Читать книгу Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 15

In which a great many visitors come to the Old House at Glen Clair.

When I awoke the sun was creeping across the bare boards of the floor and the old house was rattling with activity. I rolled over in bed and my back protested. After a night lying on the damp and lumpy mattress I felt stiff.

There were footsteps and voices outside my door, one raised above the others in querulous protest.

‘Where is Ellen? I told you to send her to me. No, I do not require any medicine. It is too cold in this room. Pull up the covers for me. No, not like that, woman. You are practically smothering me!’

A door closed, cutting off the voice abruptly.

I opened my eyes and stared at the frayed cover of the tester bed above me. That, I imagined, had been my Aunt Madeline, the invalid. There appeared to be nothing wrong with her lungs, at any rate.

I swung my bare feet to the floor and reached for my petticoat. Five minutes later I had dressed and was dragging a comb through my hair. Throwing open the curtains, I gazed out at the view and was immediately entranced.

The Old House stood on a promontory between Loch Clair and the smaller Loch Torran, and my room looked out at the back of the house, across a rough meadow that had once been a lawn, where peacocks pecked and prowled. Beyond the little loch the valley opened up in a wide bowl with the mountains, clad in amber and purple, reaching to the sky. I stared—and fell in love with Glen Clair in that moment.

Opening my bedroom door, I could hear my aunt’s voice rising and falling like the peal of bells, even through the thick oak door opposite. No doubt Ellen would bring me to meet her later. But for now I was sharp set, and looking forward to my breakfast.

I did not have high expectations of what might be on offer, but even those were dashed. When I reached the kitchen it was to find Ellen herself stirring a pan of porridge upon the hob. The kettle was whistling. Ellen’s face lit up when she saw me.

‘I did not like to wake you,’ she confided, ‘knowing that you had had so tiring a day yesterday. Here—’ she scooped a ladle full of porridge from the pan ‘—pass a plate.’

The porridge was a stewed grey, and slopped down into the plate in one fat blob. I tried not to blench and picked up my spoon, digging in whilst she poured me a mug of tea.

The porridge was almost cold. My stomach rumbled. Ellen was watching me anxiously.

‘Is it all right?’

‘Delicious,’ I mumbled, chewing on a big lump of oats. At least the tea washed it down.

She smiled. ‘Mama is out of spirits today,’ she said, sliding onto the kitchen bench beside me. ‘She has taken a chill. Mrs Grant is sitting with her. But she is anxious to meet you, Catriona. I promised to take you up directly after you had eaten.’

I had done my best with the porridge, and, remembering that Mrs Grant was supposed to have brought food with her that morning from Kinlochewe, looked around hopefully for something else to eat.

‘Did you wish for oat cakes?’ Ellen asked. ‘There is some homemade marmalade.’

There was a smidgeon of butter to cover the cake, and some whisky marmalade which, once I had scraped the mould from the top of it, proved surprisingly tasty. I wondered how Mrs Grant had taken the whisky bottle away from my Uncle Ebeneezer for long enough to put some into the marmalade.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Ellen said, and I nodded, mouth full.

‘We take luncheon at eleven and dinner at four,’ she continued. ‘As I said yesterday, we keep early hours.’

‘Shall I wash the pots?’ I asked, gesturing to the sink.

Ellen looked horrified. ‘Gracious, no! Mrs Grant does the pots. No, no…Mama is waiting, and she becomes a little impatient.’

I left the pots for poor Mrs Grant, who it appeared had no maid to help her about the place, and we hurried upstairs. I had the impression that my aunt must be a tyrant, ruling the house from her bed. Ellen was certainly anxious that she should not be kept waiting any longer.

Aunt Madeline occupied the room opposite mine, and when the door swung open it was like stepping into a fairy tale boudoir frozen in time. The bed, the delicate cherrywood wardrobe, the linen chest, the dressing table crowded with beautifying pots and potions…They were all tiny, fragile pieces of furniture. A collection of china dolls with pretty painted faces sat crowded together in a rocking chair. The drapes that kept out the sunlight were thin and fraying, their bright colours faded. And Aunt Madeline was faded, too—a golden beauty whose colour had drained to grey. At last I could see from where Ellen had inherited her glowing prettiness. Aunt Madeline must have been an accredited beauty in her day.

The room was stiflingly hot, for a fire burned in the grate even though it was high summer. All the windows were closed, sealed shut with cobwebs.

Aunt Madeline was sitting propped against lace-trimmed pillows, and when we knocked at the door she turned her plump, fallen face in our direction and bade us come close. She had been crooning softly to one of the china dolls, which she held in the crook of her arm. Everything about her drooped, from the lacy nightcap on her curls to her mouth, which had a discontented curve. She did not smile to see me.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you are Davie Balfour’s daughter. Come closer, child, so that I can look at you.’