Castle Barebane

  “Oh, I can see you have your hands full,” said Helen Ramsay, rocking with laughter, wiping the tears of it from her eyes, after hearing of Elspie’s shoes filled with fishbones and the terrible tale of the kitchen cat’s dinner. “I just wish I could see Jannie; Pieter sounds a dear little boy too; no wonder you feel you can’t leave them; no wonder you love them so.”

  Val felt, with dreadful guilt, how far from true this was.

  “I don’t know that I do love them so,” she said defensively.

  “You couldn’t describe Jannie like that if you didn’t. Oh, how I envy you. Oh, how lucky you are! To think of living in that amazing house, and having two such interesting children to teach. But what can have happened to the parents? I cannot believe that Kirstie would have gone off and abandoned her children—when she was a child she was a loving little thing, and she had such a scrupulous sense of duty. Don’t you, in your heart of hearts, believe that they must be dead?”

  Seeing Val’s expression, Helen added, “I am sorry if I shock you.” She paused. “But you see I live so constantly with the prospect of death that it does not upset me any more.”

  Facing the matter honestly, Val was obliged to agree with Helen’s view.

  “I don’t see how, if Kirstie was able to get in touch, she would not have done so by now. But suppose she is ill, somewhere? My brother might have gone off and left her,” Val said with difficulty. “He is—irresponsible; I believe he might do a thing like that. He’s cold-blooded.”

  “Like my Davie,” Helen Ramsay said, sighing. “Not that Davie is irresponsible; on the contrary. He is the most caring, thoughtful creature in the world. He built me this conservatory as soon as his father died. His father would never have done such a thing; he disapproved of conservatories.”

  “Why?” asked Val, astonished.

  “He said if God had meant us to have glass walls He would not have inspired man to build houses of stone and thatch. My husband was a very rigid-thinking man; God-fearing, of course, virtuous, but, oh dear, he was disagreeable! I loved him, but it took me twenty-five years to accept some things about him and I am afraid Davie never did. There is a very large element of his father in Davie which he does his best to keep fastened down and covered up. That is why he says he will never marry.”

  She looked wistfully away up the glen, as if seeing a procession of invisible grandchildren passing out of sight. Her mouth, Val noticed, was full and beautiful, contrasting strangely with the ghostlike thinness of her face.

  Next moment, all laughter and animation, she was demanding news of Sir Marcus.

  “Does he still suffer from his gout? And his neurasthenia and palpitations, and quinsy and spasms and tic? He is the most amazing man. Whenever he goes off on his travels he sends me beautiful things—that rug came from Kurdistan, and this robe I have on is the kind worn by Turkish women; he sent that vase and those slippers—but—he’s such a wretch—write letters he will not! And he comes to see me less and less, which I regret bitterly—I am very much afraid that he finds it too distressing. He is terrified of being made to feel.”

  Val described her voyage with Sir Marcus and the evening in Edinburgh. Helen was delighted.

  “Oh, you hit him off to the life. I can see why you choose to be a writer. But listen, my dear—I can see you are a little bit in love with Marcus. Don’t be offended with me”—as Val, astounded and deeply upset, drew back—“after all, if I am not allowed to be frank, who can be? I guessed it the minute you walked in the door. You were prepared to dislike me very much, weren’t you? ‘She’s a rival,’ you were thinking, ‘and not only a rival, but a dismal, dying invalid, and what’s worse, sugar sweet with everybody so they can’t even have the satisfaction of being disagreeable about her but are obliged to say how good and uncomplaining she is.’ Come, confess! You expected some odious sweet little woman, her silver hair done up by a pink ribbon!”

  Utterly disarmed by this, Val burst out laughing.

  “How did you guess? That is exactly the picture I had of you.”

  “I knew it,” Helen said with calm triumph. “And it is all because that wretch Marcus made you fall in love with him. Oh, he is a charmer, don’t I know it? If I had met him at fifteen or sixteen, before I married James, I should have longed to be his wife. But James made a better husband. And truly, my dear Val, I should think twice about Marcus. He is away too selfish! A man who is still single at his age is not a good risk: far too fond of his own habits. And it is plain that you are the same.”

  “Am I?”

  “Indeed you are! You are a good person; I can see that. But strong-willed; you are like my husband; when you see that something needs to be done, you do it—regardless of the inconvenience it may cause to anybody—including yourself! People won’t love you for this trait—you mustn’t expect that.”

  Am I like that? Val pondered.

  Every portrait of herself that was presented to her seemed more unflattering than the last.

  “No, Marcus won’t do for you,” concluded Helen. “Besides, he is too old. He is forty-three—two years younger than me. And this is disinterested advice I am giving you, my dear Val, for I should be glad to die knowing that some capable person would look after the dear man in his cantankerous old age.”

  “Upon my word,” Val said laughing, “you and your son are a most discouraging pair! Davie has already warned me that I must not expect to marry him.”

  “No indeed, that would be even more disastrous. But come, don’t despair. A girl as beautiful as you surely cannot help acquiring a trail of suitors wherever you go? Don’t tell me you did not leave some swain pining for you in New York?”

  “It’s true, I was engaged to be married.” Val sighed, thinking of the letter she had that morning received from Benet:

  “I hope to come to England as soon as I have completed my present series of cases, in order to see you and, I trust, convince you that your change of mind was just a passing caprice, due to fatigue. I cannot believe that your feelings for me have changed so completely. I still love you as much as ever. I do hope that you are remembering to wear plenty of warm flannel underwear and losing no opportunity to sample Scottish delicacies. The haggis I have heard very well spoken of; also Skink and Powsowdie.”

  “Ah? You were engaged? Describe him!” Helen’s eyes sparkled with interest.

  For some reason, Val found this hard.

  “He’s good. He’s hardworking and conscientious and capable. A lawyer.”

  “Oh what dull stuff. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  But it seemed that Val was unable to paint an accurate portrait of Benet.

  “I’d have to see him,” Helen concluded, “before I can decide whether he’s the right person for you.”

  “Perhaps you will. He intends to come to England and argue with me.”

  “I hope he comes soon, then, or I shall miss him,” Helen said. “Now, you must forgive me, but I need to sleep. I tire quickly. It is annoying.”

  “I have exhausted you by staying too long. I should leave.”

  “Indeed you must not. Tibbie would be black affronted if you left before taking bite and sup—and so should I. Rest, eat, read—take any books you fancy. Here are some of my favourites. I want to talk again when I have slept a little—you have not told me near enough about New York and your life there.”

  Tibbie endorsed this.

  “It does her gude tae hae summat new to think on, i’ the lang watches o’ the nicht. Bide till she wakes, an’ hae anither crack wi’ her. It’s no’ late yet, an’ she’ll sleep but fifteen minutes.”

  So Val sat in the pleasant front room, and talked to Tibbie, and ate her delicious deers’ puddings and potato fritters. She wondered if Davie came home at noon, but Tibbie explained that he was “awa ower tae Ravenswood,” where the minister was afflicted with a bad throat, and would not be
back till late. It was plain that Tibbie was very fond of him; she had looked after him as a child, Val learned. She seemed a particularly pleasant and kindhearted woman, devoted to her mistress.

  “ ‘Tis a pity she canna see the bairns,” Tibbie said sighing. “She fair longs to, but she says it’s no’ richt tae bring them to a house of death. My poor Miss Helen, she’s no lang for this world.” Unaffectedly she mopped her eyes with her apron.

  Val was seized by a sudden bold notion.

  Without pausing to think, she said, “When she—what will you be doing, Tibbie, after she goes? Will you stay here to look after Doctor Ramsay?”

  “Na, na, he’ll no’ bide here, my dearie. When Miss Helen’s gone, he’ll be awa’ back to Enbra; syne I’ll pack my bags an’ off tae my gude sister at Dunglass, for the new meenister has his ain housekeeper body an’ disna need my sairvices. It’ll grieve me sair tae leave Wolf’s Hope, but ilka path has its puddle.”

  Val said, “If you don’t want to leave these parts, would you consider coming to Ardnacarrig to help Elspie look after the children?”

  Tibbie seemed somewhat taken aback at this suggestion.

  “Nay, I misdoot auld Elspie’d ne’er thole sic a plan? She’d be fair scomfished that you didna think her fit tae mind the bairns by her lane.”

  “But if I managed to persuade her? After all, she’s old, and there’s only Annot Kelso to help her.”

  “Ay, an yon’s a puir hempie,” Tibbie said reflectively. “Aweel, if ye can fleech auld Elspie into it, I’ll be blythe to come—when my puir leddy’s laid under.”

  At this point Helen called faintly from the conservatory and Tibbie sped away to her.

  “What’s your wish, my doo? What is it, my dawtie?” Val heard her ask. The crooning note of tenderness in Tibbie’s tone brought tears to Val’s eyes and made her suddenly hate herself for having conceived and broached such a coldly self-regarding plan.

  “Miss Val’s not gone yet?” she heard Helen anxiously inquire.

  “Na, na, dinna fash yersel’ my dearie. She’s in ben yet. Now, bide still while I redd ye.”

  The door closed and Val, at random, opened one of the pile of books that Helen had pushed into her arms. It proved to be in Greek: Plato’s Symposium. Another was Latin—Virgil’s Eclogues. The other three were respectively Voltaire, Rousseau, and a novel by George Eliot which Val had read. She pushed the books to one side and sat with her chin on her hands, resenting the fact that she should feel guilty for having engendered a scheme which was for nobody’s harm and everybody’s good.

  Tibbie came back. “She’s braw an’ redd up noo, an’ will ye step back into the conservatory, she speirs? But dinna stay lang,” she murmured in a lower tone, “for her hoast is at her, an’ she’s a wee thing spent.”

  Helen looked more than spent, indeed, she looked utterly depleted; two small spots of red burnt on her cheekbones, she was even paler than before, and her forehead was beaded with sweat. A recurring cough seemed as if it might shake her to pieces. She had abandoned the attempt to sew, and the materials were pushed to one side. But she caught hold of Val’s hand, saying, “Don’t go yet a while. Not for half an hour! Tell me about life in New York. Are they very grand there?”

  Val did her best to describe the Allerton party, and way of life. But then Tibbie returned, and said commandingly, “Yon’s enough, the noo. The lassie maun gang her ways before it’s pit mirk. Remember she disna ken the road so well as we do.”

  “But you’ll come again? We are to be friends?” Helen still had hold of Val’s hand. “Yes, I am sure you will come; God will allow me another visit. I find he can be quite reasonable in such ways.”

  “Of course I will come,” Val said.

  “And you won’t leave it too long? Next time, bring sketches of the children.”

  “My dear Mrs. Ramsay—”

  “Helen, Helen!”

  “Helen, then—I can’t draw!”

  “Then you must learn! Anybody can draw—especially somebody as intelligent as you. All it takes is practice. Begin as soon as you get home. Oh, very well, Tibbie, take her away.”

  She blew a kiss to Val and lay back on her pillows, limp as a thread.

  Val had so much to think about on her homeward journey that she rode with a loose rein, and let Dunkie choose his own way and pace, which suited him very well. She felt as if, after living on dry bread for months, she had suddenly been fed on some utterly strange, exotic delicacy; as if she had put out a hand to touch a sapling and had a current of electricity run up her arm; as if she had woken from sleep and found herself on a high mountainside, looking over a huge plain.

  No wonder Sir Marcus loves her, thought poor Val; I couldn’t hope that he would spare me a single thought after having known Helen Ramsay. I wonder if her husband was unkind to her? What a strange man he sounded. Can she be right, that Nils and Kirstie are dead? I am sure she has deep, wide awarenesses, far beyond my level of understanding. If I could be certain—if I had definite news that Kirstie and Nils were dead—what could I, what ought I to do about the children? I could ask Helen’s advice, she thought instantly.

  No wonder David Ramsay is as he is. Imagine being her son!

  Again and again Val’s train of thought was darkened by a suffusing sense of guilt at the vulgarity, the greedy crudeness of having looked ahead and secured Tibbie’s services before her mistress was even dead. Again and again she doggedly thought, no, I was right to do it. Anybody can see that Tibbie is a person of truly sympathetic and educated feelings; and no wonder. She must have learned so much from contact with Helen. She would be a thousand times kinder to the children than old Elspie ever could—or than I ever could, Val thought ruefully.

  But is Helen right in her judgment of Sir Marcus? Is he really so set in his solitary bachelor ways that he can’t accommodate himself to another person?

  Dunkie stumbled and Val, recalled with a guilty jerk to awareness of her surroundings, looked about her dazedly and discovered, in a sudden cold clutch of fright, that she was on unfamiliar ground. High stone cliffs rose on each side of the track. This was certainly not the way she had come.

  What a fool I am, she thought furiously. Mooning along, thinking about myself—why didn’t I have the sense to look where the horse was taking me?

  Early winter dusk was gathering already; another half hour and it would be almost dark. What ought she to do? Retrace her way—if she could—to Wolf’s Hope, and start again? But Elspie, and, even more, the children, would worry very much if she were as late back as that would make her; it might be better to continue on this path, which climbed quite steeply, and hope that it would soon bring her out on some height from which she could see where she had gone wrong.

  Dunkie plodded on uphill. Presently, rounding a shoulder of cliff, he threw up his head violently and whinnied in surprise. Val’s hand tightened nervously on the rein, for, ahead of her, completely unexpected in this wild region, she saw the flickering light of a bonfire. She could hear voices too, the yelp of a dog, a neigh from another horse. There were smells of woodsmoke, singeing fur, and frizzling fat.

  Dunkie whinnied again, then shied as a lean, silent dog almost ran between his legs. A voice said sharply, “Ruffler! Here!”

  Somebody called, “Who is it?”

  A thin, tattered figure suddenly materialised from among the rocks at the side of the track, and a hand, grasping the rein, brought Dunkie to a halt.

  Val said, “Let go of my rein, please!” in a loud clear voice, doing her best to conceal the fright and anger she felt. Who were these people? Vague memories of Scots history flashed through her head—Rob Roy, savage Highlanders, feuds, the massacre of Glencoe. She raised her crop, trying to pull the rein from the man’s hand.

  “Hey, lads!” he called, taking no notice of her, “this yin’s a fine stoot kimmer; ou, a tasty crittery! What’ll we dae
wi’ her?”

  “Gie ower, ye daft limmer!” called somebody from the shadowy group by the fire. “ ‘Tis the lass frae the Big Hoose—yon Lunnon lassie. Leave her gang free, ye donnart loon. She’s no’ the one we want.”

  “Aweel, aweel,” said the man, sounding disappointed, “she micht gie us a bit siller, did we thrig an’ sorn a bit.”

  “I’ll give you nothing!” said Val. She wondered what thrigging and sorning were; decided she would rather not know. “Let go my bridle, if you please.”

  The narrow dim path seemed full of eyes and faces staring at her—men, women, children, and a few dogs; all the eyes shone with the same eldritch light, reflected from the flames of the fire. They were a wild, ragged crew, the men grasping staves, the women huddled in shawls. Val tapped Dunkie with her crop and tried to edge him past the group. The man who had taken her bridle finally, reluctantly, let go of it and stepped aside.

  “Thank you,” Val said haughtily. Then she noticed the face of a man who seemed remotely familiar, standing toward the rear of the group. Catching his eye she asked, “Am I on the right road for Ardnacarrig?”

  The man she had addressed made no answer. In fact he moved behind another, who said, “Ou, ay. Spang on till ye see anither track on yer left hand, then ahort the brae ahint the auld cassle, an’ ye’ll see Ardnacarrig belaw ye—ye canna gae wrang.”

  “Thank you,” Val said, and pushed Dunkie into his heavy trot. Soon she had left the alarming group behind her and arrived, much to her relief, at the point where the paths from the two little glens joined together. She had come by the longer way, that was all; she had forgotten to cross the bridge down at the bottom, in Wolf’s Hope. And these people must—she remembered now—be the band of tinklers against whom David had warned her.

  They seemed to be waiting for somebody—I wonder who? she thought, coming to the southern side of the headland, seeing with immense relief the pale, familiar curve of Ardnacarrig Bay down below, and the lights, among its trees, of the Big House. I shouldn’t think many people go along that track; I suppose it must be another of their band they are expecting. I must remember to warn Elspie about locking up the poultry.