The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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СКАЧАТЬ meant it to sound so stiff, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt obliged to apologize to anyone. “I guess I’ll be on my way. Would you mind if I call a cab? I don’t know if I’ll find my way back through the glen now that it’s dark.”

      He glanced up at the sky. Evening was closing in fast, and all of a sudden he wanted to stay. He saw a flash of irritation cross her face followed by distant politeness. It increased his desire to remain and he was now determined to go inside and see the house.

      Usually, when Jack decided he wanted something, he made sure he got it. Now, for some perverse reason, he wanted to stay at Dunbar. This woman, this amazing house and the aura of peaceful mystery he instinctively sensed here intrigued him. She’d walked into his life on what, for the last twelve years, had been its worst day, and in some inexplicable fashion she’d marked it.

      “Come on in. The telephone’s in the library.”

      As India waited expectantly in the doorway, shrouded in a halo of pale light, her thick mane of chestnut hair glinting softy, Jack found himself thinking of mythical knights and princesses and of Gaelic lore.

      Then she stepped aside and he entered the cluttered cloakroom filled with old mackintoshes and Wellington boots. The dogs scampered inside. India sent them scuttling down a passage, then closed the door quietly behind them.

      He laid his gun down on a wooden bench and slipped off his jacket, hanging it next to hers. Then he followed her up the worn carpeted staircase and along a wide passage lined with ancient volumes. He glanced up, fascinated by the carved bookcases. The coat of arms seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Nor could he explain his sudden sense of anticipation. He’d felt it before on two previous occasions in his life, both of which had been momentous. But perhaps it was just the mist and the enchantment of the place that were juggling his senses. This was Scotland, after all.

      He smiled to himself as they reached the end of the corridor, realizing that, whatever the feeling was, it felt good. He stepped forward and opened the door for India, allowing her to pass through into the library, and was immediately struck by the room’s warm, inviting atmosphere. The fire burned nicely amid seventeenth-century blue-and-white Delft tiles surrounding the grate, and, as in the passage, ancient volumes covered the walls from floor to ceiling. It was another example of that delightful shabby chic—as Diana Kinnaird referred to it—that enchanted him in Scotland and at which the British excelled.

      “You Brits have a wonderful way of making everything feel as though it’s been around forever,” he remarked with a smile as they moved into the room, glancing at the tea tray strategically placed on a huge ottoman that stood between two sofas upholstered in bottle-green velvet. Some fringed paisley cushions and a cashmere throw were strewn on one, and a huge English sheepdog snoozed peacefully in the corner of the other.

      “It’s in our genes.” Her eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. “Good quality, well-worn, not necessarily expensive but always comfortable. The phone’s over there by the way,” she added, pointing to a partner’s desk that dominated the wall on the opposite side of the room. It stood alone between two high windows framed by sagging drapes whose faded pattern melted lazily into the shadows. All of the pieces blended congenially. The faded chair covers, the books, the mahogany furniture and even the threadbare Kurdistan rug before the fireplace appeared undisturbed by the passage of time.

      “The number should be on that blue pad next to the phone,” she remarked, moving toward the fireplace and rubbing her arms. “It was really getting freezing out there.”

      “Lying on damp ground in mid-November isn’t going to warm you up,” he remarked, picking up a somewhat wilted pad with numbers scribbled all over it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the writing. Some of the figures had been crossed out, others written over. The whole thing was so indistinct he wondered how on earth the inhabitants of this place knew where they were calling.

      “Can’t you find it?” India asked.

      He looked up and grinned. “Sorry, but this writing is pretty hard to make out. Maybe you know which number it is.”

      “It should be about the third one down.”

      “That says old MacFee, I think,” he said doubtfully.

      “That’s right. He’s the local taxi driver. There is only one in the village.”

      “I see.” Jack picked up the old-fashioned black telephone and dialed the rotary numbers, his fingers unused to the holes. There were several double rings, but no answer. He watched India, perched on the arm of one of the sofas, her long slim legs extending from below an oversize Aran sweater. He let the phone go on ringing, enjoying the sight. There was something composed and graceful about her, yet coupled with it was a restrained energy, rather like a thoroughbred ready to shoot out of the gate. To his utter discomfort he suddenly imagined what her eyes would look like when filled with deep emotions, such as pleasure.

      He gave himself a good mental shake and hung up abruptly.

      “It seems old MacFee isn’t home. If you don’t mind, perhaps I could try again in a few minutes.”

      “Of course. In the meantime, would you like some tea?” The invitation lacked enthusiasm.

      “Thanks. That’d be great.” Truthfully, he didn’t like tea, but perversely he accepted.

      “Mummy’s writing is awful,” India remarked, reaching for the pad, a sad little smile curving her lips as she sat down on the sofa near the blazing fire. “Shove over, Angus, you take up far too much room. There’s a perfectly good rug for you to lie on.” She gave the dog a gentle nudge and Angus slid reluctantly to the floor, where he stretched out lazily before the fire.

      India scrutinized the phone pad. “I’m afraid the other taxi service from Pennickuik isn’t on here. Anyway, I can’t remember the man’s name.” She looked up and raised her shoulders in a shrug. “If worse comes to worst I’ll drive you back. It can’t be far.”

      “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” He settled back comfortably into the sofa and laid one leg casually across the other knee, in no hurry to leave, determined to discover more about this fascinating house and it’s beautiful inhabitant.

      India poured carefully from the large silver teapot and cast a surreptitious glance at the man sitting opposite, wondering how long she’d have to entertain him when there was so much she needed to deal with before tomorrow. He looked far too at ease, as though he planned to stay for a while. She tried to think who he reminded her of. Perhaps a taller, broader, American version of Pierce Brosnan. She laid down the pot, conscious that the pale yellow cashmere sweater and olive cord pants suited him rather well, and wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, she reckoned, handing him a cup and looking at him full face.

      Maybe it wasn’t Pierce Brosnan after all, she decided, reaching for the milk, but his face seemed somewhat familiar.

      “How long are you staying at Dalkirk?” she asked, wishing she’d rung for the taxi herself. Maybe he’d dialed the wrong number.

      “A few more days. I come here from time to time. Peter Kinnaird and I are partners and friends.”

      “I suppose you must be in the hotel business, then?”

      “Yes, I am. Say, I’ll take some more of that tea, it’s very good.” His fingers touched hers lightly as he handed her back the cup. “Peter and I merged some of our interests a few years ago. СКАЧАТЬ