Voices out of time, p.5
Voices Out of Time, page 5
Alice thought of the sad face in the portrait and on the tapestry, and she nodded though Roderick could not see her.
"Bess and David, even Geoff, they all say I look like her, uncle," she said, leaning forward so he could hear her over the rising wind. They were climbing the last slope before the house, and the stallion seemed anxious to get into the safety of his stable home. "Do you think so?"
"No!" he snapped, his head thrown back and nearly clipping her on the chin. "Of course, not, girl. Besides, how can you be? You're not one of us, are you?"
Alice scowled at his back. "What do you mean by that? I'm a MacDonneaugh the same as you."
"Yes, but you're an American, girl. You've never lived here."
She wanted to argue further, and pursue the odd statement he had made concerning her resemblance to the woman she now knew as Mistress Morag, but his rigid stance in the saddle cautioned her against angering him more. Later, she decided, when they were both in a better mood.
But once again she was thwarted in her purpose when, arriving at the house, they saw Crayton standing impatiently at the front door. He was wearing a heavy topcoat far too warm for the day, and in his hand a deerstalker cap which he twisted through his fingers. Roderick slid to the ground immediately as he saw his servant, waving Alice away to the stable while he hurried through the gate. She watched, however, over her shoulder as Crayton pulled the old man into the house, whispering earnestly into his ear and gesturing excitedly with his free hand.
As my namesake in wonderland would say, she thought as she led the stallion to his stall, curioser and curioser.
Still wondering, she hurried through the task of currying and calming the nameless horse, brushing him down with handfuls of straw, combing his mane, then securely bolting the paddock door. She stepped outside, then, and was about to head for the house when she heard someone weeping inside the cottage next door. She made to ignore it, changed her mind and crossed over the small patch of lawn to the rough-hewn front door, ducking under an overhang of thatch to lift the iron knocker. A moment later the weeping stopped and she heard footsteps, a bolt being released, and suddenly was faced with the red-eyed face of Christine Gordon.
"Chris," she exclaimed, pushing in without invitation, "Chris, what's the matter?"
Alex's wife, still in her brown work clothes and apron, turned and sat heavily at a large wooden table set to one side of the door. The cottage, Alice saw as she sat opposite the crying woman, was one large room separated by throw rugs into a living and dining area; a door to the left of the back wall fireplace led to the kitchen; a door on the opposite side into a narrow bedroom. The rafters, were bare, the walls whitewashed, and an inexplicable chill settled over all in spite of the fire beneath a great blackened kettle.
Christine sobbed once more, then dried her face with a corner of her apron, working at producing a brave smile, and failing so badly Alice nearly laughed at the effect.
"It's m'man, Miss," she said, gulping for air to keep the tears back. "He went out this mornin' wi' the car. To Graillag, he said, to fetch some provisions from the green grocer there. He's no' come back, Miss. Crayton used the Mister's telephone to call in when I asked him after lunch, and no one in the village had seen my Alex or the car all day."
Alice gripped the woman's hands tightly across the table, smiling in spite of the dread that lay like a weight on her chest. "I wouldn't worry if I were you, Chris," she said. "Alex is a fine driver and I don't think anything's happened to him."
"I know that," Chris said stubbornly, suddenly talking as though Alice were a child who could not understand a simple explanation. "Crayton, bless his soul, walked partway there himself and found nothing. He just vanished, Miss, he just vanished!"
"Another road, perhaps," Alice said. "In the other direction."
"But that goes to Skeel, Miss, nearly a day's ride away. He'd tell me or the Mister if he were goin' there."
"Look," Alice said, rising and moving around the table to put an arm around Chris' shoulders, "there's a very simple reason for what's happening, and you're probably making too much of it. Maybe he got tired, or the car broke down, or he stopped to chat with someone he met on the road. There's still a couple of hours before dark; why don't I take my horse out and have a look around."
The expression of gratitude on Christine's face nearly made Alice pat her gently on the head, but she restrained herself and told the distraught woman to wash her face a bit and perhaps change her clothes. "I know it sounds silly, Christine, but sometimes that does the trick for me when I’m feeling bad. And when you're done, come over to the house and start fussing with supper. It'll help take your mind off things until Alex comes back."
"He'll . . . he'll come back? Do you think he'll come back?"
Alice frowned as she headed for the door, stopped at the question and looked back over her shoulder.
"Well, of course he'll come back, Christine. What . . . what makes you think he won't?"
"Nothin', Miss," she said. "It's just my worry talkin', that's all."
Alice nodded, closed the door quietly behind her and broke into a run toward the main house, to tell her uncle what she was going to do and why, though she imagined that Crayton's excitement when they'd returned from the ruined castle was caused by the news of Alex's disappearance. And she was right. Roderick was on the telephone in the library, snarling at someone on the other end while the butler hovered next to him, still wearing his topcoat and carrying his cap. Alice wandered about the room, then, waiting patiently for her uncle to ring off, tracing trails across the books she passed, the backs of the chairs, the shelves along the walls. She tried not to eavesdrop, but as Roderick's voice rose in anger, she could not help but hear that he was chastising the local constable for incompetence, inefficiency, gross neglect, and several other things she could not understand because his burr grew steadily thicker as his temper erupted. When finally he slammed the receiver back onto its cradle, she decided that telling him of her own plans for a search would only redirect his ire at her. She tried, then, to move unobtrusively from the room, but Roderick suddenly pointed at her, stopping her in her tracks.
"And you!" he fairly shouted "What have you to say about all this?"
"What are you talking about, Uncle," she said, confused as she saw his fury echoed in Crayton's face. "I don't know what you mean?"
"You mean to deny that you haven't been seeing Alex Gordon after the sun goes down? Are you telling me, girl, that you have no idea where he's gone, or why he purchased a train ticket for London the other day?"
Alice grabbed onto the back of a thickly upholstered chair and shook her head dumbly. She was too stunned to deny the absurd charges leveled at her and too angry herself to risk saying a word. Then Crayton took Roderick's arm and pulled at it lightly, until Roderick blinked rapidly, seemed to sag within his hunting jacket as his head bowed apologetically.
"Alice," he said, "it seems that I've done nothing but apologize to you lately." His hand lifted weakly and, after a moment, she crossed the room to take it, still not completely forgiving, but understanding that his age and the apparent loss of his only reliable help had thrown him completely; "Some wine, Crayton," he said then, "get us some wine, for God's sake, and stop standing there like a ninny. Alice can help me now."
Crayton said nothing; he only fetched a decanter and two glasses from a sideboard, poured the deep red liquid slowly, then backed out of the room. Roderick did not watch him go, but rather took his glass and sat on the couch, staring at the dark embers of the fire that had lighted the room when Alice had taken her fall. He shook his head and sipped at the warm wine.
"You've seen Chris, Morag?" he said, so softly Alice had to lean down to hear him. "Have you seen to Chris?"
"I have, Uncle," she answered. "I've told her not to worry."
"Good," he said. "That's very good of you, Morag."
"Alice," she said gently.
"What?"
She smiled and touched his knee. "You've called me Morag twice now, Uncle. Have you forgotten my name already?"
"Girl," he said, "why aren't you packing? Don't you have a train to catch tomorrow morning?"
Alice knew her mouth had dropped open, knew she must have looked foolish when he glared up at her malevolently. But she was once again struck dumb by his words, tried to explain to him that Bess had convinced her to stay a few days more. He would not listen, however, leaping to his feet and shouting about foreigners trying to take over his land and his family. Alice backed away from him as his arm flailed over his head, his face reddened and his hair fell unkempt over his eyes. He was having a fit, she thought in a panic, something in the wine, or maybe the day had been too much for him. When she reached the door she began to call for Crayton, but there was no response, and she gasped when she saw Roderick snatch up the poker and advance across the room toward her.
"Uncle!" she shouted. "Uncle Roderick, it's me, Alice!"
"A witch," he yelled back, brandishing the polished metal over his head. "A witch, a damned witch!"
She turned abruptly and raced for the front door, threw it open and ran down the walk toward the gate, constantly looking behind her to see how close the surprisingly agile old man had come. Fumbling with the latch she began to sob, and her fingers refused to obey her commands. Roderick was over the threshold now, sweeping the poker in front of him like a sword. She screamed for Crayton, for Christine, for Alex, then freed the gate latch and ran without looking into the road.
The last thing she saw, in a moment frozen forever in time, was the glare of car headlights as they bore down on her, and the stricken pale face of Geoffrey Harrow as he wrenched at the wheel and shouted a warning.
Chapter Four
"Lord," Geoffrey said, "are all you Americans so reckless?"
They were in her sitting room, Geoffrey pacing anxiously in front of the fire, Alice on the couch rubbing her left arm where it had struck the wall when she leapt back out of the way of his car. She had been stunned for several minutes following the unexpected impact, and had not been aware of Geoff's worried mutters, his hand around her waist as he led her up the stairs to her room. Bess followed soon after with David, and the four of them now hovered over her like, she thought, expectants at an impending wake. Her hair had fallen loose of its bun and sprayed lightly over her shoulders, and once the throbbing in her arm subsided somewhat, she took hold of a handful and stroked it in a gesture habit had taught her would calm her.
As, soon as Geoff had poured them all some brandy and the warming liquid revived her thinking, she explained what had happened between herself and her uncle, the scene returning with such stark vividness that she could not repress a shudder.
"I think," she said to Bess, who had taken one of the chairs and pulled it in front of the couch, "that I won't be staying on."
"But Alice, you promised!" the girl cried, grasping for David's hand as it lay on her shoulder.
Alice shook her head emphatically. "I'm sorry, Bess, but after what happened, I just don't feel safe here. I know," she said quickly, cutting off protest, "that he's an old man, but even an old man with a poker can split my head if he's a mind to. No, I'm sorry, but I won't stay. As soon as Alex returns, I'll go to Glasgow and take the train to Southampton, just as I'd planned."
Geoff coughed lightly into a fist, David spent a long second examining the ceiling and the shadows cast there by the fire. Only Bess kept her gaze on her cousin, and Alice looked away quickly at the charge of betrayal she saw there
But how could she stay? Not only was there the obviously unbalanced mind of her uncle to deal with, but also those night visitations by the stranger on the hill, who carried a torch and played ancient tunes on a flute. Suddenly, without considering the consequences, she cleared her throat and told them all of the things she had seen, what had caused her accident on the stairs, and the music she had heard the night before. They all stared at her as she spoke, but she did not falter, not even when she saw the clear evidence of disbelief darken Geoff's face. As she neared the end of her story, she watched as he pulled thoughtfully at his sideburns, scratched at them, then ran a finger around his collar as though he suddenly needed air. She turned to him, then, expectantly, knowing he wanted to say something, but he was forestalled by a gasp from Bess.
"Morag," she said, looking up to her brother who was standing stiffly behind her chair. He nodded without hesitation.
"Morag," Alice said. "You mean the Mistress of Cullcraig?" She shook her head, smiling, hoping that the others would smile, too.
"I'm afraid it's true," David said solemnly.
"David!" Geoff snapped, "Do we have to listen to this nonsense?"
"What nonsense?" Alice asked, bewildered and annoyed because she was inexplicably feeling more than a little frightened.
"They," Geoff said with a disdainful wave toward the MacDonneaughs, "have this ridiculous legend about this ancestor of theirs, Alice. And they've been trying to get me to believe it ever since I've known them. Which has been considerable in years, if not in maturity."
"But it's true," Bess said, turning from Geoff to Alice, her face pale and pleading for understanding. "Alice . . . Alice, I think . . ." She stopped, took a deep breath and tightened her hold on David's hand.
"If you're going to fill the girl with blather," Geoff said suddenly, "then I'll be taking my leave, if you don't mind. Alice," he whispered as he bent over her hand, "you can tell them to go easily enough, and save yourself some bad dreams in the bargain. I'll call you tomorrow. If Alex doesn't come back by then, I'll be glad to take you to Glasgow."
He was gone before she could say anything, the door almost slamming behind him. She stared at the darkly carved wood, then shifted her gaze to her cousins who had not moved during the exchange, nor changed their expressions. She set her mouth firmly then, and clasped her hands in her lap. This had better be a good explanation, her glare told them, yet they seemed not to be moved at all by her anger and distrust.
"He's been to London and America many times," David said, almost as though he were speaking only to Bess. "He's lost a great deal of his beliefs, he has. A great deal."
"Alice," Bess said, "have you asked Grandfather about Morag?"
Alice nodded, then gave them an encapsulated version of the story he had told her on their ride back from the castle ruins. All the time she spoke, Bess nodded and David left his position behind the chair and moved to stand by the fire. A storm wind had risen outside, keening mournfully around the turrets and central tower of the house, causing the drawn drapes to push inward as though someone was trapped behind them. The flames wavered. A single large spark drifted onto the raised brick hearth and flared once before dying. And within moments of Geoff's leaving, a spattering of rain sounded icily against the pane. She hugged herself, then, and rubbed at her arms, wishing that her cousins would either stop their infernal staring and leave her alone, and tell her the story and be done with it. Though she hoped for the former, Bess' attitude told her she would be saddled with the latter.
When she'd done, Bess nodded and looked to David, who returned the gesture. "Alice," she said, "he told you what he tells everyone he does not trust to know the real story. I don't know why. And I don't know why he denied seeing the resemblance between you and Morag. But the real story is not quite so romantic."
In 1623, Morag MacDonneaugh was born in Cullcraig to Laird Duncan and his wife, Flora. Flora died in childbirth, and the Laird fell into a deep depression from which he never recovered. His son, Alexander, achieved title and lands when the old Laird died only five years after his wife. Alexander then took upon himself the task of raising his sister alone, and alone they lived in the mansion until Morag was twenty-seven and a stranger came riding through on his way to Inverness far to the north and east. He was knight of the realm, an Englishman, and though Morag had learned her Scottish history well, she could not but help falling for the handsome stranger. At Alexander's indulgence, he stayed on for several days, giving them both the news of the Court of St. James in London, and the news of the Continent as well since it seems that he also did a great deal of traveling. And the more he spun his yarns, the more Morag fell under his spell, until at last she told her brother that she would leave with him when his stay was done.
Alexander, who had been amused by the knight and his stories, rose in a towering rage and forbade it, ordered the knight to leave Cullcraig and had several of his servants escort the man to the boundaries of the estate. Morag he locked in the house's watchtower as punishment for her heritage's betrayal, and there she stayed until, one week later, the knight returned in the midst of a storm and climbed the walls with the aid of two friends. He broke into the tower and freed the woman, and had fled as far as the castle before Alexander, alerted by a stable hand, caught up with them all. A fierce fight ensued during which the knight, Alexander, and the English companions all were killed.
Morag was now alone.
With the assistance of her few loyal servants, the Mistress of Cullcraig managed the estates as best she could, but times were hard for the Scots and all of Scotland, and most of the family's valued possessions had to be sold one by one to pay the bills and the taxes. Eventually there was left only a ruby as large as a man's palm, brought to Cullcraig by someone now forgotten who had traveled through India and had found the gem in some ancient religious order's sanctuary. It was all that was left of the MacDonneaugh fortune, and Morag was still too embittered to sell it. She understood, just before she died, that it was not her incompetence that had led to the fall of Cullcraig, but her hatred that had colored her dealings with merchants and representatives of the government. Without being aware of it, except perhaps in her dreams, she had had her revenge on her brother and all his kin.
When she died, she was buried beneath the tower in the ruins, and with it the ruby, the last hope of the MacDonneaughs.
Thunder split the air above the house as Bess finished her telling, and even through the heavy green drapes the flare of lightning could be seen, though faintly. The rain had increased, the wind strengthened, and one sharp lightning crack made Alice jump in spite of herself.
