Wild Island (11 page)

But it was here that the Glen Bronnack version* as related by Leonie Beauregard in
A Royal Link
deviated from the accepted story. In the Glen it was said that the baby had not in fact been drowned but miraculously survived her experiences in the water. Like an infant Moses, she had been rescued by her loyal Stuart relations and baptized Charlotte Clementina, brought up among them as a supposed orphan. At the age of seventeen she married Robert Beauregard of Kilbronnack, dying a year later giving birth to a son. From this marriage the present-day family of Beauregards were directly descended, the blood of Bonnie Prince Charlie coursing through their veins together with that of a sound but otherwise undistinguished Scottish family.

Furthermore, and here was the delicious crux of the matter, by digging about further into old tales and legends and traditions handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth, the enthusiastic author had reason to suggest that the Prince had actually
married
Marjorie Stuart in secret when he discovered her to be pregnant. 'Is it fanciful to suppose that our brave Prince and our courageous Marjorie thus planned to safeguard the royal Stuart descent, should he be captured and executed by the English ... ?' enquired Leonie Beauregard boldly.

So there it was. A royal pedigree - of sorts - for the Beauregards.

After finishing the book, Jemima contemplated leaving her own offering at the shrine, some of the yellow bog plants she had found on the island. She decided that it would be a sentimental gesture. She was no American romantic. Besides, she was only a tenant. She did not want to be permanently possessed by the island or its history, nor indeed the Beauregard family and its feuds. She was a bird of passage. In particular she did not want to be possessed by the house, Tigh Fas.

She read
Old Mortality
- the good Scott - alternating with Burns. On her walks at least, she felt a new balm being applied to her spirit. Warming towards Guthrie (because he had once suggested it) she even began to contemplate some kind of Highland retreat of her own, a cottage of course, a real cottage this time; it might even mean marrying Guthrie, but that too might not be an utterly impossible venture. Guthrie was in love with her, an attractive lover,
and
unmarried, a rare combination indeed. It was certainly an ideal combination in Guthrie's own opinion: he sometimes appeared quite disconcerted when Jemima rejected the occasional proposal with which he punctuated an otherwise exceptionally easy and loving relationship.

'I can't think why you
won't
marry me,' he would say. 'Millions would...' He was only half joking. There was of course the question of freedom. But no freedom lasted for ever and Jemima had enjoyed great freedom. Yes, she was beginning to feel very warmly towards Guthrie in her Highland Paradise.

In a way the prospect of dinner at Kilbronnack House was a tiresome interruption of this personal reverie.

The island was particularly peaceful that afternoon. The occasional small plump bird strutted on the terrace. Bridie, who had threatened to return to make her tea, despite Jemima's protests (she still could not accept this strange tenant's proclaimed self-sufficiency), did not in fact reappear.

Jemima changed into a long dark green jersey dress, elegant, discreetly sexy (she hoped): Jean Muir, a designer in whose clothes she always felt she could face the unknown. She awaited the arrival of whichever Beauregard would drive her to dinner at Kilbronnack House. Her escort was late. Perversely, this had the effect of making anticipation grow. She had succeeded in banishing Colonel Henry from her mind for the time being in favour of Guthrie and the possible future they might have together. Now, as she waited, she found herself hoping that the Colonel had not forgotten his invitation. As she put it to herself, quite apart from anything else, she had a mission to perform for Clementina Beauregard.

When the car finally scrunched on the gravel, the river noise masking its approach, it seemed to come to rest with an extravagant squeal of brakes. She suspected a very young man must be at the wheel.

The man who burst in through the door a moment later was young, if not very young. He was wearing a kilt, topped by 
a bjackjacket, and looked at first sight the pattern of a romantic Highland figure.

But his opening words were in no way romantic: 'Miss Shore, I'm Ben Beauregard, something absolutely ghastly has happened.' It was all said in a rush. Ben Beauregard's face, with its full mouth and wide-set eyes, was twitching as he spoke, twitching uncontrollably. His eyes still met hers as he went on: 'It's Bridie. I've just found her body. In the river among the weeds, all tangled up with her bicycle. She must have fallen off the bridge. Miss Shore, she's dead. Bridie's dead.'

Before Jemima's horrified gaze, his features began to break up further. Finally, putting his face in his hands, Ben Beauregard began to sob, the harsh painful sobs of someone who has not perhaps wept since childhood.

CHAPTER 11

Is she safe?

After a time the sobs stopped. When Ben Beauregard had regained control of himself, he said, 'Sorry about that. The shock, you understand. She was our nanny, we all adored her. The bridge
is
very slippery in the rain, we all used to tease her about her bicycle, it was so ancient, and how unsteady she was on it. She must have tumbled in. Then of course she couldn't swim: we used to tease her about that too when we went over to the seaside. Poor old Bridie.'

His words faded away. Quite a different expression crossed his face, verging on anger, or perhaps irritation was the correct word.

'Oh God, whatever's going to happen now ? The royal visit. We've got Hurricane Sophie coming to dinner at Kilbronnack.' The contrast between his genuine feeling at the old woman's death and his laird-like exasperation at the inconvenience to his plans was almost ludicrous. .

And when an hour later Jemima Shore found herself sitting in the drawing room of Kilbronnack House, she was still torn between admiration for Ben Beauregard's cool, and suspicion that he was fundamentally able to carry off such a distressing situation with such verve.

Ben Beauregard was certainly an efficient organizer, like his father. Somehow estate workers were conjured up out of the 
Glen, including Young Duncan, who lived on a croft just beyond Bridie's lodge. Jemima herself was driven directly on to Kilbronnack by Duncan, while Ben stayed behind to 'clear up a few details here' as he put it-which presumably meant dealing with the body and all the other paraphernalia to do with sudden and accidental death.

The last thing Jemima heard Ben say to his aides was: 'Lachlan. We must let him know.'

'There was'na much love lost between those two,' answered an older worker dourly, one of those who had escorted Colonel Henry at the church.

'They were still mother and son,' was Ben's reply. He spoke with authority. His voice momentarily resembled that of his father. The men exchanged looks. Nobody made any immediate suggestion as to how to contact Lachlan. As Jemima was driven away, she reflected that the intelligence service of the Red Rose was so good that the news of the tragedy would probably reach Lachlan long before Ben Beauregard's official message got through. She decided to say nothing. It was Duncan, tragedy not having diminished his enthusiasm for reckless driving or conversation, who broke the silence:

'Aye, it was the dog that did it,' he observed. 'It was the dog knocked puir Bridie Stuart from the bridge. She couldn't forgive her for the death of Mr Charles.' There was a horrible kind of relish in his voice: it was as though he was enjoying the excitement of it all. Perhaps if you lived long enough in a remote
valley, it
was more exciting than distressing when your nearest neighbour fell off a bridge and drowned ? Or was pushed off a bridge?

'Flora?' enquired Jemima in a startled voice.

'Aye, Flora. I was seeing her by and by, bounding down towards Eilean Fas, just there by the bridge, looking for Bridie Stuart she was. And she so clever, knowing how the bridge was slippery, and Bridie going to make your tea, and it was there she would be able to upset her. Aye, Flora has more intelligence in her paws than most humans in these parts have in their heads.'

Nevertheless it was impossible to dismiss altogether the sinister image of the malevolent animal bent on drowning its prey. And when she arrived at Kilbronnack House, it was recalled to her by the sight of Jacobite. Admittedly the Kilbronnack dog was lying fast asleep by the log fire. He did not even acknowledge Jemima's entrance by a wag of his tail. At the same time, Jemima decided to give him a wide berth: she did not think she would easily learn to trust dogs again.

The welcome of Colonel Henry Beauregard was on the other hand a masterpiece of active charm and implicit tact. He managed by a diplomatic remark both to convey his distress over Bridie - 'Forty years with our family' - and to dispose of the subject: 'We mustn't worry our little Princess about all this, must we ? We want her to have a good time in the Highlands.'He cut an astonishing figure in his kilt, black jacket with silver buttons, and silver-buckled shoes: having reluctantly admired his figure and bearing in his London suit, Jemima now came to the equally reluctant conclusion that in Highland dress Colonel Henry Beauregard was one of the best-looking men she had ever seen in her life. Perhaps it was the effect of the kilt ... Yet the Colonel successfully put in the shade not only all those of his sons present (kilted themselves) but even the image of the more dashing black-haired Ben, by far the best-looking of the sons. Perhaps Highland lairds, like Scottish whisky, improved with age?

She tried to distinguish the names of the other Beauregards present: three, the remainder having departed after the funeral of their cousin. Rory seemed pleasant enough, with nice regular features and thick brown hair. Hamish's kilt and sporran both looked rather long to Jemima's inexpert eye. That gave a stolid impression. The boy Kim, whom she had noted in the chapel, looked bright. But he was clearly in a great state of tension, probably over Bridie's death. He was in fact engaged in an argument with his mother, which only ceased when Jemima came near the group.

'Hush, darling,' murmured Lady Edith, but in vain. Kim continued to press his argument, whatever it was. Jemima recognized both the other male guests. One was Ossian Lucas MP, who waved his hand languidly in her direction. He was wearing a tight-fitting suit made entirely of some improbable tartan; frills exuded from his sleeves, and torrented out at his neck. His strong face topping the bizarre costume provided a remarkable contrast. The other male guest was Father Flanagan. The tall priest was lecturing - or perhaps hectoring would be a more accurate description - Ossian Lucas on the various failings of those people who were at one swoop Lucas's constituents and Father Flanagan's parishioners. He had angrily refused a drink, which might have softened his mood. 'I tell you, I'm consulting the bishop as to whether it may not be an actual sin to belong to the Red Rose,' Jemima heard him say earnestly.

"With no employment hereabouts, and those great big wages up at the rigs for the Southerners, you can hardly blame them if they turn to the Red Rose,’ observed Ossian Lucas; but he sounded fairly indifferent to the problem.

Jemima was surprised that a Catholic priest should be asked to dinner to meet Protestant royalty: and the more so when there turned out to be an extra man at dinner. It transpired that Lady Edith had rushed over in a panic to fetch him, on hearing that Princess Sophie was bringing her lady-in-waiting to dinner, Father Flanagan being the only conceivable extra man available at short notice around Kilbronnack. At which point Kim announced that he too had been promised to come to dinner to meet the Princess, 'ages ago, you
promised.
Mum, so long as I wore my jabot'. Having got into his jabot he was not inclined to surrender his place at dinner. As Lady Edith was clearly much too weak to insist on his withdrawal - to the 
evident disgust of his brothers - they had to make do with an extra man at the table. As Rory said
sotto voce,
'Mum always makes things worse when she tries to straighten them out.'

There was further trouble with Kim when Rory suddenly grabbed a glass out of his hand, sipped at it, and put it down with a highly disapproving expression. Whatever the boy was drinking, it was obviously not in accordance with the older brother's notion of what was suitable for his junior.

Touched by her hostess's discomposure, which was hardly surprising in view of the closeness she must have established with Bridie in the past, Jemima listened patiently to the stream of inconsequential questions Lady Edith asked her about television. Which was more than Lady Edith herself did: she asked the same question three times: 'Don't you find it very difficult about clothes?' In vain Jemima tried to give her stock answer to this particular stock question:

'I try to wear very simple things which won't distract the viewer...' Like Jesting Pilate, Lady Edith did not stay for the answer, but always darted away and was found fussing in another corner of the drawing room, now straightening Kim's jabot, now bending down to dust Rory's shoes with her handkerchief.

'The dress you're wearing tonight certainly distracts the viewer.' It was Colonel Henry handing her a glass of champagne. To her surprise Jemima found herself blushing, something she was sure she had not done for many a year. To cover her embarrassment she admired Kilbronnack House, the beauty of whose classically plain early eighteenth-century facade had struck her on arrival.

The plainness of the exterior of Kilbronnack House was matched by the extreme plainness of the decor. In fact the large room was decorated more by people than anything else. There were a few dark oil paintings of forebears-kilted-on the walls. Over the fireplace, surveying Jacobite's sleeping head, was an inferior copy of the best-known portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

'Our distinguished ancestor,' observed the Colonel with a quizzical smile, following the direction of her eyes. 'What nonsense all of that is! The Red Rose, I mean, pretending we're the real Kings of Scotland. Damned unsuitable topic to discuss, just as Princess Sophie is about to bob up. But I must say I've no patience with all that rubbish. Of course when my idiotic nephew Charles took up with it-purely to madden me-every lunatic, deadbeat and drop-out on the Estate followed him. And as far as I'm concerned that's the whole story of this blasted Scottish Nationalism in a nutshell. People who just want to stir up trouble. Came across them in the war: knew the type. Quickly got them out of the regiment, just as fast as I could. Don't want to go into battle with people like that.'

Jemima looked up at the portrait of the Prince. There was a resemblance somewhere... the pale youthful face surrounded by its tumbling hair. It teased her. Why yes, it must be Clementina Beauregard. So no doubt there was royal Stuart blood to some degree in the Beauregard veins, even if the Colonel was right and it was conceived on the wrong side of the blanket.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the Princess. From the flurry and commotion outside Jemima imagined that the local constabulary were in attendance in force. The small figure who entered, escorted by Ben Beauregard, was for a moment an anticlimax. But Princess Sophie was dressed in brilliant red-her favourite colour, according to the press-and upheld by platform shoes to match. And even without her eye-catching dress, she would have commanded attention. Pop-eyed, fair-haired, a true Hanoverian in her looks, and not even a particularly pretty one, she nevertheless radiated confidence and, as a result, her particular brand of charm.

Hurricane Sophie she was to the press, her vitality having earned her the nickname. Strong men in the gossip trade had wilted away trying to keep up with the pace of her social life; 'does she never go to bed ?' they had been heard to groan. Indeed it was all very unsatisfying from the scandalmonger's point of view, for when the young Princess did go to bed, it might be 6 am more often than not, but she was invariably alone.

That same vitality made her now the automatic centre of attention in a way Jemima suspected would always have been so, royal birth or no royal birth. Princess Sophie also had excellent manners. She was quite delightful to Lady Edith, instantly admiring the flower arrangements, whose beauty and choice Jemima had only just begun to notice. From Lady Edith's obvious pleasure, Jemima concluded she had arranged them herself.

To Jemima, the Princess expressed the most knowledgeable appreciation of her recent series:

'Actually, whatever the press says,' she added disarmingly, 'I spend most of my evenings sitting at home at Cumberland Palace, watching television.'

'Yes, Ma'am, that's perfectly true. But with twenty-five people sitting round with you watching as well.' It was one of the middle Beauregard boys.

The Princess, not in the slightest bit put out, pealed with laughter.

'Rory, don't give me away,' she cried. 'I'm trying so hard to make a good impression on Miss Shore. I'm her fan.' Princess Sophie rolled her round blue eyes flirtatiously in Jemima's direction, then in that of Rory Beauregard. Jemima was surprised to notice that within the bounds of good manners, this flirtation was kept up all the evening. She would have expected Ben Beauregard, so very much better looking, to have been the focus of the Princess's attentions.

Perhaps there was more to Rory Beauregard than met the eye. What had poor Bridie said about this particular nurseling ? His deep love of Scotland and things Scottish: 'A deep one,' she had said. Perhaps it was this quiet strength which appealed to such a volatile character as Hurricane Sophie. And wasn't it Rory who had once told Bridie he would do anything in the world to live in the Glen ? A whole series of declarations came back to her. Clementina: ‘I’d do anything to be Queen.' Colonel Henry and the Glen: 'A land worth killing for.'

Her Highland Paradise had not after all cast out the serpent. The snake still lurked, the serpent of covetousness, the primitive passion for land: land, wealth and position. Could it ever be eradicated ? One had to realize that while Charles's death had made Ben heir to the Estate, Rory Beauregard was still in the position of a second son to Ben.

The evening itself was rather jolly. It was Colonel Henry; not Princess Sophie, who put an end to it. Regardless of protocol (to a background noise of Lady Edith protesting, 'Henry, you really can't, Henry, please' - 'Can't I, my dear? Just watch me'), the Colonel said firmly at 11 o'clock: 'Now, Ma'am, we all know you've got to be up at six and open that dam on the west coast. We mustn't take advantage of your good nature and keep you up.'

Princess Sophie took her dismissal gamely, remaining flirtatious to the last: 'Oh, Colonel Henry, I believe you're trying to get rid of me—*

'Ma'am!' exclaimed the Colonel in gallant horror.

'Oh, I'm so frightened of the Red Rose on the way home,' went on Princess Sophie artlessly. 'You know they've told the press they're going to kidnap me while I'm up here. It was headlined in the
Express
: is
she safe
? So horrid for one to read with one's breakfast.' She did not look at' all frightened.

It was true that the
Daily Express
had led off that morning with a tumultuous denunciation of the Princess's security arrangements while in the Highlands, based on the notorious reputation of the Red Rose in those parts. They were acting, they said, on a tip-off received from an undercover agent who had daringly succeeded in penetrating this extremist organization. To most of their readers, Jemima suspected, and possibly to the
Express
itself, the news of their Princess's danger and the very existence of the Red Rose had arrived at one and the same moment.

'Such an unfortunate royal title, Duke of Cumberland,' the Princess added. 'Papa should never have been landed with it. I mean, he
adored
the Highlands, but knew no history at all so he could never understand why he was always hissed whenever he got out of his sleeper at Inverness, if I was Princess Sophie of Surrey, no one would pay me any attention at all.'