Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (2 page)

“‘
There is a time to be born, and a time to die; a time
to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a
time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and
a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…
’

“And then he said, ‘Wait, Fletcher. Wait for your time. Wait
until the time is right.’”

“Perhaps that was an omen, then,” Maggie said. “Why did you
never tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry any more than necessary.”

Maggie sniffed. “I ken I have made up for it in these past
two hours.”

He smiled at her. “I know. You’re like a mother chicken, one
with twenty chicks who counts only nineteen, then frets for that one lost one,
as if nineteen wasn’t enough.”

“It seems like just yesterday that you were a young boy,
Fletcher. There were so many things I wanted to teach you, but there never
seemed enough time, and now it is too late.”

“Your heart was always my schoolroom, Mother. You have
taught me much more than you will ever know.”

“I have always thanked God for your loving ways, Fletcher.
But tell me more of this dream of yours.”

“I knew the dream meant that I would one day go back, but
that I should wait for a sign, or for some inner assurance that the time to avenge
Father’s death had come. I understood it, but understanding did not make the
waiting easy. I was eighteen, young and eager to prove myself.”

“Aye, you were ever a restless one,” she said, and he could
tell by the way she looked that her heart was filled with memories.

“I had the same dream again.”

“You mean recently?”

He nodded. “Three months ago.” The words had no more than
left his mouth when something startling occurred to him. Turning he placed his
hands on Maggie’s arms. “Mother, when did my uncle die? Do you have the exact
date?”

“Aye,” she said. “April twenty-eighth.”

Fletcher’s heart began to hammer. The blood ran thick and
cold in his veins. His palms were damp. He knew his life was no longer his, but
part of a bigger and greater plan. “It was on the night of April twenty-eighth
that I had the dream again. I was eight when my father died; eighteen when I
had the dream the first time; twenty-eight when it came the second time; and
the year is 1878.”

“It is a coincidence.”

“It is more than a coincidence. Is an omen,” he said, “and
you are Scot enough to know it. In my first dream, I was told to wait until the
time was right.”

“And the second time?”

“I was told to wait, that the time was soon. Don’t you
understand now? The vision came again on the same day my uncle died. I was
supposed to wait until I had a reason to go back, a reason other than to avenge
my father’s death. Now I know that I was supposed to wait until I was the Earl
of Caithness.”

“Aye,” Maggie said, “you are the earl and nothing can change
that.”

He shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. Don’t you
understand what this means, Mother? After all this time, I am finally going
home…home to Scotland.”

“Aye, I suppose I’ve always known the life Adrian carved
from the forests was not for you. Your half brothers love the life of a timber
baron, but it has never suited you as well. But dinna forget you go as the Earl
of Caithness, Fletcher, not the Duke of Glengarry. Caithness Castle will be
your home, not Glengarry.”

He patted her hand. “All in due time, Mother. All in due
time.”

Scotland, August 1878

Cathleen Lindsay reached the fork in the road and saw red
hair. She smiled, knowing it had to be Maude Campbell coming toward her,
ambling along like a dog who has buried a bone and cannot quite remember where.

Cathleen paused, watching Maude for a moment. “
A man that
hath friends must show himself friendly
,” she reminded herself.
Proverbs
.
And with that she waved and called out, “Hello, Maude! Are you on your way to
Drummond’s field?”

Maude looked up in the dazed way she had when she had been
daydreaming and was caught off guard. “Aye,” she called back. “Is that where
you are going?”

Cathleen gazed at Maude’s round, red face and smiled. “Aye.
Shall we walk on together, then?”

Maude nodded and put more spirit into her step. Soon she
caught up to where Cathleen waited. “I’m glad to see you, Cathleen. I tried to
catch you after church yesterday. I wanted to thank you for the christening
dress you made for Mary. It was such a lovely little dress…and all that
smocking and embroidery. Why, it looked as if it was sewn by fairies, or
angels, at least.”

Cathleen looked amused, then she laughed. “No angel, I fear,
but it was a task which brought me much pleasure,” she said, then fell into step
with Maude. “I must say I thought little Mary looked verra bonny, although the
dress had little to do with it. My grandfather said he had never baptized a
prettier baby.”

Maude seemed to swell with pride at hearing such a
compliment on her baby sister. “I ken David MacDonald says that about every
baby he sprinkles…as long as they dinna sprinkle him first.”

Cathleen laughed, then opened her mouth to speak, but the
sound of a horse galloping up the road behind them drew her attention. Stepping
into the ditch alongside the road, she and Maude turned to watch Adair Ramsay,
the Duke of Glengarry, thundering toward them on a great black horse.

They watched him gallop past, throwing up a cloud of choking
dust, without so much as a look in their direction.

“Hout! There goes the devil on horseback!” Maude said. Then,
as if suddenly aware that she had been a bit carried away by her feelings, she
blushed uncomfortably, and the tone of her voice was less passionate as she
said, “I wonder where he is going in such a hurry?”

“
He that doeth evil hateth the light
,” Cathleen said.

“Is that from the Bible?”

Cathleen nodded. “John.”

Maude shrugged. “Scripture or not, it’s the truth. His kind
only come out at night. I ken everyone knows he is an evil one, all right,
although no one ever seems to witness any wrongdoing.”

“I ken if they did, they wouldna live long enough to tell
about it. My grandfather says, ‘They that deal wi’ the de’il get a dear
pennyworth.’”

“I hear he has taken over the Widow McCutchin’s farm, and
poor William is hardly cold in his grave.”

“Her farm? But how could he get it? I know Margaret
McCutchin wouldna sell her farm.”

“She didna sell it. It seems the duke produced some signed
papers that said William deeded the farm to him upon his death. I have a feeling
that if William signed those papers, he did so with the duke’s dirk at his
throat.”

“Poor Margaret,” Cathleen said. “Do you ken where she has
gone?”

“Aye. She is living with her daughter, Elspeth.”

“With Elspeth? But her husband hasna been right in his head
since he fell in that well last summer and spent three days there. He canna
provide for his family as it is. How will he provide for one more mouth to
feed?”

“I dinna ken how they will get by. Everyone is talking about
it.”

A gloomy silence fell over them, as if each was cudgeling
her brain in search of a source for funds. “Weel,” Cathleen said after a bit,
“talk willna fill their bellies. I shall speak to my grandfather. Perhaps we
can take donations at church on Sunday. In the meantime, I will take some of
the vegetables I have preserved from the garden over to them this evening.” She
paused for only a second. “And the leg of mutton Rob Stuart brought over
yesterday.”

“Your leg o’ mutton? You canna.”

“It is far too much for grandfather and me. We couldn’t eat
it in a month of Sundays.”

“You canna give away the mutton.”

“Dinna fret,” Cathleen said with a laugh. “There is always a
good way of looking at things.”

“I dinna ken there is a good way of looking at starving to
death.”

“Have you not thought that if I give the mutton away, I
willna have to cook it?”

Maude did not look convinced. “I dinna understand your being
so happy about having nothing left to eat.”

“‘
God loveth a cheerful giver
,’” she said. When she
saw her friend’s puzzled expression, she added, “Corinthians.”

Maude shook her head. “Weel, if you are bent upon starving,
you might as well have company. I will give you the two loaves of bread I baked
this morning,” she said in a burst of benevolence. Then, giving Cathleen a
sideways glance, she added, “But I willna laugh about it.”

Cathleen smiled. “Ah, Maude, cheerfulness is as natural to
you as the color on your cheek.”

Maude smiled back at Cathleen and they walked on up the
road. Soon they reached Drummond’s field, where the workers had been haying for
most of the morning, and it wasn’t long until Cathleen lost herself in the task
she had set for herself. After all, today was Tuesday, and Tuesday was her day
to “do unto others”.

It was a hot summer day, the kind of weather that was
perfect for haying. As she always did whenever the village folk were gathered
for work, Cathleen made her way among the hot, thirsty laborers, giving them a
drink of the cool water she had just drawn from a nearby well. She stood in the
midst of the hay field, pouring the last of the water from her jug into Mariah
Duncan’s dented tin cup. She listened patiently to Mariah, who thought Cathleen
knew everything, simply because her grandfather was a minister.

“Fionn Alexander has asked me to marry him,” Mariah said,
her gazed fixed on a point behind Cathleen. “Do you think I should marry him?”

Cathleen turned, following the direction of Mariah’s gaze,
and saw Fionn working with a pitchfork, the muscles in his back flexing from
the effort. “Fionn is a hard worker,” she said. “I ken he will be a good
provider.”

“Aye,” Mariah said, gazing at Fionn thoughtfully and putting
a dent in her chin with her forefinger. “Do you think I should marry him?”

Cathleen looked at Mariah, seeing the anxiety and hope
struggling in her expressive eyes. “I don’t think it’s my opinion that is
important here. If you love him, Mariah, then marriage seems to be the natural
progression of things, does it not?”

“I suppose,” Mariah said, sounding as if her thoughts were
drifting off in another direction entirely. “Were you ever in love?”

Cathleen felt her heart lurch. She willed her voice not to
betray the anxiety she felt. “No.”

“I ken this will sound silly to you, but what do you think
about marriage?”

“I think it is a blessed and holy union sanctified by God.”

Mariah seemed surprised. “Then why have you never married?”

“Only for myself,” Cathleen said. “Now, why don’t you stop
worrying?”

“I ken worry comes to me as naturally as breathing. My ma
says if I wasna worrying about marriage, I would be worrying about something
else. Deep down in the innermost part of your heart, should I marry Fionn?”

Cathleen looked at Fionn. She looked at Mariah. Seeing the
hungry look in Mariah’s eyes, the way her gaze seemed to devour Fionn, she
fought to overcome the unholy desire to laugh. “Aye. ‘
It is better to marry
than to burn
,’” she said. “Corinthians.”

Fletcher had originally planned to go straight to Caithness
once he reached Edinburgh, but the moment his foot touched upon Scottish soil,
he knew that was not to be.

Something called out to him—to seek the place of his birth,
the place he had seen in his dream, the place where the crags were as white as
milk and the wind carried the smell of a pungent sea. He sought instead black
heath and shaggy wood, high conies and stormy seas, and the ghostly spires of a
castle that rose, infinitely gray, infinitely silent, calling out to him.

Glengarry Castle.

Although he knew that something greater than himself drew
him there, he knew also that he was not meant to stay. At least, not yet.

He purchased a sturdy horse and rode over the often
treacherous terrain, aware of nothing save his great desire to see his home
again. He stopped to sleep only when necessary, then was off again, drawn by a
great and mighty force sweeping him toward his destiny.

It was early morning when he reached the base of a road and
looked up to see his first glimpse of Glengarry Castle in twenty years. He had
been only eight when he had last seen it, and he had a memory of the chilly
haunted glory that he felt when he gazed at it now.

The castle sat on a promontory that seemed to separate the
village that lay down the mountain to one side and the fringe of forest that
lay on the other. And above it all rose the tall towers and turrets of the
castle.

The sight of it gave him a thrill of awe and caution. He
felt as if he were unprotected, naked. There was something inviting and
familiar here, but there was also something treacherous; something dark and
dangerous that warned him away.

He understood, then, just why he had come here first. He had
to know what he was fighting for, important to know what he was up against.

After staring at it for quite a long time, he turned his
horse away and set his sights on Caithness and the properties that were already
his, content for now with the title, Earl of Caithness. He felt calm, assured,
for he knew in his heart that the time would come when he would be the Duke of
Glengarry as well.

He had waited a long time for this. He could be patient for
a little longer.

Having ridden a mile from Glengarry and the rugged coast, he
passed a field where a few of the village folk were working. He might have
taken no notice of this pastoral scene at all, had it not been for a head that
had reflected in the sunshine every rosy hue of wine-dark hair.

Distracted by this, Fletcher reined in his horse and watched
a woman who stood out from the rest. He was not a man given to heart
palpitations over every woman he saw, yet he sensed she was unusual.

He was not certain why he felt this way, but he intended to
find out.

Watching her, his first impression was that he was
delirious, or that he was fantasizing, for there was something almost ethereal
about her. Her every motion was deft, yet fluid; purposeful, yet full of grace.
Each line of her body seemed to move and bend like the reeds that danced in the
wind at the edge of the loch.

Her dress was faded and well worn, and even from this
distance he could tell that her face glowed with beauty and rustic health. Even
then, he might have ridden on past her had not something about the bucolic
scene called out to him, beckoning him closer.

He felt himself drawn to her, not simply by his attraction
to her but by some stronger force. She must have felt no such thing, for she
took no notice of him. She was busy drawing water from a well. It was a hot
summer day and she had been raking a field sweet with hay.

He urged his horse forward, riding toward her, the aroma of
peat and hay mixed with perspiration and the warmth of the workers. He paused
at the well just a short distance from her, and when she turned to look at him,
he immediately noticed her beautiful eyes. They were large, innocent and
violet, and they sparkled with happiness, as if she were enjoying the hard work
and relentless heat. He was struck by the way she looked at him with obvious
discomfort.

Her dress was blue, in a simple style, with a white fichu,
crossed in front, as was the fashion of many Highland women. Behind the fichu,
he noticed, she was filled out nicely. He could not help thinking that beneath
that fichu her life throbbed quick and warm.

She had lovely skin, the color and texture of heavy cream.
Like a painting of the Madonna, her face seemed radiant, as if something
delightful and wonderful dwelled within her, the result of which shone through
her. He was overcome with the impulse to grab her and throw her across the
saddle in front of him and to ride off with her to some secret place, where she
would belong to him and to him alone.

But the words he wanted to say were too thick and foreign to
leave his mouth. He wanted to surround her, to hold her so close that they
became one thought, one body.

Was he out of his mind?

Do something. Say something. Anything besides sitting
here on your horse grinning like a fool.

“Hello,” he said, instantly aware that she rendered him
speechless.

He noticed then the way she was looking at him, as if she
couldn’t decide if she should scream or take off running. He saw fear in her
eyes, and that leveled him. He had never frightened a woman in his life.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I am new here and unfamiliar
with your ways. Have I acted improperly? Is there some irate father hiding in
the hay field ready to shoot out my eyes?”

She stared at him, not saying a word—not that he could blame
her, for the way he had been behaving, she probably thought she had come across
a lunatic.

He smiled at her and held up both hands in a display of
innocence. “I meant no disrespect. My name is Fletcher Ramsay. I’m on my way
from Glengarry. I saw you drawing water and thought I’d stop by. It’s a hot
day.”

She gave him a shy smile. “Would you like a drink? The water
is verra cold for such a warm day.”

Even her voice sounded like none he had heard before. She
was an angel, an apparition, and he found himself wondering if this was real.
He glanced back at the workers to see if they were taking any notice, wanting
some confirmation that this was happening, but they simply went on about their
work. He couldn’t seem to wipe that silly grin off his face.