Page 54 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
Returning down the steeply spiralled stairs, they took a different direction at the bottom, stepping through into the cavernous hallway of the castle. The doorway they’d used was concealed within wooden panelling, becoming invisible once closed behind them. Here, the staircase was much grander, of the same dark oak, sweeping majestically to a half-landing before splitting off to either side.
The ceiling, high above, was similarly panelled, while the walls were covered with dusty tapestries, their threads coming loose along lower edges. The floor was cold flagstone, devoid even of a rug. From the far side, Ursula heard conversation. Someone laughing.
That was more like it. Not everything in the castle could be veiled in dismal gloom.
Mrs. Douglas opened the door and ushered her through.
The woman who rose to greet her was undoubtedly the countess. Though it was barely eleven in the morning, Lady Dunrannoch was resplendently dressed in purple silk, with ruffles of black lace at her neck and cuffs. Expertly coiffed, her pure white hair was set off by droplet jet earrings. She cut a striking figure. Clearly, she’d been a great beauty in her time, carrying herself with the bearing of one accustomed to admiration.
The room meanwhile, bore none of the austerity of the entranceway. Here were signs of the Yuletide season, for wreaths of bright-berried holly and twining ivy, spruce and pine swagged the rafters and mantlepiece.
A huge fireplace filled a portion of the inner wall, its grate stacked high and producing a considerable amount of heat, before which lay a rather despondent looking wolfhound, its head down on the rug.
Every available section of wood panelling had been adorned with the head of a stag, and there were perhaps fifty in all, encircling the room, looking down on the assembled women of the family, the faces of whom were turned to appraise the newcomer.
Lady Dunrannoch inclined her head, peering at Ursula with slight puzzlement before collecting herself to make introductions and Ursula found herself obliged to drop multiple curtsies.
“The Dowager Countess,” began Lady Dunrannoch.
Of most ancient years, the lady in question—hunched in her chair and wearing a dress out of fashion these forty years—gawked beadily at Ursula before returning her attention to a plate of cake upon her lap.
“Lady Arabella Balmore and Lady Mary Balmore—widows to my dearly departed stepsons, and my stepdaughter, Lady Iona.” They stared at Ursula with interest, the two Lady Balmores sharing a furtive glance with eyebrows arched.
“And my five granddaughters, Ladies Fiona, Bonnie, Cora, Elsbeth and Blair.” The young ladies varied in age from perhaps sixteen to twenty.
“Lady Iona’s son, Cameron, is attending to business in Pitlochrie but you’ll meet him soon. The earl, sadly, is recovering from a head cold and confined to his room at present.”
“Do have a seat, Miss Abernathy.” The countess indicated a space on the sofa opposite, upon which was a liberal sprinkling of orange hair.
The ginger cat sitting at the countess’s feet paused from licking its paw to give Ursula a look of disdain.
“Some tea? I expect you’re gasping for a cup after your arduous journey. Really most kind of you to come at such short notice.”
The countess turned to the maid standing to one side. “More hot water, Winnie.” She waved her hand at the platters set upon various tables about the room. “And shortbread. See if Mrs. Middymuckle has any of her drop scones for us, if you please.”
“Thank you.” Ursula accepted a mince pie. Being quite ravenous, she took a large bite but, brimming with hot sultanas, it burnt her mouth, causing her to splutter.
Two of the younger girls tittered.
Lady Dunrannoch merely added a lump of sugar to her own cup and stirred vigorously.
“I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable here, Miss Abernathy. We’re rather lacking in modern conveniences—still using oil lamps and candles, since we haven’t the electricity here. There’s no telephone of course, though we go to town every few weeks or so. You can post letters from there, or send a telegram.”
Producing a sardine from her sandwich, she reached down to offer it to the cat, who accepted with utmost daintiness, its sharp, white teeth closing around the morsel.
“McTavish has a delicate constitution.” The countess beamed down at the generously proportioned cat, now wiping its whiskers on her skirts.
She gave a tinkling laugh.
“It was a condition of my marrying the earl that he have decent plumbing installed, so we don’t want for hot water, at least. Apart from that, Castle Dunrannoch is little changed since the days of Robert the Bruce. He’s said to have stayed here, you know, in 1306, shortly before his crowning.”
The dowager stirred, looking up from her fruit cake. Her voice rang out with remarkable force, her eyes suddenly blazing. “Hosted by Camdyn Dalreagh, the fourth of his name, descended from the original Wolf of Dunrannoch, whose ghost walks among us still.” She leant forward, her gnarled fingers grasping the armrest of her seat. “The curse is upon us! Beware the bagpipes! Each clansman shall meet his death!”
“Now, now, Flora! Enough of that.” The countess patted the old woman’s hand, then turned to Ursula with apologetic eyes. “The dowager sees the supernatural in everything. Of course, there’s no denying that the castle has a grisly history—bodies holed up in the walls and what have you, but there’s a chair on the upper passageway that she declares is possessed by the spirit of her old Pekinese. She leaves out a tidbit on the cushion every night and swears blind it’s the spectral visitation that polishes it off.”
McTavish stretched and yawned, then leapt to sit on the Countess’ lap, looking decidedly smug.
“As for the curse, it’s all nonsense. Lyle McDoon, being a lecherous old reprobate, was refused the hand of Camdyn’s youngest daughter, and vowed that every male heir of the Dalreagh line would perish an untimely death.” She rubbed McTavish’s ears. “Of course, ‘untimely’ is a bit vague. The earl is nearly eighty, after all. As for the bagpipes, it’s said that Camdyn plays them on the battlements on the eve of one of the clansmen meeting his end.”
