Summer of Love (21 page)

    
He was just about to go, when a thought struck him. He sat down again
and asked on a low voice: "You were there when I was born, weren’t you?"

    
"Yes, master Andrew, I washed you… You were such a sweet wee baby,
not at all wrinkled like they often are… And your mother wanted to see you,
but Lady Argyle forbade it. I had to take you away immediately."

    
"My mother … Mary MacGregor from Glengyle?"

    
"Ah yes, you never knew, didn’t you? … Lady Argyle made me swear
that I would never tell. But she’s been dead for years now, so it won’t do any
harm telling you."

    
Andrew looked at her in tense impatience.

    
"What name did you say? Mary …?"

    
"Mary MacGregor."

    
The old women pondered that for a while, looking into the hearth. "The
redhead from Rob Roy’s clan?"

    
"Yes."

    
"She was a haughty one. Thought herself better than the other lasses sent
to the castle for grooming… Very pretty though and fell head over heals for
Lord Archibald, the silly lass… They all had their dreams of becoming Lady
Argyle." She fell silent for a while. "But why do you think she is your
mother?"

    
"She said so herself, a few years back, when I was at Finlarig."

    
"She did? … Strange woman… Why would she say that?"

    
Andrew felt on tenterhooks. "Is she my mother? Aunt Lorna, please, tell
me."

    
"No … she had a boy a few months earlier and he died shortly after birth."

    
With great effort, he forced to keep his voice steady. "You say her boy
died?"

    
"Yes, he only lived a week or so. Didn’t take to feeding. That happens
sometimes. Maybe if he had been left with his mother, he might have lived."

    
"And she was never told her boy died?"

    
"I guess not … she was sent home a few days after the birth … before he
died."

    
"So, who is my mother?"

    
"Oh, let me think. She was dark haired … she was … yes, she was a
MacDonald … yes, I think Elizabeth MacDonald. Married one of her
cousins a year after you were born and died in childbirth, the poor lass…
would have done better to enter a convent, as she had wanted."

    
Andrew did not sleep much that night. He wondered what difference it
would have made, had he known. But that could not be changed any more.
He might as well bury it in the deepest recesses of his mind.

 * * *

He had planned to go from Argyle directly to Glasgow and then make for
Liverpool to catch a boat to Boston. But when he reached the top of Loch
Lomond, rather than go south to Dumbarton, he was irresistibly drawn east
into Breadalbane. He couldn’t understand why. There was really nothing
there that he wanted to be reminded of. Helen, the girl he had loved and lost,
thinking of her as his sister these last four years? The wound of losing his
love had suddenly been ripped open again. She was not even his sister
anymore—only a lass that had crossed his path. Or did he want to tell the
woman he had believed to be his mother? He had forgiven her and felt
ashamed for having cursed her—she had only done what she thought she
must do to protect her daughter and her family. What would change if she
knew that he was not her son? He was still a Campbell of Argyle and she a
MacGregor. She would never let her daughter marry a Campbell. What was
he thinking of? Anyway, by now Helen was surely joined with another
MacGregor. She might already have a child or two. Nevertheless he
continued east along Glen Falloch and down Glen Dochart and so came to
Killin.

 * * *

After an early dinner at The Bear, he decided to go for a ride. Before long he
found himself on the ridge leading down to Lochan nan Geadas. It hadn’t
been a conscious act. As the sun reappeared below the bank of clouds over
the western horizon, he rode down to the little lake and walked up to the
promontory. Sitting against a boulder, he watched the reddish glows of the
setting sun bathe the landscape, the shadows slowly fading away. He closed
his eyes and leaned back. He saw Helen standing on the path, like on the day
when she had come to tell him of her love. The image was so real and so
vivid that he opened his eyes, startled, searching. Nobody was there.

    
He got up and went down to the water. Everything was completely overgrown. He could not find the entrance to the cave and was giving up, when
he almost stumbled onto the little tunnel. He crawled in. After a while, his
eyes adjusted to the dim light. The piece of driftwood, the round white rock,
the bit of crystal were still on the little shelves. The pine cones had lost most
of their scales. He opened the book left there, badly damaged by rodents. It
was Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. She had called it naughty. A smile crossed
his face.

    
It was night by the time he got back to the inn.

    
Next day he visited Finlarig Castle. It felt more like coming home despite
its dank starkness. He had been strangely happy and content there. The stable
master told him that Dougan Graham had died in the Winter of 1746.
Andrew was glad that neither of the McNabb brothers, nor James Campbell
were there. All three were still in active service with the English army, last
known to be serving in Flanders, he was told.

    
Mr. Nichols, the innkeeper of The Bear, joined his only guest for the
evening meal, making polite but insistent inquiries about Andrew, where he
came from, where he was going, which drew no more than vague answers.

    
Over coffee, Andrew asked: "Is Dougal Campbell, you know, the
MacGregors, still farming on Loch Tay?"

    
"Ah, you’d know him?" retorted the innkeeper suspiciously. "He’d be any
relations of yours, if I may be so bold to inquire, sir?"

    
"You may… No, I made his acquaintance, what … it must be six years
ago already."

    
"That’d be before the rebellion, sir."

    
"That’s right. Is he still here?"

    
"He joined the rebels, you know, but seemed to have gotten away
unscathed, except for losing his cattle. But shortly afterward had a full herd
again. I always wonder how these MacGregors manage to flout the law of the
land so brazenly and go scot-free, sir."

    
"So he has left the area?"

    
"Oh, no. He and half a dozen other families still farm a glen off Loch Tay.
I’d guess if you stayed here for the Spring dance this coming Saturday, you’d
be able to meet him. The MacGregors never seem to miss any festivities. Has
two mighty pretty daughters, you know."

    
"Unfortunately, I’ll have to leave before then. I’ve got a ship to catch, as
I told you."

    
"That sure’s a pity. All the pretty lasses of the glen will be here. It’s their
last outing before they go into the shielings for the summer. You sure
wouldn’t want to miss that, sir."

    
"I’m afraid I’ll have to be gone tomorrow, but thank you for telling me."
Andrew rose from the table. "That was a mighty fine dinner, Mr. Nichols.
But now I better retire to get a good night’s rest."

    
However, sleep escaped him. The opportunity of seeing Helen had stirred
him up, old feelings haunting him. By morning he had changed his mind
about leaving and went for another ride on Beinn Leabhain.

 * * *

Saturday, he stayed in his room on the first floor of the inn, watching people
come and go until well into the afternoon. Again, he felt that something was
missing. Except for an occasional colorful tartan jacket worn by a few
women, it was impossible to tell what clan the people claimed.

    
Finally, the sound of the music drew him to the green. Leaning against the
trunk of an oak on a small rise, he observed the couples dancing in pairs and
in groups. Some faces looked familiar, but nobody seemed to recognize him.
A few young women and lasses walking by cast curious glances at the
stranger. Suddenly, he spotted a young woman whirling around among the
dancers. She looked like the Helen he knew. The same blaze of red hair. The
same smile. His heart missed a beat. His left hand reached for the chest, as
if trying to calm his heart, to comfort it. It cannot be Helen. She would look
older. He remembered her features cut more boldly, more defiant.
Betty,
flashed through his mind. So Helen might be here too. He searched the
dancing couples nearby.
There! That’s my Helen!

    
She smiled at the young man with her. Something he said made her laugh.
How well he remembered those smiles, the way her eyes opened wide for a
short moment and then became narrow slits. After the dance, the young man
led her away, a hand resting on her shoulder, a possessive expression on his
face. Was this her husband? No, she would be wearing a mutch—a bonnet,
nor would he hold her in such a possessive manner anymore, letting everybody know that she was to be his. So, it must be her betrothed. A numbing
ache gripped his heart. Had he hoped deep down that she remained
unattached? Wouldn’t she have forgotten him years ago already?

    
Observing their gay interaction, he felt pained, foolish that all these years
he had held on to her, that he had never really let go. But this must be the
end. It was more final than the belief that she was his half-sister. Now that
he could put a face to the man whom she had given her favor, antipathy born
in jealousy rose in him. Giving in to the sudden urge to run, to leave town
right away, he pushed himself brusquely away from the trunk and headed for
the inn. He vaguely heard the musicians announce a creel, and before he was
fully aware he paired up with a young woman at the edge of the green.

    
"New in town?" she asked, a provocative smile playing on her pretty face.

    
"Yes," he answered, trying hard to return her smile, but not succeeding
convincingly.

    
As the creel went on, he worked himself down to the middle of the green,
where he had seen Helen earlier. Unexpectedly, Betty was his partner.

    
"Hello, Betty," he greeted her, forcing a smile that he didn’t feel.

    
They turned a figure eight, and, as they faced each other again, her face lit
up: "Master Andrew! You’ve come back?"

    
"Only to say farewell to the Highlands. I’m going to America!"

    
Again they turned around each other.

    
"You’ve become a pretty lass, Betty!"

    
She blushed, smiling bashfully.

    
Andrew moved to his next partner. And then his hand held Helen’s.

    
"Helen," he whispered, as his eyes locked onto hers.

    
For a moment her face kept the noncommittal smile she would give to any
stranger at a dance. Suddenly, a flash of recognition made her falter. His firm
grip held her steady as they turned around each other.

    
"Andrew," she replied and locked eyes with him again. There was no
smile in either face. Hers showed bewilderment, his hurt. Their hands
touched again. She responded to his light pressure. They separated, and he
moved on. He saw her gaze search for him, but worked himself to the edge.

    
Turning his back to the dance, the feelings that he had kept suspended
during that brief interlude now overwhelmed him. His vision blurred, he
bumped into a young man, excused himself in English, and got sworn at in
Gaelic as "a bloody Sassenach" or Englishman. Back in his room he threw
himself on the narrow bed. What a fool he had been to come back, pouring
jealousy into old wounds! Nothing had changed over these four years. He
had opened the lid and found his love for Helen burning as fiercely as ever.

 * * *

"I saw master Andrew," whispered Betty to Helen.