Jules Bennett - One Summer At The Castle

The car, an ancient Ford, was kept in a shed at the back of the guesthouse, and Rosa saw at once that the landlady hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said it wasn’t very grand. It had to be at least twenty years old, and was covered in dust into the bargain. Mrs Ferguson had to wipe away a handful of spiders’ webs before she could open the door.

But the engine started after only a couple of hiccoughs, and Rosa stepped aside as the woman reversed it out onto the street. One good thing—the rain quickly cleared the dust from the chassis, and Rosa saw that the wipers worked. All in all, it was exactly what she needed, and she couldn’t thank the landlady enough.

‘Och, it’s nothing,’ said Mrs Ferguson, surrendering the driving seat to her guest and stepping back into the shelter of the shed, out of the rain. ‘You drive carefully, now. The roads can be treacherous in the wet. I wouldn’t like you to go skidding into a bog.’

Rosa thought she wouldn’t like that, either, but she refused to be daunted. She couldn’t be a worse driver than old McAllister if she tried. And there was no hurry. If she took all morning to get there, it wouldn’t matter.

The first indication that driving Mrs Ferguson’s car wasn’t going to be a sinecure came when Rosa reached the first corner and tried to turn. The wheel was like a dead weight in her hands, and she realised that it had no power steering. Of course, she thought impatiently, wrenching the car round manually. The installation of power steering in small cars like this was a comparatively recent innovation.

It made driving much harder, and her arms were aching by the time she’d negotiated the twists and turns down to the harbour. It was easier once she was driving up the road out of the village, but she wasn’t looking forward to the journey across that lonely stretch of moor.

The rain hindered visibility, too, and once or twice she was sure she saw ghostly figures rising out of the mist. But it was only the skeletal trunks of trees worn bare by the winds that raked the boggy scrubland. Nevertheless, she was glad she didn’t have to drive across here in the dark.

At last she reached the road that wound down into the glen where Kilfoil Castle was situated. She couldn’t see the castle, of course. The driving rain made that impossible. But now and then she glimpsed a farmhouse, and the unmistakable presence of livestock. She even saw a farmer herding some cows into a barn.

She relaxed. She’d made it. The only problem now was getting in to see Liam himself. She had the feeling Sam wouldn’t be too pleased when she presented herself at the door. But he must know she hadn’t left the island. Surely he might expect that she’d try to see his employer again?

She drove over the small bridge and parked in the same place Liam had used four days ago. Four days! She was amazed. Was that really all it was? She grimaced. Sometimes it felt as if she’d been here half her life.

She got out of the car, closing the door with care. No one had come to meet her, and she was curiously loath to announce her arrival in advance. Squaring her shoulders against the squally wind that blew in off the ocean, she crossed the forecourt to the double doors.

There was no bell, but she’d hardly expected one. Knights of old hadn’t needed such things. In the books she’d read, the knight’s lady would be watching for her spouse from one of the narrow windows in the solar, or perhaps a vigilant guard would warn of a stranger’s arrival. The portcullis would be lowered to protect those within the castle—

‘Miss Chantry!’

Rosa had been so absorbed with her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the door being opened. But now the housekeeper stood there, regarding her with obvious surprise.

‘Oh, Mrs Wilson.’ Rosa knew she should have been better prepared for this encounter. ‘Um—how are you?’

‘I’m very well, thank you.’ The woman cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Miss Chantry?’

‘I hope so, yes.’ Rosa smiled. ‘Is—er—is Mr Jameson about?’

It was a stupid question. Rosa knew that as soon as the words left her lips. Where else would he be?

‘Mr Jameson?’

The housekeeper sounded doubtful, and she hurried on, ‘Yes. I mean, is he working this morning? Or could I have a quick word with him?’

‘Oh, I—’ Once again Mrs Wilson looked back over her shoulder. ‘I’m afraid that’s not a question I can answer, Miss Chantry.’ She hesitated, and then went on, ‘You’d have to ask Mr Devlin.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll get him for you.’

‘No, I—’

Rosa started to say Sam Devlin was the last person she wanted to see, but it was too late. The woman had already turned and hurried away, leaving Rosa to cool her heels on the doorstep like some pushy double-glazing saleswoman.

She could have invited her inside, Rosa thought, disheartened. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been inside the castle before. For heaven’s sake, she’d spent a night here. Why was she being treated like an intruder?

Because that was what she was, she’d decided, when she heard Sam Devlin’s footsteps crossing the hall. She’d just nudged under the overhang, in a rather fruitless attempt to keep dry, but she stepped aback almost instinctively when the man appeared.

However, Sam was surprisingly more charitable than the housekeeper. ‘Och, come away inside, Miss Chantry,’ he exclaimed, stepping back to allow her to enter the huge hall. ‘It’s a wretched morning, to be sure. You’ll be wishing this storm would ease, no doubt. I dare say you’re eager to get back to the mainland?’

‘Yes.’ Rosa had little option other than to agree. ‘Um, I’m sorry to trouble you again, but I still haven’t spoken to Mr Jameson.’ She paused, and then went on rather recklessly, ‘You did give him my message, didn’t you?’

‘What message would that be, Miss Chantry?’

Rosa sighed. She should have known his charity wouldn’t stretch that far. ‘Well, that I wanted to speak to him again,’ she said stiffly. ‘If the ferry hadn’t been delayed, I’d be gone by now.’

‘So you would.’ Sam regarded her consideringly as he closed the heavy door. ‘But, contrary to what you believe, Miss Chantry, I did tell Mr Jameson what you’d said.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Rosa felt foolish now, and her face burned with sudden colour. ‘What you mean is, Mr Jameson didn’t want to speak to me, is that right?’ She swallowed her humiliation. ‘Well, that’s all right. I realise now I shouldn’t have bothered him.’ She turned back to the door. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘Wait!’ As she fumbled with the latch, Sam spoke again. ‘Look, Miss Chantry,’ he said, and now he sounded a little embarrassed, ‘I didn’t mean to imply that Liam had refused to speak to you. As a matter of fact I don’t know what he might have done if—if…’ He hesitated, as if he didn’t want to go on, but courtesy demanded it. ‘If he’d been able,’ he finished at last. Then, after another pause, ‘He—er—he hasn’t been too well since you left on Tuesday. And that’s the truth.’

Rosa was dismayed at the effect his words had on her. ‘Is it his leg?’ she asked, realising she was stepping onto unknown ground, but anxious enough to take the risk. She linked her cold fingers, pressing them at right angles to her chest. ‘Please—tell me.’

Sam frowned. ‘You know about his injuries?’ he asked warily, but Rosa wasn’t brave enough to claim that.

‘Just—just that he seems to be troubled at times,’ she admitted, shifting from one foot to the other. She stared at him. ‘Doesn’t he?’

‘Perhaps.’ Sam was noncommittal. ‘But as it happens he got soaked when he was out with the dogs on Tuesday afternoon, and since then he hasn’t felt very sociable.’