Monkshood

To her astonishment, there were footprints at the back of the house – huge footprints that laced and interlaced the area just outside the back door. Some had obviously been made some days ago, as these were already beginning to disappear under more layers of snow, but some seemed to have been freshly made.

She frowned. Could she possibly have made a mistake? Was this not Monkshood after all? If so, she was trespassing on someone else’s property.

She shook her head in bewilderment. Cairnside was such a sparsely habited area it seemed incredible that there could be two houses possessing the same characteristics and both in such an obvious state of neglect. She had been prepared for neglect, the solicitors had warned her of that, but they had also said that basically the house was sound and that was why she wanted to see it for herself.

The silence all around the house was almost deafening. Even the snow fell silently, and Melanie felt a sense of unease assail her. What if she was right? What if this was Monkshood and someone was using it as a sleeping place? After all, there had been no footprints at the front of the house, so whoever it was wanted to remain anonymous, it would seem.

She shivered momentarily. There were footprints at the front now. Her footprints! And anyone looking out of an upper floor window would see them. A desire to run assailed her, and only the memory of Michael’s smiling contention that she would never be able to manage alone caused her to still her racing pulses. She was being melodramatic, allowing the silence to get the better of her. This was her house, after all, and if anyone was inside, they would jolly well have to shift themselves.

Stepping forward, she tried the handle of the back door. To her astonishment, it gave under her fingers and she pushed it open incredulously.

The door fell back to reveal a kitchen, stark and cold. There was a range of the like Melanie had never seen before, which appeared to provide cooking as well as heating facilities, a scrubbed kitchen table, somewhat mildewed now with dampness, and several plain wooden chairs.

She hesitated on the threshold, listening, but there were no sounds. It seemed that whoever was using the place was not at home at the moment. She stepped inside, but refrained from closing the door behind her – just in case!

Resisting the impulse to walk on tiptoe, she crossed the kitchen and opened the door at its farthest side. This led into a passage which, although it was gloomy, could be seen to lead directly through the house to the front door. At the end of the passage, near the front door, stairs could be seen running up, and there were several doors opening from the passage itself.

Melanie grew a little more confident. There was no sign here of anyone’s habitation, and she threw open the door opposite the kitchen door.

This appeared to be the dining-room. There was a table, heavily covered with dust, several chairs, and an antique dresser loaded with grimy plates and cups.

Another door revealed a kind of study, with books against the walls, and a desk that would do marvellously for her illustration work. Yet another room appeared to be the lounge, with an old suite and several odd chairs and tables.

The whole house, it would appear, if the upstairs was the same, was furnished after a fashion, and Melanie thought that a good spring-cleaning was what was needed. Indeed, her spirits rose higher, if she was stranded in Cairnside for any length of time, she might be able to accomplish this herself.

She was so absorbed with her exciting reasoning, that she did not hear footsteps descending the threadbare carpet on the stairs, nor hear a man approach the doorway of the lounge to stand regarding her with obvious astonishment, until a deep voice said:

‘Do you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in here?’

Melanie almost collapsed, so great was the shock, and she swung round to face Sean Bothwell.

‘You!’ she exclaimed, in disbelief. ‘It was your footsteps I saw outside!’

‘It was,’ he agreed uncompromisingly, his expression grim. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. I asked you what you thought you were doing here!’

Melanie quivered a little under that penetrating stare. ‘I – I might ask you the same question,’ she retorted.

Bothwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I asked the question first,’ he said, with harsh insistence in his voice.

Melanie swallowed hard. ‘Very well, then. I – I own this house.’ She put a hand to her lips. ‘This is – Monkshood, isn’t it?’

There was a moment when she thought she had been mistaken after all; when she began to think frantically that she had made some terrible mistake, and had indeed invaded someone else’s private property.

And then he said, slowly and clearly: ‘Yes, Miss Stewart, this is Monkshood. But you are not the owner. I am!’

CHAPTER THREE

MELANIE was speechless for a moment and she stood staring helplessly at Bothwell as though he were some kind of malignant spirit. Then, gathering her scattered senses, she said carefully:

‘I think there’s been some mistake, Mr. Bothwell. Angus Cairney was my mother’s cousin. She was his only relative, and as she is dead, Monkshood was left to me.’

Bothwell’s light eyes were veiled by the long black lashes that were the only feminine thing about an otherwise harshly masculine face. The long sideburns that grew down to his jawline accentuated the darkness of his features and added to his air of command. In different clothes he would have fitted well into a more primitive era of history, and Melanie had the distinct impression that even today Sean Bothwell was a law unto himself.

‘I see,’ he said now. ‘And who told you Monkshood was yours?’

‘Why – why, the solicitors, of course.’

‘What solicitors?’ His tone demanded no prevarication on her part and she found herself saying:

‘McDougall and Price, naturally.’

‘Ah!’ He ran a hand down his cheek thoughtfully. ‘They contacted you in London?’

‘My solicitors, yes.’

Melanie stiffened. She was allowing her own surprise at finding him here to weaken her resolve, and he was simply using her to gain whatever information he could get. Straightening her shoulders, she said:

‘And now perhaps you’ll tell me why you should imagine Monkshood belongs to you?’

Bothwell turned those light eyes upon her and she moved a little uncomfortably. She would not admit to being afraid of him exactly, but he did disturb her in a way no man had hitherto disturbed her. It was his attitude; she could not be certain what he might say or do next, and it was most disconcerting. She had always found men reasonably easy to handle, but Sean Bothwell was different somehow.

‘Angus Cairney was my father,’ he said now, his eyes narrowed and speculative.

Melanie fell back a step. ‘What?’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘But – but the solicitors! They didn’t even know he was married!’

Sean Bothwell gave her a derisive stare. ‘He wasn’t,’ he said deliberately.

Melanie felt the hot colour surge up her cheeks at his words and she twisted her fingers together nervously. She was sure he was enjoying her discomfiture, but that didn’t prevent her feeling of mortification. Compressing her lips, she tried desperately to find something to say, but his statement was irrefutable.

As though relenting a little, Bothwell took his eyes from her confusion and glanced round the room. Taking out his case, he put a cigar between his lips and lit it before walking across to the windows. They were shuttered here, as in all the downstairs rooms, but it was possible to see through the slats. He stared out broodingly for a while, giving her time to collect herself, and Melanie was somewhat relieved. Even so, she dreaded the moment when he would turn and their conversation would have to continue.

Eventually he moved away from the window and she felt his eyes flicker over her again. Melanie felt an awful sense of inadequacy assail her, and wished for the first time that she had waited for Michael to accompany her to Cairnside. Surely this situation could never have happened if he had been with her. He would have insisted on her making proper inquiries and making an official visit here to look round. He would never have countenanced an impulsive invasion into someone’s privacy. And yet she had not known what old emotions she was rekindling when she pushed open the door of Monkshood.

‘Well?’ he said finally, spreading his hand expressively. ‘What do you intend to do with it?’

Melanie stared at him, pressing her lips together to prevent them from trembling. ‘I – I – oh, I don’t know,’ she said, bending her head. ‘I – I no longer feel I have any right to the place!’

His eyes narrowed chillingly. ‘Oh, come now, Miss Stewart! Spare me the platitudes! I’m quite aware that I’ve shocked your little system to the core, but don’t allow it to colour your judgment. I’m sure McDougall and Price would agree with me in that at least!’

Melanie bit her lip. ‘Your – your father made a will—’

‘I guessed that. I would imagine it was made some time ago, however.’

‘Yes.’ Melanie looked away from him, unable to suffer that bleak appraisal. ‘Perhaps he left a second—’

Bothwell shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘He had probably forgotten he had made the first. He was an old man, Miss Stewart, not much concerned with worldly matters.’

Melanie shook her head. ‘My mother only mentioned him a couple of times. I never met him.’

‘Your mother must have been his only relative. He never married.’

‘But your mother—’ began Melanie impulsively, only to halt uncertainly as his expression darkened.

‘My mother was already married – to someone else,’ he advised her harshly. ‘I do not think the details of my conception need concern you.’

Melanie turned away. ‘I feel terrible …’

‘Why should you?’ His voice was cold. ‘We cannot be held responsible for the actions of others.’ He walked towards the door, drawing on fur-lined leather gloves. ‘I’ll leave you to investigate your property. Just one point, when you decide to sell the place, I’d like first refusal.’

‘Oh, please,’ Melanie turned to him again, holding out her hands in a gesture almost of supplication. ‘Please, don’t go. I – well – I wish you would stay.’

His eyes surveyed her broodingly. ‘Why?’

Melanie loosened her fur hat, taking it off and allowing her hair to swing in a dark silky curtain against her flushed cheeks. ‘We – we’re almost related, aren’t we? Surely we can be friends. I’d like your advice.’

Bothwell leaned indolently against the door post. ‘You do not strike me as the kind of woman who would take advice from anyone,’ he observed dryly.

Melanie quelled her indignation. ‘Why do you say that?’

He frowned. ‘Surely there was someone back home who advised you not to come to Cairnside at this time of the year, wasn’t there? You’re wearing an engagement ring – didn’t your fiancé express any doubts on your behalf, or is the ring merely a decoration, designed to arouse speculation?’

Melanie looked down at the square-cut diamond Michael had bought her. She was so used to wearing it, she had not thought he would notice. ‘I am engaged, yes,’ she said slowly. ‘And my fiancé did suggest that I should wait until the spring to come here, but surely you can understand my anxieties about a house standing empty all winter?’

Bothwell straightened. ‘You could have had someone look after it for you. The solicitors would no doubt have been pleased to arrange it.’

Melanie compressed her lips. ‘I didn’t think of it,’ she replied.

Bothwell shook his head. ‘Exactly why did you want to come here yourself?’

Melanie sighed. ‘My reasons wouldn’t stand up to your cold-blooded assessment of the situation,’ she answered impatiently.

Bothwell looked wryly at her. ‘Try me!’

Melanie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I wante4 to see the house because I’ve never owned a house before. I’ve never even lived in a house, so far as I can remember. We always had flats or apartments, and I suppose foolishly I thought I might make a home here.’

‘I see.’ Bothwell drew deeply on his cigar. ‘And your fiancé? Is he agreeable to moving north?’

Melanie made an involuntary gesture. ‘I – I haven’t actually discussed it with him yet. He’s a solicitor – in London.’

‘Then perhaps you should,’ Bothwell observed dryly.

Melanie’s colour deepened again. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

‘Why? To discuss it with your fiancé?’

‘No, you know what I mean. For wanting to keep the house?’

Bothwell threw the butt of his cigar into the empty fire grate. ‘If I say yes, my reasons are bound to be biased, aren’t they?’

Melanie shrugged. ‘In the circumstances, I think you should tell me what you think.’

‘Why?’

Melanie spread her hands expressively. ‘The house is much more yours than mine!’

‘Oh, no, Miss Stewart. It’s your house.’

Melanie stared at him helplessly. ‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me,’ she accused him. ‘Why did you want the house anyway?’

Bothwell shrugged. ‘To live in – what else?’

Melanie sighed. ‘If I were a man, we could perhaps have come to some compromise—’

‘If you were a man the situation would not arise. You would simply sell the place and not involve yourself in a lot of sentimental nonsense about making a home—’

‘How dare you!’ Melanie stared at him angrily. ‘If I want to get away from London, surely that’s my affair!’

Bothwell’s light eyes were coldly contemptuous. ‘If you want to get away from London so badly, perhaps you should examine your motives more closely,’ he said. ‘It may not be just London, after all!’

‘What do you mean?’

Bothwell turned to the door. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the time to stand here arguing with you all morning, Miss Stewart. Some of us have jobs to do. Excuse me!’ And with that he turned and strode away down the passage.

After he had gone, Melanie stood for a few moments heaving a shaking breath. Always, after a confrontation with him, she felt completely enervated.

However, after a few minutes she gathered her composure and looked about her again. It was no use allowing his bitterness to influence her judgment, and besides, it was by no means certain that she would in fact keep the house. Michael would have to approve and somehow she could not see him subjecting himself to these kind of conditions in winter without a great deal of inducement …

But for herself, the location was perfect. There was so much freedom and life and animal activity here and it would be a perfect place to write the kind of books she wanted to write.

Upstairs was very similar to downstairs, she found as she continued her explorations. The house was furnished, but if she intended living here, she would need to make a lot of changes. She paused to wonder why Bothwell had been in the house, and then shook her head. After all, he had presumed the house to be his, so why shouldn’t he be here?

It was after twelve-thirty as she left Monkshood to return to the hotel for lunch, and still snowing as heavily as ever. To her surprise she found a bunch of keys lying on the kitchen table, and guessed these were the keys Bothwell had used to let himself in and out. Conversely, she wished he had kept the keys, somehow. It seemed so final just handing them over like that. She could not suppress the feeling of guilt that assailed her in that moment.

Trudging up the road to the hotel she was surprised to see a sleek sports car parked in front, its gleaming paint-work liberally splashed with slush. It looked so incongruous, somehow, beside the rather workmanlike bulk of the Range-Rover, and she wondered who it belonged to. Another guest, perhaps?

Lunch was at one, so she had time to go upstairs and wash her face and shed her outdoor clothes before the meal. There was no one in the reception hall although voices could be heard from the bar, so perhaps whoever it was was just having a drink.

When she came downstairs again, she went straight into the dining-room and discovered the Sullivan sisters seated by the fire talking to the other elderly man who was staying at the hotel. They greeted her in quite a friendly fashion, and then introduced her to the other guest. His name was Ian Macdonald and he asked her where she had been to get such colour in her cheeks.

Deciding she might as well make a clean breast of it, Melanie said: ‘Actually, I went to see Monkshood.’ She smiled at Jane Sullivan. ‘You had said it was near the village, and I found it easily.’

‘Oh, did you?’ Jane Sullivan raised her eyebrows with assumed indifference.

‘Monkshood!’ Ian Macdonald frowned. ‘What would you be wanting with that old place? Is it up for sale, after all? Sean didn’t say anything about selling!’

Melanie intercepted a look that Elizabeth Sullivan cast in his direction with meaningful intensity, but Ian Macdonald was not to be silenced. ‘Now then, Lizzie,’ he declared loudly, ‘everyone knows Sean owns Monkshood. Sure and wasn’t it from old Angus himself that he inherited his cussedness?’

Melanie bent her head. Confronted by such an argument, she could not say that Monkshood belonged to her. Instead she turned with some relief as the young maid came in with the first trays of lunch, and everyone was forced to take their seats at their tables. Alaister came in after the maid, and he joined Ian Macdonald at his table, and as the two Sullivan sisters were talking together Melanie was relieved of the necessity of saying anything more.

The meal was delicious. Game soup was followed by a mouth-watering steak and kidney pie, and to complete the meal there was apple tart and custard. The food might be unimaginative, thought Melanie, replete, but at least it was beautifully served, and extremely appetizing. She felt sure that several weeks here would add several pounds to her figure which she could do without.

After the meal, the older guests retired to their rooms, and Melanie carried her second cup of coffee to the seat by the fire, smiling at the maid who came to clear the tables.

Now that she had seen the house and made her own assessment of it, there was nothing to keep her in Cairnside. She could return to London as, she had originally planned. Bothwell’s suggestion that she could find somebody to look after the upkeep of the building had solved her most immediate problems and apart from the difficulty of getting her car there was nothing to prevent her from leaving. Of course, she could return to London by train and send for her car later, when the weather improved, but somehow she was loath to do that. Maybe in a couple of days she would be able to find a garage willing to dig it out for her, and in the meantime she could content herself by taking measurements for curtains and carpets, etc.

She sighed, looking at the snow that was still falling heavily beyond the windows of the dining-room. If Michael knew of her predicament, he would demand that she return by train immediately, but she was in no hurry to leave just yet. Apart from her clashes with Bothwell, she was quite enjoying herself here, and certainly the snow was a novelty. Why should she rush back to town until she was absolutely ready to do so?

Suddenly there was the sound of voices, and the dining-room door opened to admit Bothwell himself and a girl who Melanie had not seen before. The girl was as tall as Melanie, but much slimmer, so that the bones of her face were almost gauntly visible. Her hair was Scandinavian fair, and accentuated the pallor of her skin, and although she was not unattractive, her clothes were so lacking in elegance that she looked positively ungainly. She was clinging to Bothwell’s arm, and looking up into his face adoringly, and Melanie felt uncomfortably aware that she should not have witnessed this scene. This awareness was heightened when Bothwell himself saw her and his cold light eyes bored chillingly into hers. Melanie was tempted to rise and leave them, but to do so would automatically draw attention to herself, so she curled up a little more closely in her chair, tucking her legs beneath her and returned her gaze to the leaping flames from the logs in the grate.

Bothwell released himself from the girl’s clinging grasp and taking her hand instead said: ‘Jennie, I’d like you to meet a new visitor to the Black Bull: Miss Stewart!’

Now Melanie was forced to turn and acknowledge them, and she got reluctantly to her feet, intensely aware of Bothwell’s appraising stare. She had not bothered to change the trousers and sweater she had been wearing earlier, but under his gaze she felt stripped of all composure.

‘How do you do?’ the girl spoke suddenly, taking Melanie’s hand warmly. ‘I’m Jennifer Craig.’

Melanie smiled a greeting and Jennifer went on casually: ‘I live quite near here, beyond the village at the head of the loch. Have you come to stay long?’

Melanie was disconcerted by the girl’s frankness, and she found herself saying: ‘I don’t expect so. Unless the weather conditions force me to do so.’

Jennifer chuckled. ‘Yes, it is pretty dreadful, isn’t it? I was just suggesting to Sean that we should arrange a skating party if the loch ices over. But we’re used to the weather, of course, aren’t we, Sean?’

‘Indeed we are,’ he confirmed dryly, looking not at Melanie now but at Jennifer, his expression so tender in its gentleness that a strange tightness came to Melanie’s throat. Certainly, he would never look at her in that way, she thought, and then chided herself for thinking such thoughts.

‘Are you on holiday, Miss Stewart?’ Jennifer was asking now.

Melanie bit her lip. ‘Not exactly,’ she temporized.

‘Miss Stewart has come to see Monkshood,’ put in Bothwell, his gaze flicking coolly to Melanie again.

‘Monkshood?’ Jennifer was obviously surprised. ‘Are you interested in old buildings, Miss Stewart?’

Before Melanie could think of some suitable reply, Bothwell spoke again, his voice curt and chilling. ‘Miss Stewart is the new owner of Monkshood,’ he informed her.

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