Sands of Time, Page 2

  The factor was waiting on the steps at the foot of the main tower. A small, red-haired man wearing the kilt, he stepped forward to greet the visitors.

  Louisa climbed out of the coach last and stared round nervously. The place had a prosperous well cared for feel. The paths and driveway were neatly weeded and raked and there were flowers in the beds around the walls. She glanced up and the skin on the back of her neck prickled slightly. Were they being watched? So many narrow deep-set windows, dark and shadowy on this west-facing side of the castle, looked down across the drive and towards the hills. A hundred pairs of eyes could be watching them and they would not know it. She became aware that the others were walking away, following Mr Dunglass around the base of the tower, and she hurried after them, shrugging off her unease. Lord Carstairs was once more in America, so his factor informed them. He was not expected home until next year at the earliest.

  A modern stable block and carriage house had been constructed in the early part of the century by Lord Carstairs’s grandfather on the eastern side of the castle. The buildings surrounded a courtyard – a line of loose boxes, all empty as his lordship’s horses were out at grass, on one side, a line of double doors concealing no doubt his lordship’s carriages on the other, while between them, on the south side, rose a small pedimented coach house surmounted by a clock tower. In this building all the windows had been barred. Mr Dunglass headed towards it now, groping in his sporran for a large iron key.

  ‘This way, Mistress Shelley.’ The man had ushered the others up the steps and through the door as Louisa lagged behind and now he was waiting for her, his eyes boldly on her face. How did he know her name? Standing below him in the cobbled yard she looked up and met his gaze. He did not lower his eyes; his expression was carefully blank but behind the facade there was something else. Insolence? Triumph? The moment passed and he looked away. ‘The others are inside, Mistress Shelley. If you would like to join them I’ll explain some of the items you can see in there.’ His tone was respectful. Even friendly. Surely she had imagined that momentary expression on his face?

  The room into which they had been led was large and dark. Standing still they waited while their guide opened the shutters allowing the bright sunlight to flood the room. As they stared round there was a moment’s stunned silence, then at last it was Venetia who spoke first. ‘My goodness.’ She gasped with a nervous laugh. ‘How amazing!’

  The items on display nearest to them, the bows and arrows, the huge beautiful feathered head-dress, the beaded jewellery, the bison skins, had been brought back so they were told by Lord Carstairs the previous year. ‘He went right across America,’ their informant told them, clearly awe-struck. ‘He lived with the various tribes he encountered. The Sioux; the Cheyenne. They made him welcome and he smoked the peace pipe with them.’ He indicated the large pipe decorated with coloured bands and feathers. ‘He has been studying their religion and their beliefs. He witnessed the Sun Dance.’ He paused, obviously expecting them to look impressed. ‘Beyond the American exhibits you will see those his lordship brought back from the Indian subcontinent in 1870. Beautiful silks and brocades as you will notice; items from Hindu temples and gifts he received from the maharajahs and British dignitaries with whom he stayed.’

  Louisa was not listening. She had wandered past the American items and the Indian, past a huge glass-fronted bookcase and display cabinets of every shape and size, to the back of the room. In the corner, standing upright in the shadows, was the unmistakable painted face and body of an Egyptian mummy case. She closed her eyes, steadying her breathing with an effort.

  ‘Ah, Mistress Shelley. You have discovered Lord Carstairs’s Egyptian collection.’ The voice beside her was soft and ingratiating.

  She gave a nervous smile. ‘He has a great many interesting items.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The factor glanced over his shoulder. The other three women were gathered around a glass case, staring down at a mass of beautiful shells. ‘Wampum,’ Venetia repeated, baffled, reading from a card inside the case.

  Louisa stepped away from him. His presence beside her made her feel uncomfortable. She walked over to a table nearby and stared down at the items displayed on it. One stood out from them all. A small carved statue of a coiled snake. Without thinking she picked it up and examined it. ‘Solid gold, Mistress Shelley.’ The factor was still there at her elbow.

  She stared down at the item in her hands, holding her breath. Almost she could hear Roger Carstairs’s voice in her head. ‘So, Mrs Shelley. You came to find me after all …’ The sound was so real she glanced up, shocked. But it was her imagination. Hastily she set the item back in its place and walked away. She glanced again with some distaste at the mummy, then moved on and stopped, staring at the wall. Framed in ebony with a deep terracotta mount she found herself looking at one of her own watercolours. A painting of the temple at Edfu.

  She gasped.

  The man beside her nodded. ‘You recognise it, of course.’

  She spun to face him. ‘Where did he get that?’

  ‘He bought it, Mistress Shelley. In London.’ He bowed. A minimal movement betrayed a touch of mockery beneath the respect. ‘He has attended all your exhibitions, Mistress Shelley.’

  Her stomach tightened with fear as she met his eyes. ‘Indeed, Mr Dunglass. I’m flattered at his interest.’ She managed to hold his gaze unwaveringly.

  He looked away first. ‘So, madam, have you seen the next exhibit?’ He smiled again. ‘An example of one of the most poisonous of Egyptian snakes –’ He broke off as her hand flew to her mouth. In the case in front of her on a bed of pale dry sand lay a coiled snake, its head with spread hood rising out of the dry skin, its tiny button eyes fixed balefully on some imagined desert distances.

  Louisa turned away with a cry of distress. It was so like the snake that had killed Hassan. The same shape, same length, same colour – its eyes were similar. Unblinking. Beady. Missing nothing.

  ‘It’s dead, Louisa.’ The hand on her arm was firm. Katherine was beside her. ‘Come away. Don’t look at it.’

  ‘Katherine – ’

  ‘I know, my dear. They told me all about it. And the way he conjured a snake onto our dahabeeyah. Magic snakes. Evil magic.’ She glanced round the room. Nearby was a wooden statue of a child holding a snake in its hand. The inscription underneath said, ‘Horus of the Snakes’. She shuddered. ‘Dirty magic. All his efforts to make himself a so-called master of the occult, and what for? A small room in the back of beyond and a few boxes of stolen mementoes.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Mr Dunglass had overheard her. He was bristling with indignation. ‘Nothing here has been stolen. Everything was bought or given freely.’

  ‘Really?’ Louisa looked at him bitterly.

  ‘Really!’ The man glared at her.

  Katherine shuddered. ‘Well, I don’t envy him this. I really don’t.’ She reached over and thumped the glass case with her folded parasol. The snake moved infinitesimally.

  Louisa swallowed. Clutching her shawl around her shoulders she moved away from the Egyptian corner of the room to stand in front of the American head-dress with its regal glossy feathers, concentrating on the exquisite workmanship, the detail, the tiny beads.

  Katherine moved on too, standing beside Sarah and Venetia, staring at some clay pots, laughing softly as Venetia, oblivious to the earlier exchange, pointed out some detail in the swirling decorations.

  The hiss was so quiet Louisa barely heard it. For a moment she didn’t react, then she spun round staring back at the case. From where she was standing she could see an almost invisible film of dust on the glass. Nothing moved. She clenched her fists. Stupid. It was her imagination. Her idiotic, feverish, over-active imagination.

  Behind her she heard Venetia’s voice. ‘And Lord Carstairs’s darling boys? Are they at home at the moment?’ and Dunglass’s grunt. ‘Aye. They are.’ He did not sound impressed.

  ‘We would so like to meet them, wouldn’t we, Sara
h?’ Venetia clung to her hostess’s arm for a moment.

  Louisa saw the factor’s eyebrow rise almost to his hairline. ‘I have no idea where the boys are, Mistress. You’d have to be speaking to Mr Gordon, their tutor, about them.’ His tone implied that their whereabouts was something he for one would rather not look into too closely.

  ‘We’ll do that.’ Venetia simpered at him. ‘We know dear Lord Carstairs so well, I’m sure he would wish us to enquire after his sons. Are they not at Eton with your elder boy, Louisa?’ She turned and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Louisa returned sharply.

  Dunglass shook his head. ‘They’ve been expelled from every school in the country! I doubt his lordship could find one to hold them. That’s why they have a tutor.’ His lips tightened. ‘Believe me, ladies, I doubt you’d want to meet them.’ He folded his arms firmly.

  Sarah and Venetia looked shocked. It was Venetia who voiced what was going through both ladies’ minds. ‘I don’t think you should speak like that about Lord Carstairs’s sons, Mr Dunglass.’

  ‘No?’ The man snorted. ‘I’m thinking their father would agree with me!’

  ‘Really?’ Venetia simpered at him. ‘Oh my goodness! In which case –’ She fluttered her eyelashes at the man in apology and Louisa turned away sharply. Was it possible that Venetia still had hopes of the odious Carstairs? Surely not? But here she was, still unmarried, still travelling with her brother and his long-suffering wife. Still hankering after a rich titled husband. She gave an involuntary shudder. No doubt the handsome Lord Carstairs would fit her imaginary ideal in every particular. She did not, after all, know what the real man was like!

  ‘Louisa dear? It’s time we made a move for home.’ Sarah’s gentle hand on her arm made her jump. ‘Have you seen enough?’

  ‘Quite enough.’ Louisa glanced towards the back of the room where the case containing the stuffed cobra was standing in a patch of sunlight from the high window. There was no movement; nothing at all in that corner of the room. So why did the very stillness make her feel uneasy?

  2

  In her dream she was standing at the mouth of the cave, staring into the darkness, anxious to escape the glare of the sun. Hassan was beside her, his handsome face eager, gentle, so very loving. He turned with that serious smile she loved so much and held out his hand. ‘Come, my Louisa; we will go in out of the heat.’

  She reached towards him. She only had to speak to save his life. All she had to say was, No, come back. Don’t go in. But the words would not come. Her throat was constricted, her mouth full of sand. There was a roaring in her ears like the waters of the cataract in flood and then it happened. In slow motion she saw the sinuous movement of the snake; saw it head towards Hassan, saw it rise up, its hood spread, its mouth open –. Her scream this time, as always, came too late; her waking, alone, in her bed, desolate.

  She sat up, sobbing, aware of the moonlight flooding through a crack in the curtains. The room was very quiet. Not a breath of air stirred the wisteria on the wall outside. The night was very hot. Her face still wet with tears, she climbed out of bed and went to push back the curtains. The tall windows opened out onto the balcony which ran the entire length of the first floor of the house overlooking the gardens. Pushing them open she stepped outside and leant on the stone balustrade. The countryside was as bright as day. She could see every detail of the garden with its formal hedges and beds and its vistas across the parkland and the loch to the mountains beyond.

  ‘So, Louisa. You came to visit my house. You couldn’t resist seeing where I lived. I saw you pick up my golden snake. I felt you call me.’

  Lord Carstairs was standing on the balcony half hidden by one of the clipped potted bay trees near her window. Tall, handsome in the moonshadows, his eyes were strangely colourless in the strong contours of his face. He was dressed in a loose white shirt and trousers. Over one shoulder he wore a tartan plaid, fastened in place by a Cairngorm brooch.

  Her heart almost stopped beating. ‘I never called you! I thought you were abroad!’ She stepped back towards the window, feeling acutely vulnerable in her nightgown, with her feet bare and her hair loose on her shoulders.

  He smiled coldly. ‘And I never thought to see you in Scotland, Mrs Shelley. I am flattered you should come. Very flattered.’ He emerged from the shadows and the moonlight glinted on the yellow stone in the brooch on his shoulder.

  She frowned. ‘Don’t take a step nearer. I have only to call out and people will come. What are you doing here?’

  He laughed quietly. ‘What if I were to tell you that I am not here, Louisa, I am four thousand miles away, eating peyote buttons with the men of the Cheyenne in a tepee under an arid western sky.’ He took another step forward and reaching out his hand touched her hair with his finger tip.

  She shuddered and took a rapid step backward. ‘I don’t understand. Are you trying to tell me that this is a dream?’ She clutched behind her at the heavy curtains of her bedroom window.

  ‘Just a dream.’ His voice was mocking. ‘Nothing but a peyote dream.’

  ‘What is peyote?’ If it was a dream she wanted to wake up now. End it. Banish this man back to the depths of whatever hell he lived in.

  ‘Peyote, Louisa, is a sacred plant; a way of life; an entrance to other worlds where one may travel unencumbered even into the bed chamber of a sleeping woman.’ He moved forward again. She could smell a strange muskiness about him; the scent of woodsmoke and flowers, of bittersweet tobacco and an acrid hint of desert wind.

  She took another step back, aware that they were now on the threshold of her bedroom. The moonlight flooded in through the open curtains illuminating the white bedlinen and lace-trimmed pillows. He smiled. He was very close to her now.

  ‘Aren’t you going to scream?’ His eyes were insolent. Challenging.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m going to scream!’ She tried to stop the treacherous trembling of her limbs as she raised her hand towards him, ready to fend him off if he came any closer. ‘If you don’t leave now I shall scream the place down and your reputation, my lord, will be destroyed forever.’

  ‘My reputation, Mrs Shelley,’ he returned the formality like a tennis partner volleying a ball, ‘was gone long since. I did not value it. It was of no consequence to me. While yours, I feel sure, though blighted by your dalliance with a native –’ he raised his hand to silence her protest – ‘Your reputation, as I was about to say, probably survived at least in Britain, thanks to the loyalty of your friends.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Scream, Mrs Shelley. See if you can make yourself heard. Remember you are dreaming. All this has been conjured by your mind.’ He reached out and stroked her cheek. His hand was very cold.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ She backed away into the room. ‘I will call for help.’

  ‘Call then.’ He reached out and caught her shoulders, pulling her against him. ‘Beautiful Mrs Shelley.’ His words were whispered into her hair. ‘Oh, how much I have desired you. And how angry you have made me.’ She could feel his heart beating against hers. ‘And now I shall have you, Mrs Shelley. And perhaps I shall punish you for rejecting me. For not giving me what I wanted.’ She did not know whether he meant her body or the tiny bottle he had so much desired, and which as far as he knew was lying at the bottom of the Nile. He smiled again. ‘The interesting part of this experience is that you will remember none of this in the morning, Mrs Shelley. None.’

  His lips against hers were fierce and eager. She could feel her breasts against his chest as he dragged her nightgown down to her waist. His eyes, so near hers, were slits of silver. ‘Go on. Call, Mrs Shelley,’ he murmured. ‘Call for help. Why don’t you?’ His hands were all over her body now as her nightgown fell to the floor. To her horror she found herself responding to his touch. Her body refused to struggle; with a groan of pleasure she found herself pressing against him, reaching up for his kisses, caressing his back with fingers that had intended to scratch and maim.

  Without further s
truggle she felt herself falling back onto the bed, felt him groping for his belt buckle, felt his weight on her with eager excitement as she arched her body towards his.

  He laughed exultantly. ‘So, at last I have you, Louisa. And I shall make you scream.’ He put his hand for a moment across her mouth. ‘But it shall be with pleasure. It will be to beg for more.’ He removed his hand and she felt it travel down her body as he stopped her mouth once more with his own.

  She was powerless. Her limbs refused to obey her. The more she wanted to push him away the more she found herself pulling him closer. With a groan of ecstasy she closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel the touch of his skin, the caress of his lips and then finally the full thrust of his passion as he made her his.

  The first light of dawn had dimmed the moonlight when she slept at last, lying naked across the bed amongst the trailing bedclothes.

  The scream when it came was from Kirsty and was bitten off as soon as it had formed. ‘Oh, Mrs Shelley, I’m sorry!’ The girl had almost dropped the ewer of hot water she was carrying as she turned away, trying not to stare at the beautiful voluptuous body of the woman lying so wantonly on the bed.

  Louisa lay still for a moment, not knowing where she was, still hazy with sleep, all memory of her dream gone, then she grabbed for the sheet and pulled it over her, inexplicably amused at Kirsty’s stunned expression.

  ‘Kirsty! Come in. Bring the water.’ Sitting up she swept her hair back off her face with her hands. ‘Forgive me. It was so hot last night I threw off the bedclothes.’ And her nightdress. She could see it lying in a crumpled heap near the window.

  Kirsty had regained her composure. Her eyes fixed on the floor she set the jug down. ‘Do you want me to help you dress, Mrs Shelley?’