Jennie About to Be (23 page)

“It is a handsome prospect, is it not?” He waved his hand at the moor.

“Oh, yes! I'm sure this will always be my favorite view.”

“How long do you think it will remain as handsome?”

“That's an odd question. Why shouldn't it remain so always? Oh, the seasons change it, but in winter there'll be smoke from the cottages to show life. There'll always be the loch like the sky's looking glass, and the mountains in and out of the clouds, changing their colors.”

He took off his bonnet and sat down on the fallen tree at a courteous distance from her. His hair was not black, as she had thought, but a very dark brown.

“The cottages, then, you think will always be there.”

“Yes, but improved. New ones, with proper fireplaces and chimneys. More windows. Separate stabling for the animals. But cottages always, and peat to burn.”

“So the cottages are to be improved,” he said musingly.

“Surely you don't disapprove!”

“Och, not at all. Anything that is done for the tenants of Linnmore I approve.” With his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand, he studied her, and she tried to stare him down. His eyes were a darker gray than Morag's and narrowed with amusement, or possibly contempt. She should leave this place at once before he said something insolent; she picked up her shawl.

“Mrs. Gilchrist,” he said in that soft voice, “were you ever hearing of
Bliadhna nan Corach
, the Year of the Sheep?”

She was caught, as always, by the Gaelic. “No, but tell me.”

“I can see it would not be talked about in your presence. It was the year seventeen hundred and ninety-two, when the first Cheviots were brought to Scotland.”

“I know the Cheviots,” she said, glad to assert herself in something.

“It is said that they are a much better animal than the black-faced Lintons, the sheep of the Highlands. It is beginning to be said that they are a much better animal than the Highlander.” Without raising his voice he said, “Do you know what is the most dreadful sentence for a Highlander to hear?”

“I should think for anyone it would be the sentence of death. When he knows he is dying, or that his wife and child are—”

“Those are very terrible moments. But the worst sentence is
Cuiridh mi as an fhearann thu
. It means ‘I shall evict you.' ”

She wrapped her shawl tightly around cold arms; she had gotten chilled very quickly. “Have they been afraid of that
here
? Because Mr. Grant went away and the Laird didn't come himself to talk with them?”

“Yes, they think it was discussed, and Davie Grant bitterly opposed it, so he had to go.”

“They
think
!” she exclaimed. “What facts had they to go on?”

“It has happened, it
is
happening in other places.” The Gaelic s's hissed about her ears. “They could not find out what Linnmore intended. I could not find out, and I have no fear of walking into Linnmore House and asking questions, in spite of the lady. I have been there just now.”

“And what did Ar—Linnmore say?”

“He was asleep, the man told me. And Madam would not have me come into her drawing room, and she would not come to me.”

“Well, I can promise you,” she said indignantly, “that my husband has
assured
me that improvements,
not evictions
, are planned, and I hope if you have any influence, you'll convince the tenants it's not the Devil's work that builds new cottages and makes the gardens better and the animals healthier.”

He inclined his head. “Whatever is best for them I will help. I have heard about your school. Do you have Linnmore's leave for it?”

“Not yet,” she said quickly, “but I expect to have it very soon, as soon as I show him my completed plans. Dr. Macleod is going to help me collect the materials.”

One of his eyebrows went up. “Indeed! A day of wonders!” For the first time he really smiled. It stung her.
He
was probably the one who was terrifying the others with rumors of eviction, and Christabel was right about him.

“Do you approve of my school?” she asked boldly.

“Who am I to approve or disapprove?”

“I thought you were someone who cared about the children.”

“Aschool is fine, if it does not try to turn them into little Sassenachs. Our pride is all that is left to us.”

“I know what pride is. A man is nothing without it, and neither is a woman.” She sensed his liking for that, or at least respect. “Mr. Gilchrist, is there a fairy hill at Linnmore? I am not going to laugh about it or write amusing things to my relatives. I am quite serious.”

“Some say the way into the Fairy Hill is through the Pict's House.”

“Is that where it is then?” She was delighted. “Nigel and I are going to picnic there. Take a strupach,” she explained, to show off her few Gaelic words.

“It will disappoint you,” he said dryly. “It is not high; it is hardly a hill.”

“Did you ever go looking for the way in when you were a child?”

“Och, we knew we could never find it. Only the Fair Folk can open it, from their side. But we never went under the lintel of the Pict's House, for fear we would never come out again. It was once believed that if someone disappeared, he had been stolen by the fairies. The poor soul would have been drowned or collapsed in some mountain pass in a blizzard.”

“Were they believed to be happy with the fairies, or should they have been in a Christian heaven?”

“No one,” he said, “has ever returned from either place to give an account of the amenities.”

She laughed. “Tell me about the Pict's House.”

“It is only the remains of a stone hut built into the slope. Some say a Pictish monk lived there in the old days, when Christianity was young in Scotland. Myself, I believe that. But when we were lads, it was different. We dared each other to pass under the lintel, but no one ever took the dare.”

She saw him as a small dark boy, bare-legged in tattered breeches or a ragged kilt like the boys she had seen at the cottages. He'd have been impish and quicksilver, jeering at someone else's cowardice while trying to conquer his own.

“Did anyone ever hear music from inside the hill?” she asked. “I've read about that and wished I could hear it. Magic fiddling that nobody could resist.”

He shook his head. “No, but we swore we did. To each other, not to our elders.”

“There were things my sister and I never told either. . . . Was Nigel one of the boys?”

“No, he is younger than me.” He stood up and put on his bonnet. “This has been very pleasant, Mrs. Gilchrist.” The pony came to him, nodding its head. He mounted and turned the pony toward the track leading down to the cottages.

“Yes, it has been very pleasant,” she agreed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gilchrist.” He touched a finger to his bonnet and rode away. He disappeared partway down, in the transverse valley she remembered, then reappeared farther along. The pony ambled toward the cottages, the rider drooping in the saddle as if he were half-asleep. A man came out of the shadow of a wall, and his red hair seemed to flame up suddenly in the sun; it was the lame man who walked with two sticks. Goats bleated. There was a stir of awakening around the cottages as the Sabbath moved to its end. If they hadn't gone to church for their own reasons, they had still kept the Day.

When she got back to the house, Nigel was just seeing off Patrick MacSween and one of his men. She went into the kitchen to get their light supper; a teakettle with a spirit lamp had been one of their more practical wedding gifts, and she made tea. Nigel came into the pantry, smelling of pipe smoke and whisky, and hugged her from behind while she was slicing bread. She leaned back contendedly against his chest.

“What would Dr. Macleod say about business meetings on the Sabbath?” She teased him. “Desecration!”

“I'd charm him out of his wrath. Besides, I didn't expect Patrick today, so I can't be blamed, can I? And I had to live up to the obligations of Highland hospitality. And I didn't get my letters written. What have you been doing?” He took the knife away from her and began whacking off thick wedges of crusty bread. “That's the way I like it. Ungentlemanly, what?”

“It's lovely. You might cut some ham and some cheese, too.” She took out knives and forks. “I had a conversation with Alick Gilchrist up on the ridge.”

“The devil you did!” He seemed more amused than annoyed. “What did you talk about?”

“He approves of my school,” she said.

“Is that
all
he said?”

“Well, no. I asked him about a Fairy Hill, and he said the Pict's House was supposed to hide the entrance to it. When are we going to picnic there? Tomorrow, if it's fine?”

“My dear girl, it's back to business as usual on Mondays.”

“What about business not as usual on Sundays? What did the keeper and his henchman need to talk about so urgently that it couldn't wait? Has he discovered a still? Does he wish to hang a poacher?”

Nigel picked a sliver of cheese off the knife and ate it. “Are you sure Alick hasn't been preaching revolution at you?”

“Not a hint of it,” she said blandly. “Nigel, what is the reason for his special position around here?”

“I'll tell you while we're eating.” They carried the food out to the table set with delftware. Nigel drank a cup of tea and ate two slabs of bread and butter with ham while she attempted to possess her soul in patience. Finally he said abruptly, “We share the same grandfather. His father was a half brother to ours, a by-blow, fruit of our grandfather's hot youth. He was born to a maid in Linnmore House. Our grandfather built that cottage for her and her heirs and made sure that it could never be disturbed. So—mustard, please—Alick is a fixture here, no matter how much his existence goads Christabel.”

“So he's your first cousin,” she said.

“Yes, not that any of us cherish the connection,” he said dryly. “Sandy was the oldest son, by-blow or not, and it must have roweled him all his life, knowing our father was the legal heir. And Alick's presence reminds Archie that his father wasn't the firstborn. Thorn in the side, what?”

“Thorn in
your
side?”

“No, and he never has been.” He picked up a slice of ham in his fingers and ate it in two bites. “He's a part of the place, like the pines up there. He wouldn't become a soldier; he won't emigrate; he's never had a mind to seek his fortune over the hills and far away. Like the song, eh?” He grinned at her. “We shall see more of him when he finds he can't go to Archie over my head with his complaints. Archie doesn't wish to hear them; that's why I'm here.”

“What sorts of complaints?”

He shrugged. “Alick can always think of something. I expect we'll have more and more trouble with him.” He didn't seem concerned.

“What about his family, his father? Sandy?”

“He enlisted and died in America during the war with the colonies, so I don't remember him, or his wife either. They had an allowance from my grandfather, and it's been passed on to Alick. Not much, but he can afford new boots when he needs them. More tea?” He held out his cup.

Jennie had read Nigel to sleep and was reading to herself when she became conscious of a stir in the house. It was nothing clearly audible, but rather like knowing that the tide has turned; the servants must be back. She got up and went out into the hall, quietly opened the door to the back stairs and listened. The door at the foot muffled the voices in the kitchen, but she heard an exclamation quickly stifled, an outbreak of sobbing, followed by murmurs of consolation. She went back to the bedroom; Nigel slept on while she put on a peignoir and her padded silk slippers. She went down the front stairs and through the hall to the kitchen door and knocked. All sounds ceased within. She called, “May I come in?”

Morag opened the door to her, unsmiling, ducking in a curtsy. In the candlelit room she saw Fergus just going out the back way, moving fast. Mrs. MacIver stood regally by the hearth. She looked extremely tall in black, and she was still wearing her bonnet, which was also black. Aili was red-faced, and her eyes were swollen as if she'd been crying for hours. When she curtsied to Jennie, her eyes overflowed. She scurried for the back stairs, bumping into things on the way.

“May I go to my room, Mistress Gilchrist?” Mrs. Maclver asked distantly.

“Yes, of course.” Jennie nearly stammered in her bewilderment. What had she done? Had she offended, merely by coming to her own kitchen?

Mrs. MacIver lighted her candle from one on the table and took her stately departure. Jennie turned to Morag. The lovely color was lacking, and her eyes were like a doll's glass ones.

“Morag, whatever happened today? Is anyone hurt or ill? Is it”—she had to moisten her throat—“bad news from the war?” The thud of her heartbeat was sickening.

“No, Mistress,” Morag said stolidly, her eyes fixed on a point beyond Jennie's ear.

“If it's something very private, I don't wish to pry. But if there's any way I can help, please tell me, Morag, I beg of you! Mrs. MacIver is plainly upset, Aili is wretched, and so are you. You don't hide it well, Morag.”

“It's the burning!” the girl cried passionately. “Yesterday eight townships were put to the torch, and the people turned out with what they could carry in their hands and on their backs! Surely you knew, Mistress!”

“Surely I did
not
!” The scent was thick again in Jennie's nostrils, and lain Innes spoke from the box. A
terrible burning and a sinful one
. “But I know now that I smelled it. It's monstrous! It can't be true, Morag. Who told you this?”

“Alick Gilchrist, but—”

The troublemaker, thinking himself cheated of his heritage. “And how did he know?” she asked coldly.