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Authors: Reay Tannahill
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he decided that the wan, socially correct young woman of the city was the real Vilia, and that the vitality of the journey was merely a sign that she was overwrought. Now she would revert to her company manners, he thought. She was going to inspect all that his grandfather had done in his years at Kinveil – the thriving forestry development, the kelp manufacture, the stone cottages that were beginning to replace the turf houses of old, the new mortar in the castle walls, the repaired roof, the pretty stables he had built on the mainland in preparation for the day when the road should be complete, the flourishing kitchen garden. Inspect it all, and criticize – though not in words – like a returning owner inspecting the work of some conscientious but insensitive steward. For almost three weeks, Luke had succeeded in pushing his forebodings about this visit to the back of his mind. Now they returned in full force.
The sun was sparkling brilliantly on the water when they arrived, the far hills were smoky and two-dimensional like some theatre backcloth, and the fields sulphurous with new green. A lamb cried for its mother. The westerly breeze ruffled the feathery leaves of the rowan tree that guarded the end of the causeway, the tree that protected against the evil eye. Unless a witch, placing her hand on it, cursed the dwelling beyond.
Mungo Telfer was waiting for them. He had been able to see the carriage for almost five miles.
Cool, neat and contained, Vilia held out her hand to him, just as she had held it out to Lucy Telfer at St James’s Square eight months before. ‘This is most kind, Mr Telfer,’ she said, and curtsied politely.
Mungo didn’t even see Luke at first. He was much too interested in Vilia. Taking her hand in both of his, he held it, gazing into her eyes with a look of complete absorption in his own. ‘Welcome home,’ he said.
It was too much for Luke. With a shout of ‘Grandpa!’ and a wide, glad smile on his face, he ran forward and then turned to range himself beside the old man and welcome Vilia to Kinveil. He wanted to be sure she remembered that she was only a visitor, whereas he belonged there.
Chapter Three
1
The first evening was agony. Desperately, Luke wanted to rush out of doors and scuffle along the shell-strewn sands, or scramble up to some viewpoint from which he could see the long, shimmering path leading over the water to the red-gold feet of the sinking sun. It would have been enough just to lean on the castle parapet and breathe the pure, salty air, and savour the calm and the quiet, and the rose-rimmed hills in the afterglow.
It didn’t occur to him that Vilia might be feeling the same as she sat there indoors making dignified and well-informed conversation with his grandfather and the other guests. To Luke’s annoyance, Aunt Charlotte and her new husband had gone off on a round of visits, leaving only a skeleton staff at Glenbraddan and depositing the children, with their nurses and Edward’s tutor, at Kinveil. The general opinion seemed to be that Edward would be company for Luke, while little Georgiana, coming up four, would be no trouble to anyone. Unfortunately, Edward was a pompous young bore. Luke remembered him only too well from the previous year. He didn’t, in fact, say very much, but when he did it was so shatteringly commonplace that everyone else was temporarily deprived of the power of thought. Yet Vilia simply sat there, and listened, and talked, and never betrayed by as much as the flicker of an eyelash that she might have preferred to be elsewhere. Luke wasn’t going to be outdone. While she stayed, he stayed.
It was better next morning. The sun was blazing in through the windows of his tower room when he awoke, highlighting the snowy linen and striking a satin glow from furniture polished with beeswax from Kinveil’s own hives. Luke dashed from one window to another, dragging Henry with him to show him all the special sights.
Although Kinveil
The sun was sparkling brilliantly on the water when they arrived, the far hills were smoky and two-dimensional like some theatre backcloth, and the fields sulphurous with new green. A lamb cried for its mother. The westerly breeze ruffled the feathery leaves of the rowan tree that guarded the end of the causeway, the tree that protected against the evil eye. Unless a witch, placing her hand on it, cursed the dwelling beyond.
Mungo Telfer was waiting for them. He had been able to see the carriage for almost five miles.
Cool, neat and contained, Vilia held out her hand to him, just as she had held it out to Lucy Telfer at St James’s Square eight months before. ‘This is most kind, Mr Telfer,’ she said, and curtsied politely.
Mungo didn’t even see Luke at first. He was much too interested in Vilia. Taking her hand in both of his, he held it, gazing into her eyes with a look of complete absorption in his own. ‘Welcome home,’ he said.
It was too much for Luke. With a shout of ‘Grandpa!’ and a wide, glad smile on his face, he ran forward and then turned to range himself beside the old man and welcome Vilia to Kinveil. He wanted to be sure she remembered that she was only a visitor, whereas he belonged there.
Chapter Three
1
The first evening was agony. Desperately, Luke wanted to rush out of doors and scuffle along the shell-strewn sands, or scramble up to some viewpoint from which he could see the long, shimmering path leading over the water to the red-gold feet of the sinking sun. It would have been enough just to lean on the castle parapet and breathe the pure, salty air, and savour the calm and the quiet, and the rose-rimmed hills in the afterglow.
It didn’t occur to him that Vilia might be feeling the same as she sat there indoors making dignified and well-informed conversation with his grandfather and the other guests. To Luke’s annoyance, Aunt Charlotte and her new husband had gone off on a round of visits, leaving only a skeleton staff at Glenbraddan and depositing the children, with their nurses and Edward’s tutor, at Kinveil. The general opinion seemed to be that Edward would be company for Luke, while little Georgiana, coming up four, would be no trouble to anyone. Unfortunately, Edward was a pompous young bore. Luke remembered him only too well from the previous year. He didn’t, in fact, say very much, but when he did it was so shatteringly commonplace that everyone else was temporarily deprived of the power of thought. Yet Vilia simply sat there, and listened, and talked, and never betrayed by as much as the flicker of an eyelash that she might have preferred to be elsewhere. Luke wasn’t going to be outdone. While she stayed, he stayed.
It was better next morning. The sun was blazing in through the windows of his tower room when he awoke, highlighting the snowy linen and striking a satin glow from furniture polished with beeswax from Kinveil’s own hives. Luke dashed from one window to another, dragging Henry with him to show him all the special sights.
Although Kinveil
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