Joan Wolf (10 page)

A sudden, savage pain clawed at his heart. But it was not of the mountains that he was thinking, or even Scotland itself. “Frances,” he said softly, and his face took on a withdrawn and brooding look, an aspect so bleak and forbidding that the native who was approaching him abruptly stopped and turned away.

He had tried not to think of her. Ever since the news of her marriage had come from Douglas, he had resolutely tried to put her from his thoughts. But always, at the back of his mind, there was an aching sense of emptiness and loss. He was like a man without a center;

The one thing in his life that had been necessary to his happiness was gone. He could live without her, but he felt as though he were in perpetual exile, a stranger in a land that was bleak and empty and devoid of meaning. Fruitlessly he had tried to tell himself that she wasn’t worth this pain, that she did not love him, that she had refused to marry him and then married someone else as soon as he was out of sight.

He had not been successful in subduing the haunting sense of loss. Now he turned slowly and rode through the narrow streets of Port Royal back to King’s House, where he was engaged to have dinner. He was met by the Duke’s secretary. “Oh, Mr. Macdonald, the ship from Margarita Island was carrying a letter for you from England. Captain Nevans left it with His Grace just a few hours ago.”

Ian put out an imperative hand. He had not heard from home for over two years now. He had written finally from Margarita Island after he was recovered enough to know he was going to be all right. He looked now at the paper in his hand. It was from Douglas. He smiled briefly at Mr. Bellington. “Thank you.” He took the letter out into the garden, sat down by himself on a stone bench, opened it and began to read:

Dear Ian,

   You must come home at once. I have bad news for you. Charlie is dead. He was shot by a crofter—one of the crofters evicted in the Strathnaver Clearance in Sutherland. The bullet was evidently meant for Lord Stafford, the Countess of Sutherland’s husband. He and Charlie were riding together when it happened. The crofter has been apprehended and will be tried, but Charlie is dead.

You must come home. You are Lochaber now and you are sorely needed. Your mother and sister are too distressed to write, but asked me to convey their love and their desire to see you soon.

I was most relieved to receive your letter from Margarita Island. The news from Venezuela has been disastrous and we have all been profoundly worried about you. Thank God you are safe.

One other thing I feel I must mention. From your letter it was apparent that you had not received my own earlier letters to you. There is some news you should know. Robert Sedburgh, Frances’s husband, has been dead for almost two years now. She is living in Edinburgh with her father. She, too, has been very worried about your safety.

Ian, you must come home. We all need you now. Hoping your next communication will be in person, I remain,

Your Cousin,

Douglas Macdonald.

Ian read the letter through twice, then sat staring at it sightlessly for some ten more minutes. Finally he rose and went into the house. He spent the night in deep conversation with Colonel Bolivar and boarded a British ship the next morning. After five long years of war, Ian Macdonald was going home.

* * * *

   For Frances the two years since Robert’s death had moved slowly. She had gone to Edinburgh to live with her father, and after her official period of mourning was over, the marriage proposals had poured in once more. Charlie Macdonald had been one of her suitors this time. It had led to some stress between Frances and Lady Lochaber, who had been extremely anxious to see Charlie married. Frances wouldn’t marry him and he refused to marry anyone else, and the result was that Lady Lochaber had no grandchildren and Lochaber had no heir except Ian, who was also unmarried. Lady Lochaber tended to blame Frances for that too.

She had learned to hide her feelings. The news from Venezuela had been agonizing. She had had to rely on Douglas, who had cultivated a friendship with Andres Bello, the Venezuelan Representative in London. First they learned of the disastrous battle of La Puerta, and then of the retreat from Caracas. It was six months before Ian’s letter from Margarita Island had reached Douglas.

He was beautifully tactful. He had merely sent her the letter, without comment. He had not come himself, so no one was there to see her face when she had opened it.

   He was safe.
For many minutes that was all she could register, the tears coursing silently down her cheeks. Then, firmly disciplining her emotions, she had read the letter through. “There is scarcely a province left,” Ian had written. “Towns which had thousands of inhabitants are now reduced to a few hundred or even a few dozen. Of others, there are nothing but vestiges to show that they were once inhabited by human beings. Roads and fields are full of unburied corpses; whole villages have been burnt, whole families are nothing but a memory. Those republicans who are still alive are poor as Christ, stricken with fever, with one foot in prison and the other in exile. That, Douglas, is what war means in Venezuela.

“Considering the above, it is strange to have to say that, although this war, in which I played so ineffectual a part, has left me with memories that are mostly evil, I do not wish that I had missed it. When you have had a glimpse of such a disaster as this, the result is not necessarily disillusionment and cynicism. I do not exactly know why, but it is so.”

  She read the rest of the letter with mixed feelings. He had written to his mother, he said. He asked Douglas to write to him. He did not mention the possibility of coming home. He did not mention her.

She had folded the letter on her lap and stared sightlessly out the window, allowing her thoughts for once to find their homing.  Ian. Ever since Robert had died she had waited for him. All through the years of her marriage she had rigorously suppressed her feelings for him, but her love had always been there, a swift and perilous current beneath the surface of her life.

She closed her eyes, and the memory that could no longer summon up Rob brought her Ian’s face. When she had met him her life had been diverted into new channels, rushing wildly over rocks and rapids, far from the still, quiet pools of her childhood. She had wanted the serenity she had lost and she had wanted Ian as well. To get them she had wagered her happiness, her honor, and the honor of her family. She had lost.

She opened her eyes and looked now at the letter that held no mention of her. “Oh my love,” she whispered. “I could do without peace, even, if only I were with you.”

Three weeks later Charles Macdonald, fourth Earl of Lochaber, was shot to death by a Sutherland crofter.

Chapter Thirteen

0 where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son?

And where ha you been, my handsome young man?

—
ANONYMOUS

   Ian’s ship put down anchor at Spithead, and he made the rest of the journey to Scotland by land. He went up the west coast, through Carlisle and Glasgow, along Loch Lomond and into the Highlands. As he rode through the towering, awesome beauty of Glen Orchy Ian found himself staring at the mountains of his native land like a starved lover who after many years of absence is finally reunited with the object of his dreams. He could not look enough at the high, green slopes, at the carpets of fern and of heather, at the rushing little burns and the still clearnesses of the lochs. By the time he reached the hauntingly beautiful desolation of Glencoe he was horrified to discover the sting of tears behind his eyes. Never had he felt more profoundly the ancient ties that bound him to this land. Never had he loved Scotland more then now, when he was home after five years of voluntary exile. As he saw the towers of Castle Hunter through eyes that were unaccountably blurry, he swore to himself that he would never leave her again.

His mother was in the garden when he arrived at Castle Hunter and saw his horse crossing the causeway. She met him in the front hall. Ian held her to him tightly, listening to her repeat his name over and over. Finally she stepped back, brushing at her cheeks with her fingers. “What a welcome!” she said, with an effort at lightness. “Come upstairs to the drawing room, Ian.”

But when they reached the white-paneled room filled with comfortable, chintz-covered furniture, Ian had been shocked by his mother’s appearance. She had aged twenty years. No wonder, he thought grimly. Of the three sons she had borne and reared he was the only one still living. He thought of his sister, the family baby who had been twelve when he left. “Where is Margaret?” he asked.

“She went into Kinlochlevin,” Lady Lochaber replied. “She has been such a comfort to me, Ian! I don’t know what I would nave done without her.’’

“I am so sorry. Mama,” he said soberly. “I came as soon as I could.”

Her head, once so dark but now heavily silvered, bowed. “He never knew what happened, Ian. He died instantly. At least he didn’t suffer. I suppose that’s some comfort.”

He went over to where she was seated on the sofa, sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “How can I help?” he asked gently.

Her spine stiffened and she blew her nose. “You can stay home, for one thing,” she said with a touch of her usual asperity.

“I will,” he said soberly. His eyes went around the familiar, well-loved room. “I promise.”

Her brown eyes looked into his. “There is trouble in Scotland, Ian. That crofter who shot Charlie is just an example of what is happening here. His wife had been burned to death in the Strathnaver Clearance.”

He looked incredulous. “Burned?”

“Yes. The factor had given the crofters six months’ notice to leave. Well of course they didn’t move. Where were they to go, for heaven’s sake? Anyway, after six months the factor—Sellar was his name—moved into the valley with men, dogs, and fire. They burned down the houses. The old wife of this man didn’t have time to get out.”

“Dhé!” said Ian softly. “So it has come to this.”

“Yes. It is happening all over the Highlands.”

“Not here!” said Ian quickly.

“No, not here. But I will tell you that Charlie talked about it. The land is overpopulated and the rents that come in do not go far when you are living mostly in London.” Lady Lochaber’s voice was carefully neutral.

Ian shot her a look and then picked up her hand. “There will be no clearances in Lochaber, Mama. I promise you that, too.”

Lady Lochaber blinked and patted his hand. “You have the chieftain’s love of his land, Ian. You get that from your father.”

“I’m almost glad Dada isn’t around to see what is going on today,” Ian said grimly. “It would break his heart.”

   “I know.” Her eyes narrowed a little. “I’ll tell you something else that would break his heart, my son.”

“What is that. Mama?”

“Lochaber passing into the hands of strangers because his own sons refused to marry and produce an heir!”

Ian looked at her cautiously. “Oh,” he said.

“Yes, ‘oh’!” she replied tartly. “Not one grandchild do I have.  It is your duty, Ian, to marry. God knows I tried to impress that fact on your brother, with what result you can see.”

“Why didn’t Charlie marry?” Ian asked curiously.

Lady Lochaber compressed her lips. “Why?” she said, with awful calm. “For the same reason, Ian, that at least eight other men of my personal acquaintance have not married. Not to mention another odd dozen or so strewn around London.”

“Oh,” Ian said again. “Frances.”

“Yes, Frances. Really, Ian, I am quite annoyed with her. If she plans to spend the rest of her life mourning Robert Sedburgh she ought to have the decency to stay away from eligible men. Every time I thought Charlie was on the verge of offering for some girl he would run into Frances and it would start all over again.”

“I see. Well, Mama,” he said soothingly, “if anything happens to me Lochaber won’t go to a stranger. Douglas is next in line after me, you know.”

“And is Douglas married?” Lady Lochaber asked inexorably.

“Well, no, but ...”

“But me no buts,” his mother snapped. “Douglas won’t get married for the same reason as Charlie.”

Ian looked slightly amused. “Don’t you think you’re being rather hard on Frances, Mama?”

“No.” She looked at him shrewdly. “I always thought you and Frances would make a match of it.”

“We found we didn’t agree,” he responded shortly.

“I see.” After a moment she smiled at him and tactfully changed the subject. “I’m glad you’re home, Ian. We’ve all missed you.”

“I’m glad to be home. Mama,” he responded. “I missed you too.”

* * * *

A few hours later Ian was in the library, when the door opened and his sister came in. “Hello, Ian!” she said, coming to kiss him. “It’s good to see you.”

He returned her kiss then stepped back to look at her, surprise clearly written on his face.      ,         “Margaret,” he said slowly. “I hardly recognized you.” The girl he was looking at was tall and slim, with clear olive skin, dark eyes, and shining black hair worn smoothly coiled on top of her head. She was lovely. He grinned at her. “I remember you as a brat with pigtails and dirty fingernails.”

She smiled back. “I’m seventeen now. You’ve been gone a long time, Ian.”

He shook his head. “I suppose I have.” He gestured to the two wing chairs positioned before the fireplace. “Sit down, Maggie, and tell me what’s been going on around here.”

She sighed and obeyed him. “Nothing very happy, I’m afraid, Ian,” she replied. “Have you heard about the clearances?”

“Mama told me something about them. There were some clearances before I left but I gather it has gotten worse.

“Much worse. Cattle prices have fallen since the war has ended and the fishing has become less profitable as well. More and more landlords are clearing their land of crofters in order to put in sheep. One can’t argue with them on the bases of economics. Sheep are definitely more profitable. But they are destroying us as a nation. From time immemorial the Highlands have been a collective culture. We have stood together against the Lowlands and against the English. Now, with one blow, the chiefs are destroying their own civilization.” Margaret’s young face looked somber. “It is ugly, Ian. What happened to Charlie is a measure of that.”