Part 11 (2/2)
”Aunt Lorna,” he whispered. ”What an unexpected surprise!”
”You thought me long gone. They all do,” she chuckled hoa.r.s.ely, coughed briefly, and spit into the embers. ”So you went to see the world.” She touched his velvet jacket. ”I always knew you would ... and now you have come back?”
”Only pa.s.sing through. I'm going to America.”
”That is a long way to go. Tell me.”
They talked for a while about his travels, his plans. Then he got up, holding her hand, and said: ”It was good to talk to you, aunt Lorna. Keep well. Are they looking properly after you?”
”I'm fine. Don't need much anymore, you know. But you have grown into a fine young man and from your looks, you seem to be doing well. G.o.d bless you!”
He was just about to go, when a thought struck him. He sat down again and asked on a low voice: ”You were there when I was born, weren't you?”
”Yes, master Andrew, I washed you... You were such a sweet wee baby, not at all wrinkled like they often are... And your mother wanted to see you, but Lady Argyle forbade it. I had to take you away immediately.”
”My mother ... Mary MacGregor from Glengyle?”
”Ah yes, you never knew, didn't you? ... Lady Argyle made me swear that I would never tell. But she's been dead for years now, so it won't do any harm telling you.”
Andrew looked at her in tense impatience.
”What name did you say? Mary ...?”
”Mary MacGregor.”
The old women pondered that for a while, looking into the hearth. ”The redhead from Rob Roy's clan?”
”Yes.”
”She was a haughty one. Thought herself better than the other la.s.ses sent to the castle for grooming... Very pretty though and fell head over heals for Lord Archibald, the silly la.s.s... They all had their dreams of becoming Lady Argyle.” She fell silent for a while. ”But why do you think she is your mother?”
”She said so herself, a few years back, when I was at Finlarig.”
”She did? ... Strange woman... Why would she say that?”
Andrew felt on tenterhooks. ”Is she my mother? Aunt Lorna, please, tell me.”
”No ... she had a boy a few months earlier and he died shortly after birth.”
With great effort, he forced to keep his voice steady. ”You say her boy died?”
”Yes, he only lived a week or so. Didn't take to feeding. That happens sometimes. Maybe if he had been left with his mother, he might have lived.”
”And she was never told her boy died?”
”I guess not ... she was sent home a few days after the birth ... before he died.”
”So, who is my mother?”
”Oh, let me think. She was dark haired ... she was ... yes, she was a MacDonald ... yes, I think Elizabeth MacDonald. Married one of her cousins a year after you were born and died in childbirth, the poor la.s.s... would have done better to enter a convent, as she had wanted.”
Andrew did not sleep much that night. He wondered what difference it would have made, had he known. But that could not be changed any more. He might as well bury it in the deepest recesses of his mind.
He had planned to go from Argyle directly to Glasgow and then make for Liverpool to catch a boat to Boston. But when he reached the top of Loch Lomond, rather than go south to Dumbarton, he was irresistibly drawn east into Breadalbane. He couldn't understand why. There was really nothing there that he wanted to be reminded of. Helen, the girl he had loved and lost, thinking of her as his sister these last four years? The wound of losing his love had suddenly been ripped open again. She was not even his sister anymore-only a la.s.s that had crossed his path. Or did he want to tell the woman he had believed to be his mother? He had forgiven her and felt ashamed for having cursed her-she had only done what she thought she must do to protect her daughter and her family. What would change if she knew that he was not her son? He was still a Campbell of Argyle and she a MacGregor. She would never let her daughter marry a Campbell. What was he thinking of? Anyway, by now Helen was surely joined with another MacGregor. She might already have a child or two. Nevertheless he continued east along Glen Falloch and down Glen Dochart and so came to Killin.
After an early dinner at The Bear, he decided to go for a ride. Before long he found himself on the ridge leading down to Lochan nan Geadas. It hadn't been a conscious act. As the sun reappeared below the bank of clouds over the western horizon, he rode down to the little lake and walked up to the promontory. Sitting against a boulder, he watched the reddish glows of the setting sun bathe the landscape, the shadows slowly fading away. He closed his eyes and leaned back. He saw Helen standing on the path, like on the day when she had come to tell him of her love. The image was so real and so vivid that he opened his eyes, startled, searching. n.o.body was there.
He got up and went down to the water. Everything was completely overgrown. He could not find the entrance to the cave and was giving up, when he almost stumbled onto the little tunnel. He crawled in. After a while, his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The piece of driftwood, the round white rock, the bit of crystal were still on the little shelves. The pine cones had lost most of their scales. He opened the book left there, badly damaged by rodents. It was Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. She had called it naughty. A smile crossed his face.
It was night by the time he got back to the inn.
Next day he visited Finlarig Castle. It felt more like coming home despite its dank starkness. He had been strangely happy and content there. The stable master told him that Dougan Graham had died in the Winter of 1746. Andrew was glad that neither of the McNabb brothers, nor James Campbell were there. All three were still in active service with the English army, last known to be serving in Flanders, he was told.
Mr. Nichols, the innkeeper of The Bear, joined his only guest for the evening meal, making polite but insistent inquiries about Andrew, where he came from, where he was going, which drew no more than vague answers.
Over coffee, Andrew asked: ”Is Dougal Campbell, you know, the MacGregors, still farming on Loch Tay?”
”Ah, you'd know him?” retorted the innkeeper suspiciously. ”He'd be any relations of yours, if I may be so bold to inquire, sir?”
”You may... No, I made his acquaintance, what ... it must be six years ago already.”
”That'd be before the rebellion, sir.”
”That's right. Is he still here?”
”He joined the rebels, you know, but seemed to have gotten away unscathed, except for losing his cattle. But shortly afterward had a full herd again. I always wonder how these MacGregors manage to flout the law of the land so brazenly and go scot-free, sir.”
”So he has left the area?”
”Oh, no. He and half a dozen other families still farm a glen off Loch Tay. I'd guess if you stayed here for the Spring dance this coming Sat.u.r.day, you'd be able to meet him. The MacGregors never seem to miss any festivities. Has two mighty pretty daughters, you know.”
”Unfortunately, I'll have to leave before then. I've got a s.h.i.+p to catch, as I told you.”
”That sure's a pity. All the pretty la.s.ses of the glen will be here. It's their last outing before they go into the s.h.i.+elings for the summer. You sure wouldn't want to miss that, sir.”
”I'm afraid I'll have to be gone tomorrow, but thank you for telling me.” Andrew rose from the table. ”That was a mighty fine dinner, Mr. Nichols. But now I better retire to get a good night's rest.”
However, sleep escaped him. The opportunity of seeing Helen had stirred him up, old feelings haunting him. By morning he had changed his mind about leaving and went for another ride on Beinn Leabhain.
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