don’t know what I will do. I don’t know how I will face her; she inspires such terror in me. All I can do is hope and pray … and wait for what I know is inevitable …
The letter was signed Daniel Morton.
Charles read it through once, twice, then lay on his back in the moonlight, staring up at the ceiling.
Part of him longed to go next door and confide in his brother Seb, but he couldn’t, because he didn’t want to admit that the same thing was happening to him as had happened to his father before him. He knew what his father meant when he wrote that letter. With some deep part of himself, he
understood
.
He also knew that Fiona and Samuel were trying to find out too. By day he watched them like a hawk. He listened at doors, studied them as they walked alone in the gardensbelow. How much did they know, he wondered?
The following afternoon when his mother suggested they all go skiing again to lift their spirits, and Fiona backed out of it, claiming she was too tired, Charles watched his sister making her excuses.
As he set off with Sebastian and his mother through the snow, he glanced back at the house uneasily, wondering what the other two would be doing in their absence. He was half-tempted to linger, to double-back and take them by surprise. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The forest either side of him looked ghostly in the freezing light, mist caught in pockets of darkness where the branches met. He longed to turn back, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it, and he was forced to go on.
He was right, of course. Fiona and Samuel had been waiting for an opportunity to explore the library when the house was empty, and now it had come. Granny and her husband were both occupied in other parts of the house, and Isabel was working in her studio. They knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Samuel turned to Fiona once the house had fallen silent. “Right. Now’s our chance.”
They watched from one of the windows to make sure the others had left.
Fiona didn’t feel optimistic about finding the rest of the journal. “Why would those few pages have been torn out? The rest of it must have been destroyed.”
“We don’t know that,” Samuel said.
Fiona led the way into the dark hallway, past the grandfather clock and up the spiralling staircase. She was used to the huge old farmhouse with its turrets and tower and complicated eaves, but even she was beginning to feel alittle nervous creeping around it like a couple of detectives.
In the drawing room the curtains at the big windows were drawn back.
“I love that view,” Samuel murmured, taking a breath as he walked towards it.
“So do I,” Fiona said. They were so high up here that often, when the valley below was filled with mist or rain, they sailed above it all, the sun breaking through. There was a feeling of elation then, as if they really were on top of the world.
“I used to have a great view in Edinburgh too. I could see the Castle from my room, all lit up at night like something out of a fairytale.”
There was a pause and Fiona said, “I wonder if she loved it too.”
“Who?”
“Catherine Morton.”
As they stood at the window, looking at the moor, Samuel tried to make out the rooftops of Lynns Farm below.
“You can’t see it from here,” Fiona told him. “Too many trees.”
“Your mother really worries about you going near that place, doesn’t she?”
Fiona nodded. “It’s another of her weird rules. We’re not allowed to go there, that’s all.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I told you, a grumpy old man lives there.”
“With the same name as Patrick MacFarlane in the journal?”
“I know. Weird, isn’t it? Mum doesn’t get on with him for some reason.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like our dogs wandering about. Who knows? Anyway, you heard what Charles said. He’s supposed to be a bit of a weirdo.”
“In what way?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. No one actually says!”
They
The letter was signed Daniel Morton.
Charles read it through once, twice, then lay on his back in the moonlight, staring up at the ceiling.
Part of him longed to go next door and confide in his brother Seb, but he couldn’t, because he didn’t want to admit that the same thing was happening to him as had happened to his father before him. He knew what his father meant when he wrote that letter. With some deep part of himself, he
understood
.
He also knew that Fiona and Samuel were trying to find out too. By day he watched them like a hawk. He listened at doors, studied them as they walked alone in the gardensbelow. How much did they know, he wondered?
The following afternoon when his mother suggested they all go skiing again to lift their spirits, and Fiona backed out of it, claiming she was too tired, Charles watched his sister making her excuses.
As he set off with Sebastian and his mother through the snow, he glanced back at the house uneasily, wondering what the other two would be doing in their absence. He was half-tempted to linger, to double-back and take them by surprise. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The forest either side of him looked ghostly in the freezing light, mist caught in pockets of darkness where the branches met. He longed to turn back, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it, and he was forced to go on.
He was right, of course. Fiona and Samuel had been waiting for an opportunity to explore the library when the house was empty, and now it had come. Granny and her husband were both occupied in other parts of the house, and Isabel was working in her studio. They knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Samuel turned to Fiona once the house had fallen silent. “Right. Now’s our chance.”
They watched from one of the windows to make sure the others had left.
Fiona didn’t feel optimistic about finding the rest of the journal. “Why would those few pages have been torn out? The rest of it must have been destroyed.”
“We don’t know that,” Samuel said.
Fiona led the way into the dark hallway, past the grandfather clock and up the spiralling staircase. She was used to the huge old farmhouse with its turrets and tower and complicated eaves, but even she was beginning to feel alittle nervous creeping around it like a couple of detectives.
In the drawing room the curtains at the big windows were drawn back.
“I love that view,” Samuel murmured, taking a breath as he walked towards it.
“So do I,” Fiona said. They were so high up here that often, when the valley below was filled with mist or rain, they sailed above it all, the sun breaking through. There was a feeling of elation then, as if they really were on top of the world.
“I used to have a great view in Edinburgh too. I could see the Castle from my room, all lit up at night like something out of a fairytale.”
There was a pause and Fiona said, “I wonder if she loved it too.”
“Who?”
“Catherine Morton.”
As they stood at the window, looking at the moor, Samuel tried to make out the rooftops of Lynns Farm below.
“You can’t see it from here,” Fiona told him. “Too many trees.”
“Your mother really worries about you going near that place, doesn’t she?”
Fiona nodded. “It’s another of her weird rules. We’re not allowed to go there, that’s all.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I told you, a grumpy old man lives there.”
“With the same name as Patrick MacFarlane in the journal?”
“I know. Weird, isn’t it? Mum doesn’t get on with him for some reason.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like our dogs wandering about. Who knows? Anyway, you heard what Charles said. He’s supposed to be a bit of a weirdo.”
“In what way?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. No one actually says!”
They
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