Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress

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Lieutenant Graham checked at the sound of so sweet a female voice. Then the lady holding the candle stepped forward, and we all saw her for the first time.

Quite simply, she was beautiful. She was perhaps a year or two older than I, and she had corn-gold hair curling about her face, and deep blue eyes. I heard Arlo Graham catch his breath and saw him draw himself up very straight. Lieutenant Langley, who had presumably abandoned the poor old horse in the stables, came scrambling up the drive with my portmanteau in his hand, and practically pushed Graham out of the way in order to make a handsome leg.

No doubt my cousin Ellen always had such an effect on all men. I was seeing her for the first time too, of course, but I was not a man. My feelings were vastly different, consisting of envy and admiration in almost equal measure.

‘Madam! I…’ Graham cleared his throat. ‘I have escorted Miss Balfour to you. There has been an accident on the road…’ His voice trailed away. Had he been knocked on the head by one of the ceiling beams—a distinct possibility, given the dilapidation of the entrance hall—he could not have looked more stunned.

‘There were smugglers on the road,’ I said, seeing that Lieutenant Graham had lost the power of speech. ‘How do you do? You must be my cousin Ellen. I am Catriona Balfour.’

She smiled at me, the sweetest smile I had ever seen. I remembered Neil Sinclair saying that Ellen was delightful, and I felt a fierce rush of jealousy and an even fiercer one of shame a second later—for how could I hold such a sweet creature in dislike?

‘Catriona!’ She could not have seemed more pleased to see me had we already been the best of friends. To my surprise, she came forward and hugged me warmly. ‘I am so glad that you are safe here! We were afraid that you were lost.’

‘The carriage was late arriving at Sheildaig,’ I said. ‘And as I mentioned, there were smugglers on the road.’

I saw her glance quickly over her shoulder and draw the gauzy spencer more closely about her throat.

‘Smugglers! How terrifying!’

‘Nothing to fear, ma’am.’ Langley stepped forward. ‘They are considerably less terrifying with a musket ball through their throats.’

Ellen gave a little scream of horror.

‘Pray, stop frightening the ladies, Langley,’ Arlo Graham said. ‘Madam, there is nothing to fear. We will protect you to the death.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘let us hope it does not come to that.’ I waited for them both to take the hint and leave now that all was safe, but neither gentleman moved. Both were staring at Ellen, who was standing, head bent shyly, looking at nothing in particular. I realised that I would have to be plainer or we should be there all night.

‘You must excuse me, gentlemen,’ I said pointedly. ‘It is late, and I have some hunger after the journey. Thank you for your aid, and I will bid you goodnight.’

Lieutenant Graham woke up at that. ‘Of course, Miss Balfour.’ He looked at Ellen. ‘But which of you is Miss Balfour?’

‘My cousin,’ I said irritably, ‘is Miss Balfour of Glen Clair, being from the senior branch of the family, Lieutenant. I am Miss Catriona Balfour of Applecross.’

Graham bowed—first to Ellen, then to me—as precedence demanded. ‘Then I shall hope to call on you both tomorrow,’ he murmured, ‘to enquire after your health.’

‘Please do,’ Ellen said, smiling with luscious warmth.

‘I shall call, too,’ Langley piped up.

‘Oh, good,’ I said. I shut the door in their faces and turned to my cousin. ‘I am sorry to disturb you so late in the evening—’ I began, but she shook her head, smiling.

‘Oh, Catriona, pray do not apologise! We keep early hours here at Glen Clair, for Mama is an invalid and Papa…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Well, you shall meet him presently. Now, you said that you were hungry.’ She slipped her hand through my arm and drew me along the stone-flagged corridor.

We passed two doorways, the oaken doors firmly closed. With each step the house seemed to get darker and more and more cold. I felt as though I was being sucked into the very depths, and shivered.

‘There is no money for candles nor fuel for a fire anywhere but in Mama’s bedroom,’ Ellen said apologetically.

She opened a door and I found myself in a cavernous kitchen with a scrubbed wooden table in the centre. Ellen put the candle down on this and scurried off into the pantry. She returned a moment later with half a loaf of bread, a slab of butter and a thin sliver of unappealing cheese. She looked as though she were about to cry.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, staring at the cheese as though she expected something to creep out of it—which it might well have done. ‘It is all we have. Mrs Grant, our housekeeper, brings food from Kinlochewe on a Tuesday, and she will be with us on the morrow, but until then…’

‘This will do me fine,’ I said heartily, reaching for the rusty old knife I had seen on the dresser. I managed to hack a bit of stale bread off the loaf and smeared some butter on it. After a moment’s hesitation I also decided to risk the cheese. It was strong, but surprisingly tasty, and not, as far as I could see, too rancid.

Ellen sat down on the bench opposite me. She looked the picture of misery. ‘I am sorry!’ she burst out again. ‘I know this is a poor welcome to Glen Clair for you, Catriona. I have so looked forward to meeting you—my own cousin, and so close in age. It will be lovely to have a friend at last, for Papa allows so few people to call.’

She stopped. In the flickering light of the tallow candle she looked like a drooping flower. It was fortunate that Lieutenant Graham was not there to see it, for he would probably have carried her off on the spot, so desperate would he have been to make her smile again.

‘I am very happy to have found you, too,’ I said sincerely. ‘I have no brothers or sisters, and did not even know of my uncle and his family until my father died. I had no home, so—’ I swallowed the lump that had risen unbidden in my throat. ‘It was splendid to hear of Glen Clair and to know that I had someone to take me in.’

Ellen smiled, her blue eyes luminous in the candlelight. ‘Then we shall be the best of friends,’ she said, clasping my hand, ‘and it will be delightful.’

On such sweet sentiment there was an almighty crash at the back door, and a moment later it swung inwards, bouncing off the lintel. Several scraps of plaster fell from the ceiling onto my bread and cheese.

Ellen went white before my eyes. ‘Papa!’

A man was standing in the doorway—or, more accurately, was leaning against the doorpost in the manner of one completely drunk. He had a blunderbuss in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, and was drinking straight from the bottle, splashing a vast quantity of malt down his stained shirt. He was a big man, powerfully built but run to seed, with thinning grey hair and grey eyes narrowed against the candle flame. How he could possibly have fathered the adorable Ellen was a mystery that I could not fathom.

‘Papa,’ Ellen said again, ‘this is your niece Catriona, come from Applecross.’

Ebeneezer Balfour stared at me from beneath lowered brows. ‘Davie’s girl,’ he slurred. ‘Your father’s dead, and that’s all that brings you to my door.’

I heard Ellen catch her breath at the harshness of his words. ‘Aye, sir,’ I said. ‘That would be right.’

I saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. ‘Proud,’ he said, ‘just like your sire.’ He leaned heavily against the wooden table for support and it creaked beneath his weight. ‘We quarrelled,’ he said, slumping down in the big carver chair at the table’s head. ‘Did he tell you that, girl?’

‘He told me nothing, sir,’ I said coldly. I could quite see how that had happened. Uncle Ebeneezer would, I was sure, pick a quarrel with a saint. ‘But I am grateful to have family to take me in,’ I added. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The words seemed to stick in my throat, but I felt I had to force them out. Despite the coldness of Uncle Ebeneezer’s greeting, I did not want it ever said that I was ungrateful to be offered a home at Glen Clair.

‘There’s nothing for you here,’ he said, his eyes hooded. He nodded towards Ellen. ‘Did she tell you? I drink what profits this estate provides.’ He raised the whisky bottle in drunken salute.

‘The smugglers are out,’ Ellen said quickly. ‘Catriona met them on the road.’

Uncle Ebeneezer lowered the bottle again, frowning. ‘I know.’

Ellen started to shred breadcrumbs between her nervous fingers. ‘There were two excise men on their tail. They said that they would call again tomorrow.’

Uncle Ebeneezer gave her a look of contempt. ‘Then you had better distract them, hadn’t you, girl? We want no nose-poker-inners here.’

Unhappy colour flushed Ellen’s cheeks. She did not reply, and a moment later Uncle Ebeneezer took another long slurp of the drink.

‘Ye’ll have had hopes of us, I daresay, Catriona Balfour?’

I looked at Ellen, but she avoided my gaze. Her face looked pinched and cold. “I confess, sir,’ I said, ‘that when I heard I had kinsfolk well-to-do I thought they might help me in my life.’ My tone hardened. ‘But I am no beggar. I look for nothing that is not freely given. I can always return to Applecross and work for my living.’

Ellen looked up, a spark of amazement in her blue eyes. ‘Work?’

‘Aye,’ Uncle Ebeneezer said rudely, ‘’tis what you would have had to do, girl, had your mother not filled your head with foolish notions of gentility and seen that you were good for nothing.’

He reached across me for the bread, tore off a hunk and thrust it into his mouth. ‘We shall see,’ he said. ‘We want no more mouths to feed here.’

I stood up. In that moment I was so angry that I would have walked all the way back to Applecross there and then had it been in the least possible. Then I caught Ellen’s eye. She was looking at me beseechingly and I remembered what she had said about longing for a friend.

‘I will show you to your chamber,’ she said quickly, grabbing the candle. ‘Excuse us, Papa.’

Uncle Ebeneezer snorted. ‘Chamber! A broom cupboard amongst the rats is the place for Davie’s girl.’

We left him sitting in the dark, gnawing on the remains of the cheese.

‘I am so sorry,’ Ellen whispered, as she dragged me back along the corridor to the foot of the stairs. ‘Papa is always like this when he is in his cups.’

‘What is he like when he is sober?’ I whispered back.

She smiled. ‘Not much better.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh Catriona, you will not leave, will you? Not when I have only just found you.’ She grabbed my hand. ‘Please?’

I felt terribly torn. Already I liked Ellen such a lot, and it was clear she was lonely here in the big, crumbling mansion whose future her father was drinking away.

‘I will have to see,’ I said. ‘I cannot stay here if Uncle Ebeneezer does not wish it.’

She let go of my hand and started up the stairs. ‘I suppose not,’ she said. Her tone brightened a little. ‘You said that you could work?’

‘As a teacher or a companion, perhaps,’ I said, trying not to think about what Neil Sinclair had said about my potential. Suddenly I wanted to ask Ellen about Neil—but that was probably a bad idea. He had said she was delightful. Perhaps she thought the same of him.

‘A teacher?’ Ellen said, as though such an idea were somehow miraculous. ‘Only fancy.’

She threw the door open onto a small bedchamber on the first landing. It was clean and bare, empty of all furnishing but for a table with a jug of water and a bowl and a big tester bed that looked as though it were at least a hundred years old.

Ellen was looking anxious. ‘I cleaned it myself,’ she said. ‘The linen is fresh.’

‘It is lovely,’ I lied. I kissed her goodnight. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I am tired.’

Even so, it was a while before I slept. The linen was indeed fresh, but the mattress was damp, and as lumpy as poorly made porridge. Mice scratched in the wall and the old house creaked and groaned around me like a foundering galleon. There was no peace to be found at Glen Clair.

I wondered about my father and the quarrel he had had with Uncle Ebeneezer. I wondered about my Aunt Madeline, whom Neil had said suffered from her nerves and Ellen had said was an invalid. And I wondered about Ellen herself, and the gentlemen who must surely be queuing up to take her away from all this squalor. Finally I thought about Neil Sinclair, and that I would have something to say to him when we next met. Smuggler or free trader, rogue or hero, he would have no more kisses from me. Or so I vowed.

Chapter Six

In which a great many visitors come to the Old House at Glen Clair.

When I awoke the sun was creeping across the bare boards of the floor and the old house was rattling with activity. I rolled over in bed and my back protested. After a night lying on the damp and lumpy mattress I felt stiff.

There were footsteps and voices outside my door, one raised above the others in querulous protest.

‘Where is Ellen? I told you to send her to me. No, I do not require any medicine. It is too cold in this room. Pull up the covers for me. No, not like that, woman. You are practically smothering me!’

A door closed, cutting off the voice abruptly.

I opened my eyes and stared at the frayed cover of the tester bed above me. That, I imagined, had been my Aunt Madeline, the invalid. There appeared to be nothing wrong with her lungs, at any rate.

I swung my bare feet to the floor and reached for my petticoat. Five minutes later I had dressed and was dragging a comb through my hair. Throwing open the curtains, I gazed out at the view and was immediately entranced.

The Old House stood on a promontory between Loch Clair and the smaller Loch Torran, and my room looked out at the back of the house, across a rough meadow that had once been a lawn, where peacocks pecked and prowled. Beyond the little loch the valley opened up in a wide bowl with the mountains, clad in amber and purple, reaching to the sky. I stared—and fell in love with Glen Clair in that moment.

Opening my bedroom door, I could hear my aunt’s voice rising and falling like the peal of bells, even through the thick oak door opposite. No doubt Ellen would bring me to meet her later. But for now I was sharp set, and looking forward to my breakfast.

I did not have high expectations of what might be on offer, but even those were dashed. When I reached the kitchen it was to find Ellen herself stirring a pan of porridge upon the hob. The kettle was whistling. Ellen’s face lit up when she saw me.

‘I did not like to wake you,’ she confided, ‘knowing that you had had so tiring a day yesterday. Here—’ she scooped a ladle full of porridge from the pan ‘—pass a plate.’

The porridge was a stewed grey, and slopped down into the plate in one fat blob. I tried not to blench and picked up my spoon, digging in whilst she poured me a mug of tea.

The porridge was almost cold. My stomach rumbled. Ellen was watching me anxiously.

‘Is it all right?’

‘Delicious,’ I mumbled, chewing on a big lump of oats. At least the tea washed it down.

She smiled. ‘Mama is out of spirits today,’ she said, sliding onto the kitchen bench beside me. ‘She has taken a chill. Mrs Grant is sitting with her. But she is anxious to meet you, Catriona. I promised to take you up directly after you had eaten.’

I had done my best with the porridge, and, remembering that Mrs Grant was supposed to have brought food with her that morning from Kinlochewe, looked around hopefully for something else to eat.

‘Did you wish for oat cakes?’ Ellen asked. ‘There is some homemade marmalade.’

There was a smidgeon of butter to cover the cake, and some whisky marmalade which, once I had scraped the mould from the top of it, proved surprisingly tasty. I wondered how Mrs Grant had taken the whisky bottle away from my Uncle Ebeneezer for long enough to put some into the marmalade.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Ellen said, and I nodded, mouth full.

‘We take luncheon at eleven and dinner at four,’ she continued. ‘As I said yesterday, we keep early hours.’

‘Shall I wash the pots?’ I asked, gesturing to the sink.

Ellen looked horrified. ‘Gracious, no! Mrs Grant does the pots. No, no…Mama is waiting, and she becomes a little impatient.’

I left the pots for poor Mrs Grant, who it appeared had no maid to help her about the place, and we hurried upstairs. I had the impression that my aunt must be a tyrant, ruling the house from her bed. Ellen was certainly anxious that she should not be kept waiting any longer.

Aunt Madeline occupied the room opposite mine, and when the door swung open it was like stepping into a fairy tale boudoir frozen in time. The bed, the delicate cherrywood wardrobe, the linen chest, the dressing table crowded with beautifying pots and potions…They were all tiny, fragile pieces of furniture. A collection of china dolls with pretty painted faces sat crowded together in a rocking chair. The drapes that kept out the sunlight were thin and fraying, their bright colours faded. And Aunt Madeline was faded, too—a golden beauty whose colour had drained to grey. At last I could see from where Ellen had inherited her glowing prettiness. Aunt Madeline must have been an accredited beauty in her day.

The room was stiflingly hot, for a fire burned in the grate even though it was high summer. All the windows were closed, sealed shut with cobwebs.

Aunt Madeline was sitting propped against lace-trimmed pillows, and when we knocked at the door she turned her plump, fallen face in our direction and bade us come close. She had been crooning softly to one of the china dolls, which she held in the crook of her arm. Everything about her drooped, from the lacy nightcap on her curls to her mouth, which had a discontented curve. She did not smile to see me.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you are Davie Balfour’s daughter. Come closer, child, so that I can look at you.’