An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (67 page)

Then she no longer heard the clock, she was living again those moments when the Duke had told her of his love. Her lips were parted, her eyes soft with happiness.

Cathy came hurrying into the room and Iona was startled from her reverie. Then tense and alert her anxious face asked a question wordlessly.

“Is this it, mistress?” Cathy asked and held up the little black notebook.

“It is indeed! Oh, Cathy, how clever you are. Where did you find it?”

“In the drawer o’ her Ladyship’s dressing table wi’ some ither papers an’ a great gold seal, mistress,” Cathy smiled.

Iona took the notebook in her hands. She looked at it for a moment without speaking then raised her head and her voice was resolute as she said,

“Now I must get away at once. But, Cathy, how can we manage it?”

“Drink ye the cup o’ chocolate,” Cathy replied, “for ‘tis cauld it’s gettin’, and whilst ye sup I’ll run doonstairs tae see if I can hear aught o’ anybody leavin’ the castle.”

“Yes, please do that,” Iona said, “but remember, say nothing.”

“Ye ken weel I’ll dae as ye say,” Cathy replied. “But oh, mistress, it breaks ma heart fae ye tae gang awa’.”

There were tears in the girl’s eyes as she closed the door. Iona took a few sips of the chocolate and began to dress. She was in her travelling gown and putting her things together ready for packing when Cathy reappeared.

“What news?” Iona asked quickly as the girl came into the room and closed the door behind her.

“Bad news, mistress,” Cathy replied. “Therr is but ane person leavin’ this morn, an’ he is ridin’ tae Inverness wi’ a message tae some relatives o’ His Grace regardin’ the death o’ his Lordship.”

“Riding?” Iona said. “Could I not ride pillion?”

“Oh, mistress, ye couldna dae that!” Cathy cried.

“Why not?” Iona said. “If it is the only way of leaving the castle, I must take it. Go quickly, Cathy, find out if the man will take me, and above all things swear him to secrecy.”

“But, mistress – ” Cathy began, only to be silenced by Iona who said almost sharply,

“Do as I ask, Cathy, I beg of you. This is no whim but something of the utmost import.”

Without further ado Cathy did as she was told, and half an hour later Iona was on her way. Fortunately Jamie, the stout, good-humoured youth who had been persuaded by Cathy to take a passenger on his journey, had managed to obtain a double saddle and Iona, perched behind him on a spirited roan mare, was not too uncomfortable.

The only luggage she had been able to bring with her was a bundle done up in a small shawl, and this she balanced precariously between herself and Jamie.

It had not been easy to avoid the curiosity of the grooms, but Cathy as usual had contrived to get Iona out of the castle without being seen and Jamie had picked her up outside the stables.

As they galloped across the bridge, Iona pulled the hood of her travelling cloak well down over her head so that no one seeing Jamie would have thought that he had anyone more interesting on his pillion than a country woman accompanying him to market.

It was only when they reached the summit of the hill that Iona felt safe enough to look back.

There was no one in hot pursuit – only the beauty of the castle in the early morning sun to bring the quick tears to her eyes. She saw it dancing iridescently beneath her, and she turned away, knowing that the pain stabbing her through and through was something which would grow worse with every successive mile.

It was a long and wearisome ride to Inverness. Jamie changed horses at a half-way inn and Iona was able to rest her aching limbs and force herself to eat and drink something although what it was she had no idea. Her sense of unhappiness was aching within her now until she felt as if the misery of it was almost unbearable and at any moment in sheer weakness she would ask Jamie to turn round and take her back to Skaig. But when she thought of the Duke, she knew that she could never bear to see those proud eyes look contemptuously at her, could not live and know that he either despised or pitied her.

For some moments before she left she had hesitated whether she should write to him, then she had known that she had nothing to say. There was no explanation to make and had she taken up her pen she would only have written ‘
I love you, I love you, I love you’
down the page until there was no more space left.

And finally she had decided that she would go as she had come, unexpectedly and without warning, and perhaps in that way he would remember her with a fondness, which would not be dimmed or spoilt by explanations.

As the horse jogged along, Jamie sometimes singing or whistling a tune, Iona thought only of last night and of that ecstatic, wonderful moment when the Duke’s lips had held hers.

Once again she could hear the warm secrecy of his voice as he spoke of his love, once again she felt the fierce strength of his arms as he cried out,

“You are mine!”

Yes, she was his – forever!

The tears gathered in Iona’s eyes, but she would not let them fall. Unknown though her parents might be, she was certain of one thing only that Scottish blood ran in her veins. She would therefore be proud, as every Scot is proud, and contemptuous of any show of weakness. What she had to bear she would bear with fortitude and without self-pity.

At last, when every bone in Iona’s body, seemed to be aching from the discomfort of her position on the saddle, they reached the outskirts of Inverness and at the sight of the town she recalled vividly her first impression of the grey houses and grey roofs against a grey sky the morning after she had landed from France. Now the sky was blue, and the sunshine made the roofs seem silver rather than dull grey, and the waters of the Ness had become silver too, whilst the hills on the far side of the river were beautiful and gay with colour.

In the market place Jamie stopped to set her down. When Iona thanked him, he refused the small sum in silver that she offered him for his trouble.

“I’ll dae aul I can fae a friend o’ Cathy’s, mistress,” he said. “Ye keepit yer silver, fae ye may hae need o’ it wi’ a long journey ahead o’ ye.”

She tried to thank him, but he looked embarrassed and rode away as quickly as he could. Iona watched him until he was out of sight and then, picking up her bundle and putting it under her arm, she set off in search of Dr. Farquharson.

It was a little time before she found his house for it lay off the main street. Several times she had to ask her way finding it difficult to understand the very broad Scottish in which she was answered.

When finally she reached the house, it was to find a poor, rather dirty place, and a slatternly maidservant who regarded her with suspicion opened the door.

The Doctor was out, Iona was informed, and it was with a grudging air that she was told she might wait in a cold room without a fire.

Feeling justifiably despondent, Iona sat down on a hard chair, wondering what she would do if the Doctor refused to help her, but when finally he arrived and she saw his good-humoured, cheery smile above a long, red beard, Iona’s spirits rose.

He took her into his warm study, set her down by the fire and sent for tea and cold meats. Then he listened attentively as she told him as much of her story as she thought it necessary for him to know.

She made no mention of the Duke’s sympathies, feeling it was not fair to involve him in any way. She told the Doctor about Hector, and the information that had been in the little black notebook, which unfortunately got lost, and how the Prince had sent her on another mission that was now accomplished.

“So you want to return to France?” Dr. Farquharson stated rather than asked, rising from his armchair and standing with his back to the fireplace.

“As soon as possible if you can manage it, sir,” Iona replied.

“If only you had come yesterday or the day before, it would have been easy,” Dr. Farquharson said. “A French ship was in harbour until midnight, but she sailed with the tide and Heaven alone knows when there will be another.”

“Then what can I do?” Iona asked in dismay, remembering what little money she had left and feeling it would be impossible to spend several weeks waiting in Inverness with the Duke not so very far away.

“I’ve thought of something,” the Doctor said suddenly. “Wait you here, lassie, and I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

He went from the room and Iona heard the front door slam behind him. So she waited, at first sitting primly on the edge of her chair, tense and anxious, then, after a while, sitting back comfortably, feeling a drowsiness from the heat of the fire creeping over her and with it the memory of last night warming her heart with a little echo of the joy and rapture that had been hers.

Once again she remembered the Duke’s face looking down into hers, the strange sound in his voice as he called her
“m’eudail”.

She was asleep when Dr. Farquharson returned, bursting into the room breezily, his heavy footsteps making the ornaments tinkle on the mantelpiece.

Iowa awoke with a start.

“I’m afraid I’ve been asleep.”

“The best thing you could do,” the Doctor smiled, “and I have good news for you.”

“A French ship?” Iona queried.

“No, not as good as that,” the Doctor replied, “but good enough. A friend of mine, an honest-hearted man, is leaving within the hour for York. He is a salesman of wool and he has his own waggon, so when I explained the position to him, he said he would take you and welcome.”

“To York?” Iona said. “But how will that help me?”

“When you get to York, you can take the stagecoach straight through to London,” the Doctor explained. “They go every day I’ve heard tell, and I’ll give you the address of a gentleman in London who will find you a ship at the docks or send you through to Dover so that you can cross the Channel by that route.”

“It is so very kind of you to take all this trouble,” Iona said.

She tried to sound more enthusiastic, but the idea of such a long journey, with its inevitable dangers and hazards, was somehow infinitely frightening. The Doctor crossed to his writing table.

“I’ll write down the name of the gentleman. He will look after you in London,” he said. “He’s a Scot like myself and you can trust him with all you have told me, but I should not confide too deeply in Willie Hogswell – that’s my friend from Yorkshire. He’s a good man, is Willie, but I’m not too sure of his politics.”

“I’ll be careful,” Iona promised. “How – how soon do I go?”

“There’s time for another cup of tea,” the Doctor replied. “And a bit of food as well. You’ll be needing to keep up your strength for such a long journey and Willie hopes to be ten miles away before it is dark.”

Iona ate and drank as the Doctor suggested and then he led her through the narrow streets to where Willie Hogswell was waiting. Two large grey horses and a well-built waggon were standing in the yard of an inn.

When Iona entered the courtyard, she recognised it. It was the inn where she and Hector had stayed on the eventful night of her arrival. But there was no time for reminiscences, no time to recall the past, for Willie Hogswell’s big rough hand was clasping hers and there was a welcome on his fat, good-natured face.

With a broad Yorkshire accent he told her that he would be glad of her company and that she was putting him to no trouble. Then almost before Iona had time to thank the Doctor, Willie whipped up the grey horses and with the wooden wheels rumbling noisily over the cobbles the waggon moved slowly out of the yard and they turned their faces towards the South.

17

The fat woman beside Iona rambled on with the apparently endless story of her illnesses.

“’Twas real queer I was taken that Wednesday – the very morning when m’ daughter was a-coming to stay – and he says to me, he says, ‘Mrs. Muggins, you’ve been overdoing it again’, and I says to him, ‘Doctor, I swear to you I have sat here quiet as a mouse and never a thing have I done contrary to your suggestions’. Then he says to me – ”

But Iona was not listening.

Dimly through the windows misty with the fug inside the coach, she could see houses, churches and shops. It was London at last. It seemed to her that she had been travelling for years rather than weeks, and although she had not yet reached the end of her journey, it was something to know that the first part had been completed.

Looking back at the time it had taken to come from York, she had not believed that anything could move as slowly as the stagecoach except Willie Hogswell’s horses, which had appeared to crawl like snails between Inverness and York. Iona had sat beside Willie in the front of the waggon and felt herself torn in half by conflicting desires.

One half, which was weak and vulnerable, wanted them to be slow, because there was just a chance in a million that the Duke might come after her and ask her to return.

The other half, which was stern and matter of fact, wanted the horses to move quicker and still quicker, so that Skaig would be left far behind and she could force herself resolutely to start her life again in other surroundings.

When they reached York, Iona had thanked Willie fervently for his kindness, but he brushed aside her thanks and almost brusquely bade her God speed.

He had been extraordinarily kind, and under other circumstances Iona would have enjoyed listening to his drawling Yorkshire voice as they wandered up hill and down dale through wonderful scenery in all sorts and conditions of weather. But while Willie talked, her ears were hearing another voice, a voice that could be both firm and commanding, soft and tender.

While Willie pointed out the beauty of the Lowlands of Scotland and the northern counties of England, Iona could only see Skaig, its grey walls proud against moor, sky and water.

She found it hard to eat and Willie chid her in a friendly fashion about her appetite, striving to entice her with huge pastries, which he himself thought the most delectable food on earth. To please him Iona tried to force the food between her lips, but after a time her eating became only a pretence and her face grew thin.