Dark Castle

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CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4eacfa96-a1bc-5633-a0ce-2edc66713cef)

WHEN Julie awoke next morning it was to the sound of the wind whistling eerily round the battlemented towers of the castle. The sound momentarily distracted her, arousing a feeling of warmth and security which was quickly dissipated as she remembered where she was. She blinked rapidly and reached for her watch from the bedside table, unable to judge from the dull light probing the heavy curtains exactly what time it might be.

The astonishing discovery that it was after eleven brought her upright in the huge bed, hugging herself as the chilliness of the bedroom swept over her. The fire had gone out and the heating wasn’t sufficiently powerful yet to have taken the iciness from the air. She crossed her arms protectively across her breasts, and as she did so she saw a tray of tea standing on the table on the opposite side of the bed.

She frowned, then she leant across and put tentative fingers against the bowl of the teapot. It was cold. Whoever had brought the tea had brought it some time ago. She quivered. Had it been Jonas? Had he stood beside the bed and watched her sleeping? The thought was disruptive, although looking down at the plain cambric nightdress she thought she had been more than adequately covered. But no, it would have been Mrs. Macpherson, and she had clearly decided to let her sleep on.

But now Julie was alarmed. She had yet to see Jonas and conduct that interview with him. She had notes to make and questions to be answered, and very little time to do it in.

She pushed her feet out of bed and stood for a moment looking about her. Then, unable to resist the impulse, she ran across to the window and pushed aside the curtains. The view that confronted her was not inspiring, shrouded as it was by a grey curtain of steadily falling rain, but she could imagine the beauty of the loch deepened to blue by a clear sky, and the distant hills shadowed with purple heather. The mainland was vaguely visible, but it seemed quite a long way away, and there was no sign of life either there or on the fir-clad slopes that fell away below her windows.

With a grimace, she opened the curtains to let a little more light into the room and went into the bathroom to wash. The water was reasonably hot and the activity warmed her. In the bedroom again, she knelt to her opened suitcase and took out some fresh underwear. Then she began to dress, reaching automatically for the white blouse and tweed suit. But they weren’t there!

She frowned, shivering a little in her flimsy undergarments, and made a thorough examination of the room. But it was useless. The blouse and suit had disappeared.

Her lips tightened. Someone had taken them away. And she didn’t think she had to be a mind-reader to guess who that someone was. She seethed. How dared he? He had criticized her clothes last evening, but that was quite a different matter from stealing them. Or perhaps stealing was too strong a word – confiscating them was nearer the mark.

Her fists clenched. Just what did he hope to gain by it? Did he imagine he had any rights to dictate what she should or should not wear? And what did he expect her to do now that he had taken her only outer garments? She could hardly go downstairs in her pants and slip!

She felt furiously angry, and her weakening response to his assumed vulnerability of the night before seemed like a betrayal of herself. What was she going to do now? She badly wanted to see him, to confront him with his duplicity, but she was confined here because she had no clothes.

She stared angrily round the room, wondering whether she could cover herself with the bedspread, when her eyes alighted on the wardrobe. There were clothes in there in plenty and surely some of them might fit her. Why shouldn’t she see if there was something she could wear? Anything was better than having to remain here like a prisoner until he chose to come and release her. Unless … Unless he had locked her in!

The thought sent her scurrying to the door, but it opened to her touch and she sighed with relief, closing it again and leaning weakly back against it.

She opened the wardrobe. What should she choose? Something plain and simple, but what? She sighed. It might be as well to see if anything fitted her first. She took out a cream slack suit and pulled on the trousers. They fitted very well, only the waistline being a little big for her. The jacket was the same. It could have been made for her, or perhaps for her as she had once been …

She thrust the idea aside and considered her reflection in the mirror. The suit needed no shirt or blouse, and she decided it would do. She suddenly had no desire to try on any more of the clothes.

With trembling fingers she brushed her hair and coiled it on to her nape. But her fingers were shaking so much that she couldn’t get the hairpins to stay in place and it kept falling silkily about her shoulders again. She sighed frustratedly. Oh, damn, she thought, was nothing to go right for her today? She would have to leave it loose.

She took another reluctant look at her reflection before leaving the bedroom. The image confronting her was utterly different from yesterday. She had always suited slack suits, and the warm creamy colour accentuated the glow of her skin. The smudges had gone from beneath her eyes and the loosened hairstyle made her look younger than her twenty-four years, deepening the colour of her eyes, drawing attention to the full beauty of her mouth. She was not beautiful, she knew that, indeed it had always been a source of amazement to her that Jonas Hunter should ever have shown any interest in her. Angela was much more his type of woman, tall and lissom, with a classically beautiful face and figure, and the kind of silvery hair that always attracts attention.

But Julie was apt to judge herself rather harshly against Angela’s more obvious charms, and failed to realize that the warmth and personality which emanated from her more than made up for a conventionally pretty appearance.

Now she picked up her briefcase and handbag, and balancing the tray with one hand went along the gallery and down the spiral staircase. She could hear the rain beating against the windows as she descended and couldn’t help thinking how cosy the castle would be on a winter’s evening.

Reaching the hall, she looked about her and then walked determinedly towards Jonas’s living-room door. But the living-room was empty and she frowned, setting down the tray, which was beginning to weigh heavily on her arm, on the table where they had eaten the night before. She sighed. Where was he? Then she nodded. Of course – he was probably working. He had told her that his study was next door.

She walked out of the living-room and knocked impatiently at the study door. She was tempted just to barge in, but her confidence would not stretch that far, resentful though she was.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Hunter. Are you looking for your husband?’

Mrs. Macpherson’s voice behind her was gently querying. Julie turned. ‘Oh, good morning, Mrs. Macpherson. Yes. Yes, I’m looking for – for him. Do you know where he is?’

‘Of course, madam. He’s away to Achnacraig—’

‘Achnacraig!’ Julie was horrified.

‘Yes, madam.’ Mrs. Macpherson frowned. ‘Is anything wrong? He told me you were still sleeping and that he didn’t want to disturb you. Was there something you were wanting?’

Julie opened her mouth to tell her, to denounce Jonas and his double-dealing, and then she closed it again. ‘I – no. No, not really.’ She sighed. ‘My – er – the tray’s in the living-room. I brought it down. I’m afraid it was cold when I woke up.’

‘Ah!’ Mrs. Macpherson nodded. ‘You slept well?’

‘Very well.’ Julie was short. She twisted her hands together. ‘Er – when – when will Mr. Hunter be back? Did he say?’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll be long, madam,’ Mrs. Macpherson smiled. ‘If you’ll go into the living-room, I’ll make you some more tea. Or perhaps you’d prefer coffee. And a lightly boiled egg, perhaps?’

‘Oh, really, no.’ Julie shook her head. She felt sick. She couldn’t eat a thing. ‘I – some coffee would be just fine, Mrs. Macpherson, thank you.’

‘Coffee it shall be.’ Mrs. Macpherson ushered her into the living-room and collected the unused tray of tea. ‘Now you sit here by the fire and keep warm. It’s a terrible morning. I’ll bring the coffee directly.’

‘Thank you.’

Julie obeyed. There was little else she could do. She wondered if Mrs. Macpherson had noticed the suit she was wearing and whether she had recognized it as belonging to someone else. She ought to have asked the housekeeper what had happened to her own clothes, but perhaps it was as well not to involve anyone else in what was purely a personal matter.