The master of blacktower, p.1
The Master of Blacktower, page 1
The Master of Blacktower
ELIZABETH PETERS
WRITING AS
BARBARA
MICHAELS
Contents
Chapter 1 The Black Tower of Dunnoch.
Chapter 2 Four days later, as Mrs. Cannon and I emerged from the…
Chapter 3 They say one never sleeps well the first night in…
Chapter 4 After that we rode out several times each week, and…
Chapter 5 Huddled on my bed, with Toby in my arms for…
Chapter 6 Thus I passed another sleepless night at Blacktower House; not…
Chapter 7 Mr. Hamilton came back that night. I saw him from my…
Chapter 8 When my senses came back I was in my own…
Chapter 9 Next morning there was frost on the heather. From my…
Chapter 10 I was half hoping the dress would not be finished…
Chapter 11 I found my handkerchief and wiped Ian’s face. It was…
Chapter 12 Without waiting to hear more, I ran out and down…
Chapter 13 “Miss! Miss Damaris! Please wake up.”…
Chapter 14 My senses became hazy for a little while, and when…
Chapter 15 We waited. At last the singing stopped; but still Gavin…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Barbara Michaels
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter
1
THE BLACK TOWER OF DUNNOCH.
I saw it first at twilight. The Highland mountains were purple in the fading light, the western sky a brilliant tapestry of gold and crimson. Against the fiery northern sunset the ruined tower rose in jagged silhouette, still standing guard over Blacktower House, which sprawled along the slope of the hill below.
The coach jolted and swayed as the tired horses swung into the last steep rise. I hardly felt the jolting, or the bite of the wind that pushed insistent fingers through the velvet upholstery. A different sort of cold chilled me; I shivered and drew the folds of my mantle closer.
I was tired, and an easy prey to nervous fancies. It had been a long journey from London to this lonely glen buried in the heart of Scotland’s highest mountains, long not only in miles but in experience. I had never been to Scotland. It was like another world.
The month was April, the year, 1853. Spring had not yet dared to venture into the Highlands. The gorse and heather were brown and shriveled, and the bare white trunks of the birch trees looked cold. All that day, the only color had been the somber black-green of the pine trees, and the harsh purple of the mountains. One would never think that in London the soft pale flowers were pushing through the earth—lavender crocuses, and daffodils, and butter-yellow primroses. The new grass there was a tender April-green—like the grass in the churchyard of St. Clothilde’s, on a day two weeks earlier.
The memory was as sharp as a knife. When I closed my eyes I could see it again: the sweep of delicate green broken by white marble crosses and weeping angels, softened by a gray veil of rain—and the austere rectangle of the newly dug grave at my feet. Not only my father was being laid to rest in the quiet churchyard outside London, but my whole world.
Rain dripped off the budding trees onto the brim of my black mourning bonnet and trickled down my cheeks. The ebon plumes on the horses’ heads were sodden with water; the black umbrellas of the mourners shone as if they had been varnished. There were not many mourners—only the servants and a few elderly colleagues of Father’s, who had braved the wet to pay their last respects to an honored scholar and antiquarian. “I am the Resurrection and the Life; and whosoever believeth in me…” The minister’s voice was blurred by haste. He wanted to be done with it, and go back to his fireside and glass of port.
At my side, Mr. Downey shifted his feet and contorted his face to restrain a sneeze. No doubt, he too was thinking of his own fireside, and so were the others. Only Father would not be going back to his fire. He would stay here, in the rain, under the quiet grass.
Mr. Downey was Father’s lawyer, and he was at my side because there was no one else to take that place. He had been kind, in his dry, legal way, but as soon as the service was over he led me firmly toward the waiting carriage. We had business to discuss, he and I—unpleasant business—and I was as anxious to be done with it as he was.
A fire was burning in the library when we reached the house. The room was cozy and warm; the ruddy light shone on Father’s big desk, with his cracked leather chair behind it, and on the book-lined walls. At the sight of the familiar room and the empty chair behind the unnaturally tidy desk, my eyes filled with tears. I offered the lawyer a glass of wine as an excuse to turn my back. Taking a glass myself, I drank it down. The sherry ran warmly through my body and into my cold hands and feet. I poured another glass, ignoring the lawyer’s disapproving stare, and sipped it slowly, gazing out the window at the gray pencil lines of rain. Then I was ready. I took off my bonnet and flung it onto a chair, and turned to face Mr. Downey.
I had caught him staring. He quickly averted his eyes, but I had seen the direction of his gaze. I pressed my hands against my hair, flattening the springing curls.
“I wish I could cut it off! Or dye it black, to match my dress—”
“That would be very foolish,” said Mr. Downey, deploring female hysterics. “A lady’s hair is her crowning glory, and yours is a becoming shade of—er—auburn.”
“Father called it red-gold,” I said softly. “He quoted Homer…I beg your pardon, Mr. Downey. You’ve been so kind to me. I’ll not trespass on your time any longer. What is it you want to say?”
Mr. Downey’s thin sallow face remained impassive, frozen by years of legal caution; but I think my outburst worried him. He didn’t want a weeping woman on his hands.
“Perhaps this is not a good time. Your father told me you were accustomed to assist him in his affairs; but you are very young…” He studied me thoughtfully, stroking his long bony nose, and then he said, surprisingly, “It has been a strange life for a young girl—your mother dead since your infancy, no companions of your own sex and station—”
“I needed none,” I said coldly, resenting the implied criticism of my father. “Papa was all I needed—friend, teacher, parent…. Please, Mr. Downey, don’t…remind me. Tell me the truth, and let’s be done with it. I’m destitute, am I not?”
“Two hundred a year is not destitution.”
“But neither is it independence.”
“A young lady of eighteen has no need of independence.” Mr. Downey made it sound like a nasty word. “Your aunt will certainly offer you a home.”
“My aunt dislikes me intensely, and has ever since I informed her, at the age of five, that she looked like her own pug dog.”
Mr. Downey gave an exasperated sniff.
“I would suspect you of being flippant, Miss Gordon, on any other day but this. What about your aunt’s son—your cousin?”
“Cousin Randall? Yes…I know everyone expects that Randall and I will marry. That, Mr. Downey, is why I was hoping for independence.”
“But—but—my dear Miss Gordon, your cousin is an eminently respectable young man! And don’t forget he inherits your father’s property! Mr. Randall Gordon is a young gentleman of modern, liberal opinions. He feels…not an injustice…let us say, a misfortune, in the law which prevents a daughter from enjoying her father’s estates.”
All at once I thought how much Father, who delighted in absurdities, would have enjoyed this ridiculous speech. I said demurely, “Am I to understand, Mr. Downey, that Randall wants to marry me as a practical demonstration of his modern, liberal opinions?”
I had underestimated Mr. Downey. He had to tighten his lips to keep from smiling.
“Miss Gordon, you have looked into a mirror often enough to know why a young man might want to marry you—whatever his opinions. As a matter of fact,” he continued, more soberly, “I received a letter from Mr. Randall Gordon only this morning. He expressed his regret that owing to his mother’s poor health, he was unable to return from Baden in time for the funeral.”
I was unable to hold back a sniff. Mr. Downey frowned at me.
“Your aunt has been ailing for years; you know that. And your father’s illness and death were very sudden. As I was saying, Mr. Randall particularly expressed his interest in you.”
“Dear Mr. Downey.” I leaned forward and touched his hand. “I can’t marry Randall. Not even to oblige you.”
“What is your alternative?” Mr. Downey sighed, but he sounded less annoyed than he had every right to be.
“Why,” said I airily, “I shall seek employment.”
“In what capacity, pray? As a companion or governess?”
“You needn’t be sarcastic, Mr. Downey. Oh, yes, I know those are the only respectable occupations open to a woman. But it’s so unfair! For years I’ve been Father’s secretary and assistant. He trained me; he told me no man could have served him better. Why can’t I use those skills?”
Mr. Downey’s wooden jaw dropped. I had really shocked him; only his belief that I was mentally unsettled by grief spared me a severe lecture.
“My child, we can’t change the world, even if we want to. I’m sure you’re as clever as any girl in England. But you could never obtain a position as a private secretary.”
“Why not?”
“Why—why—because, Miss Gordon, a governess is employed by the lady of a house; a secretary is employed by the gentleman.
I was tempted to widen my eyes and beg for further explanations. But I really didn’t have the heart to vex him any more.
“No,” I sighed, “you needn’t. But I think you are insulting the gentlemen of England.”
“I do not say that you would be—necessarily—in danger of—er—insult. Not from all gentlemen, certainly….” Mr. Downey did not sound at all certain. He abandoned that position. “I do say that no one would employ you. Custom is too strong.”
“At least I might advertise. There would be no harm in trying.”
“There most certainly would! Such an advertisement would be open to the most unpleasant misconstruction. I insist that you do nothing of the kind.”
Mr. Downey’s voice had overawed many an angry client. There was no point in arguing with him, so I bowed my head and closed my lips. He mistook silence for submission and allowed himself a bleak, three-second smile.
“Mr. Randall Gordon expressed the wish,” he said, “that you remain here until he and your aunt return, which will be within a fortnight. By then, I feel sure your good sense will have told you what your course of action must be.”
I smiled meekly, and said not a word; and I went on smiling while I saw him to the door. Then I went back to the study and sat down in Father’s big chair. It was an antique ruin of a chair; I had been threatening for months to throw it away. I was glad now that I hadn’t. For a little while I sat upright, moving my hands along the cracked leather. Then I drew a sheet of paper to me, dipped Father’s pen into the onyx inkwell he had brought home from Greece, and began to write.
It took a week for the answers to my letters to come in. All were to colleagues of my father’s, who had known him, and knew me. All of them informed me—so politely—that they did not require a secretary. I should have owned defeat then. But Father was a stubborn man, in his quiet way, and I am his daughter. I advertised.
That was a mistake. Mr. Downey had been right and I had been horribly wrong. The advertisement was open to misconstruction. I had two replies. I came home from the second interview with my fingers still stinging from the slap I had bestowed on the “gentleman” who was looking for a “trained antiquarian secretary.” Antiquarian, indeed!
Dusk had fallen before I reached the house. Too worn and beaten even to ring for tea and a fire, I went at once to the library and sank into Father’s chair. Desperately I tried to summon up Father’s courage and sense of fun. But at that point I could see nothing amusing in the interview I had just gone through.
Twilight deepened into night as I huddled against the worn leather of the chair. Outside the window the lights of London cast a pale reflection on the sky. In less than a week Randall would be home. With the casual arrogance of his sex, which at that moment I thoroughly detested, he would expect me to marry him.
A good indication of my mental exhaustion was that I seriously wondered whether I shouldn’t do just that. It would be easy to give in, and stop trying. Surely the alternatives were worse than Randall.
I thought of Miss Mills, my aunt’s companion—a withered dry stick of a woman, always dressed in shabby brown. She blinked continuously, and there was a nervous tic in one of her cheeks. “Where is my shawl, Miss Mills?” “Mills, fetch my wool at once!” “The dog must be washed, Mills; what have you been doing all morning, you lazy creature?” I could almost hear my aunt’s shrill voice. I had always despised Miss Mills, even while I sympathized with her. Now I realized that her disgusting humility wasn’t weakness, but a grim necessity for survival.
Then there was the girl—Miss Allen?—who had been governess in Lord A——’s family. One of our maids had told me about her; the stories were all over London. She had eloped with the youngest son, and Lord A——had cut the boy off without a penny. Then the gallant youth had denied the marriage and abandoned her. No one knew what had become of her. “The river?” suggested my housemaid, with a roll of her eyes.
Miss Mills or Miss Allen—slavery or disgrace. On the whole, I thought I preferred disgrace. But neither fate was attractive.
Miss Mills or Miss Allen—or Randall. I hadn’t seen him for months; it was hard to remember what he looked like. I knew he was tallish, with brown hair thinning on top and a bushy moustache of which he was inordinately vain, but I couldn’t seem to summon up his features. His face was round, and always somewhat flushed; he dressed elegantly. A little too elegantly, perhaps? His gloves were too tight. Or perhaps his hands were too plump—plump and puffy, and unpleasantly cold to the touch.
I was shivering; the room was chilly without a fire. If I marry Randall, I thought, he will have the right to touch me whenever he pleases with those cold hands.
I was pacing up and down, wringing my own hands in distraction, when Ellen brought in a note a messenger had just delivered. I was in no great hurry to read it. I anticipated an invitation from Mr. Downey, who had already suggested that I come to stay with him and his wife. Worst of all, the message might be an announcement of Randall’s arrival. I told Ellen to light the fire and bring my tea, and I drank two cups before I looked at the note. Then I realized it was written in a hand I did not know.
The handwriting was a man’s, undoubtedly—heavy, black, sprawling recklessly across the page:
“If D.G. who advertised herself as a trained antiquarian secretary, will call tomorrow at the Travellers’ Hotel, at 10 A.M., she may present her credentials for a position. Ask for Mr. Gavin Hamilton.”
My first impulse was to toss the note into the fire. I had already had two interviews with gentlemen who wanted to offer me a position. But when I looked up, it seemed to me that three phantom shapes stood grimacing at me from the shadows: withered Miss Mills, ruined Miss Allen—and Randall. I knew then that I would be at the Travellers’ Hotel at 10 o’clock.
The Travellers’ Hotel was a quiet, respectable establishment in Bloomsbury, near the new Museum. I asked for Mr. Hamilton, and the clerk directed me to an upper floor. My hands were damp inside my gloves when I knocked. After an interval a deep man’s voice told me to come in.
Sunlight flooded the room from the windows opposite the door and blinded me so that I saw only the outline of the man who had spoken. He was tall and held himself like a gentleman, but I could see little more than that.
He stood without moving or speaking for a long time. The silence grew awkward. I was nerving myself to speak when, with a curious squaring of his shoulder, he moved forward, out of the glare, and I saw him clearly for the first time: Mr. Gavin Hamilton, Master of Blacktower.
I was struck speechless by the sight of his face. Ugliness I was accustomed to; none of my father’s friends were noted for manly beauty. But the countenance that confronted me was worse than ugly. It was deformed. Across one side of his face, from brow to chin, ran a livid scar that puckered his flesh and distorted the shape of his mouth.
The rest of his face was regular, although the features were too strongly marked to be called handsome. He had a long, lean face, with high cheekbones and a straight, prominent nose. His eyes were dark and wide-set under heavy brows. He wore no moustache, and his thick black hair was cut shorter than was the fashion. Some men, with such a scar, would have tried to cover it with as much hair as possible. Not Mr. Gavin Hamilton.
He gave me ample time to assimilate his appearance before he spoke.
“Sit down,” he said, in a harsh voice. “You, I take it, are D.G. What do the initials stand for?”
“Damaris Gordon.” I sat down—mercifully there was a chair near at hand, for I don’t think I could have walked to one. “My father is—was—Dr. Andrew Gordon.”
“I thought as much. I heard of your father’s death. In fact, we are distantly related. Did he ever mention his connection with the Hamiltons of Dunnoch?”
“No—I don’t think so.”
“Check the genealogies, if you doubt me. I will be candid, Miss Gordon. If I had not identified ‘D.G.’ with your father’s daughter, I wouldn’t have answered your advertisement.”
