She took another sip from her glass. They fell silent. From beyond the closed door came sounds of activity. A door opened and closed. And then Lucilla's voice. 'Conrad. How smart you look. I don't know where Dad is, but go downstairs and we'll all be with you in a moment…'
'I hope,' said Archie, 'that she's wearing Isobel's petticoat.'
'Conrad is such a gentleman that even if Lucilla is stark-naked, he'll pay no regard. Such a nice man. It would have been too awful for all of us if he'd been a crashing bore.'
'You must make a point of dancing with him.'
'I'll twirl him through a Dashing White Sergeant and introduce him to all the nobs as we move around the room. That's the only thing about this evening that makes me a little unhappy. You won't be able to dance.'
'Don't worry about that. Over the years, I've perfected the art of sparkling conversation…'
They were interrupted at last by Lucilla opening the door and putting her head around the edge of it.
'Sorry to barge in, but there's a crisis. Dad, Jeff can't tie Edmund's bow-tie. He's only worn a bow-tie once in his life, and that was a made-up one on an elastic. I tried to help, but it was a total failure. Can you come and assist?'
'Of course.'
Duty called. He was needed. The quiet moments were over. He gave Pandora a kiss. 'See you.' And then got to his feet and followed Lucilla out of the room. Pandora, left alone, slowly finished her drink.
The song was ended.
Violet, with Highland blood coursing through her veins, always stoutly averred that she was not superstitious. She walked under ladders, disregarded Friday the thirteenth, and never touched wood. If some sort of an omen presented itself, she usually told herself firmly that it was probably for the best, and looked for good news. She was grateful that she had not been blessed-or cursed-with second sight. It was better not to know what the future held.
Having dealt with Edie, and bullied* that promise out of her, she expected her anxieties to be resolved, and her mind once more at rest. But this did not happen, and she returned to her fireside chair in a state of grave apprehension. What was amiss? Why did she feel all at once haunted by nameless, lurking fears? Bundled in her old dressing-gown, she sat forward, staring into the flames, searching for the root cause of her sudden chill, the unease that, like a weight, lay deep in her being.
Hearing that Lottie was on the loose, wandering about, up to Heaven knew what, was bad enough; but, ridiculously, the fact that she could not get through to Balnaid and speak to Edmund disturbed her a good deal more. It wasn't just the frustration of non-communication. Often, during the winter blizzards, Violet was cut off at Pennyburn for a day or more, and isolation did not worry her in the very least. It was just that the breakdown had occurred at such a startlingly inappropriate time. As though some uncontrollable and malevolent force were at work.
She was not superstitious. But misfortunes invariably happened in threes. First Lottie, then the faulty telephone. What next?
She let her imagination move forward to the evening ahead, and knew that there lay a veritable minefield of potential disaster. For the first time, the players in the drama that had been boiling up over the last week would all come together, gathered around the dining-room table at Croy. Edmund, Virginia, Pandora, Conrad, Alexa, and Noel. All, in their various ways, confused and restless, searching for some elusive happiness, as though it could be found, like a pot of gold, at the end of a fairy-tale rainbow. But in their efforts all they seemed to have unearthed was a useless cache of destructive emotion. Resentment, distrust, selfishness, greed, and disloyalty. Adultery, too. Only Alexa, it seemed, stayed unsullied. For Alexa, there was only the pain of love.
A log, burning through, collapsed with a whisper into the bed of ashes. An interruption. Violet looked up at her clock, and was horrified to see that she had sat, brooding, for too long, for it was already a quarter past eight. She would be late arriving at Croy. Under usual circumstances, this would have bothered her, for she was a stickler for punctuality, but this evening, with so much else on her mind, it scarcely seemed to matter. For fifteen minutes or so, she would not be missed, and Isobel would not lead them into the dining-room until at least nine o'clock.
She realized, too, that the last thing she wanted to do was go out. Smile, chat, conceal her apprehensions. She did not want to leave the safe haven of her house, her fireside. Something, somewhere, was lying in wait, and her frail human instinct was to bolt herself indoors, in safety, sit by the telephone, and keep watch.
But she was
She pulled herself together, got out of her chair, put the guard on the dying fire, and went upstairs. Swiftly, she bathed, and then dressed herself for the party. Silk underclothes and black silk stockings, the venerable black velvet gown, the satin court shoes. She dressed her hair, and then took up her diamond tiara and settled it on her head, fixing, with a bit of difficulty, the loop of elastic at the back. She powdered her nose, found a lacy handkerchief, sprayed a little eau-de-cologne about her person. Moving to her long mirror, she gauged, with critical eyes, the general effect. Saw a large and stout dowager for whom the word 'dignified' seemed the kindest description.
Large and stout. And old. All at once, she felt very tired. Tiredness did funny things to one's imagination, for, staring into the mirror, she saw beyond her own reflection the cloudy image of another woman. Never beautiful, but unlined, and brown-haired and filled with a raging energy for life. Herself, wearing the crimson satin ball gown that had been her most favourite. And beside that other woman, stood Geordie. For an instant the mirage stayed, so real that she could have touched it. And then it faded and was gone, and she was left alone. For years, she had not felt so alone. But there was no time to stand and feel sorry for herself. Others were waiting for her, as always, demanding her company, her attention. She turned from the mirror, reached for her fur coat and pulled it on, picking up her evening bag and switching off the lights. Downstairs, she went out through the kitchen door, locking it behind her. The night was dark, and damp with a drizzling mist. She crossed over to the garage and got into her car. Lifts had been offered by all and sundry, but she had chosen to drive herself to Croy, and after dinner, she would drive herself to Corriehill. That way she would be totally independent of any person and able to return home whenever she chose.
You should always leave a party just when you are most enjoying yourself.
That had been one of Geordie's maxims. Thinking of Geordie, hearing his dear voice in her head filled her with a certain comfort. On such occasions, she never felt that he was very far away. How amused he would be by her now, seventy-eight years old, dolled up in velvet and diamonds and fur, and driving herself in her mud-stained motor car to… of all things… a ball.
Headed up the hill, watching the road ahead contained by the beam of her own headlights, she made Geordie a promise.
I know this is a ludicrous situation, my darling, but it is the last time. After this evening, if any person is kind enough to ask me to a dance, I shall tell them no. And my excuse will be that I am really far too old.
Henry walked. Darkness had fallen and a thin rain drifted into his face. The river, the Croy, kept him company, flowing alongside the winding road. He could not see it, but was aware all the time of the presence of moving water, the rippling sound as the shallows tumbled downhill in a series of little pools and waterfalls. It was comforting to know that the Croy was there. The only other noises to reach his ears were familiar, but strangely magnified by his own solitude. The wind, stirring the branches of trees, and the curlew's lonely call. His footsteps sounded enormous. Sometimes he imagined other footsteps, following some way behind him, but it was probably just an echo of his own tread. Any alternative was too scary to contemplate.
He had been passed by only three cars, driving from Caple Bridge and heading, as he was headed, up the glen. On each occasion, aware of the approaching headlights, he had bundled himself down into the ditch, hiding until the car was gone, zipping past with a hiss of tyres on the wet road. He did not wish to be observed, and as well, he did not wish to be offered a lift. Accepting lifts from strangers was not only dreadfully dangerous, but totally forbidden, and at this stage of his long journey, Henry was not about to risk being driven somewhere he did not want to go, and murdered.
However, when he was less than a mile from Strathcroy, and could actually see the lights of the village pricking like welcome stars through the gloom, he did get a lift. A massive double-deckered sheep-float came grinding up the road behind him, and Henry somehow hadn't the energy to jump for the ditch before being caught in its headlights. Even as it passed Henry, the sheep-float was already slowing down. It drew to a throbbing halt, and the driver opened the door of his high cab and waited for Henry to catch up with him. He squinted down into the murky dusk and saw Henry's Balaclava-ed face staring up at him.
