Summer of Love (23 page)

    
Helen smiled at the choice of words. "Yes, she remains virtuous and
strong."

    
"But it can hardly end just like that."

    
"No. In the end the young man proposes to her—"

    
"—and they lived happily ever after," he interrupted with a hint of
sarcasm.

    
"The letters end before that. It’s well written," she said defensively.

    
"And what’s your view? Was the young woman truly virtuous or was she
extremely clever and scheming, making sure that the young man would
possess her only in marriage and not simply for his pleasure."

    
"That’s maybe a rather cynical view of her motives."

    
"Is it? You read the book. Did the possibility of stepping up a few rungs
in the social ladder never enter her mind?"

    
"It did, but she was never willing to compromise to get there. All women
have to be crafty and scheming to survive."

    
"You weren’t with me, Helen."

    
"No, but you were different, not like other men."

    
"Was I? I don’t remember. I wanted to make love to you."

    
"But you didn’t try to seduce me. I wanted it to." She murmured and
lowered her gaze, trying to hide her blushing. Then she faced him squarely,
and exclaimed with a challenge: "All that men want is to bed you, and if you
give in, you are done. And when you’re with child, they drop you."

    
"Not all men."

    
"But most. The only way to get them to church is to keep them at bay,
letting them hope, but never giving in completely. And when they’re
married, they want to be served left, right, and center. We slave away,
burdened with a child every other year, while they play gentleman."

    
He looked at her, an admiring smile in his eyes. "Don’t you want any
children, then?"

    
For a second, she was taken aback. "Yes, I would like three or four… And
I would like the girls to be able to go to school, same as the boys." The
defiant tone of old had returned to her voice. "But it’s more. I don’t want that
my opinions are always belittled and sneered at. I want to be listened to," she
wanted to add "like you did," but refrained. "I want to be involved when
important decision are made that affect me and my children."

    
"Like whether or not to go to war?"

    
"Yes, that’s right, and …" All of a sudden, she became self-conscious and
fell silent.

    
Andrew looked at her with a warm smile. "We had some good discussions
that summer, didn’t we, Helen?"

    
They sat quietly and occasionally smiled at each other. She was listening
to memories in her mind. After a while, she got up.

    
"I’ve to leave, Andrew."

    
"I’ll come down to the lochan with you."

    
He walked behind her on the narrow path. At the bottom, she turned. He
placed both hands on her shoulders. Their eyes met and held each other.

    
"Helen …"

    
"Yes, Andrew?"

    
"I love you." He pulled her slowly to him.

    
"Andrew, no! We mustn’t." She tried to avoid his kiss. "I’m promised to
be married."

    
He let go. "We were promised to each other," he murmured, bitterness in
his voice.

    
"But it could not be, Andrew. It could not be." Her voice faltered. She
turned to leave. Suddenly, he grabbed her and took her in a tight embrace.
She struggled to get free. Then his lips found hers, burning, soft, yet
demanding. She felt his tongue reach inside. Her own body responded,
wanting him, and with a last desperate effort, she pushed him away and tore
herself free. He let go.

    
"I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t know what took me," he murmured, but he
knew exactly what. "I love you." It was only a whisper.

    
"It can’t be. You are my brother." She felt his strange look on her, as if he
were denying it. He opened his mouth to say something, and she quickly
added: "I’m betrothed to Robert and we’ll get married within the month."

    
He lowered his gaze. "Don’t you love me anymore, Helen?"

    
When she did not answer he looked up and searched her eyes. She saw
hurt, despair, resignation. She fought the urge to sooth his hurt, to embrace
him.

    
"Don’t you?"

    
"Why do you want to know? What would it change?"

    
"I just need to know."

    
"Andrew, I’m betrothed." It came out more vehemently than she intended.
"I knew I should not have come," she added in a murmur, and started to walk
away. Turning briefly, she said: "Goodbye, Andrew."

    
He did not answer. She hurried down the path, almost running, oblivious
to the tears streaming down her cheeks. Only when she was hidden in the
trees did she slow down and wiped her face. "This won’t do," she murmured
to herself and went down to the creek to wash her face.

 * * *

Andrew watched her disappear, holding himself back from running after her.
Why didn’t I tell her that I’m not her brother? … Was it fear to find out that
she might not love me anymore?
He ambled back up to the rock and watched
again the sun slowly plunge behind the western horizon in a blazing, red ball.
But he didn’t really see it. He tried to conjure up her image as she said
goodbye. There was deep sadness in her eyes.
I should have told her!
But
would it have made any difference. She had chosen another man—one of her
own clan. She must love him or at least be fond of him. His Helen wouldn’t
marry somebody she did not love. And she still believed him to be her
brother.
I should have told her!
he berated himself again, while at the same
time afraid to know the truth.

    
He knew that this was the last time he would meet her and rather than part
as friends, he had spoiled it. What had he really hoped from meeting her? To
win her back? Hadn’t he seen her laugh happily at the dance and smile at her
chosen man?

    
The light was fading when he returned to Killin. He went to bed without
eating dinner. He didn’t feel like eating. Lying in the darkness, he relived
every moment with her on that rock. The light in her eyes when she smiled.
Her soft chuckles when they ate. The righteous protest when she talked about
men. The warm softness when he held her in his arms, the sad look in her
eyes when they parted. What did that sadness mean? That he had spoiled
everything … or that deep down she still loved him? But what did it matter.
Tomorrow he would leave, never to return. Finally, when dawn was
breaking, he slipped into a restless sleep, a sleep haunted with visions of
Helen’s face peering from the misty shores of Lochan nan Geadas.

    
When he woke up, his resolve to depart was gone. Instead of packing his
few belongings, he asked the inn keeper for another packed lunch, saddled
his horse, and was off to the lochan. He didn’t expect Helen to come again,
but nevertheless waited on the rock until sunset. At midday, he quickly went
down to the cave to fetch the chewed-up copy of the Canterbury Tales.

    
He was back on Tuesday and on Wednesday, and the day after. He didn’t
really know why he was not leaving—they had done their farewell—why he
was lingering on, why he was irresistibly drawn back to the lochan, each day
growing into a new torture.

    
He attempted to resurrect the happiness he had felt when they were sitting
on the rock on Sunday afternoon. But instead of bringing solace, it only
deepened his despair. He looked down into the dark waters of the lochan,
idly throwing down pebbles, watching two or three tight little rings form,
slowly expand over the surface, and ultimately lose themselves at the shores.
It took minutes for the ever fading ripple to reach the opposite side. He
searched for the spot where they had made love the first and only time and
lay there looking into the sky. He closed his eyes and saw Helen in her full
womanhood standing over him, one hand reaching out for him to get up.
Once he stood at the edge of the rock and the thought crossed his mind that
he could jump and just let himself sink into the black, cold depth of the water
below. But it lasted only for a fleeting moment. He searched his mind
whether he was secretly clinging to a hope for her to return, to be his again.

10

After Helen returned from the lochan late Sunday afternoon, Robert became
angry and abusive when she declined again to go walking with him. She
couldn’t stomach the thought of him touching her. She chided herself. In less
than a month she would be his wife. Her meeting with Andrew had changed
nothing. He was still her brother. She was frightened how close she had
come to yield to him—in fact, wanting him to take her. And now, the
thought of Robert making love to her gave rise to a queasy apprehension.

    
That same Monday, when Andrew was driven back to the lochan for the
first time, the young people of the MacGregor clan moved into the shielings
with their cattle. As the oldest, Helen was in charge, at least until her mother
and the other women joined them after they completed sowing the oat and
barley crops. She welcomed getting away from Robert who, with the help of
her two younger brothers, Robin and Alasdair, was setting up the rafters for
the roof of their cottage.

    
On Wednesday evening, Betty and Helen sat on the bench in front of their
hut, reading in
Pamela
. Helen’s thoughts began to drift. She read the words,
but they slipped her mind immediately, as if they never reached her brain.
Her thoughts replayed the discussion with Andrew about Pamela’s real
motives. She felt again his attentive eyes on her as she expounded her theory.
Her gaze left the page and lost itself in the distance. Betty’s hand coming to
rest on hers startled her. She looked at her sister, confused.

    
"Are you going to see master Andrew again?" asked Betty in a low voice.

    
Helen blushed. "How do you know I saw him?"

    
"I know. You’re different. Often you seem to be far away, as you were just
now."

    
"Does anybody else know?"

    
"I don’t think so. At least not yet. But mother will guess if you don’t hide
it better… Will you see him again?"

    
"No. It was our final farewell."

    
"Did he kiss you?"

    
Helen’s color deepened.

    
"You don’t have to tell me. You just did… Why don’t you run away with
him, since you love him so much?"

    
"I can’t."

    
"Why? Hasn’t he asked you?"

    
"No. He wouldn’t."

    
"But why? Doesn’t he love you?"

    
Helen closed her eyes and brought Andrew’s face up in her mind.
Oh yes,
he does!
But she did not respond.

    
"It can’t simply be because he’s a Campbell and you a MacGregor!
Mother or father can’t forbid you to marry him anymore. Why, Helen?"

    
I wish I could tell.
She needed to share her secret. To confide in somebody
who would understand her pain, who would share the heavy load, help her
endure it.

    
"Helen, please tell me. We’ve always been so close."

    
"Because he’s our half-brother." It was out.

    
Betty raised a hand to her mouth, sucking in her breath. "How do you
know?"

    
"Mother confessed to me that Andrew was her own son after I told her
that he wanted to marry me … almost four years ago. She got with child
when she lived at the castle in Inveraray… But you now must promise never
to let anybody else know what I told you. Andrew is the only other person
who knows. Father doesn’t know."