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  Dark Hills Rising

  Anne Hampson

  When Andrew MacNeill married Gail he had made it clear that he did not want a wife but a mother for his children; he had not had the best of wives, and his experience of marriage had made him reluctant to trust, let alone love, any woman again.

  Gail had resigned herself to the fact that marriage was not for her; a terrible car crash had left her badly scarred, unable to have children, and convinced that no man would ever want her. But she dearly loved children, and had told herself that she had accepted Andrew's proposal because it would at least give her the chance of children--any children--to mother.

  But was either of them being completely honest about their motives?

  CHAPTER ONE

  TWO graceful white swans glided across the lake, and on the bank ducks and geese preened themselves in the warm February sunshine. The unusual mildness of the temperature had brought office and shop workers into the park and they strolled along the lakeside or took to the grassy rise where snowdrops and crocuses bloomed in profusion beneath the leafless trees.

  Gail sat on a bench, a book, unopened on her lap. It was her lunch-hour break and for the past twenty minutes she had been enjoying the fresh air, and the flowers and the song of the birds. But all at once she stiffened as two young children came skipping along the path, followed by their parents.

  Could she move away unseen? The naked trees and bushes offered no cover at all and Gail sat still, praying she would remain unnoticed.

  'Daddy, can we feed the swans?' the small girl, aged four, lifted a pretty face to the smiling man above her; he took a crust of bread from the paper bag in his hand and gave it to her. 'I want some as well.' The boy, three years older than his sister, took the bread offered and threw it into the lake. 'Don't go too near the edge,' warned their mother, a rather plain young woman of about twenty-nine years of age. She stood by the pram, but her eyes were on the children standing on the lakeside. They were laughing and chattering, but the baby in the pram slept peacefully. A boy ... born just six weeks ago. As Gail's eyes moved, to become fixed on the man, she noted with a little sense of shock that his hair was receding, and as he turned to grab hold of one of the children who had strayed too close to the edge, she saw a tiny bald patch on the crown of his head.

  But he would be thirty-three now-thirty-four on the tenth of July.... Nine years since it had happened. As always bitterness came with recollection, but the expression - in Gail's beautiful brown eyes as she looked at the children was one of yearning, and in her heart there was a dull ache of hopelessness. These lovely children . . . all this could have been hers had not fate decided otherwise.

  What could she do? For some considerable time she had been undecided, but now she knew she must have a post where she could be with children. She would change her job, and very soon.

  To her dismay the woman had noticed her and was speaking to her husband. He turned, and Gail rose, moving towards the rim of the lake, her eyes on the little girl who was impatiently asking for more bread.

  'Gail, how are you? Long time no see!'

  'I'm fine, Michael, thank you.' Gail managed a smile, and a friendly nod for Joan. Michael's eyes were on her, taking in the delicate lines of her face, the clear fresh bloom of her skin and the long dark lashes of which he had often spoken so flatteringly. He saw the mass of gleaming chestnut hair, and seemed to be fascinated by the flick of a curl which lay so enchantingly on one delicate blue-veined temple. Gail flushed, knowing he had a mental picture of what lay hidden beneath that lock of hair.

  'You're not a day older,' he declared impulsively, and a slight frown touched his young wife's brow. 'How long is it since I last saw you?'

  The ghost of a smile appeared on Gail's lips. She knew the date exactly, but she merely said,

  'Several years, Michael. You only had Darryl then.' She glanced down, smiling, as the boy raised his head on hearing his name mentioned. The baby moved and Gail bent over the pram. 'What have you called him?'

  'You knew we had a boy?' Joan's voice held surprise.

  'I saw the announcement in the paper.' Gail blinked rapidly, for a heaviness had settled at the back of her eyes.

  'We called him William, after Michael's father.'

  'He'd be thrilled about that.' How well they had agreed, Michael's father and herself. His son was the luckiest man on earth, William Bankfoot had so often told Gail. He took the break badly and for a long while he and his son were estranged.

  'Daddy, I want some more bread.' Tricia tugged at her father's sleeve. 'The swans are swimming away. Be quick!'

  Gail glanced at her watch. 'I must go, otherwise I'll be late.'

  'Are you still working in the same office?' asked Joan politely.

  'Yes, I'm still there.' She turned to Michael. 'Well,' she began awkwardly, 'goodbye.'

  'Goodbye, Gail.'

  The meeting with her ex-fiancé brought on a state of unrest which continued throughout the afternoon and remained with Gail even when she reached home at six-thirty in the evening. Since the death of her mother she had lived with Beth and Harvey, her sister and brother-in-law, and on entering the house she was greeted with the familiar, 'Hello, Auntie Gail!' from both her sister's children at once.

  'Hello, darlings.,' A kiss for each and then Gail had to listen to all the day's happenings.

  'I've been chosen for the football team,' was Thomas's proud announcement. 'I'm the youngest in the team because I'm not eleven yet.'

  'That's wonderful, Thomas, but I knew you'd be chosen.' Taking off her coat, Gail threw it over her arm. 'What about you, Marilyn?'

  'I'm the new milk monitor!'

  'That's nothing,' said her brother disparagingly. 'It isn't an honour waiting on all those kids.'

  'I agree, Thomas,' said his mother from the kitchen. 'I certainly shouldn't want the job of handing out bottles of milk to forty little perishers.'

  'You horrid Mummy! We're not little perishers!' Marilyn scowled. 'We're nice, well-behaved children.'

  'That,' laughed Beth, entering with a tray, 'is a matter of opinion.' Putting down the tray she told the children to run off and play. 'We want a cup of tea in peace.' They went at once, aware of the time and knowing one word of argument would result in their bedtime being brought forward half an hour or so. 'I saw Michael and Joan today,' said Gail as she sat down opposite to Beth. 'They have a new baby.'

  'How very nice. for them,' returned Beth in acid tones. 'Does Michael get drunk before taking his family out for a drive in the car?'

  Gail ignored that.

  'They've called him William, after Michael's father.'

  Why couldn't she keep quiet? Beth was colouring angrily, as she always did if Michael's name was mentioned. However, Beth was obviously endeavouring to control her temper because all she said was, 'I know you adore kids, Gail, always have from being quite small yourself. But forget Michael and his children. You're beautiful, and sooner or later someone will 'Beautiful?' Gail raised her brows. 'With all these scars?'

  'All but one are where they can't be seen. In any case, you've no need to carry them. Surgery has progressed considerably in the past nine years.' This was true-but although surgery could erase the disfigurements from her body, there was no cure for what Michael had done when he crashed that car. 'You're beautiful,' repeated Beth. 'And you're intelligent. You'll marry, no matter what you insist on saying to the contrary. And when you do marry you'll be very sure you're wanted for yourself alone.'

  'I'm twenty-eight,' Gail reminded her, and added bitterly, 'in any case, who would ever want a barren woman?' A swift frown darkened her sister's face. 'Don't use that word!'

  'Is there a more apt one?' Gail's voice was cool, covering her emotion, but her thoughts
were with Michael's children, and an intense longing enveloped her. She still had the natural desires of a woman, still yearned for the fulfillment only motherhood can bring. The deep sense of loss, and the finality of the doctor's verdict, were rarely absent from her consciousness. 'No, Beth, there's not the remotest possibility of my marrying'

  'That Michael Bankfoot!' Beth exploded. 'Why did he escape without a scratch? Why wasn't he maimed for life..!'

  'Beth!' interrupted Gail, shocked. 'Yes, I know I'm hateful and vindictive, but you're my sister and he's nothing to me. He was drunk and yet he escaped. And to throw you over because you couldn't have children-when it was all his fault!'

  'He adores children, Beth, and...'

  'So do you! He was utterly wicked to act like he did. And what makes me so furious is the way everything seems to go right for him, while you-' She broke off as her husband's car could be heard coming along the drive. 'You'll find someone, though,' went on Beth with confidence. 'Someone worth a hundred Michael Bankfoots!'

  But Gail was shaking her head. 'I should have to warn any man who wanted to marry me, just as I warned Jerry Lathom.'

  'Jerry was nice,' reflected Beth. 'You told him too soon, Gail.'

  'I don't agree.'

  'You could have waited until he was really in love with you. Why, you told him only a month after meeting him.'

  'His father's a Scottish laird. He's a friend of Mr. Swin-bourne. They went to school together.'

  'A Scottish laird? Ah, yes, the Laird of Dun-lochrie.'

  That's right. I forgot you knew him.'

  'I don't know him, but my sister's mentioned him once or twice.' Heather disliked him excessively, Gail recalled, saying he was short and abrupt to the point of rudeness. 'Is he not here with his children?'

  'No; he has some business to see to in London and Mr. Swinbourne had evidently suggested that he leave the kiddies here. He'll pick them up again on his way back next week.'

  'He's a widower, I believe?' Gail took her nightgown from the suitcase and placed it under the bed cover.

  'He is, yes.' A small hesitation and then, 'I couldn't help overhearing a little of the conversation on the evening Mr. MacNeill brought them. He said he was going to London to find a nanny for the three children-well, I suppose it's for the three.'

  'Three?'

  'He has a girl of fifteen, but he left her at home.' Heather had mentioned only two children, Robbie, seven, and Shena, five and a half.

  'What's the elder girl's name?'

  'Morag.' Trudy paused. 'There's a very big gap in the ages, isn't there?'

  'Between Robbie and Morag? Yes, there is a big gap.' Andrew MacNeill was thirty-seven, Heather had once mentioned. He must have been married quite young. if he had a daughter of fifteen.

  Trudy lifted the last two sweaters from the case and put them in a drawer. She then closed the case and took it into the dressing-room out of the way.

  'That's it, Miss Kersley. Shall I make you some tea now?'

  'Please, Trudy. I'll be down directly.' After washing her face and brushing her hair Gail went down to the sitting-room, and only seconds later Heather came in, full of apologies for not meeting Gail at the station. 'Grandma's housekeeper rang, and said she'd had a fall. I had to go, even though Grandma wasn't badly hurt. I've promised her Roger will go over this evening, so we'll have an hour or two to ourselves.' She stood for a moment, smiling at Gail. There had always been a great affection between the three sisters, although in looks they bore not the slightest resemblance to one another. Heather was fair and pretty, while Beth was dark and somewhat plain. Gail, with her delicate classical features, gave at first glance the impression of fragility, but in character she was in fact the strongest of the three. 'Have you had something to eat?'

  'Trudy's making some tea... Here she is.'

  'I've made sandwiches, and the scones are hot. Is there anything else you would like?'

  'No, Trudy, this is fine, thank you. Where are the children?' She turned to Gail. 'Has Trudy told you about our visitors?' Gail nodded.

  'They're away in the woods somewhere,' said Trudy, laying down the tray and bringing a small table up to the fire. 'I told them not to go too far. I think they'll do as they're told,' she added with a grimace. The table set, Trudy went out and Gail immediately asked about the children of the Laird of Dunlochrie. 'They're rather sweet, especially Robbie. It's the father I can't abide;' said Heather. 'He's in London, Trudy says.'

  'Yes. Apparently he has difficulties with his nannies.'

  'You sound as if he has several.'

  'He's had several.' Heather passed Gail her tea and offered the scones. 'I don't know much about him. As I've told you before, he's Roger's friend, not mine. And Roger doesn't talk much, but from what I can gather Andrew's wife was a thorough bad lot, and his elder daughter takes after her. She's the trouble where a nanny is concerned. They never stay- won't stand her arrogance and disobedience.'

  'Isn't she a little old for a nanny?'

  'The nanny isn't for her, but she's the one who makes their lives unbearable and so they just don't stay. You can't treat servants like that these days or you jolly soon lose them.'

  'But Mr. MacNeill is now looking for another nanny?' What was at the back of her mind? Andrew MacNeill would in all probability bring the new nanny back with him in a few days' time. 'He advertised in the London papers-he wants an English girl, apparently. And so lie had to go there to interview the applicants. He has a friend who's put his flat at Andrew's disposal.' Gail stirred her tea, deep in thought. 'There's a big gap between the ages of the children-between the elder girl and Robbie, I mean. Trudy tells me she's fifteen.'

  'I don't know the whole story. As I've said, Roger won't talk-loyalty to his friend and all that sort of nonsense. You know what men are,' added Heather, clearly piqued. 'However, I have gathered that Andrew's wife went off with someone else when Morag was three, and she didn't come back for a year.'

  'He forgave her?'

  'He must have done. I think, basically, he's a good man, and would abide by his promises. Yes, he'd consider marriage to be permanent. Anyway, I suspect he jibbed at having more children just in case he was left again with them, should his wife repeat the performance, which, incidentally, she did. However, the next time she came back they had Robbie; I suppose he decided he wanted an heir, after all. Then eighteen months later Shena was born. Their mother was killed in a skiing accident. She was supposed to be having a holiday with an old school friend, but was on holiday in Austria with one of her boyfriends.'

  'One of her boyfriends?'

  'Roger likes to give her illness, as he terms it, a more delicate name, but I'm catty and have an altogether different name for it!' Heather poured another cup of tea and added, 'The daughter takes after her and has given her father no end of trouble.'

  'At fifteen!' Gail was shocked. Heather shrugged. '"They start much earlier than that these days.'

  'Poor Mr. MacNeill. How very dreadful for a man in his position to be so disgraced.'

  'I don't know,' returned Heather indifferently. 'It's not as if he's a nice sort of person.'

  'What's he like?' asked Gail curiously. 'Have I never told you?'

  'You've not said much about him. I know he's thirty-seven and a Scottish laird, and that's about all.' Gail smiled to herself. 'You said he invited you to his house but you refused to go because you couldn't stand him.'

  'For the deerstalking, yes, I remember. He wanted Roger to go and thought he had better include me. I obligingly refused and Roger went alone.'

  'Why don't you like him?'

  'He's too arrogant and pompous, for one thing, and I really don't know what Roger sees in him. But Roger becomes quite vexed when I say anything about Andrew, so I keep quiet about the wretched man. I've seen him on only three occasions and each time he's scarcely had the patience to speak to me, and even when he does speak he's so sharp that I feel sure he's a woman-hater.'

  'Could be, if he's suffered so mu
ch at the hands of his wife and daughter.'

  'Can't see him suffering; he's too hard and unfeeling-a typical Scot. I expect it was humiliation more than any real hurt that upset him.'

  'But he must have loved his wife to take her back twice.'

  'That I wouldn't know. He doesn't seem capable of love as far as I can see.'

  Gail fell silent for a while, wondering if it were love for his wife or honour of his pledge that had induced him to take his wife back.

  'It does seem a shame that this daughter is now causing him this humiliation, for people will know, of course?'

  'You can't keep a thing like that secret.' Heather paused and added, 'As I said, I don't know very much about him, but the second time I saw him it was at the home of one of Roger's school friends. Mary, the wife, was a talkative sort of woman and she did tell me what little she knew. There's no doubt that Morag is as wicked as her mother was, being far too fond of the men. She's also dishonest; she stole money from one of her friends and went off abroad somewhere with her young man.'

  'She's as bad as that?'

  'According to Mary, Morag MacNeill isn't fit to live.' Heather took a scone and buttered it, thoughtful for a while. 'She actually hinted that Morag wasn't his.' 'Not his? But what a thing to say!'

  'She came early, but at that time Andrew would naturally trust his wife, and would never suspect, her of deception. Whether or not he remains unsuspecting no one will ever know.'

  'I don't wonder he's hard and unfeeling,' murmured Gail almost to herself. 'He's really to be pitied.'

  'Pitied! He'd not thank you for pity. Wait until you meet him.'

  'I shall meet him?'

  'He's due back on Wednesday. You're not leaving until Saturday.'

  'He has a large estate, I suppose?'

  'He wouldn't be a laird unless he had. On the home estate he has many thousands of acres, but he also has other estates, even larger, further north. I believe he has other interests-in industry, I think Roger said. He works hard, I'll admit that, and he's a terribly important person, being a member of the Queen's body-guard-the Royal Archers and all that.' She broke off, listening. 'Here come the children. Just hark at that din!' Eagerly Gail glanced through the window. Racing across the lawn, shouting at the tops of their voices, came the four children; within seconds the door was flung wide and two of them entered the room, flushed and breathless. 'Auntie Gail! How long have you been here?' Manda hugged her and gave her a loud kiss. 'We've got visitors!'