Lord of the Far Island

by Victoria Holt

  I examined them closely and was enchanted by the fine workmanship and the subtle colors. He watched me, obviously pleased with my absorption.

  "Here you see the squint," he said. "Come into this alcove. This is where the ladies sat and as you see they look right down into the chapel. Let us sit here for a while. I want to tell Miss Kellaway about our ghost, Gwennol."

  Gwennol nodded. "You'll like this one, Ellen. It's the nicest ghost that ever was."

  "There were three sisters at the house," said Michael. "They each wished to marry and their father would not give his consent. One ran away and left the family forever; the two others remained; they grew more bitter every day; their lives were a misery to them and all around them. They never forgave their father and the story is that when he was dying he begged their forgiveness and they refused to give it. And he is our ghost. He is said to be a benign one. He roams the house trying to earn forgiveness for his selfishness by making everything go smoothly for lovers."

  "That certainly is the most pleasant ghost story I ever heard."

  "It was in this room he died," he said. "This room is supposed to be good for lovers. In those days there was a bed in the far end which was divided off by the screen. That was his bedroom. It is said that all Hydrock marriages are happy ones now because of his influence."

  "Well, he has certainly earned forgiveness for his sins."

  "Indeed he has. But it's a pleasant thought don't you agree? Brides come to this house with the feeling that their marriages must be happy because old Simon Hydrock will not allow them to be otherwise."

  "It must be a very comfortable thought for a Hydrock bride."

  He was smiling at me. "I assure you it is. My mother used to tell me the story often. She was a happy bride. 'When you have a bride,' she used to say, 'tell her that she will have special care.'"

  "And she herself did?"

  "It was her way of looking at life. Isn't that what happiness is? You could put two people in the same set of circumstances and one would think him- or herself happy while another would be full of complaints. When I was ten years old she knew she was suffering from an incurable disease. She lived exactly ten months in that state. She told me about it because she wanted me to know the truth and not listen to garbled stories. 'I'm fortunate,' she said. 'I've had such a happy life and now that I'm ill I shall die before I'm in pain.' And she did. She did not suffer at all, though had she lived longer she inevitably would."

  I was deeply moved by the story, so was Gwennol. Her eyes never left Michael as he talked.

  "Now," he said, "we'll go to luncheon. I'm sure you are ready for it after your sea trip."

  "How kind of you," I said. "I didn't expect to be invited to luncheon. Perhaps I..."

  They were both looking at me and I went on: "I think Gwennol was expected but I..."

  "We're delighted to have you," said Michael warmly. "Yes, Gwennol was expected. I had the message," he told her. "It never fails." He turned back to me. "It's an excellent method of communication. With all that water between us we can never be sure when messages will reach us. Slack sends them over by carrier pigeon. He trains the birds, you know. He has a magical touch. We have pigeons here, too. After luncheon we'll show Miss Kellaway the gardens, won't we, Gwennol?"

  I enjoyed sitting at the table in the dining room with its window looking out over smooth lawns, I loved that aura of brooding peace and I thought it emanated from the spirit of the old man who had ruined his daughters' lives and had tried to atone ever since. I sat in my chair, which was covered in dark red velvet, and looked across the table at Michael Hydrock and it seemed to me that he was a man who was completely contented with his lot, which is a rare thing. I could not help comparing him with Jago—that restless spirit, those changing moods, the unpredictability which I could not help finding half attractive, half repelling, but always intriguing.

  After luncheon we strolled through the Manor grounds. They were beautifully kept and conventional. There was the fashionable Italian garden, the English rose garden, the shrubbery, paddocks and well-kept lawns. There were several gardeners at work who touched their forelocks as we passed. Michael Hydrock was, I was sure, a highly respected and benign master.

  When it was time for us to return to the inn, Michael accompanied us and there was Slack waiting to row us across.

  "Come again soon," said Michael, and there was no doubt that I was included in that invitation.

  Gwennol was silent as we rowed back. She scarcely looked at me. I sensed that there was a change in our relationship, for whereas before she had been inclined to want to make me feel at home, now she was suspicious of me.

  When we reached the Island we left Slack to tie up the boat and made our way to the castle.

  Gwennol said: "How strange that you should have met Michael and did not mention it."

  "I suppose there were so many other things to talk about."

  "And you hurt your ankle in the woods."

  "Yes, just as he appeared, I tripped and fell. Then he took me to the Manor House and brought me back to the inn."

  She gave a little laugh. "You apparently didn't hurt your ankle very badly."

  "It was just a temporary twist. It was all right the next morning."

  "Just a convenient little twist," she said, and before I could give expression to my indignation she had turned and run into the castle.

  I went up to my room. The pleasant day had been spoilt. I should have to be careful now and stay away from Hydrock Manor.

  Jago looked at me reproachfully. We were at dinner that night and he had asked how I had been spending the day. I told him I had been to the mainland.

  "What, Ellen, deserting us already?"

  "It was only for a few hours."

  "There's so much on the Island you haven't seen yet."

  "I shall appreciate it all the more for having been away for a day."

  "You have what we call here a silvery tongue. You say the right thing, doesn't she, Gwennol?"

  "I'm sure she does... on every occasion," said Gwennol shortly.

  "Well, where did you go?" asked Jago.

  "To Hydrock Manor."

  "Both of you?"

  "I'd met Michael Hydrock before."

  Jago put down his knife and fork and gazed at me. I was aware of Jenifry's eyes on me too. Gwennol kept hers on her plate.

  I repeated once more the account of my meeting with Michael in the woods and how I had hurt my ankle.

  "You were hurt!" cried Jago. "Why didn't you tell us?"

  "It was nothing. In fact, the next day I had forgotten about it."

  "It was one of those temporary twists," said Gwennol, and I detected a note of sarcasm in her voice.

  "And what happened then?" asked Jenifry.

  "He took me to the Manor and a Mrs. Hocking—the housekeeper, I think—looked at it and said I shouldn't walk on it for a while and then Sir Michael drove me back to the inn."

  "A very perfect gentleman," commented Jago.

  "I thought so," I retorted.

  I realized that this information had disturbed both Jago and Jenifry.

  Jago said: "Tomorrow I will show you more of the Island. There's a good deal you have to discover yet, you know."

  "Thank you," I replied.

  "I was telling Ellen," said Gwennol, "that she should practice rowing."

  "Have you ever rowed?" asked Jago.

  "Yes, but not at sea, on a river, which I suppose was different."

  "It's the same really," said Gwennol, "only you have to be more careful at sea—mostly because of the weather. When it's calm it's perfectly safe."

  "Just practice going from bay to bay," said Jago, "and at first always have someone with you. I'll take you out tomorrow. Slack will always take you where you want to go. But just don't go alone at first."

  I said I would like to try.

  "First lesson tomorrow," said Jago.

  I was very tired when I went to my room. It had seemed a long d
ay. I had very much enjoyed visiting the Hydrock Manor even though the day had been spoilt by Gwennol's jealousy. It meant I should have to be very careful in future, which was a pity because it had been rather comforting to have such a pleasant friend on the mainland.

  I lighted the candles on my dressing table and was sitting there plaiting my hair when there was a knock on the door.

  I started up in dismay. I wasn't sure why, but always when the candles were lighted in this room I felt uneasy.

  For a few seconds I merely looked at the door. Then there was a further knock and the door was quietly opened. Jenifry stood there holding a candle.

  "I thought you might be asleep when you didn't answer," she said.

  "I was just about to say 'Come in' when you did," I replied.

  "I wanted to have a word with you."

  She set down the candle and drew up a chair, so that we were both sitting at the dressing table.

  "It's about Gwennol and Michael Hydrock," she said.

  "Oh?"

  I caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were downcast and it was as though she did not want to look at me.

  "He's one of the most eligible bachelors in the neighborhood," she went on. "He and Gwennol have always been good friends, in fact. . . ."

  "More than friends?" I suggested.

  She nodded. "The general opinion is that they will in due course make a match of it. . . providing there are no obstacles."

  "Obstacles?" I repeated.

  I watched her reflection. Her mouth twisted and for a moment she looked quite ugly. It's the distortion of the mirror, I told myself hastily.

  "A great family like that. . ." she said bitterly. "There are some who wouldn't think Gwennol quite suitable. They're so proud of their ancestry." Her lips curled in contempt. "That Mrs. Hocking . . . she doesn't think anyone but the daughter of a duke or an earl is good enough for him."

  "Surely she wouldn't have any say in the matter."

  "She's a sly one, planting doubts and suchlike. You know the sort. A woman in that position can have great influence. She was his nurse. She looks upon him as her child still. Clucks over him, pampers him. . . . Nobody's good enough for her dear Michael."

  "He strikes me as a man who would make up his own mind."

  "I reckon the Kellaways are good enough for anybody, but there's the story of our bastard branch . . . having something of the Devil in us."

  "He wouldn't believe such a legend, I'm sure."

  "People are superstitious and although he might not believe it, he'd be aware of what people were thinking and the effect it might have on future generations and all that. They were getting along very well and she was going to help him with his book. Now she comes back ... a little upset."

  "Why?" I asked boldly.

  She moved closer to me. I just could not bring myself to look at her face then. If I did I knew I should see the evil expression there which I had caught in the mirror on my first night.

  "You know, don't you?" she said. "He was very taken with you, wasn't he? All that play about a twisted ankle."

  "It wasn't play. I really did hurt my ankle."

  "Well, it made a romantic beginning, didn't it? I daresay he found you different from most of the girls he meets. Ambitious mothers of neighboring squires are constantly bringing their daughters forward and they are country girls. . . all of a piece. And then you come—different, already having lived, as some would put it. Naturally his interest is aroused and although you're a Kellaway too, yours is the pure strain. Your branch escaped the Devil's taint, didn't it?"

  I felt exasperated. "Listen," I said almost fiercely. "I met a man when I arrived. I was lost in his woods and he took me back to the inn. I met him again with Gwennol and lunched at his house, and you are suggesting I am trying to snatch him from under the noses of ambitious mothers with marriageable daughters. I've met him; I like him; I like his house. There's nothing more in it than that."

  "Gwennol seems to think . . ."

  "Gwennol is in love with him and sensitive. I can assure you I am not desperately looking for a husband and ready to take the first man I meet."

  She rose and picked up her candle and as she stood there I shivered slightly. She was holding the candle in front of her, below her face, and it had the effect of lighting it up while the rest of her was shadowy, so that it seemed like a disembodied face there in the mirror. There was a faint color under the skin and her eyes were half closed. She looked malevolent.

  "Perhaps I have said too much." Her voice was a whisper. "But, please, do not try to take Michael Hydrock from Gwennol."

  "My dear Jenifry, from what I know of him he will not be a man to be taken. He will make his own choice."

  "It is Gwennol," she said. "It was Gwennol before you came."

  "Then," I answered, "you can rest assured it is still Gwennol."

  "Good night," she said. "I hope you understand a mother's anxieties."

  "I understand," I told her.

  The door shut on her and I saw her back looking at my reflection. I was certain that there was something more than the fears of an anxious mother for her daughter's happiness. She filled me with apprehension, for it was as though she were warning me.

  As if enough had not happened on that day, before I slept that night I found the first of the notebooks.

  I was so disturbed by Jenifry's visit that I knew it would be foolish to try to sleep, so I decided I would write a letter to Esmeralda. She would be longing to hear about my first impressions of the Island and it would be soothing to write to her of the more peaceful aspects. I would tell her about the small farms and pretty houses with their orange-colored roofs, the Lives and Moonlight Cottages and the rest.

  There was a rather charming little desk in my room, small, its sloping top covered with leather and inlaid with ivory. I had already noticed it, admired it and put my writing materials inside it. I tried to open it but it was difficult and I imagined the paper had become jammed in some way. I forced it open with all my strength and as I did so a flap which I had not noticed inside the top compartment fell open and the notebook came out.

  I picked it up and saw that inside was written in a childish hand: "S.K. Her Book." This, I guessed, was the one who had scratched those words in the cupboard and whose picture my mother had painted.

  I flicked through the book. Some of the pages had been written on and sentences caught my eye.

  "I hate it here. I wish I could escape." And then: "My father hates me. I don't know why. But then I don't think he likes anyone very much . . . not her. . . nor Baby." I turned to the front page. It was headed "Life on an Island."

  This was only a child's exercise book, I realized, but it had clearly belonged to the mysterious S.K. "I am a prisoner in this room" would most likely have referred to her being sent to her room as punishment for some misdemeanor as most children had been at some time. But the two portraits had fascinated me and I wanted to know more of her. I decided to ask someone at the first opportunity. Gwennol was the obvious one, but I thought it might be advisable to avoid Gwennol for a few days.

  I looked down at the large scrawl on the page.

  "I am supposed to be writing an essay," I read. "It is to be called 'Life on an Island.' Miss Homer said I shall stay in my room until it is done, but I am not going to write an essay. I'm writing this instead. It is a secret and I shall not show her. She wants me to write about crabs and jellyfish and tides and scenery, but I don't care about those things. I'm going to write about Them and Myself in a way I can't talk because there is no one to talk to. It will be fun to write it because then I can read it afterwards and remember it all afresh. My father hates me. He always did. My stepmother doesn't like me very much either. Nobody likes me except Baby and she's too young and silly to know. My stepmother loves Baby. She said to me: 'Look at your little sister. Isn't she a love?' I said: 'She's only a half sister. That's not a real one. I'm glad. I don't want a silly baby for a sister.' Baby cries for wha
t she wants and then she smiles when she gets it and everyone comes and looks at her and says how lovely she is and what a good baby, although she has been screaming for something a minute before. I suppose I was a baby once. I don't think they said I was wonderful though."

  There were blank pages after that, and then the writing started again.

  "I have just read what I wrote when Miss Homer sent me up to do my essay. It made me laugh so much I'm going to do some more. It reminds me how cross she was when she found out I hadn't done my essay. She said: 'I don't know what will become of you.' That's what they all think. I can see it in their faces. What will become of her! I am rather naughty really, although I can be good for a while. 'Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth today,' they say. I wish I could see my father. He doesn't want to see me although he sees Baby now and then. Even he likes to see her. It's something to do with my mother, I think . . . I mean the reason he doesn't like me. He didn't like her. I was the reason, I heard one of the servants say. It's funny to be a reason for something and not know it. Then she died. I was seven then. I remember it was just before my birthday and everyone forgot it—my birthday, I mean. She was buried in the cemetery. I go to her grave sometimes. I cried a lot because she loved me and I didn't really know until she died that nobody else did. Miss Homer doesn't. Nor does Nanny. They say I'll come to a bad end with my tempers and tantrums. My mother used to hide my birthday presents. There was always more than one. I suppose that was because she knew no one else would give me anything and she wanted to make it seem as though they had. But there was always a mystery present. She never said who that came from. I said she gave it to me like the rest but she said she didn't. But after she died I looked for the mystery present and it never came, so that shows it was hers too. I became worse after she died. I do terrible things, like the time I threw Miss Homer's hair dye over the floor when she didn't want anyone to know she used it.