I felt that might be the understatement of the century.
Perched on the crest of a small rise, Dalmay House dominated the landscape. The rambling Gothic manor, with its ornamental Coade stone chimneys and highly decorated crenellations, was so sharp and delineated as to be almost aggressive, like a warrior attired in a full suit of armor and ready for battle. No plants or flowering bushes softened the harsh lines of the south front or lightened the color of the stalwart gray stone. Even the chimneys, beautiful as they were, seemed to stab forcefully toward the heavens like daggers and pikes.
As we rounded the drive, the manor’s numerous wide, mullioned windows glistened in the late afternoon sunlight, blinding me. I turned to the east to see that the lawn, which was a brilliant green next to the drab stone, stretched down toward the dark water of the Firth of Forth, whose choppy waves eventually spilled out into the North Sea. Ancient forests stood sentinel on either side in golden autumn finery, as if guarding the processional route from the house to the sea.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Philip said on an exhale.
I nodded.
The carriage pulled to a halt and within moments the dark double doors were thrown open to reveal a coterie of blue-and-gold-clad footmen. While Philip helped Alana to sit up and straighten her appearance, I allowed one of the waiting footmen to assist me out of the coach onto the gravel drive. I couldn’t stop my gaze from traveling upward. From this angle, the glittering fa?ade was even more imposing.
“Oh, my,” my sister exclaimed in an unconscious imitation of my earlier reaction as she stepped out of the carriage beside me. I turned to see that her chestnut hair and Prussian blue traveling costume were restored to order. But for a few wrinkles in her skirts and the paleness of her complexion, one would never have known she had fallen ill again after luncheon. My appearance was all the more shabby for the stark comparison, in an old russet brown dress with tendrils of hair escaping their pins to trail down my back, per usual. Even had Alana not soiled my two best traveling ensembles, I still would have appeared a bedraggled mess next to her. It was not that I was unkempt; I simply could not be bothered to notice or care that my hair was mussed or my gown wrinkled, until it was too late to alter the opinions of the people scowling at me. As was the case now.
An expression of disdain flickered briefly in the Dalmay butler’s eyes as he stared down his rather hawkish nose at me before he ushered us into the entryway. Ignoring the servant’s condescension, I handed him my cloak, bonnet, and gloves and moved toward the stone archway leading into the entry hall.
My eyes widened in appreciation. The soaring two-story chamber was topped with a decorative hammer-beam ceiling, and its walls were covered in portraits of the Dalmay family’s many noble ancestors. Such artwork was a feast for my eyes, and I planned to spend many an hour over the next few days devouring their canvases, dissecting the pieces to discover just how the various artists had achieved their effects. It had been quite some time since I had been given the opportunity to study another’s artwork—I had long ago exhausted the paintings at Gairloch Castle of their educational value—and I felt a thrill at the chance to do so now.
Philip and Alana joined me in my examination of the beautiful chamber. Black-and-white tiles covered the floor, leading to the creamy marble of the staircase and the red runner trailing up the center of each riser. The stair rail was molded in black rod iron and topped with warm oak. The furniture positioned in the room had appropriately been kept to a minimum. Two red wingback chairs and a round table topped with a floral arrangement of fragrant asters and bellflowers were all that occupied the space.
As we stood absorbing our surroundings, a man rushed in to greet us through a door on the left, his footfalls echoing off the walls of the cavernous chamber. A wide, boyish grin flashed across his face, summoning an answering smile to my own.
“Cromarty, I’m so glad you could join us,” Michael Dalmay exclaimed.
“Glad you could accommodate us,” Philip responded, clasping his proffered hand.
A subtle undercurrent of tension tightened Michael’s shoulders, as if in the excitement of seeing us he had forgotten our real reason for being there. “But of course. You’re always welcome,” he demurred. His eyes still warm and bright, he turned to bow over my sister’s hand. “Lady Cromarty, how lovely it is to see you.”
“Thank you,” she replied with obvious pleasure. “But when did we become so formal? Alana, if you please. After all, were you not the young man who took a pair of scissors to one of my braids?”
I laughed, having forgotten about that particular incident.