by Lucy Gillen
‘I hope so.’
Melodie was recalling another opinion of Neil McDowell—a woman’s opinion, and probably one that was mellowed by time and pleasant memories. She always suspected that there might have been something between Catriona Holland and her estate manager at one time, although nothing had ever been said to encourage such a suspicion. It was just something in the way she spoke of him, and in the way Nick Holland looked at his wife sometimes when she spoke of him. Maybe Neil McDowell nursed an unrequited love, in
which case he was unlikely to be charmed by another woman even after eight years.
She looked at John Stirling again from the corner of her eye, and hoped she would see something of him while she was here. He seemed pleasant and uncomplicated, and he might prove a welcome means of support if Neil McDowell should prove as dour as he suggested.
‘You don’t come from around here either, do you, Mr Stirling?’ she asked, dismissing her prospective host from her mind for the moment, and John Stirling shook his head.
‘I was born not far from here, but my folks, like yours, emigrated, only in their case it was to Canada. We went just after my fifth birthday, so I guess you could say I’m practically one hundred per cent Canadian after twenty years. My folks still have a Scottish burr in their speech, but not me, I’m afraid! ‘
`So you’re just visiting, like me.’
`Not quite like you,’ he denied with a laugh. ‘I’ve no intention of doing anything remotely like work while I’m here.’
‘Are you here for long?’
He shrugged carelessly, then cast her a smile over his shoulder. ‘I arrived last week and I figure to stay at least another couple of months.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She didn’t like to ask outright, but it was difficult to imagine him wealthy enough to take such a long holiday if his uncle was an estate worker. ‘You don’t have to worry about how long you stay away, then?’
‘I can’t quite say that.’ He pulled a face, as if he found what he was about to say a little embarrassing. ‘Don’t be misled by Uncle Jamie working for the Ross estate, Miss Carne—I guess you could say we’re kind
of—rich relations. Isn’t that the term they used to apply to the wild colonial boys who made good?’
‘Something like that,’ Melodie agreed, frankly interested.
‘My pa made good in a big way out there and he built up a business that by now runs like clockwork, but he still puts in ten or more hours a day, would you believe?’ He laughed and shook his head, evidently finding his father’s passion for business beyond his comprehension. ‘I’ve been put through the processes from A to Z and I guess I know it pretty well by now, but—’ He shrugged and once more turned a smile on her. ‘I like to unwind a little now and then and when I do I take off and come and stay with Uncle Jamie.’
‘It sounds marvellous!’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘It is, believe me! I ride sometimes, McDowell makes his stables available to me, and I fish and generally laze around.’ The brown eyes smiled their warmth at her once more. ‘Maybe I could persuade you to join me instead of working, huh?’
‘Maybe you can—sometimes!’
He braked the car in front of a big brick house with tall windows and huge wooden doors, and Melodie sat for a second taking it in. ‘Well, here you are, Miss Carne—Ben Ross.’
Five wide and impressive stone steps led up to the front doors and Melodie had the strangest sensation of having been delivered rather than merely being given a lift. It was a moment or two before she took advantage of the car door being opened for her, and she thought John Stirling was watching her curiously as he waited.
‘Thank you.’ She accepted his help and stood on the
gravel drive looking up at the old house. ‘I—I suppose there’s someone home?’
‘Sure to be,’ John Stirling assured her confidently, then slid a hand beneath her arm and bent his head slightly as he lowered his voice. ‘Would you like me to come with you, at least as far as the door?’
She accepted the offer gratefully. ‘I’m an awful coward,’ she confessed with a faint smile. ‘But I keep thinking of Neil McDowell as stern and forbidding ever since you described him.’
‘Oh, gee, I’m sorry!’ He looked dismayed at the idea of being the cause of her nervousness. ‘I wasn’t trying to scare you off, and he really isn’t too bad when you know him, honest!’
He kept hold of her arm while they walked up the stone steps together, carefully avoiding the dangerously worn parts in the centre. An ancient iron bell-pull clanged somewhere inside the house, and they waited in silence while Melodie looked around at the garden behind them.
‘Miss Carne’s here to see Mr McDowell, Mrs McKay.’ John Stirling’s voice recalled her, and she spun round quickly when she realised the doors had been opened.
She had heard of Jessie McKay too, and her reputation was less guaranteed to inspire confidence, a reputation seemingly confirmed by a pair of shrewd and distinctly unfriendly brown eyes. She was plump and her round face wore a slight frown, as if she did not welcome strangers on her doorstep. A plait of grey hair encircled her head like a coronet and made her appear yet more severe as she took stock of Melodie before she spoke.
‘Come away in, Miss Carne, and I’ll tell Mr McDowell you’re here.’ She acknowledged John Stirling with a
slight nod of her head, and made it plain that he was not included in the invitation. ‘You’ll not be wanting to see Mr McDowell as well, Mr Stirling?’
If she expected him to take the question as a dismissal she must have been disappointed, for he was not as easily put off as she obviously expected him to be. ‘I have Miss Carne’s luggage in my car,’ he explained, unabashed by his chilly welcome. ‘I brought her up from the station, so I guess I’ll hang around until she’s ready to go back to the cottage.’
‘You’ll wait in your car?’
It was clear what she expected the answer to be, and Melodie saw a hint of a smile appear on his mouth. ‘Sure, I’ll wait outside!’ He smiled at Melodie reassuringly and partly closed one eye in a suggestion of a wink. ‘See you later, Miss Carne!’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind waiting?’
It seemed rather an imposition after the way he had been treated by the housekeeper, but he was apparently untroubled by it and grinned cheerfully. ‘Not in the least,’ he assured her. still be here when you come out again.’
‘Thank you.’
When Melodie stepped in through the doors it was like entering another world, different from any she had known before. The hall she found herself in was enough to make her stare about her in frank amazement, for it was so exactly what every stately home is reputed to be like that she could scarcely believe it was real.
Above her head it soared upwards almost out of sight in the shadows, dark-panelled for the first few feet, then painted starkly white the rest of the way up to the vaulted ceiling. A staircase occupied the whole of one wall and a huge portrait hung about half way—a huge
portrait of a man whose dark visage seemed to dominate the hall and whose sharp dark eyes appeared to watch her with discomfitingly lifelike sternness.
Yet strangely enough there was an air of homeliness about the place, despite its grandeur, an atmosphere of quiet that she found encouraging. She thought the housekeeper was regarding her curiously and she hastened to explain her interest.
`I’ve heard so much about Ben Ross,’ she said, ‘I’ve been dying to see it.’ She indicated the portrait on the stair, pressing on impulsively as she was prone to do. `That’s Mr Duncan Ross, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘It’s a wonderful painting.’
‘It’s a guid likeness,’ Jessie McKay allowed, and spoke with the authority of familiarity.
`Mrs Holland told me about the painting,’ Melodie explained. ‘I have an interest, you see, being an artist.’ ‘Oh aye, you would.’
It was scarcely an encouraging response, but Melodie hoped her manner was not an indication of what sh
e could expect from her employer. She led the way across the hall to one of the doors that gave on to it, and indicated that Melodie should follow. `Mr McDowell’s in here.’
`Here’ proved to be a library as grand as the hall. It was huge and furnished with rich leather furniture, and leather-bound books lined the walls on three sides. A massive fireplace, screened for the summer with a huge wrought iron screen, seemed to span half one long wall. Tall, arch-topped windows admitted the sun, but the room was cool, and she barely had time to notice very much before her attention was drawn to the man who stood in front of the fireplace.
It was a curious sensation to see someone she had had
described to her and to find nothing at all recognisable about him. For one thing Neil McDowell was taller than she expected, and less handsome than she had been led to believe. He might have been very good-looking at one time, Melodie thought, but at thirty-three or four he was lean and rugged and looked every bit as dour as she feared.
At the same time there was a curious magnetism about him, a suggestion of power and self-confidence that sat well on the broad shoulders. His hair was fair; thick and glossy and falling over part of a broad brow, and he had grey eyes that were steady and confident, but not especially friendly as he looked across at her while she followed his housekeeper over to where he stood.
He wore breeches and boots and a shirt that was open at the neck to show a brown throat, and he looked so completely at home standing there with his feet just slightly apart in front of that huge fireplace that it was difficult to believe he was not already the owner of Ben Ross.
‘Thank you, Jessie.’ A brief nod dismissed the formidable Mrs McKay and she went out again, leaving Melodie alone with her supposedly unwilling host.
‘Miss Carne—I’m Neil McDowell.’ He extended a hand and she took it a little cautiously, wincing slightly when the strong brown fingers curled over hers for a second only. ‘Please sit down.’ She did as she was bid, perching herself right on the edge of one of the big wing armchairs. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
His voice was pleasantly low and the softness of the Highland accent made it more attractive, but he asked as if she had come only from somewhere just south of
the border, instead of several thousand miles from Australia.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr McDowell. It’s a long way, of course, and I’m rather tired what with the jet-lag and—’
`You need the key to the cottage, of course.’
She nodded and opened her handbag, pulling out the bulky envelope she had been charged with delivering. ‘I also have a letter and some papers for you from Mrs Holland.’
`Ah yes.’ A large hand took the packet from her and he nodded his satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Miss Carne.’ He looked down at the envelope in his hand for a moment, as if he was impatient to open it and study its contents, and she had the feeling he was waiting for her to go as soon as possible. ‘I’ll get the key for you ! ‘
He strode across to a big bureau and pulled down the front of it, returning a second later with a key which he handed to her. ‘Thank you.’
The grey eyes spared her a moment and she was surprised to see a quite unexpected glimmer of speculation in them. `Do you ride, Miss Carne?’ She nodded and he smiled. ‘Ah yes, of course, you’re Australian, aren’t you—brought up to ride horses!’
‘I’m’ not Australian, Mr McDowell, I’m English, though I’ve spent the last two years in Australia.’ She was afraid she might have sounded rather sharp when she contradicted him, so she smiled to take any suggestion of criticism out of the words. ‘That’s not long enough to make an Aussie,’ she told him. ‘But I do ride, as it happens, though not very well, I’m afraid.’
From the way he was dressed it was obvious he rode, and probably very well, and she half expected an invitation to join him, despite the reputation for dourness. Instead he nodded, tapping the packet he held against the thumb of one hand in a way that hinted at impatience.
‘Please feel free to use any of the horses in the stables while you’re here, except Black Knight, he’s not a woman’s horse and he can be hard to handle.’
‘I’ll remember.’ She smiled at him again, wondering whatever had possessed John Stirling to suppose that one smile was enough to charm him. ‘And thank you.’ She got up from the edge of her chair and indicated the package he held. ‘I’ll go and unpack, and leave you to read your letter.’
‘Aye, thank you.’ He held her gaze for a moment and she found the grey eyes unexpectedly warm when he smiled. ‘Enjoy your stay, Miss Carne.’ Something seemed to occur to him suddenly and he frowned. ‘I should have thought,’ he said, ‘have you left your luggage at the cottage, or have you now to carry it down there? If you have I’ll have the car out in a moment and run you down there.’
‘Oh no ‘ She felt curiously uneasy suddenly when she came to tell him about John Stirling, though heaven knew why. ‘I—I had a lift from the station, and Mr Stirling’s waiting for me with my suitcase in his car, the rest of my stuff will be coming some time soon.’
‘Jamie Stirling?’
There was something about the way he asked the question that told her he knew who she referred to quite well. ‘No,’ she said, ‘John Stirling. I believe his uncle works on the estate.’
He neither confirmed nor denied that fact, but merely nodded his head as if the matter was of no further interest to him. ‘You’ll not be needing my help, then,’
he said, and Melodie took that for her dismissal.
She looked at the key in her hand, and turned to go, still with a strangely dissatisfied feeling that made her unwilling to go yet. remember about the horse,’ she said. ‘I mean, not to take the black one.’
For a moment the grey eyes held hers again, and she thought the wide mouth was touched by a hint of smile for a second. ‘You’ll likely have no need to remember,’ he told her, ‘unless you’re a very early riser. I’ll have Black Knight saddled and away before you come on the scene, I daresay.’
`You—you ride every day?’
He showed no surprise at her interest beyond a brief elevation of one fair brow. ‘I ride round most of the estate every day,’ he said. ‘It’s part of my job, Miss Carne.’
`Oh yes—yes, of course.’ She hastily recalled John Stirling sitting outside in his car and waiting for her, and she gave a short and slightly uneasy laugh as she turned away. `I’d better go before my voluntary chauffeur decides to go without me !
Neil McDowell was shaking his head, and she stopped in the act of turning to look at him over her shoulder. ‘Oh, he’ll not do that! he assured her, soft-voiced, and she found it hard to explain the sudden flush of colour that warmed her cheeks as she -turned swiftly and headed for the door.
‘Goodbye, Mr McDowell!’
CHAPTER TWO
IT was a pleasant surprise for Melodie to find that the cottage she was to occupy was not merely habitable, but brightened with one or two unexpected touches that suggested a welcome. A vase of flowers, obviously fresh picked from the gardens, stood on the table in the one small sitting-room and dining-room combined, and another on the windowsill of the bedroom.
On exploring her new domain she found that even more practical matters had been thought of. There was a supply of groceries in the kitchen cupboard which would be enough to last her for a day or two, at least until she had time to do some shopping. The unexpectedly thoughtful gesture both surprised and delighted her, and she felt lighthearted enough the following morning to sing to herself while she prepared her breakfast.
She would go for a walk, she decided while she was washing up her breakfast things, and earmark a few likely places where she could work. The whole area around Ben Ross as well as the estate itself seemed to be one big scenic canvas and, as John Stirling had said, if this scenery did not inspire her to produce some good work, then nothing would.
Even the view from the tiny kitchen window was enchanting for all its limited scope, and she felt rather as if s
he was at the very edge of the world. If she looked to the left, she could just see the way in to Ben Ross. The gates had long since disappeared, but the two
broken stone gateposts still remained, although almost completely covered by a cloak of shiny-leafed ivy and buried in the overgrown shrubs that lined the drive to the house. Immediately in front, more low-growing shrubs allowed a view across seemingly endless landscapes of hills and valleys, still misty in the morning sunshine and alternately shadowed and brightened as billowing white cumulus drifted across a pale sky.
It was an unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves on the crunchy gravel of the drive that brought her out of her daydream, and she put down the drying up cloth she was using, when she recognised it, and went into the little sitting-room. John Stirling had mentioned that he sometimes rode, and he might have taken it into his head to call on her to see how she was getting on.
It was possible from the sitting-room window to see some distance along the drive and the rider was closer than she realised when she looked out. Unsure just what her reaction was at first, she recognised him not as John Stirling but Neil McDowell. Had it been John Stirling she could have been sure that he was coming to see her; in the case of. Neil McDowell she thought it less likely, for recalling his reception of her yesterday she thought it unlikely he would be troubled with whether she was settled in or not.
Whatever his reason for riding along the drive towards the cottage, she found the sight of man and horse fascinating enough to spend a moment or two watching them. He had mentioned that he rode over the estate every day as part of his job, but it was more than a diligent application to his job, she thought, that gave him that air of possession, and reminded herself that he would soon possess the estate he had loved and worked for so long.