Lord of the Far Island

by Victoria Holt

  I looked at that picture for some time and the pleasant drowsiness which I had felt before I had picked up the book had completely disappeared.

  What was my mother trying to say in those pictures? One thing was certain: Jago is not what he might seem to be at times. Could it be that she was saying: "Beware, there are two Jagos"?

  I felt uneasy because I was beginning to enjoy his company more than I cared to admit to myself.

  I turned the pages and there was another double portrait. My mother seemed to have a fancy for that kind of art, and these two pictures, although clearly of the same subject, were as different from each other as those of Jago. In one of these I saw a rather demure girl, her hair in plaits, one of which fell over her shoulder. She was looking upwards as though in prayer and she held a Bible in her hands. In the picture on the opposite page, the girl's hair was unbound. It fell untidily and her face peeped out from the curtain of hair; the eyes were wild and there was a look of strangeness in the face that I found hard to define. The expression was in a way tortured, the eyes pleading; she looked as though she were trying to tell some secret and did not know how.

  It was a horrible picture.

  Then I saw the initial under it. "S."

  I was quite shaken. I got out of bed and opened the cupboard door to look at the immature scratching there. I knew this was the same "S" who had written her message on the wall.

  Who, I asked myself, was S?

  Sleep had deserted me. I turned over the pages and studied the peaceful landscapes, the colored parts of the castle, hoping they would soothe me; but I kept seeing the wild eyes of S and the picture of Jago had taken me right back to those moments in the house in Finlay Square.

  There was a further shock from that sketchbook—and this was the greatest of them all. I was telling myself that my mother had just been amusing herself and that it might be she had conjured up pictures out of her imagination . . . taking a face she knew well and adding touches to it to show how a line here and there could change the character.

  I didn't really believe that but the thought was comforting.

  I turned a page and gasped in amazement. My first thought was that I had fallen asleep and was dreaming, that this was a new way of getting into the dream. There it was on the page and there could be no doubt of it: the room of my dream!

  There was the fireplace, the chimney seat, the rocking chair, the picture over the fireplace . . . everything was there as I had seen it in my dreams.

  I was too stunned to do anything but stare at it.

  One thought kept hammering on my brain: The phantom room existed. My mother had seen it. Could it be in the castle? But I had explored the castle.

  The sketchbook fell from my hands and lay on the bed coverlet. What did it mean? What could it mean? I almost felt that the spirit of my mother was in this room and trying to get in touch with me through her sketchbook.

  What did she know of Jago? She had seen him as two different men. And who was S who could look so demure and so wild?

  But it was the picture of the room which haunted me. Where was that room? One thing I had learned: It must exist, for my mother knew it. She had sketched it in her book. It was there for me to see. It was no piece of imagination.

  I tried to look back over the years to my grandmother's garden when we had sat together on the lawn and her sketchbook lay on the grass between us.

  One thing I could now be sure of: The dream room existed. But where?

  On Sanctuary Island

  I slept fitfully that night and oddly enough I did not have my dream. The first thing I did when I was awake was to pick up the sketchbook, for I had an idea, which I didn't believe for more than a moment, that I had dreamed what I had seen in the book.

  No. There it was. The room which I knew so well. But the picture of Jago looked different in daylight. Perhaps it was the candlelight which had made it seem sinister.

  When Janet came in with my hot water I opened the sketchbook at the page where my mother had painted the dream room.

  "What do you think of this room, Janet?" I asked, watching her closely.

  "Oh, pretty, ain't it?"

  "Have you ever seen that room?"

  "Be it a real room then, Miss?"

  It was clear that she had never seen it.

  After breakfast Gwennol came to my room to see if I was ready.

  "I've been looking through my mother's sketchbook," I said. "It's very interesting. Look at this picture of a room."

  She looked and nodded.

  "Do you know that room?" I asked.

  She was clearly puzzled. "Know it? Should I? It's just an ordinary room."

  An ordinary room! How odd to hear it so described! I wanted to say: That room has haunted me for as long as I can remember. If I could only find it I might understand why it is I dream about it and always feel in such an ordinary room such an overwhelming dread.

  But I found it difficult to talk of it, so I said: "I wondered if it was somewhere in the castle."

  She shook her head as though vaguely surprised that I should make so much of such an insignificant matter. She was not very interested in the pictures and no doubt put my preoccupation with them down to the fact that they had been painted by my mother.

  At that moment there was a knock on the door. I called: "Come in," and Slack entered.

  "What's wrong?" asked Gwennol.

  " "Tis just, Miss Gwennol, that I thought we'd best get an early start because of the tide."

  "You're right," said Gwennol. "And we're almost ready."

  On impulse I took the sketchbook to Slack. I was determined to leave no stone unturned in my attempt to discover where that room was and how my mother had known it so well that she could reproduce it in every detail.

  "Slack," I asked, "have you ever seen that room?"

  He did not exactly change color—in fact, I never saw Slack other than very pale—but there was a change in his face. There was a tension about him and he kept staring at the page and did not look at me.

  "You know it then?" I prompted eagerly.

  " 'Tis a pretty room, Miss Ellen," he said slowly.

  "Yes, Slack, but you've seen it before, haven't you?"

  Was it my fancy or did it seem as though a shutter had dropped over his eyes?

  "I can't tell 'ee about a picture room, Miss Ellen," he said slowly.

  "Why not?"

  "My dear Ellen," laughed Gwennol, "you're obsessed by this room. Your mother just painted a cozy homely place and that's all there is to it. What's so special about that particular painting?"

  Slack nodded. A blank look was in his eyes. I thought: He is stupid after all.

  "Let's be going," said Gwennol. "Is everything ready, Slack?" They exchanged a glance which seemed to have a meaning from which I was shut out.

  "Everything be done and we'm ready to go," said Slack.

  We went out of the castle and down to the shore where the boats were moored. The sea was calm that morning and the boat skimmed lightly over the water. There was a seraphic smile on Slack's face as though he loved the task. He looked very different from the way he had when I had asked him about the room.

  I watched him—Slack-Baked—not finished off. It was an apt description of him in a way. His hands were strong and yet they looked like a child's hands; his eyes were childlike too, except when the shutters came down.

  "If the sea's like this when we come back I'll row," said Gwennol. "Do you row, Ellen?"

  "A little," I answered, and I immediately thought of rowing on the river near Trentham Towers where Philip and I had once overturned a boat. Philip's image was so easy to invoke.

  "Then you should practice and do more than a little because you'll find it very useful to row yourself round the Island. There's usually someone available to row us but it's good here to be self-reliant."

  Nearer came the mainland and in due course we ran ashore on the sandy beach. Slack took off his boots and rolled up his trousers before
jumping out and with the water halfway up his spindly legs pulled the boat in and tied it up. We then made our way to the inn.

  Mrs. Pengelly came out beaming a welcome and her delight was obvious when she saw her son.

  "Why 'tis you then, Augustus my boy," she said, and for a moment I wondered who Augustus was and then I realized that a mother would not use such a nickname for her beloved son.

  "And welcome to 'ee, Miss Gwennol, Miss Ellen. Would you like some refreshment? You'll be wanting horses, I reckon."

  "I shall," said Gwennol. "Shall you, Ellen?"

  I said I would, for the thought had come to me that it would be pleasant to call at Hydrock Manor. After all, I had been invited to when I should visit the mainland and here was the opportunity.

  "Well, you go to the stables then, Augustus, and tell your father the ladies be here and what they do want. Then come to the kitchen where I'll have a tidbit for 'ee. We've pasties straight from the oven. And what would the ladies be looking for? A glass of wine while you'm waiting?"

  Gwennol said: "Has anyone arrived at the inn yet?"

  "No, Miss Gwennol. No one be here yet."

  "We'll drink a glass of wine then please," said Gwennol.

  We went in and she brought out her blackberry wine and the saffron cakes with which I was becoming familiar.

  We had not been there long when there was a commotion in the innyard and it was obvious from the sound of horse's hoofs that someone had arrived.

  Gwennol sat very still in her seat and a smile slowly touched her face, making it not only striking but beautiful.

  "In the inn parlor," said a voice which I recognized with pleasure was that of Sir Michael Hydrock.

  As he entered Gwennol rose and went to him, holding out both her hands, which he took. Then he saw me and a smile of delighted recognition lit up his face.

  "Miss Kellaway," he cried. "Miss Ellen Kellaway."

  Gwennol looked in astonishment from one of us to the other. "You . . . you know each other. You. . . you can't."

  "Oh, but we do," said Michael, dropping her hands and advancing towards me. I held out a hand, which he took and covered with both his. "How are you enjoying the Island?" he asked.

  "I'm finding it enormously interesting," I told him.

  "I don't understand this," said Gwennol rather impatiently.

  "It's easily explained," Michael told her. And I added: "When I was waiting to come to the Island and had to spend a day at the inn I did a little exploring and got lost in Hydrock's woods. Sir Michael rescued me."

  "I see," said Gwennol coolly.

  "You must come to the Manor now," said Michael warmly.

  "Thank you. I should love that. I found your house enchanting."

  "Are the Pengelly's horses ready for you?" he asked.

  "I've already ordered them," said Gwennol.

  "Well, when you're ready perhaps we can go."

  "Ellen may have other plans," suggested Gwennol. "She said she wanted to explore the countryside."

  "As a matter of fact," I answered, "it had occurred to me that I might call at the Manor." I turned to Michael. "You did say that I might call when I was on the mainland."

  "In fact," he replied, "I should have been very hurt if you hadn't."

  "I'm looking forward to seeing the Manor again."

  "Ah, now you've lived in the castle. We're not as grand as that, I'm afraid."

  "The Manor is beautiful," I said.

  "It's the most beautiful house I've ever seen," added Gwennol fervently.

  "Thank you, Gwennol," said Michael. "Do you know, I rather think the same myself."

  We went into the yard where the horses were ready for us. Mrs. Pengelly, delighted to have her son with her for a few hours and pleased, I think, to see me again, watched us ride off. In a very short time we were in the drive leading to the Manor.

  "I'm going to show you the house, Miss Kellaway," said Michael to me. "You didn't see it last time. By the way, how's the ankle?"

  "I never felt any more from it. The next morning I shouldn't have known anything had happened to it."

  "So you hurt your ankle then?" asked Gwennol.

  I told her in more detail what had happened; she listened intently, but her expression was less pleasant, as though she were brooding.

  We went into the hall with its refectory table, pewter ornaments and companion benches and I felt that sense of peace which I had experienced when I had last been here.

  "There's something so friendly about this house," I commented.

  "We all feel it," said Gwennol shortly.

  "Yes," added Michael, "there's a saying in the family that the house will either welcome or reject you and that one knows it almost as soon as one enters it. It certainly seems to welcome you, Miss Kellaway."

  "That is endowing a house with a personality," I replied. "I do that. I didn't know many people did."

  "Rather a fanciful notion, you think. But as you are so impressed by the house I should like to show it to you. You don't mind, Gwennol? Gwennol is a very old friend," he told me. "She knows the house as well as I do."

  "I'd love to see it," I assured him, and Gwennol put in: "You know very well I can't see enough of the place."

  "Look at that armor on the walls. Those breastplates were worn by ancestors of mine during the Civil War. These pewter vessels have been used by the family for hundreds of years. I like to keep everything as it was as far as possible."

  "Jago is like that too, isn't he, Gwennol?" I said, for I was anxious that she should join in the conversation. I realized by this time that she had been expecting Michael at the inn and that he was the friend whom she was proposing to visit. She had not therefore been very pleased that I had already met him and was joining them. I fancied too that her feelings towards him were warmer than those of ordinary friendship; there was something about the manner in which she looked at him which betrayed it and the softness of her eyes and mouth was rare with her, I was sure.

  "Jago would like to go back to feudal days," said Gwennol sharply. "He'd like to be not only the lord of the manor but lord of us all."

  "He's very proud of the Island," I said, defending him, "and justly so. I've been talking to some of the people on my walks and it's easy to see how they respect him. He's done a great deal for the place."

  "My dear Ellen, they're afraid to say a word against him. If he's not entirely their lord and master he's at least their landlord. He could turn them out of their homes tomorrow if they offended him."

  "I am sure he would do no such thing," I said warmly.

  She raised her eyebrows and smiled at Michael. "Ellen has a great deal to learn," she said.

  In his easy manner he diverted the subject from Jago and said: "Come and look at the chapel."

  Our footsteps rang out as we crossed the stone flags of the hall and he led us up a stone spiral staircase to a heavy oak iron-studded door.

  "Many a drama has taken place here. There's a priest's hole in this chapel I'll show you. There's also a lepers' squint. One can imagine the terror when the priest had to be hidden away at a moment's notice. One of my ancestors married a Spanish lady and she was the one who was reckless enough to have a priest in the house. Someday I intend to compile a history of the family. There are lots of documents in the vaults under the chapel."

  "That sounds exciting."

  "It's the sort of occupation which is fun if you share it with someone. Gwennol has promised to help me."

  "There's nothing I should like more," she said, becoming animated. "Particularly with a family such as yours, Michael. Ours is rather different." She grimaced. "We're more the brigand type. You are the aristocrats."

  "There are skeletons in the cupboards of most families," commented Michael. "Who knows what we shall unearth in these documents."

  "What an exciting thought!" cried Gwennol, and she looked as though she would like to suggest they get down to the task immediately and leave me to wander round on my own.


  The floor of the chapel was paved with small square stones set in a mosaic pattern. There were about twelve pews with linenfold ends. On the altar was a very fine cloth worked, he told me, by his grandmother, so comparatively recent. "There are two squints," he went on, "one is the lepers' squint from a small room beyond where lepers might come and look through into the chapel without contaminating or distressing those who were there. The other . . ." He pointed upwards. "That comes from a little alcove from above where the ladies used to congregate when they did not wish to come down to the chapel, perhaps through sickness or some incapacity. Now I'll take you to the solarium and show you the other squint."

  "You see how wonderful it is," said Gwennol, "to belong to such a family."

  "It's rather like a chain coming down through time," said Michael. "From each link springs another and so on. Luckily we have always had boys in the family, so the name has been preserved. I want my sons to have sons and so the name will be carried on."

  "Have you sons?" I asked.

  He laughed. "I haven't married so far."

  "But you will," I said. "You will regard it as a duty to do so."

  "I should like it to be something more than that."

  Gwennol was looking at him intently and I thought: Yes, she is in love with him. I'm in the way. I shouldn't be with them. I ought to have seen that and said I wanted to go off on my own. She shows it clearly and just because he's too polite to show he doesn't really want me, I imagined he was eager for me to come.

  "The solarium is a bright room—naturally," he was saying. "The room built to catch the sunshine. It does too. I believe it was used as a ballroom at one time. There is a screen across it to make it into two rooms but it is rarely used now. I like it to be as it was originally intended." He led the way. It was necessary to pass through the punch room, where I had been on my last visit, and we mounted some stone stairs, passed along a passage and were in the solarium. The sun streamed through the wide windows onto the deep blue of the tapestry which adorned one side of the wall and which depicted the Civil War. There were the battlefields—Naseby and Marston Moor—and on the opposite side of the room Prince Charles in the oak tree and being welcomed in London on the Restoration.