Unknown

SILVER ARROW

Elizabeth Ashton

His proposal came as a complete surprise

Frances was flattered by it.

After all, Gray Crawford was a prominent figure in the speedboat-racing world.

Frances hadn't minded working as a domestic in his Scottish Highlands house, but it wasn't a career. Marriage to Gray would mean a different future....

Anyway, she didn't want to refuse him; she loved him devotedly. And even knowing Gray's ruling passion was his speedboat
, Silver Arrow,
couldn't prevent Frances from following her heart!

"Don't turn into sweeping Niobe.'

Gray Crawford's words were chiding. "Brave women send their men into battle with smiles."

And so she smiled until her lips were stiff, all through breakfast and during their goodbyes. Gray's final embrace was perfunctory as he said lightly, "When I come back I'll crown you with my victor's laurels."

Frances watched his car disappear into the gray murk with a sense of foreboding. Suppose, among the bevy of American fans, he came to regret his hasty marriage to her? Gray was the love of her life, but her hold on him was so slight!

It was time to return to Craig Dhu. In the car Frances surreptitiously slipped off her wedding ring. She was Miss Desmond again—until Gray came back to claim her.

The
speedboat went by like a hurricane, suddenly appearing behind the launch and vanishing up the loch ahead of it. Frances Desmond caught a glimpse of white bows high above the water and a cloud of spray. The wake from its passage whipped the sea into a miniature whirlpool rocking the slower craft.

‘Speedhog!’ she exclaimed indignantly, clutching at the side of the boat as it rose and fell. She was tired after her long journey to the Western Highlands and apprehensive about her welcome at her destination, so that the speedboat’s incivility seemed a menace. Although she had been warned about it when she accepted the post she had not realised that Craig Dhu was so remote and could only be reached by water. She had been met at Mallaig by the young man who was manipulating the controls, Ian Ferguson, her new employee's son, and he had explained that though there was a rough track over the mountains, they always used the boats for transport.

Ian laughed as the waves of wash receded and the motor launch regained its equilibrium.

‘That was Gray Crawford in Silver Arrow,’ he told her, and as she wrinkled her brows. 'Surely you’ve heard of Graham Crawford?’

She shook her dark head and he stared at her.

‘Where have you been vegetating?' he demanded. ‘Perhaps . . .’ his tone became sarcastic, ‘you've
never heard of Sir Malcolm Campbell?’

‘Yes, of course, I’m not that ignorant, but I thought he was a motor racer.’

‘Water as well. He held the record in 1939, but his son beat it in '59. Silver Arrow makes him look like a tortoise.’

‘So this Mr Crawford is a speed ace?’

‘Just about top notch.’ The young man’s face was alight with hero-worship. ‘Didn’t Mother mention him when she wrote to you?—No, I suppose she wouldn’t. We rent Craig Dhu from the Crawfords, and Gray lodges here when he’s testing boats on the loch. I and Lesley, that’s my sister, service them.’

‘Mrs Ferguson did mention her son and daughter.’ Frances looked about her. They had left the open sea and somewhat grim-looking hills rose on either side of them. Behind them the sunset flared over the Western Isles, the sharp points of the Cuillins identifying Skye; although it cast a golden glow over water and hills, the scene was still a little forbidding. On a dull day it would look sombre. ‘Isn’t this a very isolated spot for an invalid lady?’

‘Oh, my mother isn’t really an invalid,’ Ian told her. ‘To be frank it’s a bit of a pose to draw attention to herself, for I’m afraid my sister and I are apt to become absorbed in our own concerns. She must have told you she’s a widow. But you won’t find her exacting,’ he added hastily, for it had not been easy to engage a help who was willing to come to such a desolate spot. ‘You were warned we. were very cut off.’

‘I don’t mind that,’ Frances assured him, for she had been as anxious to obtain the job as the Fergus
ons had been to employ her. Since she had left school she had lived at home with her parents, as she was the only child of a middle-aged couple, and while her father was alive had had an adequate social life, though her mother, being selfish and delicate, had made considerable demands upon her. After he died, their income dwindled and her mother became more demanding, as she developed leukaemia. When she succumbed to it, Frances found herself left with a small inheritance and a need to find a paid occupation to augment it. Trained for nothing and without experience, a domestic post seemed her only hope and the Fergusons offered a generous salary, though the prospect of assisting with another ailing woman was not inspiring, but at least she knew all about that.

'It seems very fine country,’ she went on to placate him.

‘You haven’t visited the Highlands before?'

‘No, I’ve never been to Scotland.’

‘To my mind there’s no place on earth as lovely as this country,’ he told her earnestly. T hope you'll learn to love it too.’

His dark eyes were assessing her with open admiration. The girl was not at all what he had expected. He had envisaged a country wench, fair, fresh-faced, possibly a little heavy since she came from rural Kent, but Frances had a matt white skin and hair like black silk. Her eyes, under level black brows, were blue, nearly violet, with a dreamy, almost fey expression that he had hitherto associated with women of his own race, but with her colouring she might be a Celt. Her name was Irish, and he asked
if that were so, but she denied it.

'I might have Irish ancestors, but my family have always lived in south-east England.'

She felt a wave of homesickness for the pretty countryside she had left. There was something vaguely menacing about these gaunt hills; then she shook herself mentally. She was tired and that made her fanciful. The young man escorting her seemed normal and friendly; dark-haired, dark-eyed, he had the rangy build of the Highlander. He would look well in a kilt, she thought, but there was nothing especially Scottish about him; except for a faint roil of the
r
s, his speech was anglicised. If the rest of the family were like him she need not be apprehensive.

They rounded a bend in the loch and he pointed ahead.

‘Craig Dhu.'

The house was on a promontory extending into the loch. It stood high on a rocky
eminence, and sheltering behind it on the landward side was a natural harbour, with a stone jetty. It was an old Scottish castle, the original tower rising stark above the water, bat it had been modernised and built on to. Trees and shrubs grew on its eastern sheltered side, that towards the sea was bare and grim.

‘Looks a bit formidable from here,' Ian remarked, ‘but I assure you it’s quite comfortable inside and we have all mod cons.'

He guided the motor launch round the bluff into the cove where several boats of various sorts rode at anchor and there were sheds and workshops built along the shore.

‘We often have craft up here for trial runs during the summer,’ Ian told her. ‘Crawfords’ works are at Glasgow, they’re boatbuilders, you know.’

Frances had not known, Mrs Ferguson had not mentioned the Crawfords.

Ian shut off the engine and the launch glided into the jetty. A man was standing on it, talking to a girl. Both wore wet suits, close-fitting as skins, the man’s being black, the girl’s red. There was something a little diabolical about their appearance and to Frances’ excited imagination they only needed tails to pose as demonic imps, and both had a sinuous feline grace. The girl’s head was bare, she had a small, catlike face, disfigured by an oily streak across her nose, and a bush of thick brown hair; the man wore a hood and goggles. As the boat’s fender touched the quay he made an impatient gesture and strode away, but the girl came running to catch the rope Ian threw towards her and secure it to a mooring ring.

‘Something wrong?’ Ian asked anxiously, as the girl extended a not very clean hand to assist the newcomer on to the jetty.

‘Oil leak trouble, a job for us to locate it.’

The girl had a deep voice at variance with her slight figure and small face. She had wide-spaced greenish eyes and a pointed chin.

‘Seemed going all right as she came up the loch,’ Ian observed. Then he remembered his passenger. ‘My sister Lesley,’ he said to Frances.

Lesley Ferguson detached her mind from engine trouble and favoured the new help with a long critical stare.

‘Gray didn’t stay to be introduced,' Ian went on.

So the black devil was the speed ace, Frances grasped, just landed from the silver bomb that had flashed up the loch and far too immersed in technical problems to stay to greet a stranger—a conjecture Lesley bore out as she said:

‘He'd other things on his mind. Good God, girl, how young you are! Miss ... er . .. Desmond, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, and I’m twenty-three,’ Frances returned stiffly, annoyed by the girl’s exclamation and her insolent manner.

‘You'll never stick this place,’ Lesley told her. She prided herself upon being brutally frank.

‘Girls of your age expect entertainment, shops, and . . .’ her eyes narrowed ‘. . . young men. There’s nothing like that here.'

‘There’s me,’ Ian pointed out, as he put Frances’ cases on the jetty, ‘and Frances was warned about the lack of amusements.’

‘Frances? Lesley raised thin arched brows.

‘She’s to be like one of the family, I'm not going to Miss Desmond her,’ Ian declared.

Lesley looked down her short nose. 'The home help?’ she sneered.

‘Exactly, we want to make her feel at home, don't we?'

‘So long as she doesn’t forget to help. Come along. Miss Desmond,’ she emphasised the name. ‘My brother will bring your gear. My mother is anxious to meet you.'

She led the way along the jetty and up a steep path to the entrance to the house. Frances followed, wondering why the girl seemed so antagonistic, since
it was obvious she was not being welcomed by Miss Ferguson. Ian followed them carrying her cases, his brows puckered. He was perturbed by his sister’s attitude. She had applauded the idea of obtaining help in the house, but she should be more friendly if she wanted to keep it. A small community in such isolation were totally dependent upon each other and needed a harmonious relationship.

‘When you’ve taken Miss Desmond’s luggage up, you’d better get back to the sheds,’ Lesley told her brother. ‘I’ll join you later. That engine will have to be overhauled.' She glanced at Frances. 'I'm an engineer,’ she announced with pride.

‘Oh, are you?’

That accounted for her garb and the oily streak across her nose. Frances knew women were invading the hitherto masculine trades, but she was surprised to be given definite proof of it. Lesley looked too slight and delicately made to handle spanners, bolts and nuts, but possibly such work required more knack than strength.

They reached an imposing iron-studded oak door and Lesley pushed it open as a large dog bounded towards them, a Great Dane, as big as a calf, who eyed the stranger doubtfully.

‘You like dogs?’ Lesley enquired disdainfully.

‘Yes.' Frances held out a tentative hand. She was not afraid of any animal, though this one looked intimidating.

The dog sniffed it cautiously, then began to wag his tail.

‘Good, Caesar has accepted you,’ said Ian as Frances stroked the massive head.

Lesley made no comment, though her expression was eloquent. She would have been better pleased if Caesar had growled at her.

The door gave access to a huge stone paved hall with a wide staircase of polished oak, ascending to the upper regions. There was a large open fireplace stacked with logs, but not alight, and although it was early summer the place felt damp and chill. An oaken settle was against one wall and a row of pegs carrying outdoor clothing along another. An array of rubber boots were in one corner, a lifebelt and boat gear in another, for the great hall at Craig Dhu was used for utilitarian purposes. There were several doors, and Lesley opened one of them while Ian proceeded upstairs with Frances' cases.

‘My mother is in here.'

A few feet of stone passage and another door, and they stepped through into the more modern part of the house. Lit by electric light—it was Scotland’s boast that however remote the region electricity was always available—as the long northern twilight gave insufficient illumination, Frances saw a big low-ceilinged room, comfortably furnished with deep armchairs, a sofa, thick carpet and velvet curtains at the windows overlooking the loch. A women reclined on the sofa with a rug over her feet, and a table beside her littered with magazines and an empty coffee cup. A small wood fire burned in the grate. Margaret Ferguson had small features surrounded by soft brown hair streaked with grey, her eyes, like her son’s, were dark. She looked delicate and held out a languid hand to the newcomer.