The House of the Laird

CHAPTER ONE

The rocking and r
oaring of the train
as
it plunged headlong through the night was like something out of a nightmare to Karen, seated alone in a corner of her third-class compartment. It had been going on for so long, for one thing—it seemed an eternity sin
ce
they had left King
’
s Cross—and the lights in the compartment glowed like yellow eyes through the fog that had seeped in through a badly-fitting window after they passed through a tunnel, and induced a sensation of macabre unreality. And as there was no one to exchange even
a
word with, and no one passed either up or down the corridor, which was a ribbon of gloom winding into nothingness, the slightly feverish conviction was taking root in her mind that there were no longer any other human beings in the world, and that this nightmare progress during which she could not snatch even a wink of sleep might go on for ever.

S
he shook her head to free it of this absurd conviction, but the feeling of unreality—the deathly weariness that was acting as fuel to her always rather vivid imagination—remained. It would not have been nearly so bad if she could have found one single comfort
a
ble spot on the padded back of the se
a
t behind her against which she could rest her head, and having found it, closed her eyes and drifted, if only for a few minutes, into an uneasy slumber. But the back of the seat might have been made of iron so far as her head was concerned, and her whole body was so full of weariness that it was one continuous ache.

She supposed that this was only the normal result of undertaking a long journey almost immediately after coming out of hospital, and it would have been much more sensible if she had delayed this journey
for another twenty-four hours at least. But her little two-roomed flat in the Bayswater district of London had struck her as so completely unhot
el-
like, and there had been no one but her landlady to do anything at all for her—
a
nd that very grudgingly! She had felt she simply had to get away at once, and Nannie McBain had been the only person she could think of who would receive her with open arms.

Ever since she left King
’
s Cross she had been thinking of Nannie, and the welcome that awaited her when she finally reached the end of her journey. Nannie—or Ellen—McBain had looked after her when she was very small. Her parents had been in a position to
m
aintain quite a staff of servants in those days. At least, there had been a cook and a couple of housemaids, as well as the rosy-cheeked Scotswoman who had got married to one of her own countrymen shortly after Karen
’
s seventh birthday, and gone away up into the far north of Scotland to live. And shortly after that Karen
’
s father, whose interests were all bound up with the Stock Exchange, had made some sort of a wild plunge that had resulted in the family
’
s fortunes being completely reversed, and they were no longer able to keep even one housemaid, let-alone a cook. Karen had been sent away to school and therefore it had been unnecessary to replace Nannie McBain.

But more than one holiday had Karen spent with Ellen, and the two had kept in close touch, especially after an air disaster had deprived the girl of both parents. In the long and often lonely years devoted to the slow process of growing up and arriving at an age when she could be reasonably expected to take care of herself—and at twenty-three one certainly ought to be able to do that quite adequately, she thought a little wryly, as she sought to ease her position in the corner seat, and longed for the night to pass—she had been glad to know that there was Ellen, as solid and dependable as the
Rock of
Gibraltar
, not too easily reached in her remote cottage, but definitely there if one needed her. She had been glad of Ellen
’
s cards at Christmas time, and her parcels of home-made gingerbread and knitted undergarments on her birthdays, with a little loving note folded into the stout vests which were never worn. In hospital, while she made the feeblest efforts to throw off pneumonia (which she had incurred, she knew, because of her
c
owardly fear of her landlady, and her dislike of troubling her when she caught a bad bout of flu which had been consequently neglected, and she was lucky not to have departed this life altogether instead of being whisked into a white ward by a chance visitor who called to see her), her mind had clung to the thought of her old nurse like a drowning person clinging to a raft.

Ellen, in the small, grey stone cottage which was just one of several exactly similar cottages in the tiny village where she lived. Ellen
’
s front room, which was so full of knick-knacks that one could hardly get into it, and which smelt a little of mothballs, although her kitchen always reeked superbly of the kind of cooking which should have won her a medal. And her tiny spare bedroom, with its snowy white counterpane on the deep feather bed, and the dressing-table standing in a. kind of pink sateen petticoat, while the walls were almost entirely obscured by large, colorful prints. Karen felt sure that as soon as she was free to gratify her almost over-powering longing for something dear and familiar
that
was the one room in the one house in all the world where strength would flow back into her veins, and where, despite Nannies almost certain scolding because she had so stupidly allowed herself to get pneumonia, and have never worn the woolly vests which might have prevented it, she would soon be quite herself again.

So almost immediately she was discharged from the hospital she had sent a telegram to Ellen, whom she had neither seen nor heard from for several months, to announce that she was on her way, and had then packed a few things in a suitcase and set off for King
’
s Cross.

But she had been hardly prepared for the wearisom
e
ness of this journey, and the fact that she was so far from well yet that it was almost, an agony to her to have to sit upright for hours on
end,
because she could not afford a sleeper. The thought of stretching herself out at full length on a comfortable bed began to have the same effect on her as the thought of drinking cool water would have on a man dying of thirst in the desert, and the confusion of her mind was increased by the rattle and roar of the train.

But shortly before dawn she did manage to sink into a doze, and it was just as she was drifting into this doze that the recollection of the man who had come to her assistance at King
’
s Cross passed vaguely across her brain, and she found herself wondering for a moment in which part of the train he was, and whether he was enjoying his sleeper.

For she was quite certain he was occupying a sleeper, and as a result of their brief acquaintance she was just as certain that it would be first-class. Very definitely he was the type of man who always travelled first, whether it was on a train or a boat or on an air liner—and from the vast quantity of luggage which accompanied him, heavily plastered with labels covering half the globe, or so it had seemed to her, and most of the cases made of pigskin or calf, he was most decidedly a traveller who really merited the title.

His taxi had come up behind her own when she had arrived at the station, and while an obsequious porter had attended to his luggage and she had fumbled in her purse for change for her own taxi fare he had glanced in an indifferent manner across at her. Perhaps because she looked young, and was not particularly smart, and the driver of her taxi eyed her doubtfully while she tried to make up her mind about the size of the tip he should receive—she was always a little afraid of under-tipping taxi-men, in case they should let her see their displeasure—no porter came hastening up to her to assist her with her luggage. Although it was only one suitcase, it was heavy, and while she was trying to struggle with it herself she managed somehow to drop her handbag; her purse fell out and a shower of coins cascaded from it and ran in all directions over the grey flags of the station yard.

She was bending in confusion to pick them up when the man with the mountain of baggage strolled quietly
across
to her and started to assist her; and at last, flushed and almost stammering with embarrassment, she managed to thank him for collecting most of the coins. She looked up at him as she offered her thanks. He seemed to be towering above her, and because it was a bitterly cold January evening the heavy duffel coat he was wearing struck her as the most highly suitable garb in the world. He was hatless, and his hair was very black, and in the harsh brilliance of the station lights she could see that his eyes were cool and grey. Something flickered in them for a moment as she tried to find words to express her appreciation, and when she thought about it afterwards she wondered whether it was
amusement, or perhaps a mixture of amusement and surprise...

“
I think that
’
s the lot,
”
he said, as he handed over several half-crowns and some smaller silver.
“
I don
’
t think you
’
ve suffered any serious loss.
”

“
No—no. I
’
m sure I haven
’
t,
”
she answered, and tried to smile at him shakily.

He bent to pick up her suitcase, which looked very shabby compared with the beautiful specimens of his own luggage, bulging at the seams as it was.

“
Do you want a porter?
”
he asked, with a faintly raised eyebrow.
“
Or are you by any chance travelling on the same train as myself—the Night Scot? Because if you are I can put this into your carriage for you.
”

“
Thank you, that—that would be kind,
”
she told him, and realized that after the little excitement of rescuing her money and finding herself confronted by this tall stranger her breath was behaving erratically; in fact, it was coming very unevenly, and much too quickly for comfort. And although she did not know it, once the painful blush slid out of her cheeks it left her looking almost alarmingly pale by contrast, and she thought the man
’
s eyes rested on her searchingly.

But he said nothing as they walked side by side towards the platform prescribed by the indicator, and once they reached the train he stopped beside the door of a first-class compartment.

“
This do?
”
he asked, grasping the handle of the door.

But Karen quickly undeceived him.

“
I
’
m travelling third
”
she said simply.

Again he said nothing, and they went on until they came upon a line of thirds. He put her into the empty compartment, her suitcase on the rack, and then stepped down again on to the platform. He looked up at her before he closed the door.

“
All right?
”
he enquired.

“
Perfectly all right, thank you,
”
she managed, and watched him walk away briskly along the platform in the direction of his luggage and the porter who was carefully guarding his own seat for him.

But just before the rattle of the wheels faded from her consciousness, and the yellow lights in the compartment ceased to be yellow, watchful eyes, she had a brief, clear glimpse of his face, as if it had been photographed and placed directly in front of her, and there was nothing she could possibly miss about it. His hair had a slight wave above his left eyebrow, and it was sleek and shining like the plumage of a bird, and his features were wonderfully regular. He had very black eyelashes, too— almost feminine eyelashes. But there was nothing feminine about the gleam of the grey eyes behind them, and the set of his mouth and chin. His was the kind of chin, that had nothing whatever to do with weakness.

She sighed, a queer little fluttering sigh that began deep down inside her, and she said to herself that he was nice—nice and kind!