Margaret McPhee - A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

‘Miss Allardyce is feeling unwell. I told her to spend the day in bed, resting.’ His mother equally kept her focus on the maids and the footmen.

‘The timing of her illness is unfortunate.’ Or fortunate, depending on whose point of view one was considering, he thought grimly.

His mother nodded. ‘Indeed it is—poor girl.’

Once everyone was settled upon the blankets, his mother in pride of place upon a chair and rug, he and McEwan removed their coats, rolled up their sleeves and served plates of cold sliced cooked chicken, ham and beef to the waiting servants. There were bread rolls and cheese and hard-boiled eggs. There were strawberries and raspberries, fresh cooled cream and the finest jams, sponge cakes, peppermint creams and hard-boiled sweets. And chunks of ice all wrapped up and placed amongst the food and drink to keep it cool. Expense had not been skimped upon. Hunter wanted his staff to have a good time, just as his father had done before him and his father before him.

This was duty. He knew that and so he endured it, even though the laughter and light that surrounded him made him feel all the darker and all the more alone. Hunter stood aside from the rest and watched the little party, his mother in the centre of it, good humoured, partaking in the jokes and the chatter; the few staff that remained at Blackloch were as warm with her as if she had never left.

He slid a glance at his pocket watch before making his way over to his mother. The laughter on her face died away as soon as she saw him. And he thought he saw something of the light in her expire.

‘There are matters at Blackloch to which I must attend. I will leave McEwan at your disposal.’

She smiled, if it could be called that, but her eyes were filled with disdain and condemnation. She made no attempt to dissuade him. Indeed, she looked positively relieved that he was leaving.

McEwan appeared by his side as Hunter pulled on his coat.

‘Attend to my mother’s wishes if you will, McEwan. I will see you back at Blackloch later.’ Hunter brushed his heels against Ajax’s flank and was gone, heading back along the road to Blackloch Hall.

Phoebe did not know where else to look in the sunlit study. All six desk drawers lay open. She had searched through each one twice and found nothing of what she sought. There were bottles of ink, pens and pen sharpeners. There was also a packet of crest-embossed writing paper, books of estate accounts, newspapers and letters, a brace of pistols and even a roll of crisp white banknotes, but not the object she must steal. She had searched all of the library shelves, even sliding each deep red leather-bound book out just in case, but behind them was only dark old mahogany and a fine layer of dust.

The faint aroma of brandy still hung in the air, rich and sweet and ripe, mixed with the underlying scent of a man’s cologne—the smell of Hunter. She thought of him sitting in this room through the long dark hours of the night, alone and filling himself with brandy. And despite her father’s words, and whatever it was that Hunter had done, she could not help but feel a twinge of compassion for him.

She slumped down into Hunter’s chair, not knowing what to do. The man had said it would be in Hunter’s study. But Phoebe had been looking for over an hour without a sight of it. She leaned her elbows on the dark ebony surface of Hunter’s desk and rested her head in her hands. Where else to look? Where? But there were no other hiding places to search.

The sun was beating through the arched lattice windows directly upon her and she felt flustered and hot and worried. A bead of sweat trickled between her breasts as she got to her feet, her shoulders tense and tight with disappointment and worry. There was nothing more to be gained by searching yet again. The Messenger, as he called himself, had been wrong; she could do nothing other than tell him so.

She thought of Mrs Hunter, and the man who was her son, and of all the staff down at the seaside, with the cooling sea breeze and the wash of the waves rolling in over the sand, and up to the ankles of those who dared to paddle. Her fingers wiped the sweat from her brow and she felt a pang of jealousy. And then she remembered the loch with its still cool water and its smooth dark surface. She rubbed at the ache of tension that throbbed in her shoulders as she thought of its soothing peacefulness and tranquillity.

She knew she should not, but Mrs Hunter had said they would not be back until late afternoon, and there was no one here to see. Phoebe felt very daring as she closed the door of Hunter’s study behind her.

The glare of the mid-day sun was relentless as Hunter cantered along the Kilmarnock road. He would not gallop Ajax until he reached the softer ground of the moor. Sweat glistened on the horse’s neck, but the heat of the day did not touch Hunter, for he was chilled inside, chilled as the dead. In the sky above it was as if a great dark cloud covered the sun, the same dark shadow that dogged him always.

He thought of Miss Allardyce and he spurred Ajax on until he reached Blackloch.

Hunter stabled his horse and then slipped into the house through the back door. All was quiet, and still; the only things moving were the tiny particles of dust dancing in the sunlight bathing the hallway. He made his way into his study, his refuge. And, dispensing with his hat and gloves, scanned the room with a new eye.

Nothing looked out of place. Everything was just as he had left it. The piles of paperwork and books perched at the far edge of his desk, the roll of banknotes in the top drawer, the set of pistols in the bottom. He pulled out the money, counted the notes—not one was missing. Upon the shelves that lined the room the books, bound in their dark red leather with gold-lettered spines, sat uniform and tidy. No gaps caught the eye. His gaze moved to the fourth shelf by the window, to the one gap that should have been there. Evelina sat in its rightful place.

Hunter poured himself a brandy and sat down at the desk. She had been in here. He mused over the knowledge while he sipped at the brandy. Returning a book that she had lied about needing to borrow. His gaze moved over the polished ebony surface of his desk, and he saw it—a single hair, long and stark against the darkness of the wood. A hair that had not been there this morning, on a desk that she had no need to be near in order to return the book to its shelf. He lifted it carefully, held it between his fingers and, in the light from the window, the hair glowed a deep burnished red. Hunter felt a spurt of anger that he had allowed his physical reaction to the woman cloud his judgement. He abandoned his brandy and made his way to find Miss Allardyce.

It was no surprise to find the bedchamber empty and the bed neatly made. He undertook a cursory search of her belongings, of which it seemed that Miss Allardyce possessed scant few. A green silk evening dress, the bonnet she had been wearing upon the moor road the day he had encountered her with the highwaymen. A pair of well-worn brown leather boots, one pair of green silk slippers to match the dress. A shawl of pale grey wool, a dark cloak, some gloves, underwear. All of it outmoded and worn, but well cared for. A hairbrush, ribbons, a toothbrush and powder, soap. No jewellery. Nothing that he would not expect to find. And yet a feeling nagged in his gut that something with Miss Allardyce was not quite right. And where the hell was she?

He stood where he was, his gaze ranging the room that held her scent—sweet and clean, roses and soap. And then something caught his eye in the scene through the window. A pale movement in the dark water of the loch. Hunter moved closer and stared out, his eye following the moorland running down to the loch. And the breath caught in his throat, for there in the waters of the Black Loch was a woman—a young, naked woman. Her long hair, dark reddish brown, wet and swirling around her, her skin ivory where she lay beneath the surface of the water, so still that he wondered if she were drowned. But then those slim pale arms moved up and over her head, skimming the water behind her as she swam, and he could see the slight churn where she kicked her feet.