Anne Mather - Strange Intimacy

But as she lay there, fending off the full awareness of what the morning might bring, the only sounds that reached her ears were the unfamiliar sounds of nature. There was a rook, making a nuisance of itself, high up in the trees that edged the cottage garden; a cow was lowing, its strident call more indignant than contented; and on the roof a pair of doves were cooing, their repetitive chorus probably what had woken her in the first place.

But that was all she could hear. There were no engines revving, no horns blowing, no jingle of the milk float, as it made its morning deliveries. There wasn’t even the sound of the postman, whistling as he covered his round. Only the wind in the eaves, and an occasional creak as the old house stirred to meet the day.

There was no sound from downstairs either, which hopefully meant that Cory was still sound asleep. Well, it was only a little after seven, she noted, squinting at her watch which she had propped on the cabinet beside the bed. She generally had some difficulty getting her daughter up by eight o’clock at home. At home …

Throwing back the covers—sheets, blankets, and an old candlewick bedspread; evidently Miss McLeay had not gone in for fancy things like duvets and Continental quilts—Isobel padded, barefoot, to the window. This was their home now, and she had to remember that.

It was cold, and she shivered in her short nightshirt, but she pulled the curtain aside, and looked out on that strange but amazing view. And it was just the same, but different. Now the sky was a diffused shade of palest lavender, with a lemony tinge on the horizon, which heralded the early rising of the sun. The mountains in the distance were still wreathed in darkness, and the loch was an opaque mirror, shrouded in mystery. Even the cattle that stood at the edge of the water seemed nebulous, and unreal, their shaggy coats steaming as they waded in the shallows.

Isobel took an enchanted breath, and saw it film the window with condensation. It reminded her of the fact that she was risking getting pneumonia, standing here without clothes. She might not mind there being no traffic on her doorstep, but unless she could do something about the Aga she was going to have to dress more warmly.

Grabbing her dressing-gown, which was, thankfully, a warm towelling one, she tossed her plait over her shoulder and went downstairs. At least she could improve upon the bedding, once their personal belongings arrived, she thought, as she walked into the kitchen. She had filled two trunks with ornaments, books, and bedding, as well as the clothes they had not been able to carry. They should be delivered in a day or so. Until then, they’d have to manage as they were.

When she drew the kitchen curtains, she got another surprise. A huge black cat was seated on the windowsill outside, evidently waiting for someone to let it in. After filling the kettle and setting it on the hob, Isobel unlocked the back door and opened it. And, immediately, the cat abandoned its perch, and strolled into the room.

The air it brought with it was icy, and Isobel hastily closed the door again, and went to turn on the electric heater. ‘I wonder who you belong to?’ she murmured, and then grimaced at the realisation that she was talking to a dumb animal. ‘Oh, well, I’m sure you’d like some milk,’ she added. ‘I just hope I’ve got enough.’

The cat lapped eagerly at the milk she put down for it, and then rubbed itself silkily against her bare legs. ‘A friend for life, hmm?’ observed Isobel drily, not averse to having its company all the same. She had never had a pet, even though she had occasionally suggested to Edward that they should get one. But Edward hadn’t liked dogs, and Mrs Jacobson had declared she was allergic to cats, so despite her and Cory’s appeals the subject had been closed.

The kettle boiled, and she made a pot of tea. Then she collected a cup and seated herself at the table, with the pot and milk jug close by. It had always been one of her favourite times of day, and here, with her elbows propped on the table, and a hot cup of tea between her hands, she felt almost optimistic.

And, after last night, she had not expected to feel so. Indeed, when she had gone to bed, she had felt decidedly depressed. But she was sure she must have exaggerated Clare’s attitude, she thought firmly. The girl she had known could not have turned out as unpleasant as she’d thought.

Still—she caught her lower lip between her teeth—it had been a shock to her, too, to learn that Rafe Lindsay was the Earl of Invercaldy. She had no experience, of course, but to her knowledge it was unusual for a man with his background to put himself out for someone he didn’t even know. And without Clare’s knowledge, too. No wonder she had been aggrieved.

All the same, Isobel couldn’t really understand why Clare had been so annoyed about it. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong. In fact, she had refused his offer when he’d first made it, and it had been his explanation that had persuaded her to think that Clare had sent him.

She grimaced at that. Lord, what must he have thought when she’d told him she didn’t want his help? And that awkward journey, when Cory had done all the talking. What had she talked about? Horror movies, mostly, Isobel seemed to remember. They were Cory’s current obsession, and although she didn’t recall Rafe Lindsay’s making any particular comment about them he had listened patiently enough.

She pressed her lips together, and poured herself another cup of tea. He had been rather patient with both of them, she reflected, ruefully. And at no time had he given any hint that he was anything more than Clare’s brother-in-law. Even when she had called him Mr Lindsay. She sighed.

And he had been attractive, she conceded grudgingly. Very attractive, actually. That was why she’d been so surprised when she’d found him staring at her. In the normal course of events, men like him did not stare at women like her. Her features were pleasant enough, she supposed, but no one could describe them as striking. Her face was round and ordinary, with wide-spaced hazel eyes, a fairly straight nose, and a generous mouth. She was not beautiful, by any stretch of the word, and although Edward used to tell her she was ‘all woman’ Isobel knew what he had really meant was that she was homely.

In addition to which she knew she could never aspire to Clare’s style of elegance. She wasn’t fat, but she certainly wasn’t thin either, and only her height offset rounded hips and the full breasts that had always been a source of frustration to her.

Her hair was her only real asset, she thought. And, despite the fact that both Edward and his mother would have preferred her to have it cut, Isobel had clung to her own convictions. Besides, her father had liked it long, and it seemed a small thing to do to keep his memory alive. Loosened from the braid in which she invariably confined it, it fell in a beige silken curtain almost to her hips, and although it was sometimes a chore to wash and dry it was her one indulgence.

Pulling the braid over her shoulder now, she toyed with the elasticated band that secured it. Last night, she had felt too down-hearted to loosen the braid, and brush her hair as she normally did, and this morning it looked dull and untidier than usual. She needed a shower, she thought determinedly. Or a bath, as there didn’t appear to be a shower in the bathroom. No doubt Miss McLeay considered showers a modern extravagance. But perhaps she could make some enquiries about having one installed—if she could just figure out a way to get the Aga working.

She had opened the firebox door, and was considering how to light it, when someone knocked at the back door. It was barely half-past seven. Far too early for callers, and she was examining her smutty fingers in some dismay when a man’s head appeared outside the kitchen window.