A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(25)
Fortunately, the interior did not maintain its fifteenth-century design. At some point, likely in the early eighteenth century, it had been refurbished and remodeled. Warm wood-paneled walls greeted us in the entry hall, and the patina of the oak floor spoke of its age. The butler gestured us through a doorway across from the main entrance, and we stepped through to find ourselves in a worn but tidy drawing room. The faded upholstery and threadbare rug had seen better days, but not a pillow was out of place, nor did a speck of dust touch the surfaces of the room’s contents.
Miss Campbell stood just inside the room, waiting to greet us properly. From a distance, I had not been able to appreciate the lovely sea green shade of her eyes or the regal structure of her features. With her height—several inches above my own—and commanding appearance and presence, I could easily imagine her being a queen, let alone a marchioness, as she would have been if she’d wed Barbreck.
The niceties being observed, I expected her to directly address the reason for our being there, as her practical demeanor seemed to suggest. But she astonished me instead by remarking, “I certainly see the resemblance. You have your mother’s eyes.”
I blinked in surprise. “You knew my mother?”
“Oh, aye, my dear,” a voice from behind our hostess said with a titter. “Quite well.”
Miss Campbell stepped to the side, giving me a glimpse of the woman seated in one of the armchairs upholstered in burgundy-figured silk near the rough stone hearth where a fire crackled in its grate, the better to ward off the chill of the castle even on such a warm summer day. A tartan shawl was draped around her shoulders, which seemed to bow forward with frailty.
“Come closer so I can get a look at you,” she beckoned.
“My sister, Miss Margaret Campbell,” the elder Miss Campbell explained.
Miss Margaret’s soft brown eyes twinkled at me as I approached, as if we might be sharing a private joke. I could see the resemblance in their facial structures and the widow’s peaks at their hairline, but whereas Miss Campbell appeared tall and robust, her younger sister seemed to be small and delicate. From the manner in which she sat hunched in front of the fireplace, I would have suspected her to be an invalid if not for the healthy flush of her cheeks and that liveliness in her eyes. But perhaps her fragility only seemed so pronounced when compared with her sister. After all, both women were over seventy years of age, and life in the Highlands was hard on the body, even the most pampered of aristocratic ones.
“You are someone I never thought to have the chance to meet,” she declared with relish. “But Barbreck does have interestin’ friends.”
“Dunstan Mallery is her uncle,” Miss Campbell reminded her, as if to say the odds of us meeting had not been as remote as her sister implied.
“Aye,” she replied in acknowledgment, but she didn’t seem to give the comment much credence. “Forgive me for no’ risin’, my dear. My knees are no’ what they once were.”
“Of course.” My head swam with a dozen questions I wished to ask of them pertaining to my mother and how they had known her, but before I could begin, Miss Margaret lifted the tambour embroidery hoop in her lap that my gaze had dipped to.
“Do you like it?”
Focusing on the intricate stitches, I was immediately struck by her skill and the artistry of the design. “I do. The depth and subtlety of variation in your shades of color, and the complexity of the motif. It’s remarkable.” I tilted my head to study it from yet another angle. “Is it your handiwork?”
“Why, yes.” Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “You must embroider yourself.”
“Not very well,” I admitted with a light laugh. “I’m afraid I never acquired the aptitude. But I am a portrait artist.”
My good humor abruptly faded as I recalled the reason we were there in the first place. Lifting my gaze to Miss Campbell, I saw that her lips had tightened.
“Let’s be seated, shall we?” she instructed us, gesturing toward the chairs and sofa arranged before the hearth.
I sat on the end of the floral settee nearest Miss Margaret, and Gage joined me, leaving the remaining chairs to Henry and Miss Campbell.
“Noo,” Miss Campbell proclaimed once she was settled. “It’s no surprise why you are here, so I shall speak plainly.” Her stern gaze met each of ours in turn, ending with me. “I dinna ken where Barbreck’s Van Dyck portrait is. I am neither a thief nor a liar. So, if you’ve come to accuse me o’ either one, you’ve wasted yer time and mine.”
Chapter 8
I understand why you would think that’s why we’re here,” I replied, unsurprised by her anger but grateful for her restraint. “I’m not certain precisely what Barbreck said to you when he paid you an unexpected visit yesterday evening, but I gather it was unpleasant, to say the least.”
“Called her a thief, a liar, a termagant, and a harridan,” Miss Margaret declared almost gleefully.
My eyebrows arched. “I apologize. It appears ‘unpleasant’ was too kind a word. ‘Vile’ perhaps would be a better adjective. My point is that I’m not here to accuse anyone of anything. I’m simply trying to gather information, and as I understand it, you have a unique and, in some ways, possibly more objective perspective.” I studied Miss Campbell’s taut expression, trying to gauge how receptive she was to my explanation. “Will you answer my questions?”