Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (32 page)

They left for Caithness Castle shortly after lunch, Cathleen
lifting her skirts to accept Fletcher’s boost into the sidesaddle.

They were off again, riding toward their destiny and
Fletcher’s home. Cathleen settled in with the rhythmic motion of her horse,
feeling her excitement mount. Soon they would be near the western coast of
Scotland, with its wild granite crags, bleak moorlands, and wooded glens.

Although the world about her seemed grim and melancholy, and
a heavy mist clung to the ground, making it seem as if the sky had come down to
earth, Cathleen’s spirits were at their sunniest. And why not?

She sighed, her gaze going, as it had a habit of doing, to
Fletcher’s back as he rode just ahead of her. Was any woman ever more blessed
than she, to be loved and protected by such a man?

They rode until twilight, stopping for a while to rest
beside a small loch. “We can seek lodgings nearby, or we can keep riding until
we reach Caithness, but it will be late,” Fletcher said, bringing her a drink
of water.

She took a drink and mulled over what he had said. It was
her excitement to reach Caithness, as well as caution, that prompted her to
say, “I’m not that tired. Let’s keep riding.” She glanced around. “I ken I will
feel better when we’re there, where we can be certain Adair or his men won’t be
sneaking up on us.”

“That’s my lass,” he said, helping her to mount. A moment
later, he was in the saddle again, urging his horse ahead, Cathleen falling in
behind him.

My lass…
She gave his back a smile, liking the sound
of those words when he spoke them, not with the usual Scots burr, but with his
American accent, which she found quite seductive.

It was well after midnight when they rode through a stand of
firs that bordered a churning river. The mist had turned to rain now, and the
weather was much colder. She considered taking her cloak out, but looking down
at her sodden skirts, she knew the cloak would be in a similar state before
long.

“It won’t be much longer,” Fletcher said, turning around to
look at her. “Can you make it?”

“Aye,” she said. “If you can make it, I can make it.” She
heard him chuckle and it warmed her to know she could amuse him.

They rode along the bank of the river, then turned where the
trees began to grow thinner and a steep, granite mountain seemed to rise up out
of nowhere before them, its peak hidden in the clouds. The trail grew steeper
now, made even more narrow by many boulders that had fallen from the heights
above.

She leaned back in the saddle, her hand pressing the small
of her back. It was a miserable night and she wondered at her sanity for saying
that she was ready to go on this journey, which was looking more and more like
a lesson in misery. Every part of her body either ached or felt wet and frozen.

Presently the trail grew less steep and wider, until they
reached the summit and began their descent. Before long, they were over the
mountain and riding into a sparsely wooded glen, the moon peeking out of the
clouds from time to time, quite stingy with its light.

Another mile and she saw a road ahead. The moment they
turned up the road, she could see it. Caithness, huge, black, and hulking in
the distance.

The next morning, Fletcher watched with amusement as Lady
Doroty Lamont looked down her long, aristocratic nose and gazed at Cathleen
with stony dignity, as if she were trying to decide what she was, mistress, a
bit of charitable baggage Fletcher had picked up somewhere along the way,
traveling companion, or a woman toward whom he had honorable intentions. As
Fletcher made the introductions, she showed no hint that she had chosen any one
of them as being more likely.

“Cathleen Lindsay, I would like you to meet my aunt, Lady
Doroty Lamont.”

Doroty nodded and said, “Miss Lindsay,” in much the same
manner as he would have expected Queen Victoria to say, “Off with her head.”

Fletcher then began to tell his aunt about his and
Cathleen’s namesake and the bit of adventure they’d had with Mary MacMillan.

“And you delivered the child all by yourself?” she asked,
giving Cathleen a questioning look.

“Cathleen had an unfortunate situation with childbirth and
it left her quite terrified of it.”

“Indeed? And how many children do you have, Miss Lindsay?”

“Oh…well…I don’t have a husband…I mean, I’ve never been
married,” she added, with the sudden feeling that she had not explained
anything but had somehow made things worse.

“You have
children,
” Doroty said, “but no husband?”

Fletcher laughed. “This seems to have gone off in the wrong
direction, and I have a feeling I’m the one who started it all. Let me see if I
can straighten it all out.”

“Please do, if you can,” Doroty said, “or send for the
hartshorn.”

Cathleen kept her gaze fixed on the heavy, green damask
draperies that covered the sitting room window directly behind Lady Lamont as
Fletcher went on to explain briefly about Cathleen’s experience with her
mother, telling Doroty how it had left her terrified of childbirth. He ended by
telling her how watching young Fletcher MacMillan being born had changed all
that.

“You are David MacDonald’s granddaughter?”

“Aye.”

Lady Lamont’s entire expression reformed itself into one of
kind regard. She turned to Fletcher. “It would have made things easier, you
scoundrel, if you had told me
that
in the first place.” Then, without
giving him a chance to respond, she smiled at Cathleen. “I thought very highly
of your grandfather. I was sorry to hear of his death.”

“A death which was partly my fault,” Fletcher added, then
explained the circumstances that had led to David’s death.

“Of course you did the right thing by bringing her here,”
Lady Lamont said, sounding positively motherly. “But you should be horsewhipped
for bringing her without an escort, Fletcher. Did you give no thought to her
reputation?”

“There wasn’t time for that, I’m afraid,” Fletcher said.
“Besides, what difference does that make?”

Lady Lamont’s stony demeanor resurfaced. “It may not make
much difference in America, but in Scotland a woman does not travel with a man
without another female as her companion. To disregard that tradition can bring
about the most unfortunate set of circumstances.”

“What kind of circumstances?” Fletcher asked, giving
Cathleen a quick glance.

“Marriage,” Doroty said. “I cannot…”

But Fletcher was not listening. He was watching Cathleen,
who had begun to wring her hands and had turned pale as a ghost. Her eyes,
which had been droopy with sleep only a short time before, were open wide, her
mouth parted in stupefaction.

Fletcher turned back to his aunt and, in prime form, said,
“Then rest easy, for I don’t find that unfortunate at all. In fact, I find it a
rather workable solution, since I have intended for some time to marry
Cathleen.”

Cathleen’s teacup crashed to the floor. She would have
laughed, had she not been in such a state of shock.
Marriage
?

She watched Aunt Doroty leave the room and soon the silence
seemed to close in around her. For some strange reason, she could not bring
herself to look at Fletcher as if to do so would be to bring an end to the
spell she was certain she was under.

At last he broke the silence. “Are you angry, Cathleen?”

“No, I haven’t gotten that far, yet. Numb is about as far as
I’ve made it.”

“Surely this came as no surprise to you. You know how I
feel.”

“I know you care for me, but that isn’t the same as
marriage. Truly, Fletcher, I had no idea.”

“You think I would do the things I did with you and then go
on my merry way, leaving you with nothing but dishonor?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” she said. “I daresay you have
not proposed marriage to every woman you have made love to…or have you?”

“Hardly.”

“Then what was different this time?”

“You are different. My feelings for you are different.
Everything about it is different. What the hell kind of question is that to
ask, anyway?”

She shrugged. “Your aunt thinks you have been a bit hasty.”

“I don’t care what my aunt thinks,” he said, coming to stand
just inches from her. “She isn’t the one asking to marry you.”

“Perhaps you should care. She seems to be a very levelheaded
woman, and it is obvious she cares a great deal about you.”

“She may care about me, but she isn’t the woman I plan to
marry, nor is she the one in love with you. I am,” he said, poking himself in
the chest for emphasis. “Marry me, Cathleen.”

“Fletcher, I have no heritage. I am an orphan, the daughter
of a soldier…the granddaughter of a poor village minister. I am a spinster, a
woman of five and twenty years, and past the age of marriage. I have no
bloodlines, no titles, no money, and no hopes of such.”

“I don’t care about any of that.” He drew her close against
him and kissed her.

Cathleen followed Fletcher upstairs to the door of his mother’s
room, where she paused for a moment, seeing the possessions of a woman from her
childhood through to her adult years. Upon first glance, it was a room that
spoke to her, a room that seemed to call out, asking her to come inside and to
linger for a while.

She stepped over the threshold and into the room of the
woman who had had such a profound impact upon the life of a man she had come to
respect and to love. The room seemed to enfold her, to offer its wisdom of
years and its infinite understanding. She felt welcome here, accepted, and
somehow she had a feeling that that was exactly how she would have felt had she
met Maggie Mackinnon herself.

Fletcher crossed his mother’s bedroom and lifted the lid of
an ancient, yet sturdy, humpbacked trunk.

She watched, an amused look on her face as he began
rummaging through the contents, looking much like a young boy digging through
his toy chest.

When he had emptied almost everything from the trunk and
dumped it on the floor, he shouted, “Here it is!”

Cathleen watched with mounting excitement as he removed a
false bottom, then withdrew a large, leather-bound Bible, the gilt lettering on
the cover long faded. She took a seat beside him on the bed as he opened it.

“Here,” he said at last. “You see?” He turned the Bible so
that she could read the inscription more easily. Even then it was difficult,
for the writing was quite elaborate, with many embellishments and flourishes.

It was also written in French.

“Brigitte de Compiegne,” she read. “Honfleur, France, 1740.”
She looked up at him. “But this name is Brigitte, not Madeline.”

“No, it isn’t Madeline, but that isn’t important. It’s the
last name that is significant—de Compiegne.”

She shuddered at the way he pronounced the name. “That is
French,” she said, “and it is pronounced de-com-pyen, not de-com-pi-eg-ne.”

He smiled. “I had no idea you spoke French.”

“My grandfather did, so I learned a little from him. I have
never actually studied it formally, but Grandpa spent enough evenings with me
that I can make myself understood.” She looked down at the name again.

“They must be sisters,” she said. “Brigitte and Madeline.”

At that moment they heard a sound behind them and turned in
unison to see Doroty come into the room. “I thought I might find the two of you
here.” She looked at Fletcher. “What are you trying to do? Talk her to death?”

Fletcher laughed. “I’d have to get an early start to do
that.”

Aunt Doroty looked down at the scattered contents of the
trunk, then at the Bible in his hands. “Have you found anything?”

“Nothing much,” Fletcher said, “just a suspicion that the
Brigitte de Compiegne in this Bible is a sister of the Madeline de Compiegne
Ramsay who is buried at Glengarry.”

“Well, that is something, at least,” she said.

“But not what I need,” Fletcher said, frowning. “All I have
proven so far is that Madeline and Brigitte are probably sisters, and that
Madeline was married to Alexander Ramsay, who is probably my Douglas’ brother.
But I still don’t know anything more about Douglas and Bride Ramsay than the
fact that they are both buried at Glengarry Castle.”

Suddenly, Cathleen sprang to her feet. “Of course! That’s
it!” she said. “Douglas and Alexander were brothers…brothers who married
sisters!”

“You might be on to something,” Fletcher said, then he
paused, thinking. “No, that can’t be right. Douglas was married to Bride, not
Brigitte.”

Cathleen’s euphoria sank, and she sat back down on the bed
with a dejected sigh. “Aye, you’re right.”

“Bride’ is Gaelic for ‘Brigitte,’” Aunt Doroty said. “I
think your lass has made the right connection. They probably
were
sisters. Besides having the same last name, it was quite common in those days
for such to happen—sisters marrying brothers. And if that were the case, then
that meant they were both from Honfleur, France,” she said, pointing to where
Honfleur, France, 1740, was written.

“It is possible,” Fletcher said. “The grave of Bride Ramsay
said she was born in 1720. The date on this Bible is 1740. She would have been
twenty.”

“And the right age to marry,” Aunt Doroty said.

“If they were sisters and they were both from Honfleur, then
it is quite possible that they were married in France, so the records of their
marriages would be there,” Cathleen said, feeling the tension mounting as her
excitement grew.

Fletcher’s face grew pale. His hands shook. “And that is why
no one has ever been able to find the records here,” Fletcher said, looking
down at the old trunk. “All this time…and the answer was right here, under our
very noses.”

Tucking the Bible safely back in the trunk, Fletcher
replaced the contents, then closed the lid and locked it, before he started for
the door.