocked against her leg as it swung from the handlebars.
‘Oh. Hello again.’ Edward’s face lit up as he approached; rain had spattered his glasses and he had to take them off and wipe them with a tissue. ‘You picked the wrong day for a bike ride.’
‘I know, right?’ Zoe pushed a wet strand of hair out of her face and grinned. ‘What’s going on? It was fine when I came out.’ She patted the bike. ‘And I just paid the guy to take this for a month. He didn’t tell me it was monsoon season. Reckon I could get a refund?’
‘If he gave money back for every day it rained here he’d have gone bust long ago.’ Edward smiled. He seemed nervous. ‘Seriously, though. You can’t ride all the way back in this. You should wait it out – the weather changes from one hour to the next.’
‘I see that.’ She pulled her scarf tighter. ‘I was going to take my groceries home. You guys are not big on cabs around here, I understand.’
He laughed. ‘Uh, no.’
‘I guess it’s back to the bookshop till this clears up.’ She glanced along the street. ‘Your Professor will think I’m hitting on him. Though I’m not sure I can afford to pay my way in buns.’
‘You can wait at mine if you like.’ The way he said it; too quickly, trying to make it sound casual. ‘I’m across the green there, in the School House.’ He indicated through the billowing curtains of rain.
She frowned. ‘But you were on your way somewhere.’
‘Nothing urgent. I’ve got biscuits, and coffee,’ he added, as if to persuade her. Zoe wondered if he had seen her from the window; if he had come out specifically to bump into her. The possibility fired a small, bright buzz in her chest.
‘Well – that’s really kind. If you’re sure I won’t be in the way?’
‘Of course not. Charles will be closing up soon anyway, you might as well. Here, let me take that.’ He reached out for the bike; she unhooked the bag and let him steer. Together they scurried across the green, heads down into the rain as it drove harder all around them, bouncing up from the road and sluicing along the gutters in a brown stream.
She stole a glance at his profile as he fumbled to unlock the gate at the side of the School House, the bike balanced against his hip. Neat, regular features, glazed with the uncomplicated smoothness of youth, save for that fine crease between his brows that hinted at deep preoccupations, a serious involvement with the world. A brief shiver of unease rippled through her; an absurd sense that she should not step across the threshold into his life, that to do so would be to invite a curse, as in a fairy tale. She shook the rain from her hair briskly and smiled as he held the front door open.
The School House was built in the nineteenth century from the same hard grey stone as the school it served. Inside it had been furnished sparely, the floral curtains and plain upholstery faded, the carpet’s pattern worn indistinct by the feet of previous tenants. Edward had imposed little of himself on his home, Zoe thought, as he showed her into the cramped living room. A curved silver wireless speaker on the walnut dresser; a black-and-white photograph of dreaming spires in dawn mist; a music stand under one narrow window, his violin case leaning beside it. Scanning the room, she had the impression that he had barely unpacked, and did not intend to stay long. Only the bookshelves offered any glimpse of him. They had been carefully arranged, poetry and classics together, literary novels and the kind of non-fiction she saw extracted in the New Yorker and always intended to read one day. Browsing the spines, she began to feel intimidated by him: his obvious intelligence, his earnest intensity.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ He took off his glasses and wiped them on the tail of his shirt. That English diffidence as he looked at her from under his fringe, fearful of being refused. Funny to think she and her friends would have looked straight past a boy like this in college. Now she was the one who feared being invisible.
‘Tea, thanks. If I have any more coffee I’ll shoot through the ceiling. No milk.’
‘So you’ve been to see Charles already?’ he called through the open door of the kitchen, over the sound of running water. ‘Has he been filling your head with lurid legends?’
‘I wanted him to tell me about the house.’ A wooden staircase led up from the main room, almost opposi
te the door. Zoe wandered over to the shelves beneath it and began lifting paperbacks from a stack.
‘In defiance of Mick’s Official Secrets Act?’
‘Yeah – what’s with that?’ She picked up a hardback volume of Rilke in a plastic dust-jacket and flicked through the pages. Some had been folded down at the corners and here and there she glimpsed pencil notes in the margin. One of his college books, she guessed, and felt an odd pang of tenderness, to think of him so newly out in the world. ‘Did Mick give everyone orders not to tell me?’
‘More or less.’ Edward came to stand in the doorway, a kettle in his hand. ‘He was afraid it would scare you off. He doesn’t like anyone talking about his family history at the best of times, but especially not in front of paying customers.’
‘It’s a little paranoid. Every old place has its stories. I wouldn’t have chosen to live in a house like that if I was easily spooked.’
‘Even so,’ he said, in a tone that suggested he was struggling to be fair, ‘it would be a big deal for some people, to find out you’re living in a house where a woman killed her child. And then after what happened last year – I can see his point.’
Zoe snapped her head up from the book to stare at him. ‘She killed her child? What did happen last year?’
He froze, guilt slinking over his face. ‘Shit. I thought Charles had told you?’
‘He didn’t get to that part. Oh, come on,’ she said, when it appeared he was turning away, ‘you can’t throw that out and not explain it. Who killed her child – Ailsa McBride?’
Edward sighed, flicking at the kettle lid with his fingernail. ‘I’ve put my foot in it. At least wait till I’ve got the tea on, OK?’
Zoe scuffed impatiently as he clattered about in the kitchen. Over the chink of china and the wheeze of the kettle boiling, she heard him determinedly humming a tune that sounded familiar. She turned over the flyleaf of the Rilke book to find an inscription dated the previous summer in a rounded, girlish hand: My darling Ed – we’ll always have Prague! Here’s to all the summers to come, all my love, L xxxx.
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