An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (37 page)

Fool that she had been to linger for even one moment! Better to have torn herself free regardless of the damage to her cloak and rushed headlong down the passage.

But after all, she reassured herself, Scotland was a big place. Why should she ever again meet the man who had come from the opposite bedchamber? Besides, he might not even be Scottish – he might be just an English visitor going south. Firmly she tried to reassure herself and gradually the frightened thumping of her heart subsided and she felt the burning flush die away from her cheeks.

This should be a warning both to herself and to Hector. They had been careless, both of them, in not remembering the precious package. More especially she
was
to blame, for Hector was not so directly concerned with it. How could she have been so stupid?

Bitterly Iona blamed herself, and then with a sudden burst of common sense tried to put the whole incident from her mind. It had happened, what was done could not be undone and it would only make things worse if she allowed it to make her timorous and weak hearted.

Unpleasant things should be forgotten but insistently the last unpleasant thing that had happened to her came to her mind. That encounter with the ancient libertine a week or so ago when she had been on her way to that most momentous meeting with the Prince’s advisers.

How frightened she had been when she realised the strength of the Frenchman’s arms and the nearness of his face! But she had been rescued. Once again she thought of the tall stranger who had come like a knight of old to her rescue, but who, having vanquished the dragon, had appeared cold and disinterested.

He had been English, and she thought that though she hated the whole race for what they had done to her Prince, she had reason to be personally grateful to one of them.

Yet, she queried, how could she be certain that he was an Englishman? His voice had been aristocratic and distinguished, but might he not have been Scottish? She hoped he was, and as the coach jolted and swayed through the town and out into the open countryside Iona smiled to herself. Here in Scotland she was carrying partisanship to its logical conclusion in believing that nothing good could come out of England and nothing decent be expected of the English.

Yes, she was convinced now that her rescuer must have been a Scot!

3

Iona was never to forget her first drive through the Highlands and the thrill of seeing the mountain peaks, some still showing patches of white from the snows of last winter, of beholding the moors purple with heather stretching away on to the horizon, and of watching a fall cascading down the hillside to join the swift flowing waters of a river golden with peat.

At the first halting place Iona left the stuffy confining atmosphere inside the coach and climbed on to the roof, glorying in the sharp air as it whipped the colour into her cheeks, and quite unmindful of the stares of the other travellers. She was indeed oblivious of everything save the beauty of the scenery. She did not even notice how hard her seat was, or miss the warmth of a rug that sheltered the legs of the more experienced voyagers.

She felt as if a psalm of thanksgiving were rising within her. This was Scotland, and thank God it was as beautiful and as wonderful as she had imagined it, no, more than that, for her imagination had fallen far short of the truth.

The heavy morning mist had risen and in an hour or so the sun came out. How often Iona had heard her guardian talk of the lights on the hills! Now she understood what he meant as the sun and clouds cast a pageant of light and shadow over the landscape, while the waters of Loch Ness, beside which the roadway ran, varied from a blue, vivid as the Madonna’s robe, to the cool depths of a great emerald.

The road surface was bad and the stagecoach was slow. There were frequent halts to set passengers down or take more aboard. Halfway through the morning they changed horses and the travellers took the opportunity to buy food at a wayside inn. Iona found that after such a light breakfast she was both hungry and thirsty and she ate with relish a big scone made of oatmeal and drank a small glass of ale.

It was while they were waiting to go aboard the coach again that Iona noticed something strange. Two men were approaching along the road. Big men, gaunt faced and bearded, they were strangely dressed. Their coats, ragged and dirty, were ordinary enough, but round their waists, dropping to their knees, they each wore a piece of coarse camlet. Iona wondered for a moment if these were the kilts of which she had heard so much, then to her astonishment she saw that each man carried suspended from a stick a pair of breeches. She was so surprised that she turned to a man standing next to her and said,

“Forgive my asking you, sir, but why are those men carrying their nether garments over their shoulder?”

The man gave her a sharp glance of suspicion. Then as if reassured by the innocent inquiry on her face, he replied gravely,

“Dinna ye ken that the kilt has been forbidden and the English law says that a mon just tak’ tae breeches?”

“No, I have not heard that,” Iona replied. “I have but just arrived in this country. I thought all Scotsmen wore the kilt.”

“Aye, we did that,” was the answer. “There’s nae doot but that it was the sensible dress for a mon who has to live in this climate an’ who has to climb hills an’ ford rivers. But the English hae decreed that every man must hae a pair o’ breeches. Only the law dinna specify on what part o’ the body the breeches are to be worn. So there ye see my gallant countrymen obeying the law.”

The two men passed by at that moment and went on down the long dusty road, their breeches dangling from off their shoulders like scarecrows in the wind.

Quite unexpectedly Iona felt the tears come into her eyes. Despite the dire punishment, cruelty and tyranny of their English masters the spirit of independence was still alive in Scottish breasts.

She spoke to no one else until at three o’clock in the afternoon the coach arrived at Fort Augustus. It was but a small place. A few stone crofts were clustered round the pompous authority of the stone fort built after the Rising in ’15. Outside this lounged several English soldiers in their red coats and white breeches, uncomfortably conscious of the dark looks and sidelong glances of enmity which every countryman gave them in passing.

*

The coach drew up at the inn, which was low built and had a drear, unwelcoming appearance. It was here that Iona had been told in Inverness that she must hire a private carriage to take her to Skaig Castle.

She made inquiries of a dour innkeeper who appeared to think her request a peculiar one, but grudgingly promised that a conveyance of some sort would be ready in half an hour. To pass the time Iona seated herself in the parlour, a dismal, sparsely furnished apartment without a fire and with only the comfort of an embroidered text to cheer the wayfarer.

Iona had not waited there more than a few minutes when she heard a loud-voiced altercation going on in the next room.

“I tell ye, dolt,” said a woman, “that it is taemorrow His Grace sent word that her Ladyship was a-comin’, not taeday.”

“Weel, please yersel’, but either His Grace or yer ain hearin’ was at fault, wooman, for the lady is here.”

“It canna be the same,” was the reply, “for why would her Ladyship be arrivin’ on the stagecoach? Do ladies o’ quality travel on the stagecoach, I ask ye?”

“I ken naething of their doings,” a man’s voice replied, “but there canna be twa ladies a-goin’ tae the castle.”

“Why not?” the woman asked sharply. “Dinna blether, I’ll go an’ see for mysel’.”

As Iona expected, there was the sound of footsteps and a moment later the door of the parlour was opened. An elderly woman stood there, her greying hair drawn back sharply with almost undue severity from her lined forehead and wrinkled face, giving, her a look of age in strange contrast to the bright, alert shrewdness of her blue eyes. She wore a white apron and her arms, which were bare to the elbow, showed signs of flour as if she had been busy baking. She looked at Iona and dropped a curtsey.

“Yer pardon, my Lady, but ye required o’ m’ husband that a conveyance should be made ready tae tak’ yer Ladyship tae the castle. His Grace wasna expectin’ ye until taemorrow when a carriage was to hae been sent frae the castle tae carry yer Ladyship the last part o’ the journey.”

“I think you have made a mistake,” Iona replied, “I have indeed asked for a conveyance to carry me to Skaig Castle, but I am not expected.”

The woman’s expression seemed to alter.

“Then ye are not Lady Wrexham?”

“Indeed not!”

The woman came further into the room.

“Ye must pardon me for the mistake, ma’am,” she said. “We hae but few visitors o’ quality save guests for the castle, an’ His Grace is kind enough tae notify us when they are expected.”

“As I have said, His Grace is not expecting me,” Iona answered, “but I would be grateful indeed for your assistance in reaching the castle.”

The woman kept looking at her and Iona was well aware that her curiosity was growing.

“’Tis strange,” she said at length, “an ye must pardon ma presumption, ma’am, but I canna help thinkin’ that I hae seen ye somewhere afore. ’Tis nae the first time ye hae come tae Skaig?”

“Indeed it is,” Iona answered, “and my first visit to Scotland, though I am a Scot myself.”

“There’s nae doot about that when I looks at yer bonny face an’ the colour o’ yer hair,” the woman replied. “Yer parents must hae had guid Scottish blood in them.”

But Iona was not to be drawn into discussing her ancestry.

“I have come from France,” she said. “The ship in which I travelled only reached Inverness last night.”

“Frae France!” the woman said strangely. She crossed the room and shut the door. Then she turned and asked in a low voice,

“Hae ye heard aught o’
him
in France?”

There was no need to ask who “him” was, and Iona’s heart warmed instantly towards the woman to whom the very mention of France meant news of the Prince. At the same time she knew she must be cautious. This might be a trap. Whatever she did, she must not jeopardise her position by unwary speech.

The woman saw the hesitation in her face, and as if she understood what Iona was feeling, she crossed the room to stand near her.

“Ye needna fash aboot me, ma’am,” she said. “I was a Mackenzie afore I were wed. Ma brother was killed at Preston pans, an’ after Culloden the English set fire tae his hoose an’ farm an’ turned his wifie an’ the bairns oot tae starve. Ma husband took nae part in the Risin’, but once a Mackenzie always a Mackenzie, an’ it’s a Jacobite I’ll be tae ma death.”

There was no mistaking the woman’s sincerity. She spoke with a passion that seemed strangely at variance with her austere, Puritan-like appearance. Impulsively Iona put out her hand and laid it on the older woman’s arm.

“The Prince is well and in good heart,” she said softly.

“God be praised!” the woman answered. “Maybe afore I die I’ll see him come tae his ain agin.”

She picked up the corner of her apron and wiped her eyes with it. Iona considered a moment and then, daring the question, she asked,

“Are there many that are still loyal to him round here?” The woman glanced over her shoulder as if she suspected someone might be listening in the comer of the room.

“Aye,” she answered, “‘but many are fear’t an’ the English hae spies everywhere.”

“As bad as that?” Iona asked.

“An’ worse,” the woman said sharply. “Be careful wi’ whom ye speak, ma’am, especially in the castle.”

“In the castle?”

Iona repeated the words almost in a whisper. The woman nodded.

“You mean – with the Duke?” Iona questioned.

“I’m saying naething, for indeed I ken naething,” the woman answered. “I’m only warnin’ ye, keep guard on yer tongue, ma’am, when ye reach Skaig.”

She turned briskly away and Iona thought that perhaps she was offended, but a second later she realized that the woman’s quick ears had heard her husband approaching. When she opened the door, he entered the room.

“There’s a vehicle ootside,” he said gruffly. “If it’s nae what yer Ladyship’s accustomed tae, dinna blame me. His Grace was expectin’ ye taemorrow.”

“This is nae Lady Wrexham, ye fule,” his wife said sharply, “it’s – ” She turned toward Iona. “Indeed, ma’am, I hae forgotten. What were ye sayin’ was yer name?”

Iona smiled.

“I did not mention my name,” she replied, “but I am not Lady Wrexham.”

She gave both the innkeeper and his wife a sweet smile before moving with dignity from the parlour across the hall to the open door.

The coach they had produced for her was old and creaky, the upholstery stained and torn, the glass in the windows cracked and patched with paper. Indeed the whole conveyance was badly in need of a coat of paint and the handle was off one of the doors. But it had four wheels and as the two horses that drew it were sturdy, well-fed creatures, Iona was able to thank the innkeeper with a note of real sincerity in her voice.

She stepped into the coach, which smelt of musty hay. The coachman whipped up the horses and they were off. They turned north and were soon climbing uphill over a narrow track flanked by purple moors which rose higher and higher until they merged into rocky, barren mountains.

Soon after they started there was a sharp shower of rain that proved the roof of the coach to be anything but rainproof as the wet trickled through the ill fitting, cracked window panes and ran in little streams on the floor. But when it was over, the sun came out again and the countryside seemed even lovelier than it had been before. There was a glistening radiance over sky and moor, and when Iona saw a golden eagle hovering against the translucent heavens. She felt as if her whole heart leapt out towards it to be at one with the brilliance and beauty of this new world.

After an hour’s pull uphill the coachman drew his horses to a standstill. Iona put her head out of the window.

“Where are we?” she asked.

In answer the man pointed with a whip.