Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (4 page)

David flicked away a bee that had landed on his sleeve. “No,
I suppose not.”

Cathleen looked at her grandfather. She knew he was thinking
about the three kittens she had pulled from the river, and the fawn whose
mother she had found shot on the moor.

He did not mention the kittens or the fawn, however, and
neither did Cathleen.

Once they were in the house, Cathleen left her grandfather
in the parlor and went to the kitchen, her favorite room. She took her apron
from the hook near the door and, tying it, went to wash her hands.

The room was small but pleasant. Overhead, where rough-hewn
beams were exposed, Cathleen dried flowers and herbs. Strings of onions hung on
the whitewashed walls below. A stone fireplace took up one corner. Near the
fireplace stood her butter churn, the peat box, and two large kettles, one
stacked inside the other.

The hutch that held her mother’s dishes covered the opposite
wall. In the center was a stout-legged table with three chairs, the fourth
having been broken some five years before. An old spinning wheel occupied the
same corner it had been in for a hundred years.

Cathleen did not know how to spin, but she liked the
spinning wheel, knowing it had been used by generations of women in her family
before her.

Filling a pot with water, she peeled a few potatoes and
turnips, then put them on to boil. Soon a cloud of steam rose from the iron
pot, and she went through the motions of preparing dinner the same way she had
done all her life.

Some things never change, she thought, only to find herself
wondering why she had the strangest feeling that something had.

Fletcher Ramsay was left standing in front of Caithness
Castle in a downpour for a full ten minutes before it was announced that Lady
Doroty Lamont would see him.

Shown inside by a large, stout woman in gray linen and a
white apron, who introduced herself as Mrs. MacCauley, he asked if he might
have something to dry himself off a bit.

The woman looked him over good and proper, her shrewd little
eyes narrowing. “Stand in front of the fire, laddie, and dry yerself.”

Fletcher glanced toward the fire, but he did not move. “I
would prefer not to stand dripping on the carpets the first time I meet my
aunt,” he said.

“Och! Yer aunt, you say? Now, why didna you tell me that in
the first place?”

“My good woman, you didn’t give me time to say much more
than hello.”

“Lose an hour in the morning and spend the rest of the day
looking for it,” she said. “I dinna have time to waste.”

Fletcher blinked and stared at Mrs. MacCauley. His mother
had warned him about the Scots and their abrupt, often dour ways. Apparently
she had forgotten to mention their knack for shrewd evaluation.

“Weel now, if you’ll be excusing me, laddie, I’ll be
fetchin’ yer aunt…if
Lady
Lamont be yer aunt, that is.”

“She is my aunt,” he said with firm conviction.

“Time tries all things,” she said and quit the room.

After she left, Fletcher began to study his surroundings. It
was a large room, rich with paintings and tapestries hung over old stone walls.
On one side stood an Elizabethan table with drawing leaves and carved bulbous
supports, flanked by a pair of walnut armchairs with four finely carved
cabriole legs. Opposite it stood a massive pedestal and urn, carved and inlaid
with neoclassical decoration. He moved closer to the warmly glowing fire,
feeling quite welcome here, in spite of the chill of the rain outside and the
wintry reception he’d received from Mrs. MacCauley.

He gazed at several of the paintings, figuring that those
were the faces of his ancestors staring back at him. He looked down at the worn
stone floor and the old Persian carpets and found himself thinking that these
were probably the same carpets his mother had played on as a young girl.

In one corner of the room was a piano, and he recalled his
mother telling him about how she had learned to play. He crossed the room to
stand before it.

This has to be her Cristofori.

“It was a lovely Cristofori, made in 1720,” Fletcher
remembered her saying. “I began to play the piano when I was four. Your
grandfather, the earl, was an accomplished pianist. He taught me to play
himself.”

Fletcher touched the keys and felt his mother’s strength
reaching out to him. He was about to plunk a key or two when heard a noise and
turned around.

A woman, whom he assumed to be his aunt, Doroty Lamont,
swept into the room and stopped abruptly. “Sweet merciful heavens!” She looked
as if she had seen a ghost.

Apparently regaining control of herself, she stepped farther
into the room. “I am Lady Doroty Lamont. Who the devil are you?”

“I am your nephew, Fletcher Ramsay,” he said, thinking it
hadn’t been such a good idea to surprise her.

“
Fletcher!
Fletcher Ramsay?”

Judging from the look on her face, he thought his words had
shocked her, so he asked, “You were not expecting me?”

Her hand came up to her throat. “Bless me! Of course I was
expecting my sister’s son, the heir of Caithness Castle. I was not expecting
him to look so much like his father.” She rubbed her arms as if she were
feeling chills. “Makes a body shudder, it does. I feel like I’m looking upon
the face of the dead, and I canna help wondering if I am seeing things, or if
it really is the Duke of Glengarry come back to life.”

Fletcher could not help his smile any more than he could
help his thoughts, for he knew that right now she was thinking that Bruce
Ramsay’s son smiled exactly the same way his father had. It was a comparison he
had heard from his mother often enough.

“Maybe it’s a little of both,” he said. “I will be the Duke
of Glengarry…and before too much longer.” He could tell by the way she smiled
at him that she did not miss the strength in his voice or the conviction with
which he spoke.

“Aye, your mother wrote me about the task you have set for
yourself,” she said. “It willna be easy, lad. It cost your father his life.”

“I will be more careful.”

Doroty Lamont studied him and he wondered what she was
thinking. “Come,” she said, “let us sit here by the fire.”

Fletcher took the chair she indicated. “You think I am wrong
to want my father’s title—to go after what is rightfully mine?”

“For now, I withhold my opinion. If you have inherited as
much of your father’s Highlander blood as his looks, then I could hardly blame
you. The Scots way is one of extremes. Compromise is a foreign word to us. Ever
the romantics, we always have a cause. Consequently, it has become a way of
life for us to live on the knife’s edge.”

“I will remember that.”

“I would not be completely honest if I didna tell you I feel
a twinge of pity for you, lad.”

“Why is that?”

“Your Highlander blood can just as easily work against you.
You will have to be cautious if you are to succeed.”

“I can be careful.”

“I can see that you have much of your father in you, and
that may be more hindrance than help. A Highlander was never a man to take the
easier way. We set impossible tasks for ourselves.”

He chuckled. “My mother has often said the same thing.”

“And did you understand what Maggie was telling you?”

“Sometimes,” he said, grinning.

“It has never been a Highlander’s way to harbor malice,
Fletcher, and it is difficult for him to take his revenge cold. We are quick to
anger and just as quick in the cooling of it.”

“Then we have found one area in which I do not take after my
father, for I have harbored malice toward Adair Ramsay for a very long time,”
he said. “It hasn’t cooled in twenty years.”

“Heed my words, Fletcher. Your father made a deadly mistake.
It was in his blood and it may be in yours.”

“What mistake was that?”

“He was too swift to forgive and just as fatally forgot. In
spite of your mother’s admonitions, Bruce did not think Adair Ramsay capable of
treachery. It was the opening Adair needed. We are a strong people and history
has shown we are without equal in the attack, but our defense has too often
been weak. From what I know of Adair Ramsay, he will not be a man to take the
threat of losing the title he usurped lying down. He will come at you, and come
with everything he has,” she said. “I canna help wondering if you will be
strong enough and canny enough to stand up to that.”

“I am prepared for that,” he said. “And as for whether I
will be canny enough and strong enough, I must say I’ve inherited those
qualities from my mother.”

She nodded. “Aye, Maggie was always gifted with both. I pray
you have learned from her. From what she wrote about her husband, I find myself
thinking you have acquired some of Adrian Mackinnon’s sound judgment as well.”

Fletcher smiled at that. He paused for a moment. “Forgive
me, Aunt. In my eagerness to discuss the loss of my father’s title, I did not
mean to imply that I take the title I inherited from Uncle Ian lightly. With
your help, I will learn what is required of me here, even before I begin my
quest to regain Glengarry and my tide.”

“You have a bit of the tactician in you, Fletcher. It is
something I am happy to see.
That
is something you inherited from your
mother. Maggie always had a way about her.” She paused. “Weel now, enough of
that. I didna mean to talk your ears off. You have traveled far and will be
here for the rest of your life. I ken we can continue this talk at another
time.”

Doroty rang for Mrs. MacCauley, then instructed her to have
Fletcher’s room made ready. “Are you weary, Fletcher? Would you like to rest a
bit?”

“No. I’d like to spend more time talking to you, if you
don’t mind. There is much I need to learn.”

“Aye,” Doroty said, “there is, at that. Come with me then.”

Leading him from the room, he followed her down a long,
narrow passageway, unlit except by a pair of sconces, before going into a large
study, its walls crammed with books and documents.

“Have a seat there before the fire. Your clothes are still
damp.”

She watched Fletcher as he settled into a leather chair,
commenting to him that it had been used by four generations of the Earls of
Caithness. She offered him whisky, which he declined, then green China tea,
which he accepted.

As she poured, they exchanged pleasantries—questions about
his mother, his sisters, Ainsley and Barrie, and the rest of the Mackinnon
family; his trip here; his life in California.

Then they began to speak of the title Earl of Caithness,
which he had inherited from Doroty’s brother, Ian. After much conversation,
Fletcher changed the subject. “What do you know about my father’s death and the
loss of his title?”

She put her teacup on the table beside her and thought for a
moment. At last she said, “I fear you will be disappointed, for I canna tell
you more than you already know. I ken your mother has told you everything.”

“My mother talks when the subject interests her. This one
did not. I understood that she feared any discussion would only strengthen my
resolve to return. I would like to hear your recollections.”

Doroty nodded. “Then I suppose it best to start at the
beginning,” she said. “Your father was about your age— twenty-seven, I
think—when Adair Ramsay first showed up on the doorstep of Glengarry. He
brought with him some papers that he said proved his lineage back to Alasdair
Ramsay the eighth Duke of Glengarry.”

“And Alasdair’s son was Douglas, and Douglas was my
great-great-great-grandfather.”

“Aye, but have you been told that Adair Ramsay had
great-great grandfather by the same name, and his Douglas was also the son of
an Alasdair Ramsay?”

“Yes, Mother said there were two Douglas Ramsays, with
fathers named Alasdair. She also said
mine
was the duke.”

“That was the way of it, but it seems that Adair had proof
of his lineage, whereas your father did not. The first time it was challenged
in court, it was thrown out, simply because your father’s title had been handed
down to him, so they took it to be right. Your father, after all, was alive,
and quite well liked.”

“And after he was murdered…”

She frowned. “That was never proven.”

“But Mother said…”

“I know what Maggie believed, so I can well imagine what she
said, and in my heart I feel she is right. Your father was an expert horseman
and he knew the area around Glengarry, like the back of his hand. It is hard to
believe he would have ridden his horse over the cliffs, even harder to believe
that the horse would have gone…”

“Unless he was forced.”

“Exactly.” Doroty leaned back, placing her hands on the arms
of her chair. “Shortly after your father’s death, Adair brought his suit again,
and this time the courts accepted proof as valid.”

“And they stripped the title from me and gave it to Adair.”

“Aye, that was the way of it.”

“But why? That is what I don’t understand. What was his
proof? Mother mentioned that it had something to do with a marriage that never
took place.”

“Aye,” she said, and then went on to explain, in detail,
what had happened and how his father, the Duke of Glengarry, lost his title.
Having no documented proof to counter Adair Ramsey’s attack, Fletcher’s father
could do little to preserve his inheritance. As Doroty sketched a family tree
for Fletcher she explained who was related to whom.

“Study this and we will talk about it later,” she said,
handing the diagram to him.

Fletcher took the paper, folded it, and placed it in his
pocket. “Thank you, Aunt. This,” he patted his pocket, “makes it much simpler
to understand.”

“It may sound simple, but the proving of it will be
something else entirely.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I
will
prove it.”

It must have been the way he said it that made Doroty look
up. “What makes you so certain you can prove something your father could not?”

“Because my father will be guiding my steps. I cannot fail.”
He gave her a direct look. “Do I shock you? Do you think me daft?”

“No,” she said, suddenly understanding. “We Scots were ever
a superstitious people. You’ve had a vision, then?”

“Yes,” he said, and told her about the two dreams.

“And so you had to wait ten years after the first dream
before you had the second.”

“Yes, and I had a hard time of it. I was never known for my
patience.”

Doroty laughed, as if she had no trouble believing that.
“Aye, patience is a good nag, but she’ll bolt.”

Fletcher went on to tell her that he believed his acquiring
the title of Earl of Caithness was a sign—a sign that it was time for him to
come back.

“I am glad you mentioned Caithness. I thought you had
forgotten it. Hout! You had
me
forgetting it.”

“I’ll give you no cause to worry on that score,” he said. “I
will do all I can to honor the title. What my mother lacked in telling me about
my Ramsay ancestors, she more than made up for in speaking of my Sinclair
ones.”

Doroty nodded. “Ours is a rich history and a proud one.”

“Yes, I know, and for that reason I came to love this place
long before I saw it, and even now I feel a closeness to it, knowing it is
where my mother was born, where she acquired all the qualities I so admire in
her…as well as a few I don’t.”

Doroty laughed at that. “Aye, your mother was ever a
strong-willed lass, and my father spoiled her shamelessly. She was the baby,
you see, and born quite some time after the rest of us. There are…that is,
there were five children in all, three boys—all dead now—and two girls. Did she
tell you much about us?”