The House of the Laird (8 page)

There was a pause, and Aunt Horatia glanced for a moment at her nephew’s face as he sat beside his glamorous ex-
fiancée
on the Chesterfield—
“
you could do much, much worse for yourself!”

Karen said nothing, and Aunt Horry dived into her handbag for her cigarette-case, from which she extracted a fat and faintly greyish-looking cigarette.

“I have these made specially for me,” she explained, “and they’d be much too strong for a young girl like you—a mixture of Egyptian and Turkish tobaccos—so I’m not going to offer you one.”

She surrounded herself with a blue haze of smoke which smelled strongly of the interior of some exotic eastern quarter, and at the same time she thoughtfully studied Karen.

“I’m going to make a suggestion.” she said. “I’ve explained that I’m not easily shocked, and neither am I, but I don’t think it’s quite right for a young thing like you to be living here alone with a bachelor of nearly thirty-five, even though you are thinking of getting married
!
” Her glance at the girl stated plainly that she doubted that, and
s
he continued: “In my house you can be a guest for as long as you like, and no one can say a thing about you—and
Iain can come and see you as often as he wants to! So I suggest you pack up your things, or get Mrs. Burns to pack them up for you, and come back with Fiona and me this afternoon!”

At first Karen was not quite certain that the older woman was entirely serious, but when she realized that she was, and, moreover, that in spite of the kindliness and the gentleness in her expression there was some extra quality which would be difficult to combat if, and when, her mind was made up about something, feeling of almost profound dismay descended upon her. She felt exactly as if the suggestion had been made that she desert a proven
and
safe harbor for all the unknown dangers of the high seas, and she stammered:

“Go-go back with you?”

“Yes, my dear, I think it’s a splendid idea!” Having given birth to the idea Mrs. Montagu-Jackson beamed at her again. “I’ve a young
man
coming to stay with me next week—my godson, Aubrey Ainsworth, who is beginning to make a name for himself as one of these futuristic painters, or whatever they call themselves—and with Fiona, who has promised to stay with me more or less indefinitely, we shall be quite a jolly party. I simply love having people to stay with me, and what you badly need, my child, is a change. You
’
ve been cooped up here long enough, and however devoted you are to Iain it will be good for both of you to have a breather from one another for a short while at least.
”

She looked across at her nephew and instantly claimed his attention by announcing that she had formed what she was convinced was an excellent plan. When he had heard what the plan was he, like Karen, looked a little taken aback. Then one o
f
his dark eyebrows ascended half humorously.

“Is that really necessary?” he asked. I mean, don’t you
think
Mrs.
Burns—to say nothing of Annie, and Prout, and George, who also live in the house—can provide adequate chaperonage for Karen.
O
r are you afraid she’s being neglected? I can assure you she’s looking very, very muc
h
better now than
she did when she first came here—
”

“My dear boy, none of that enters into it,
” his
aunt assured him, waving the remains of her specially blended cigarette in the air.
“
I
’
m not old-fashioned, as you know, and I’d trust Mrs. Burns to look after even the most guileless young creature who entered your house. But Karen
’
s had a bout of illness and been confined to one place for far to
o
lon
g
, with no companionship save your own, and I feel that if she’s going to get redly well and strong a
g
ain something will have to be done about it. I can look after her just as well as you can, you know, and Fiona can lend a hand. In fact, we shall just
love having her.”

“Of course we will,” Fiona put
in
swiftly,
in
a soft
and
slightly husky voice, which Karen had already decided was one of the most attractive things about her. Another attractive thing was the way her golden eyes melted whenever she was just about to break into a smile, and the almost tender curve of her full scarlet lips when the smile touched them was something, almost, to watch for. It
made of the smile a thing of indescribable charm, with the power to bestow something in the nature of a caress. “It will be really nice.”

Iain turned to her, an
i
ronical gleam in his eyes.

“
You
think so?” he asked.

“I do,” she assured him. “And I agree with your aunt that it is a little dull here for Karen at the present stage of her convalescence, but unlike your aunt I am a little bit old-fashioned, and I do feel that in Karen’s best interests, even if you’re proposing to get married very soon, it will be as well if she doesn’t remain here under your roof more or less indefinitely—until you get married, that is!”

He regarded her with an odd curve to his lips.

“And the fact that she has already been here a month shocks you rather badly, does it?” he enquired in the driest of tones.

“Not at all, darling,” she answered soothingly—she even placed one of her white hands lightly, caressingly, on his arm—
“
but it has probably shocked Mrs.
Burns
, if one were in a position to find out the truth! And now that you’re no longer cut off by weather condition, and we are only too willing to carry Karen away with us, I don’t really think you ought to oppose your aunt’s suggestion.”

“I haven’t said I’m going to oppose it,” he answered, a little shortly. “But it’s rattier limited notice, and I don’t know that Karen ought to go out again today. It’s not as fine as it was yesterday
—”

“
Darling
,”
Fiona laughed softly, beside him, “a journey of three or four miles, and no more, in a closed and
heated
car? Isn’t your concern a little excessive, and aren’t you afraid that you won’t see as much of her as you have done? Which simply means that we shall expect you to visit us very often, and that will be nice for all of us.”

“Very nice,” Aunt Horatia agreed.

He looked across at Karen with an expression she had never seen on his face before. She felt that behind it lay a feeling of annoyance, mixed with the conviction that he was temporarily cornered, and that he also saw something humorous in the cornering.

“Well, what has Karen got to say” he asked. “Are you growing very bored with my undiluted society, Karen? And do you feel that your reputation will be saved if you leave Craigie for the time being?
”

Karen knew very well what she wanted to say, but she was very much afraid of saying it—not only because of his aunt and his ex-
fiancée
, but because of him, too. If she looked across at him in an openly pleading fashion, and said that she didn
’
t want to leave him, what kind of construction would he place on such a confession as that?

“I
—”
she was beginning, when Aunt Horry
came to her rescue.

“Don’t be silly, Iain,” she said. “Naturally Karen wouldn’t tell you if she was bored with you, and as she knows she’s coming back here before very long as mistress of the place she’s not likely to break her heart because of a few weeks absence. And that reminds me—have you made any plans yet about the wedding? Because if you haven
’t I’m
quite sure the most sensible idea would
be to let Karen be married from my house. It’s so long since anyone
g
ot married from Auchenwiel that it will do the place good, and there’s nothing that really appeals to me more than all the fuss and preparation for a wedding.”

Iain continued
to smile faintly as his eyes met Karen’s but the eyes themselves were
inscrutable, and he made a shrugging movement with his shoulders.

“I can see that whatever my opinion happens to be on this question of moving Karen it isn
’
t very important,” he observed, “but you needn
’
t start weddin
g
preparations yet. Aunt, because Karen and I haven’t even fixed a date for taking one another for
better or worse. And I hope that you’ll leave us to make that decision ourselves, at least.”

He stood up and wandered to the window, looking out at the greyness of the afternoon.

“Don’t think I’m inhospitable,” he said, “but if you’re going to take Karen you’d better leave fairly soon, otherwise you’ll be in for some more bad weather. I’ll ring for Mrs. Burns,” and he pressed the bell for his housekeeper with a somewhat grim expression clinging about his mouth.

Karen did not dare to look at him again. She went meekly up to her room and helped Mrs. Burns with her simple packing, and when it was finished the housekeeper looked at her with a faintly regretful expression in her eyes.

“I’ll be glad to see you back again. Miss,” she stated with obvious truthfulness, “only when you come back again you’ll be Madam, won’t you?” She smiled hearteningly. “You’ll like Mrs. Montagu-Jackson. She talks a lot, and she’s a bit obstinate, but she thinks the world of Mr. Iain, and she must like you, too, or she wouldn’t have asked you to stay with her. And perhaps after all she’s wise,” she added, in a kind of reflective way which, however, passed Karen by altogether, for she was feeling too strangely miserable inside at the thought of leaving the quiet sanctuary of this room which for five weeks now had been hers.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Auchenwiel, when they a
rrived there, was a surprise to Karen, for it was completely unlike Craigie House. To begin with it was very large and very pretentious, and with its pepper-box towers and high walls looked like a copy of an old French chateau. Which, in point of fact, was exactly what it was, for the late Montagu Jackson, after a visit with his
w
ife
to the South of France, had had it built on the site of a really old building which he had ruthlessly pulled down, and in the full broad light of day, with the Scottish mountains rising behind it, moorland on two sides of it, and a deep glen on the other, it looked a little astonishing.

But when Karen arrived it was very nearly dark, and the thing that impressed her most about it was its size, and the blaze of light that seemed to be pouring from every window.

Inside, she was met with an almost overpowering warmth from central heating, vast areas of rich, thick, crimson carpet, suits of armor that looked a little incongruous standing at the bottom of a fan
-
shaped staircase
,
and many massiv
e
portraits h
anging
on panelled walls. Her room, when she reached it had the impersonal luxury of a hotel bedroom—that is to say,
of a five-star hotel. There was a telephone beside the bed, a suite of walnut furniture, a superbly comfortably adjustable chair with a
foot-rest, and a little table loaded with magazines beside it; and the enormous built-in cupboards were so capacious that her entire wardrobe, once it had bee
n
unpacked, was completely lost in them.

Aunt Horry accompanied her upstairs to her room, and bustled about making sure everything was as she had ordered it to be over the telephone before leaving Craigie House. Then when she looked at Karen she saw that the girl was utterly devoid of color, and plainly almost exhausted after her ascent of the great, sweeping staircase. She ordered her into bed at once.

“And you can have your dinner brought to you on a tray,” she said. She lightly
pinched Karen’s cheek. “I want you to be happy here, and although you
’
re bound to feel strange for a day or two, you’ll very soon get used to us, and Iain isn’t very far away, you know. He’ll be coming over to see us quite often,
I expect.”

Then with a smile which was meant to be encouraging she departed from the room, leaving Karen feeling as if she was spiritually as well as physically limp. Moreover, she felt bereft—bereft and forlorn, and as alone as she had felt when she first came out of hospital, which was absurd when she was surrounded by nothing but luxury and the excellent intentions of a hostess who loved entertaining visitors.

She was just about to remove her clothes and climb into the truly marvellous-looking bed, with
its
fine fat pillows and its hem-stitched sheets, when a maid knocked, on her door and announced that she had instructions to run her a bath, and that she was also bringing her dinner up to her later on. The girl was smart and friendly—not, however, dear and familiar like Prout, or Annie, or Mrs. Burns—and she looked at Karen
sympathetically
before she went on her
w
ay
to the white-tiled bathroom.

J
ust before a hollow booming noise, which Karen recognized was a dinner-gong, rose up from the hall, there came another light tap on her door, and in response to her “Come in” Fiona Barrington entered.

She changed in to a dinner-gown of superb tawny-gold velvet, and she looked like a golden girl, especially as there was a curious snaky gold necklace about her slender throat, and on her arms gold bracelets which were inset with stones like garnets.

She was smiling as she came into the room, and she perched herself on the foot of the bed and looked at Karen.

“Quite comfortable?” she asked. “I must say you certainly look it, but you also look a little bit lost in that bed. There isn’t very much of you, is there?”

“I’m a bit thin at the moment,” Karen admitted, feeling awkward as she set down her soup-spoon and wished that this glamorous vision had not appeared just as she was trying to work up an appetite for her dinner, served to her on a daintily-laid tray. “But that’s usual after two doses of fairly
severe illness. And I’m already putting on weight—I’ll be quite plump again in a few weeks.”

“Will you?” But there was a faintly amused, faintly sceptical look in the topaz eyes. “To me that’s a little difficult to imagine. I’d describe you as a kind of windflower of a girl, never likely to be really substantial, and always in danger of being blown away altogether. I imagine Iain rather shares my views, and that’s why he’s so terribly concerned about you, and didn’t want to run any risks this afternoon.”

“Oh”—Karen felt herself flushing—
“
as to that, I’ve already given quite a lot of trouble to Mrs.
Burns
and Annie, and it would be too bad if I had to occupy much of their time again.”

“And you imagine that sort of consideration weighs with Iain?” Fiona looked even more amused.

Karen deliberately avoided her eyes.

“I think it would,” she answered quietly, “because he does study the people around him, and in any case he knows I’d hate to give any more trouble than I have already given.”

Mrs. Barrington’s softly brilliant smile became more gentle.

“You’re quite sweet, you know,” she said, and put out a hand and lightly touched Karen’s. “In fact, I think you’re very sweet! And you’ve also had rather a bad time lately!”

“It—it wasn’t too bad,” Kare
n
stammered.

“But all the same, it’s high time you had a change—that’s why I’m glad we brought you here. And if you’re wise, and it’s fine tomorrow, you’ll come with me on a trip into Inverlochie. I want to do some shopping, but you can just sit in the car and take things easily, unless you’d like to do a little shopping also?” Her eyes went to the simple pink nightdress the girl in the bed was wearing, which, although it was hand-embroidered by Karen herself, who was a skilled needlewoman, was not the kind of nightdress the lovely widow would be likely to wear. “There must be a few things you’re needing, and shops are always stimulating. And we can have coffee at the George. What do you say?”

“I think if would be very nice,” Karen replied uncertainly, and Mrs. Barrington slipped from the bed.

“
V
ery well then! That’s agreed—provided, of course, it
’
s fine! And now I really must go, because the gong’s
already sounded, and I’m several minutes late.”

But she moved unhurriedly towards the door, smiling at Karen until it had closed
behind her, and then the girl in the bed looked down thoughtfully again at her soup, but made no attempt to drink any more of it.

Later that night she lay in her bed and stared at the firelight flickering on the ceiling, and the flood of golden light cast by the golden-shaded bedside lamp on the apple green carpet. This room had just as much comfort as her room at Craigie House, perhaps even more, but she felt utterly alone and comfortless in it, and as she turned her face into her pillow she felt inclined
to weep—weep
for all that she had left behind, all that was no longer part of her daily life, that she might never see again!

And then all at once the telephone on th
e
bedside table beside her shrilled, and h
e
r heart gave a great uneasy bound as she looked at it on its ivory rest. She put out a tentative hand and picked up the receiver, and the next moment she was ready to cry with relief because the voice which came to her over the wire was so exquisitely familiar.

“Hullo,” it said, “is that you, Karen! Iain here.”

Iain here
!...
.

She swallowed twice, to rid her throat of the lump in it, and forced her pulses to cease behaving like wild creatures imprisoned in a zoo, and managed to say almost steadily:

“Oh, how nice! How nice of you to bother about me! Unless there’s something—something you want to tell
me?...”

She heard him laugh softly, as if amused.

“What would I be likely to want to tell you at this ho
u
r of the night?” She heard him wait for her answer, and when it did not come he continued, as if still amused: “No, my dear, I was quite well aware you’d have a telephone beside your bed—Auchenwiel has every luxury!—and I thought it just as likely that you might still be awake, and perhaps feeling rather strange. So I decided a familiar voice would probably do you good.”

“Oh!” Karen exclaimed, and he could hear her breath catch. “I was—and it has!”

“Good!” he answered, softly. “Then it’s a good thing I remembered how well you were equipped, isn’t it?”

“
Yes
.”

“But you’re not really hating things, are you?”

“No”—a little uncertainly—“no; I’m not hating things.”

“I’ll admit it was all a bit of a rush, your departure, but Aunt Horry really will look
after you, you know, and perhaps a bachelor establishment was not the best place for you just now. But I’ll be seeing you fairly often, and as a matter of fact I
’
ve received an invitation for this coming week-end. Do you think you could endure to have me about you again so soon?”

Karen refrained from answering him immediately, because she knew that if she obeyed every impulse in her body she would simply cry out to him over the dividing telephone wire that already she was missing him so badly that it was a kind of private agony. She had been wondering how she was going to endure it for long if she was not to see him again soon.

“Well?” he asked, as he did not answer him, and his voice was a little sharp.

“Of course I’ll be very happy to see you again,” she managed then, and she felt she could almost see him smiling at the other end of the line.

“That’s splendid!” he exclaimed. “And now,” he added, “go to sleep. You really ought to have been asleep an hour ago.”

“I’m not very tired,” she breathed back.

“No, but go to sleep.”

“I will,” she promised.

“Good night, my dear,” Iain said.

“Good night.”

“I’ve got a name, you know,” he reminded her.

“Good night, Iain.”

“Sleep well, little one,” he answered her.

And she quietly laid the telephone back on its rest and slid down into her bed and gripped hard at the frilly edge of her pillow-case. As she lay there with closed eyes she was recapturing every single moment of that
telephone conversation, and every vibration in the voice that had spoken to her. She felt now that he had spoken to her she might be able to sleep—she was even happy to go to sleep, because in
her dreams she
might be back with
him
again at Craigie House.