Summer of Love (13 page)

    
"It’s a nice morning, Helen."

    
"Yes, it is, master Andrew." The first words she had ever spoken to him.

    
He smiled.

    
"Please, call me Andrew."

    
She nodded.

    
"Will you join me? I brought some delicacies to share with you."

    
So he had fully expected to meet her. She sat a few feet away from him,
while he opened his pouch, laid out a cloth and displayed chicken pieces, a
small sausage, cheese, several small bread buns, and raisins and other fresh
and dried fruit. Her eyes opened wide. She hadn’t seen such a selection of
food for more than a year. Some , like those two orange fruit with the crinkly
skin she didn’t even know what they were. Andrew chuckled softly when he
saw her reaction.

    
"Shall we eat?"

    
She just nodded, inhibited to speak. He cut the sausage into slices, and put
one piece into his mouth. She did the same, and they both chuckled, a bit
embarrassed. For a while they ate silently, looking at each other, smiles
lighting up their eyes.

    
"The English soldiers have left. Did you know?" he said.

    
She shook her head and a cloud crossed her face.

    
"I’m glad they are gone," he continued. "Life can now become a bit more
normal again."

    
"For those who have left any cattle. They took all of ours. We only
managed to save the goats."

    
"I know, Helen. I had to witness it."

    
"You led them to our clachan," she murmured accusingly.

    
"I had no choice. They forced me to lead them to all the places where the
men had joined with Prince Charles. I could do nothing to prevent it."

    
"You didn’t want to do it then?"

    
"No. At the beginning, I protested, but was told bluntly to shut up or be
thrown in jail as a Jacobite sympathizer… I felt so ashamed for what they
did… Many of the tenants who stayed home got robbed too."

    
While he spoke, thoughts flashed through her mind. He had no more
choice than their own men. The gentry of the castle were as much at the
mercy of their overlords as were the lairds of the MacGregors.

    
"Come, Helen, you’re not eating."

    
She took more food and ate it slowly, savoring every bit of its taste, all the
time searching his eyes, wondering about him. She would have liked to ask
him why he helped them, but didn’t find the courage. Instead, she asked:
"What are you reading?"

    
He wiped his hands on his plaid and picked up the book: "Its called
‘Gulliver’s Travels’ by a writer named Jonathan Swift. The story is about a
man who gets shipwrecked on an island where tiny people live." He showed
their size with his hand. "And it tells about his adventures and the intrigues
he gets involved in. It’s probably meant to be a satire on the current political
life in England… Would you like to read it? I find it quite amusing."

    
It surprised her that he didn’t ask whether she read English. He simply
assumed it. He must have a high opinion of the daughter of a small chieftain.
Although she would have liked to say yes, she shook her head. "No, you’re
reading it now." But she didn’t manage to hide her eagerness completely.

    
"I’ve read it before. I just took it along because I couldn’t decide what
book to choose next… Please, Helen, take it. It will help you pass the time
while you guard your goats."

    
He held out the book.

    
"No, I can’t. I couldn’t take it home."

    
Andrew was still holding the book. "You can hide it here… Look, you can
keep it in this pouch. It will protect it from the wet."

    
He slid it into a pouch made from the bladder of an animal and held it out
for her again. Hesitantly, she took it, pressing it to her bosom.

    
"I love reading," she murmured and showered him with a happy smile.
Feeling his intense gaze on her, she bashfully lowered her face and opened
the book at the drawing of a giant, surrounded by tiny people. A soft chuckle
escaped her.

    
"It’s obviously all just imaginary. But it’s written in a very plausible and
convincing way. One easily falls into the trap of believing the story. I’m
curious to know what you think of it. Maybe we could discuss it together.
There’s nobody in the castle interested in literature."

    
"You read a lot?"

    
"Yes, whenever I find time. I was too busy much most of last year, with
Dougan Graham sick. But before that I read a book each week, if I could lay
my hands on one… Do you read much?"

    
"If I can, yes. But it’s not easy for me to get books, so I read the ones that
mother had again and again. But now, all of them are gone. The soldiers took
them all." All of a sudden, her voice sounded bitter.

    
"I’m sorry, Helen… Maybe I can find some of them, or find you others.
The speculators haven’t yet carted away all of the stolen goods."

    
"No, ma—Andrew, please don’t. I couldn’t bring them home."

    
"I can leave them in a bag in your clachan, for your people to find. They
wouldn’t know who brought them. They might even think the soldiers forgot
to take them along. Is your mother’s name written in them?"

    
His eagerness to help made her feel uncomfortable. She would have liked
to protest, to tell him not to do it, but ended up simply nodding her head.

    
"I’ve brought you something else, Helen." He went to the fissure in the
rock wall and retrieved a twenty-pound bag. "I could get barley. Will you
take it?"

    
She blushed, not knowing how to react. "Thank you," she managed
finally. Suddenly, she had an irresistible urge to leave. "I need to go back to
the goats. Thank you, ma—Andrew," she murmured, getting up.

    
He reached for her hand, holding it briefly in his palms. Their touch was
as soft as she remembered from the dance, while hers felt rough and callous
from digging roots. Embarrassed, she withdrew it.

    
"Will you come and see me again? I would like you to. We can talk about
the book. I’ll be back in four days."

    
She raised her gaze briefly. She wanted to flee. Before she knew it, she
whispered "Yes", quickly slipped the book into her plaid, and hurried away
with the bag. She did not look back, nor did she understand what made her
suddenly feel so strange and panicky.

    
When she was back with the goats, it dawned on her that she couldn’t
bring the barley to the shielings. Although she felt pretty sure that her mother
would take it, as she had taken the oats, her father would want to know who
gave it to her. He wouldn’t be fobbed off again. This would endanger
Andrew. Maybe she could give it to mother in small quantities, then father
surely wouldn’t notice. Then she remembered Andrew’s remark about hiding
the books in the burnt-out clachan. She could place it there for the men to
find. Didn’t father say just yesterday that they’ll go down and repair them?
So after she saw Andrew ride away, she hid the bag again in the crack up on
the promontory.

 * * *

Betty didn’t believe her sister’s story about the oats. Somebody must have
given them to her, she reasoned, the same person who gave her the biscuits
and the bread, … and now she had her jacket again. She would have liked to
ask, but Helen’s face seemed closed off. So three days later, after she had
done her chores, she went to the top of the ridge between the shielings and
the lochan. Hiding in the grass, she saw master Andrew and Helen share
their banquet on the rock. She immediately understood why Helen had lied
about where the oats came from, her father’s tirade against master Andrew
still too fresh in her mind. But what hurt was that Helen wanted to keep it a
secret even from her. She felt betrayed. They had shared most of their
thoughts since that horrible day. Maybe she should tell mother and ask her.
Surely, she must know. She wouldn’t have bought Helen’s story and
wouldn’t tell father, not after master Andrew killed the officer, she reasoned.
But something kept her from going to her mother. Maybe she should wait a
while and see what happened.

 * * *

As announced, the men went down to the clachan the next day, salvaging
whatever they could for repairing the roofs and the inside wooden partitions
of the cottages, and assessing what building materials they might need.
Dougal would then scout around in the nearby forests for suitable trees and
along the shores of Loch Tay for thatching reeds. Robin and Alasdair would
take turns hiding on the ridge above the glen which offered a good view to
the shores of Loch Tay and west to Killin. They were to keep a lockout for
soldiers, "just to be on the safe side’, as Dougal remarked.

    
Helen was in a quandary. With the men at work, she couldn’t carry the
bag down to the clachan and hide it there. Unless she carried it down one
day, left it in the forest behind the clachan, and early next morning, before
the men went to work, hid it in a cottage, she mused to herself. That should
work.

    
Two days later, Dougal returned triumphantly from the clachan with the
bag of barley. "Woman, look what I discovered. The soldiers must have
forgotten it under roof thatching." He handed the bag to Mary. "I think it’s
all right. Maybe we can still sow it."

    
Mary took the bag and checked its content. Helen smiled to herself. It
worked! Suddenly, she felt her mother’s questioning gaze on her. She
suppressed her smile and turned away.
Did she guess it? Will she betray me?
she wondered. Her pulse quickened, but Mary said nothing, just stowed the
bag away, nodding.

 * * *

Helen and Andrew met every second or third day for two hours in the late
morning. He always brought food along, and they laughed about their secret
banquets. They never ran out of things to talk, of books, of history, of
politics, of the war, of the life in the shielings, of the MacGregor Clan—
Andrew was left in no doubt that Helen was very proud of being a MacGregor. Both talked. Helen found in Andrew a very attentive listener. They
avoided personal things. Although she would have liked to know more about
him, but was too shy to ask.

    
Andrew always reached their meeting place early morning, usually before
Helen came to release the goats. His grey mare grazing near the lochan told
her that he was up on the rock.

    
One morning when she expected him to come, the meadow was empty.
Her disappointment surprised her. She had been looking forward to seeing
him. Short, as their meetings were, they provided enough food for thought
and reminiscing for the days in between.

    
It was a warm July day and the water of the lochan beckoned for a swim.
She undressed quickly and rushed into the cold, but invigorating water,
washing herself from top to bottom, wishing she had soap.

    
That was how Andrew discovered her, as he came over the ridge from the
Achmore Burn later than usual. Following his first impulse, he quickly
dropped back behind the crest. He got off his horse and cowered on the
ground, not knowing what to do. After a while, his intense desire to spy on
her got the better of him, and he hid in the heath. She was just climbing back
to shore, pressing out her hair. He could not tear his eyes away, his heart
pounding madly. She was the first woman he saw leisurely enjoying her
nakedness in nature. She flicked the water off her torso and limbs, briefly
pressing her full breasts together. Then she lay on a rock letting the sun dry
her white skin. Ashamed of himself, Andrew crawled back to his horse.
After a few moments’ hesitation, he left, berating himself for having spied
on her.

    
Unbeknown to him, leaving so quickly was a stroke of good luck. Shortly
after he departed, Dougal MacGregor arrived at the lochan. He wanted to
check out the reports by his two sons of a lone horseman who regularly rode
into the hills two or three times a week. When Robin had reported another
sighting that morning of the grey mare, he decided to scout. He vaguely
remembered that master Andrew had been riding a grey mare. He wondered
whether that scoundrel had given Helen the oats. Although nobody else
seemed to have doubted her story, he had questioned it right away.