by Lucy Gillen
They drove along the drive to the house, taking only minutes to cover the distance it took her quite a long time to walk, and between the shadowy darkness of-the shrubs and trees she caught glimpses of the bulk of Ben Ross against the skyline ahead and of the shimmer of water where Loch Lairdross caught the pale moonlight in the glen below and to their right.
‘I’ll call the fire brigade,’ Neil said, turning the car around the last bend in the drive, ‘but there’ll not be much they can do by the time they arrive. I’m sorry about your things.’
‘Oh, I can hardly blame you! You took too many risks as it was.’
In fact Melodie did not altogether understand her own present reaction to the drama. She should have felt something for the loss of her clothes and the rest of her possessions, and yet her main reaction at present was one of incredible satisfaction because Neil had been there to rescue her. It did not make sense, and she
would probably feel quite differently about it in the morning, but at the moment the fact that Neil had snatched her to safety was the only thing that seemed to matter.
‘I haven’t told you how grateful I am for getting me out of there,’ she told him. ‘I dare not think what would have happened if you hadn’t been on the spot.’
`Do you always sleep so heavily?’ He offered no explanation for his fortuitous presence in the vicinity of the cottage, but looked briefly over his shoulder at her, as if he recalled the difficulty he had in waking her, and Melodie nodded.
‘Ever since I came here, I’ve slept like the dead,’ she confessed, then realised how true that could have been and shuddered. ‘I really am grateful, Neil.’ Something else occurred to her then and without thinking she mentioned It. ‘I’m afraid you won’t get your painting now, it’ll be lost in that blaze.’
Neil swept the car round the last few yards in front of the house and braked to a halt, turning his head briefly as he switched off the engine. It was difficult to see anything of his face for the moon was new and pale and only the diffused lights from the glass panels either side of the doors in the house gave it any illumination.
‘Better the painting than the artist,’ he said.
CHAPTER SIX
IT took Melodie several minutes when she woke the following morning to realise just where she was. The bedroom window was open and the curtains drawn back, and the customary sounds of morning reached her, but the warm sunshine across her face that had woken her was something out of the ordinary and she lay there for a moment or two slowly remembering how she came to be sleeping in a big, oak-panelled bedroom, instead of the more familiar cottage room.
The huge bed she was in was soft and comfortable and at some other time it might have tempted her to stay in it for much longer. As it was there was a great deal for her to think about since the events of last night, not least the uncertainty of her future position at Ben Ross, and she was far too restless to remain inactive.
Dressing was an immediate problem, for she had nothing but the nightdress and flimsy robe she had escaped in last night, and she could not go far in them. At the moment she was not even wearing her own nightdress, but a voluminous cotton garment given to her last night by Jessie McKay.
It draped her slim form in shapeless folds, but Jessie had insisted that her own flimsy affair was far too smoke-grimed for anyone to go to bed in and she had provided one of her own. It had been a kindly gesture, Melodie felt sure, but once the donor had gone she had been reduced to a fit of slightly hysterical giggles at the
sight of herself in yards of white cotton.
Backed by fat feather pillows, she sat hugging her knees and looking out of the window at a new aspect of the now familiar countryside. The dominant position of Ben Ross gave a much wider view and was all the more breathtaking than from her cottage windows, and before long she was drawn into daydreaming as she watched the day grow.
The hills and mountains were veiled in mist, as they always were at this time of the day, their shapes made indistinct and softer. Their blue-grey colour muted and patched with shades of dark, rusty green heather that varied its hues with the movement of the clouds billowing like rolls of cotton wool around their peaks.
The sun as yet was little more than a hazy suggestion of gold that dabbed little touches of light over the landscape and coloured the hovering mist with a promise of a hot day. It was not yet the hot, summer sun that would develop later in the day, but it was pleasantly warm when she turned her face towards it and closed her eyes for a second.
A short preliminary knock preceded the opening of the bedroom door, and Melodie blinked herself hastily back to earth to see Jessie McKay’s short, stocky figure coming across the room, carrying a tray which she placed carefully across Melodie’s knees before she spoke.
‘Good morning, Miss Carne—had you a good night?’
The breakfast as well as the inquiry were unexpected, and Melodie nodded rather dazedly as she looked down at the tray. ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs McKay.’
Shrewd brown eyes cast their gaze over her face and Melodie liked to think that they appeared a little less disapproving than usual, although it was probably no
more than her imagination playing her tricks. ‘You’ve no after-effects from you blaze, then?’
‘None at all, I’m glad to say, though I dread to think what might have happened if Mr McDowell hadn’t been on hand—I’m such a heavy sleeper I probably wouldn’t have woken until it was too late.’
‘Aye, he’d a job to wake you, I understand.’
Evidently Neil and his housekeeper were on the sort of terms that allowed confidences, and it did not altogether surprise Melodie to realise it. ‘He’s probably told you that he had to throw me out of the window to wake me up,’ she said, and Jessie nodded.
The tray contained, as well as a plate of bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and a pot of tea, everything necessary for a complete and very large breakfast, and Jessie McKay stood back with her hands clasped across her stomach, watching her as if she awaited some reaction.
‘You’ll be hungry,’ she guessed. ‘There’s more if you need it.’
Melodie lifted the cover from the bacon and eggs, shaking her head over the size of the meal and smilingly denying the need for more. ‘Oh, I shan’t need more of anything, Mrs McKay, thank you, not after I’ve eaten this lot! Are you sure you haven’t given me Mr McDowell’s breakfast by mistake?’
It had been meant as a joke, but she remembered too late that the dour little housekeeper was lacking a sense of humour. Not a vestige of a smile crossed her face, but she answered her as solemnly as if the question had been a serious one.
`Mr McDowell had his breakfast long since,’ she told her. ‘He’s away down to the McKenzie place to see
about some clothes for you. Their Kirstie would be about your size.’
Whoever Kirstie McKenzie was she was evidently not much in favour with Jessie McKay, judging by the tone of voice she used, though that was probably true of most people, except Neil. ‘It’s very good of him to bother himself,’ Melodie told her, and wondered why Jessie had not undertaken the job herself.
The shrewd brown eyes were looking at her meaningfully. ‘You’re in no fit way to be walking about in public in nought but a night shift,’ she reminded her. ‘You’ve no other clothes left.’
It was the first time that the fact had been brought home to her quite so forcibly, and Melodie bit her lip as she looked at her anxiously. ‘Everything went? The whole thing?’
‘Every stick and stone,’ Jessie stated flatly.
It was what Neil had expected, of course. The fire had had far too great a hold before it was noticed, and she supposed that to some extent, the fault was hers because she had not woken before. Neil had -spent some time trying to get her out safely and then it had been necessary to drive up to the house before the fire brigade could be called, and the nearest one was at Corrie.
Everything had contrived to delay the arrival of help, and it was only to be expected that
the little cottage would be a total loss—she was only thankful that she was not a part of the total destruction, and she shuddered at the thought of how close that had been.
She gazed out of the window for a second at the bright, golden morning and felt suddenly sad, as if something was ending, then she shrugged, not carelessly but resignedly. ‘Oh well,’ she said to Jessie McKay, ‘I suppose that’s it.’
‘You’ll have lost everything,’ Jessie said, and Melodie noted the sympathy in her voice with another flick of surprise. `I’m sorry, Miss Carne.’
Overwhelmed by a sudden sense of helplessness, Melodie looked up at her. ‘I don’t quite know what I should do,’ she ventured, though with not much hope of being advised, and Jessie set her mouth firmly.
‘First you’ve to eat your breakfast before it grows cold,’ she directed. ‘Then leave matters to Mr McDowell—as I’ve said, he’s already seeing about some clothes for you.’
Unable to think of an alternative suggestion at the moment, Melodic picked up the knife and fork on her tray and prepared to tackle that big plateful of bacon and eggs. ‘I’m not very practical when it comes to organising myself,’ she confessed. ‘It’s very good of Neil —Mr McDowell—to take the trouble. And Miss McKenzie too, whoever she is.’
‘McKenzie has the croft over near Glen Bar.’ Jessie provided the information with apparent willingness. ‘They’ve just the one daughter, and she’s away to work in Corrie.’
‘Oh, I see.’
It came unbidden into Melodie’s mind to wonder if Kirstie McKenzie was pretty enough to catch a man’s eye, and if maybe that was the reason Neil had gone over to see her himself instead of despatching one of his staff on the errand. It was a discomfiting idea, more discomfiting than she would like to admit, but she had to remember that for all his dourness, Neil McDowell was capable of a depth of passion that was surprising.
It was almost as if Jessie followed her thoughts when
Melodie looked at her again, for there was a slightly narrow look about the bright brown eyes and her mouth was pursed as if in dislike. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll be found all the clothes you need from that place where she works,’ she informed her. ‘A boutique they call it, though ‘tis nothing more than a shop to my mind.:
It wasn’t the fact of Kirstie McKenzie that made Melodie stare at her, but the fact that Neil was arranging the purchase of new clothes for her when she was virtually penniless until she could obtain a new cheque book, and that was likely to take time.
‘But, Mrs McKay, I don’t have the money for new clothes. Not at the moment, at least; I—I shall have to ‘ She put down her knife and fork and gazed at the housekeeper with troubled blue eyes. ‘I didn’t realise what he was doing; I mean, I thought he was borrowing some things for me.’
‘Oh, he’ll borrow something for you first off,’ Jessie allowed, ‘but he’ll know that a girl like Kirstie McKenzie will not have the kind of things you’re used to, Miss Carne. She’s not a tasteful dresser,’ she confided, and Melodie wondered what she could expect.
‘Oh, but
‘Pay it no mind for the moment,’ Jessie advised. ‘Eat your breakfast and then wait here in your bed until Mr McDowell gets back with something for you. As soon as he comes I’ll bring you what he has.’
‘Thank you.’ The round head with its encircling grey plait nodded silently, as she turned away. It was only when she had the door open that Melodie realised just how much comfort and reassurance she had been given, and she called out to her impulsively as she stood in the doorway. ‘Oh, Mrs McKay!’ When she turned and looked across inquiringly it was not quite as easy to say
anything, for it was never easy to express thanks to someone like Jessie McKay. ‘You—you’ve been very kind and—and understanding. Thank you.’
It seemed barely possible that she was smiling, and yet there was a distinct upward curve to the straight firm mouth, and the brown eyes showed a glimmer of warmth for a moment. ‘I think I hear someone,’ she said. ‘It’s mebbe Mr McDowell with your things.’
She closed the door behind her and was gone. In fact she was gone for so long that Melodie began to wonder if Neil’s trip could possibly have been fruitless after all, and alternatives were being sought. She had eaten her breakfast and returned to gazing out of the windows again when Jessie came back at last, and she turned swiftly when she heard her come in, smiling a welcome.
‘I think you’ll find all you need in here,’ Jessie told her, placing a plastic dress-bag on the bed. ‘I hope they’re to your taste, Miss Carne.’
Anything would have been welcome, Melodie thought, as long as it enabled her to get up and throw off the feeling of helplessness that being confined to her room gave her, and she laughed as she plunged her hands into the bag. ‘Oh, I don’t mind what it is, as long as I have something to wear,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to feel as if I’d have to spend the rest of my life in bed.’
It was an impulsive, half joking remark and it never for a moment occurred to her that it could give offence until she saw Jessie’s expression change, as if she suspected she was being criticised, and it dawned on Melodie again that she must remember not to joke with her.
`Mr McDowell’s only this minute returned,’ she told
her, edgily defensive. ‘I brought them straight to you, Miss Carne.’
‘Oh, please don’t think I was complaining,’ Melodie assured her hastily. ‘It was just that you said you thought you heard Mr McDowell come in when you left me, and you were a long time—I thought he’d been unlucky with Kirstie McKenzie’s wardrobe, that’s all.’
If she had been taking an interest in the contents of the bag instead of looking across to apologise, she would probably not have been told anything more. As it was she noticed a rather vaguely uneasy look on Jessie’s face suddenly, and looked at her curiously.
‘That was not Mr McDowell,’ Jessie said. ‘It was—a caller.’
‘Oh, I see.’ There had to be more to it than that, Melodie felt sure, and she was still watching her curiously without quite knowing what she expected.
‘It was Jamie Stirling’s nephew,’ Jessie went on in a tone that suggested she would rather not have imparted the information. ‘He came to see if you’d been hurt in the fire. They’d no notion there was a fire—they’d not hear the siren from the other side of the hill.’
‘John!’ Melodie put her hands over her mouth and her eyes had a wide anxious look as she imagined John’s reaction to finding her cottage completely gutted by fire. ‘Oh, how could I have forgotten that he was very likely to go down there this morning, and to find the cottage burnt out—Is he still here, Mrs McKay?’
‘He is not,’ Jessie declared firmly. ‘I told him you were not able to see him at the moment, but that he’d no need to worry since you’d not been hurt at all. I also told him,’ she added with unmistakable relish, ‘that Mr McDowell was taking care of everything for you—and he left.’
It was possible that John had been so stunned by the shock of finding the cottage burnt out that he had actually allowed Jessie McKay to send him away without leaving a message for Melodie, and she felt a twinge of conscience about him. She should have thought about the possibility of his paying a morning visit to the cottage, he often did, and anticipated his shock when he saw what remained of it.
`I’d like to have had a word with him,’ she ventured, but Jessie was pursing her lips in evident disagreement.
‘I couldn’t admit a young man to see you when you’d not a stitch of clothing to wear,’ she declared.
‘I’m wearing your nightie and I could have borrowed that big red dressing-gown of Neil’s again,’ Melodie argued.
She said what she did more for the sake of making a point than for any other reason, but Jessie’s frown condemned the very idea. She set her features sternly and her short dumpy figure expressed disapproval when she drew herself up, and regarded her gravely.
‘It would not have been fitting with yourself in no more tha
n a night shift and a dressing-gown,’ she declared flatly. `Mr McDowell would not have liked that at all.’
Melodie rolled, back the bedclothes and got out on to the carpeted floor, catching sight of herself in the voluminous borrowed nightdress as she did so, and she smiled at the very idea of its being considered even vaguely indecent.
‘It’s more than I was wearing when I sat drinking hot toddy with him,’ she reminded Jessie, ‘and I don’t seem to remember him objecting then.’
Jessie was making her way to the door with her head
high and disapproval showing in every inch of her straight back. She turned when she got to the doorway and looked back for a moment, her eyes sharp and dark in her round face.
That was different,’ she decreed, and closed the door firmly behind her, leaving Melodie wondering just why it should be considered so different—in Jessie’s eyes, at least.
It was fortunate that Kirstie McKenzie’s measurements were apparently identical with her own, except perhaps in the matter of height, for either the other girl wore her clothes quite long or she was some bit taller than Melodie. Otherwise the clothes Neil had borrowed for her fitted perfectly.
The tartan skirt that had been provided was longer than she would normally have worn, and it made her feel rather prim and proper as she made her way downstairs, but there was no fault to find with the blouse. The plain white shirt blouse suited her well and she left the two top buttons of it undone to make it look a little less severe, but with the neatly cut skirt it seemed to suggest that Jessie McKay’s opinion that the girl lacked taste was more malicious than accurate.
Her legs were bare, but a pair of flat-heeled casuals were soft and comfortable, so that all in all she was well satisfied with her makeshift wardrobe. It was getting on for eleven o’clock when she went downstairs, and the house seemed curiously quiet and still, although before she reached the foot of the stairs she thought she could hear voices somewhere.
She was curiously reluctant to go down now that she was able to, and she looked up swiftly when she came under the scrutiny of that startlingly lifelike