Billie's Kiss by Elizabeth Knox Read Free Book Online

Jenny who got Murdo upright. Clara rearranged his pillows. But then Jenny disobligingly handed her mistress the bowl and Clara had to sit and assist Murdoat getting it to his lips. Clara told him his coat had followed him to the castle. It was hung up in the drying room, and already looked like a weeks-old seal carcass. ‘And we had to cut your gloves off. They shrank.’
    His valise and two of his best suits and shirts and shoes were all in the submerged hold of the Gustav Edda ,and his watch was on the table by the bed, case open, cogs stilled.
    Clara said, about his clothes, that she imagined it all represented quite an investment of time and money. She asked Jenny to bring her brush case (his was gone). ‘One less thing for you to manage tomorrow by yourself.’
    Jenny, who was at the door already, started and stared and blinked at Clara’s latest remarks – her mistress rubbing salt in her cousin’s wounds. Then Jenny let herself out, the door only opening wide enough to let her skirts past, and nearly closing on their hem.
    Murdo pushed the bowl away from him.
    â€˜Enough?’ Clara said. Then, ‘Can you hear me, Murdo?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Murdo said.
    â€˜Rixon told me that it was his impression that his father found and fussed over you before even looking for him.’ Clara waited, then asked, ‘Since when have you been such a favourite?’
    Â 
    IN THE morning no one came to open Murdo’s curtains, came carrying a hot kettle to take the chill off the water in the washbasin. Or, rather, Ian didn’t come.
    For some minutes Murdo lay in the ruddy gloom – there was sun coming through a crack in his red brocade curtains. He couldn’t hear whether the house was up; his ears still buzzed and fluttered. But he supposed that it was up, and he felt forgotten. He had been only Ian Betler’s business. Now he was no one’s business.
    Murdo kicked off his covers and thrashed out of bed like a child in the throes of a tantrum. He found himself on therug in the middle of the bedroom floor, his muscles pulled, and cramping. Even his bones seemed bruised. His fingertips were still bloodless, yellow-white, and when he put them in the basin to splash his face he found that the overnight water felt warm. He dressed himself, shook scenting sprigs of thyme out of a good cotton shirt, wrestled his shoes off the shoe tree, and sat on the edge of his bed to put them on. It took him five minutes to brush the knots out of his hair, and he found only a quarter inch of macassar in the bottle on his bureau. The better stuff – French – was in the harbour. Murdo darkened and slicked his hair – which resisted, as usual.
    Breakfast was in the dining room by Clara’s small conservatory. Past the begonias in their hanging baskets was a view of the black, wet tree trunks of Lady Hallowhulme Park. The sun had gone now, and the air was full of rain that the islanders, more droll than optimistic, persisted in calling ‘mist’.
    On his cousin’s appearance James Hallow got up from his place, wiped his beard thoroughly with his napkin, and came around the table. ‘We hadn’t expected to see you up so soon,’ he said. He took Murdo by the elbow and showed him to his chair, drew it out, and pushed it in against the back of Murdo’s knees so that he sat rather abruptly. The butler, posted by the sideboard and the chafing dishes, made a few awkward and aborted movements, trying to make James feel his presence, and his own place. Lord Hallowhulme paused beside the butler and, without meeting his eye, patted the man several times, squarely, his big fingers drumming on starched shirtfront. Stay put .James took up a plate and began to displace covers and spoon out scrambled eggs, sausage, blood pudding, and kedgeree. He heaped the plate high, then laid it before Murdo quietly, without a flourish. At least he allowed Murdo to deal with his own