“Dancing, laughing, lighting up the room.”
“Exactly. Bobby’s name seems out of place in that cold hole. And did you notice that Andrew never once mentioned Dimity? Not once. Do you suppose he was jealous of her? Afraid she would steal Bobby away from him? Is that what this is all about?”
“I’ve got a better one for you. Why doesn’t Dimity take care of it herself?”
I looked at him blankly.
“Lori, if she can fix Reginald and write in journals and send Evan packing, why can’t she just swoop in here and get whatever it is Bobby meant for her to have? For that matter, why can’t she just fly straight into Bobby’s arms?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Bill tented his fingers and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I think it’s because she loves you.”
“But she loved Bob—”
Bill’s hand shot up. “Hush. My theory, such as it is, requires patience.” Folding his arms, he went on. “Dimity loves you. You’re her spiritual daughter, so to speak. Every single manifestation of her supernatural power has been for your benefit, from lending a hand in the kitchen to helping Derek finish the cottage on time. This much we know for sure.”
“Yes, but—” Bill gave me a sidelong glare and I subsided.
“We also know that she loved Bobby, probably as much as she loves you, if the Pym sisters are to be believed. Regardless of that, her… spirit… is unable to connect with his. Why? If she loved both of you, why can she make contact with you but not Bobby?”
I shrugged.
“I think it’s because her bond of love with you was never broken.”
“But her bond with Bobby was?” I ventured.
“In a way that required forgiveness.” Bill took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “A theory. Only a theory. One step at a time, and I don’t know about you, but my next step is going to be toward the bed.” His head moved from the pillow to my shoulder. “Now, about the sleeping arrangements…”
“They will stay as they are.” I nudged his head back onto the pillow and got to my feet. “We don’t want to scandalize Mrs. Hume.”
“I think Mrs. Hume could use a nice juicy bit of scandal.”
“Be that as it may,” I said, heading for the door, “you need your rest. Your fishy friends will be waiting at the crack of dawn.” Halfway out the door, I said over my shoulder, “Besides, Bill, we’re hardly a pair of teenagers, are we?”
I ducked as the throw pillow sailed past me into the hall.
22
There was fresh salmon at breakfast, but Andrew and I had to start without Bill. He was up in his room, changing into dry clothes.
“I warned him to watch his step,” said Andrew, “but he became overexcited when he saw the falcons. I don’t suppose he sees many in America.”
“No, I suppose he doesn’t,” I said, accepting another cup of tea from Mrs. Hume. She hovered silently between us, filling cups, removing plates, and generally overseeing the meal.
The night’s sleep and the morning’s outing had done little to refresh my host. His eyes were shadowed, his face drawn, and his thoughts seemed to wander at times, yet he seemed oddly bent on helping us to enjoy the rest of our stay.
“He asked if we could go up to the nest after breakfast,” Andrew continued. “He seemed so keen on it that I didn’t have the heart to refuse. I’ve loaned him some clothes, as his aren’t particularly well suited to our Highland terrain, and we’ll be starting up directly after breakfast.” He addressed the housekeeper. “Mrs. Hume, will you please see to it that a picnic lunch is prepared? It may take us some time to complete the expedition.” Mrs. Hume gave him a curt nod and left the room. “With Colin’s help, I can still clamber up there and back,” Andrew added, “but not as speedily as I once did. You’re welcome to join us, if you like, Miss Shepherd.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll stay here. I’m not nearly as outdoorsy as Bill.” I cast an admiring glance around the room. “And it’s not often that I find myself in a place like MacLaren Hall. We don’t have anything like this in America, either.”
“Then you must have a look round while you’re here,” Andrew offered.
“Really?”
“You’re more than welcome. Mrs. Hume is nearly as well versed in the hall’s history as I am. I’m sure she can take some time off from her morning duties to escort you.” When he put the proposition to Mrs. Hume, she agreed to it with her usual economy of words.
Bill entered the dining room a short time later, and I had to hand it to him—he was much better at concealing his emotions than I was. He must have been ready to throw me into the loch, but his greeting was as genial as ever. He made light of his dunking, waxed rhapsodic about going up to the falcons’ nest, and graciously expressed his gratitude to Andrew for his new apparel—a pale gray cashmere turtleneck beneath a navy pullover, and heavy wool knee socks tucked up into a pair of tweed plus-fours. He even dared to call a cheery good-morning to Mrs. Hume.
“Mr. MacLaren has promised me a pair of hobnailed boots for the climb.” He displayed a stockinged foot. “It’s going to be a while before my own shoes are dry enough to wear. Coffee, if you please, Mrs. Hume. I don’t think the tea is quite strong enough to take the chill away.” When he bent his head over the steaming cup, I noticed that his hair was curling in damp tendrils behind his ears. “Tell me, Lori, how do you plan to spend your time while the menfolk are away in the hills?”
“Mrs. Hume is taking me on a tour of the hall.”
“What a splendid way to spend the day,” said Bill, with more heartfelt sincerity than either Mrs. Hume or Andrew could have realized. “How I wish I could be here with you.”
* * *
MacLaren Hall was massive, but it seemed to grow even larger as I trailed behind Mrs. Hume, who was impervious to small talk and met any attempt at humor with a stony stare. More like a dour professor than a tour guide, she plodded methodically from room to room, giving a set speech about the contents of each, and achieving with ease the remarkable feat of turning a Scottish lilt into a monotone. If she expected to dull my wits, she was in for a disappointment. She took me past smoky oil portraits and marble-topped pedestal tables, rosewood etageres and musty tapestries, from the dim and dusty attics to the spotless kitchens—she even showed me the linen closets—but there were three places in which we did not set foot. As we passed by Andrew MacLaren’s private suite and the staff apartments, Mrs. Hume merely gestured at the closed doors, as though no more needed to be said on the subject.
But one closed door, the fourth one up the hall from my bedroom, won neither gesture nor comment. We had passed it several times on our way to and from the main staircase, but Mrs. Hume acted as though it were invisible. I dutifully kept my eyes front and center.
After a late afternoon lunch, Mrs. Hume escorted me to the library, where she left me with a selection of dusty books about the history of the MacLaren family. At any other time they would have intrigued me, but at that moment my mind was on other things—such as breaking and entering. I sat for fifteen minutes by the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, then opened the door to see if the coast was clear.
Mrs. Hume looked up from polishing the time-darkened oak wainscoting that lined the hallway. “Yes, Miss Shepherd? May I help you?”
I gave her a frozen grin, then managed, “I wonder if I might trouble you for a cup of tea?”