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“Bertram! We are not going that way today.” Eleanor’s call interrupted my thoughts and I turned in time to see the dog dash along one of the alleys that flanked the harbour. When, in spite of Eleanor’s shouts, he didn’t return, we followed him. The lane ended abruptly in a series of narrow steps that led down to a tiny cove. Bertram, unabashed and without hesitation, ran down these and onto the pale sands. A young boy, probably some eight years of age, sat beside one of the many rock pools, gazing with fixed attention into its depths. A net was clutched in one of his hands. The little dog pelted up to him and gave his face a huge, slobbery kiss. The boy laughed delightedly and pushed the prancing animal away. Glancing up, he saw us and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. I was aware suddenly of a palpable tension, like singeing electricity, buzzing through the air between us. I turned to ask a question of Eleanor, but the expression on her face forestalled me.
“Tristan!” A woman’s voice rang out from one of the neat, white cottages that lined the shore. With an aimless wave of his hand, the boy ran off in her direction. Eleanor’s own hand sketched a hesitant reply. Bertram, with all the air of a dog well pleased with the job he has done, came back to us, and we retraced our steps.
Eleanor remained silent for a few minutes and then in a high, bright voice said, “Madame du Bois has made Mama’s clothes for years. She pretends to be from Paris, and we go along with it. But pray don’t confuse her by speaking French to her! It will only end in disaster and embarrass us all.”
I ordered several winter dresses from Madame du Bois, who was about as French as the English breakfasts that revolted me so, and purchased a few other items of warmer clothing. The shopping expedition left me feeling better equipped to face the unexpected horrors of the English climate.
* * *
That evening, I made my way along the brightly lit corridor. I had swathed my shoulders in a new tobacco-coloured shawl with russet fringing, but still I shuddered as the chill air touched my face. Embossed ivory curtains had been drawn over the wide bay windows, and chandeliers threw rainbows of light onto the light oak panelling. Rounding an unexpected corner, I found myself in a part of the house that was unknown to me. Irritably, I reflected that it was typical of Eddie to not only neglect to warn me about the weather but also omit to take me on a guided tour of the house. Knowing my devil-may-care friend as I did, however, I was quite certain that he would view the prospect of me wandering the corridors of Athal House, cold, lost and disheartened, with amusement rather than concern.
This passageway was narrow and dark with old-fashioned flambeaux set in wrought-iron sconces at shoulder height along the walls. Alternating shadows and flickering light danced along the uncarpeted floor. The panelling here was so dark as to appear black, and ancient tapestries depicting scenes of battle were hung at regular intervals. The wooden floorboards were worn smooth and uneven. The only window was a narrow, pointed arch set in a wall that was several feet thick. I remembered Eddie’s comment that some of the walls of the original castle had been incorporated into the design of the house. Even so, I was surprised that Tynan and Lucy, who had between them so carefully planned a home that was aglow with light, should include such old-fashioned features as these. The cold was even more apparent now, and my breath plumed ahead of me like a silver streamer.
My feet wanted to hurry suddenly, and I felt unaccountably nervous. Cold air traced its icy fingers along my spine, making me shudder. Drawing my shawl even closer to my chest, I decided to turn back. As I did, I caught a glimpse of movement on the periphery of my vision. A couple stood close together in the shadows, oblivious to anything but each other. Their faces were in darkness, but I could see that the man was tall and powerfully built. His hands gripped the woman’s slender waist while her voluptuous body quivered with blatant longing as she arched toward him. A low, throaty chuckle from her ruby lips echoed in my mind rather than my ears. He leaned closer and she reached up to slide a hand behind his neck. Embarrassed at the sensation of spying on them in such an intensely private moment, I turned to fully face them, intending to utter a greeting. But they were gone. Had they been there at all, or was the glinting torchlight playing a ghoulish trick on my already disordered nerves?
