Sarah Gabriel (5 page)

A large book of patterns sat on the table, but the pattern forming in her mind was an original design, one she wanted to weave just for herself, rather than as a commissioned length, as most of their weavings were now. Opening a writing box to remove paper, quill, and ink bottle, she sketched a grid of crisscrossing lines, counting the warp and weft lines in dot patterns, and labeling her chosen colors.

Then she looked at the yarns in baskets, on pegs and shelves, to see what was on hand. Hearing the cottage door open, she turned to see her grandfather.

“Supper, Elspeth,” he said. “Did you not hear Mrs. Graeme calling you?”

“I did not,” she answered, smiling. “I was thinking about the next weaving, counting threads for the pattern.”

“Well, come ahead, there’s lamb pie and boiled
potatoes, and Peggy Graeme’s apple tart, which she made just for you.”

Elspeth untied the full apron she wore, and leaving it on a hook by the door, walked with her grandfather across the yard between the weaving houses—there were several buildings that contained Kilcrennan’s four hand looms, and houses for storing the yarn, preparing wool and yarns, and another separate cottage for storing the completed tartan lengths in rolls before they were transported for sale. The cottage where Elspeth did her own weaving was one of the original weaver’s cottages used by generations of MacArthurs, the weavers of Kilcrennan. She preferred using an old shuttle loom that had belonged to her great-grandfather. The old loom seemed almost to know the work itself, having produced tartan cloth for so long.

Kilcrennan House itself was a manse, a large field-stone structure with three floors, its symmetrical facade of central entrance and rows of windows simple and elegant. A lower wing housed kitchen and servants’ quarters, with the other buildings clustered on the acres behind it, including laundry house, smithy, and brew house, as well as the weaving cottages.

“I’m thinking of weaving a lady’s arisaid shawl for my next sett on the loom,” Elspeth told her grandfather. “We have plenty of the cream yarn for the ground color, and I’ll use some of the purple, along with brown and a bit of the indigo. Expensive, that, but there is only a little left, not enough for a longer length.”

“We’ve ordered several color batches from Margaret,” Donal said. “The orders for red tartans, especially the Stewart patterns, have increased, with customers wanting to show their Highland colors of
late. The dyed yarns are ready. Margaret’s eldest son brought some of it the other day.”

“I could fetch the rest while you are gone to Edinburgh over the next few days.”

“Come with me to meet with the Edinburgh tailors,” he said.

“To meet your friend Mr. MacDowell? I know he wants to court me, but I will not marry him, or any Lowland man, though I know you would like that.”

“You would be happy there. He’s a good man. You could learn to love him.”

She glanced up. Donal MacArthur was tall and spare, still a handsome man even approaching eighty, and he looked twenty years younger. His brown eyes still sparkled; his dark hair was scarcely gray. Most did not suspect his true age, and those who knew simply attributed it to good health and good habits. But Elspeth and one other, Mrs. Graeme, knew that his youthfulness included a touch of magic.

“I will not fall in love with a man because you decide that I should,” she said gently. “I am happy here. And I have a good bit of weaving to do for so many new orders,” she went on briskly. “I’ll work on our tartan orders while you travel.”

“The king’s visit to Scotland was good to us, as weavers of Scottish tartan.” Donal’s eyes twinkled. “It’s fine luck we’ve had.”

“You auld rascal,” she said affectionately. “You love having so much work to do, and you love producing it faster and better than any other weaver.”

“I’m grateful for our luck.” His mood turned sober as they walked on. “Elspeth, do not cross the glen alone if you go to Margaret’s. Take a cart and bring someone for company—one of the serving maids or
one of the draw-boys to help you fetch the yarn. It’s nearly time for the fairy riding.”

“I’ll be fine. Let them ride their cavalcade over the glen. I won’t be stolen away by fairies or anyone else,” she reassured him, and tucked her arm in his. “And I intend to stay with you for a long time to come.”

“Elspeth, you must marry soon, and may that man watch out for you as well as I have. And may he take you south and away from this glen. That would be best.”

“I need no watching over.”

“Mr. MacDowell is a good man, and successful—”

“And keen on inheriting Kilcrennan’s weaving business through me. You know he would not be so interested in me if he knew the truth,” she added.

“Then we will not tell him,” he replied. “He need never know. Of course he considers Kilcrennan’s weaving business. He is well suited to manage this place after I am gone. I will not be here forever, and I must think about that, and your well-being.”

“I can run Kilcrennan Weavers myself someday, you know that.” She looked up. “There are few men who would understand the truth about us, that you go off to the fairies every seven years, and that I…” She stopped, shrugged.

“That you are half fairy, and they may call you back to them someday? I tell you, if you are not married and away from this glen soon, you will not be here to explain it to anyone. I will allow Mr. MacDowell to court you. I should have done so earlier.”

“Grandda, please. I do not want to marry and leave Kilcrennan.”

“You are stubborn, but this is best.” He looked at her sharply. “Unless…is there someone else now?
You mentioned meeting the new Lord Struan at the king’s ball in Edinburgh. What a match that would be, hey.” He grinned. “My granddaughter and Lady Struan’s grandson.”

“Oh, stop.” She smiled to hide her true thoughts. Last August, she had been kissed and left yearning for a man she might never see again. Those brief, tender kisses had meant far too much to her, and likely nothing at all to him.

“I’ve heard he’s returning to Struan House soon—something to do with his grandmother’s effects. Reverend Buchanan heard it from Mrs. MacKimmie.”

Elspeth felt breathless suddenly. “Is it so? Well, I expect he would stay but a few days. He does not intend to live here. If we ever met him, it would be outside the kirk on a Sunday morning, once or twice a year. There is no match there, Grandda. A viscount is unlikely to marry a weaver girl.”

“Why not? Your grandfather is a wealthy weaver.” He shrugged. “I hoped you would be married and away from Kilcrennan by now. It is a worry to me, your approaching birthday, and no solution yet.”

“You think me a spinster already?” Elspeth meant to tease him back into his usual bright mood, but she knew he was serious. Though she did not fear any danger, Donal remained convinced. From childhood, she had heard her grandfather’s stories of meeting the Fey in his youth, and he claimed to visit them every seven years. She liked the notion that she could be part fairy, but she wondered how much Donal MacArthur had invented about that tale.

Mrs. Graeme, who had been all but true mother to her, always said that Elspeth’s mother was dead and her father had run off. But local rumor in the glen
said that Donal and Niall had both gone over to the fairies, with Donal returning, and Niall lost. All her life, Donal had insisted that it was true, including a spell that would come into effect on her twenty-first birthday in mid-October, when the Fey would take her back with them to their realm—unless she found love first.

Was there truth in that, or was it a charming fairy tale, quite literally, from a charming man? She had never been sure of the answer.

At fourteen, she had followed Donal to a hillside near Struan House, and had seen her grandfather set a pretty stone into a rock wall—and had watched as he disappeared into a door that had suddenly opened there. Elspeth had run home frightened. Donal had been gone for two weeks, and upon his return, after Elspeth had persistently questioned him, he had told her his story, including the truth of his weaving talent, a gift from the fairies.

Nearly seven years had passed since then, without incident. Her grandfather was a storyteller at heart, and she loved him, but she did have some doubts about his tales. Of course she believed that fairies existed—few who had grown up in that glen could fail to believe, given the traditions, legends, and strange occurrences that had permeated the area for generations. But she had never felt afraid of the fairies, despite Donal’s warning.

She took his arm. “You worry too much about me, Grandda.”

“Because you do not worry enough.”

“I do believe in the fairy ilk,” she said. “But I wish I could tell truth from fancy, with some of these tales.”

“In your heart,” he said, “you know what is true.”

“Grandfather,” she said. “With the seven years coming to an end next month, will you go back to the fairies again?”

“I gave my word. But I will come back, unlike you, if they take you.”

“Since I’ve made no agreement with them myself, I’ve nothing to fear.”

“Be wary,” he said. “And never look back if you see them. Remember it.”

She sighed. Though all her life she had accepted the Sight and the fairies, as she grew older, she wanted a little proof, too. “Grandda, what became of the special blue stone that you said was a key for entering the fairy realm?”

“It stays in its rightful place, hidden in the rocky hill above Struan House.”

“With the gardens enlarged at Struan House in the last few years, I wonder if it is still there. Now the stone wall runs up the hill behind the house.”

“The stone should still be safely hidden there, but you are right,” he said. “I should make sure of it. I will do so when I return.”

“If Lord Struan is set to visit the house for a few days, you will want to find out before then. The housekeeper at Struan knows us, and will let us in to look for something we lost there. I will stop there when I go to Margaret’s to fetch the yarns.”

“I’ll attend to it. The fairies go riding through there. You should keep away.”

Elspeth frowned. As they walked, she decided to go to Struan’s garden herself and look. If she set the stone in the rock as Donal had done, and nothing changed—or if she saw the fairy realm—she would know if all her grandfather said was truthful, and she
would know that she must indeed take care. Besides, Donal deserved to possess that very special stone. Once the new viscount was in charge at Struan, her grandfather might have no good chance to find the stone.

What then, if the magic, and Donal’s bargain, were indeed real?

T
hese spritely creatures often inhabit the lush wooded groves of Scotland, particularly in the Highlands, and are to be found in caves and hillsides…. Fairies prefer to reside in hills, mountains, caves, and near natural wells and springs….

What a load of nonsense, James thought. Nonetheless, he dipped his pen in fresh ink and dutifully took notes on creamy paper stock, copying parts of the passage.

A knock sounded at the study door, and James looked up, grateful for an interruption, for he had worked all afternoon. When he called permission, Mrs. MacKimmie peered inside, then entered the study. “My lord, I beg your pardon, but Mary the downstairs maid has just quit your ser vice.”

“Another one?” He set down the pen. “Was it the banshee again? That was what sent the other girl screaming from here last week.” The thing, or the door hinge, had shrieked through the whole of the night when he had first come here.

“Not this time, sir. It’s the haunts and fairies. She
says she canna stay in a household plagued by strange things. She wants to return to Edinburgh today.”

He frowned. “That’s all the housemaids gone in two weeks.”

“Aye, sir.” She stood with hands folded, and then James noticed that she wore a long tweed coat and a bonnet, as if she were ready to leave his ser vice, too.

“So it seems that we are infested with fairies as well as banshees, ghosts, boggles, brownies, some nesting doves, and a few mice,” he said, pen in hand.

“The fairy ilk—aye, they’re here, and soon they will ride.”

“Surely you don’t believe that, Mrs. MacKimmie, though it’s a charming local tradition. What did the maid see? A moth flitting from lamp to lamp?”

“She said there was a fairy in the garden today, a beautiful creature that turned and saw her, then vanished among the bushes. Poor Mary was so upset that she could not stay another day. And those Edinburgh lasses that Lady Rankin sent for housemaids have no head for a good fright, being Southron. Begging your pardon, sir.”

“I’m surprised the girl saw anything in the garden with all the rain we’ve had,” James remarked. “Not even the best duck would be out in such a downpour. Not that I believe in such phenomena as phantasms, fairies, and whatnot.” He dipped his pen in the ink again to resume writing.

“Struan House is one of the fairies’ favorite places, sir. Used to belong to them, so it’s said. There is more of the Otherworld in our own world than we know. If I may say.”

“Well, if there is a fairy in the garden, we should
invite her inside to dry off and have some tea.” As he spoke, he turned pages in the manuscript, and took a few notes, inked nib whispering over the paper.
Fairy riding
, he wrote.
Local custom
.

“I came to tell you, sir, that I would like to leave, just for a day or two.”

He looked up. “I hope the fairies have not frightened you away as well.”

“Oh no. I always leave the house for a few days to allow for the fairy riding. We all do. My daughter has just had another child, and I’d like to visit her.”

“Certainly. As I told you, I am happy to have a few days to myself here.”

“If you feel comfortable, sir. Thank you. One of the grooms will drive me, and then return with the gig. And Mr. MacKimmie will take the landau to drive the housemaids to catch the post chaise in Callander to go back to Edinburgh. We’ll be gone for no more than a day or two. I beg your pardon for leaving you thus.”

“Not at all.”
Locals avoid the fairy riding at all costs,
he wrote.

“There’s food in the larder, sir, and soup in the kettle today. The groom will be back to see to the cows in the byre, the horses, and the chickens. And I’ve sent word to a local family to ask if their daughter could come round to see to the housekeeping for you until I return.”

“That’s very efficient, Mrs. MacKimmie. Thank you.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she said, entering the room. “The mail arrived just now, very late. The postman said the roads are so muddy that he does not expect to be back for over a week.” She set three letters on the corner of the desk. “I’ll just leave, shall I?”

He took the letters and smiled at her. “Good day, and safe journey.”

“Thank you, sir.” She shut the door.

James sat back to open the letters. One was from the lawyer, Mr. Browne, another from Lady Rankin, the last from his brother Patrick. He scanned each one. His great-aunt wrote to inform him—again—of her travel plans, and again fretted about whether Struan House was acceptable for sophisticated city guests, at which James snorted a little. Patrick reported that he would travel to the area with Sir John Graeme, who was interested in a business venture in the north, but they had frantically declined Lady Rankin’s invitation to join her own party; James laughed softly at that. The lawyer’s terse note made him frown, and he set it aside; it required no response from him at the moment.

Reaching for one of the books stacked haphazardly on the desk, a volume of Scott’s work on ballads and legends, James flipped until he found a section on fairy lore, then picked up his pen to jot more notes.

“Fairies and elves,” James read aloud, “are interchangeable terms in the Highlands. Ah. So the elfin sort are the fey sort. Right, then.” He scribbled that down.

The most formidable attribute of the elves,
Sir Walter Scott had written,
was their practice of carrying away, and exchanging, children; and that of stealing human souls from their bodies…. the power of the fairies extended to full-grown persons, especially those found asleep under a rock or on a green hill belonging to the fairies…

“Good God, even Sir Walter has succumbed to this nonsense,” James muttered, shaking his head. He
flipped pages, skimming the essay. A farmer, he next read, had gone out to wait for a procession of fairies, and then heard
the ringing of the fairy bridles, and the wild unearthly sound which accompanied the cavalcade….

James sat up, finding that of interest, considering the fairy riding that Mrs. MacKimmie had mentioned. He would have to make sure that those details were included in his grandmother’s book. Flipping more pages, he came to the old Scots ballad of Tam Lin. Tam had been lured by the irresistible charms of the queen of fairies; appearing to his true love, Janet, he asked her to meet him when the fairies rode in procession. Janet must grab him and hold fast no matter what, so that he could be free.

Outside, the wind and rain picked up fiercely, rattling the windows. He glanced up, hoping that Mrs. MacKimmie and the others traveled in safety, for they would be well on their way by now. Reaching out, he took a stack of handwritten pages from Lady Struan’s thick manuscript. More pages were piled beside his right hand, and to his left, stacks of books teetered on the desk and on the floor as well. He slid his own notes among the manuscript pages, planning to revise later with editorial passages.

He stood to fetch another book from a high shelf, climbing an iron stool to reach it, and limped back to the desk, doing without his cane, which he used
mostly for distances and on cold or rainy days, when the leg ached, as it had done for days in this dreary weather. He settled in his chair to read again.

“Fairy rings…fairy phosphorous…now that might prove interesting,” he said.

The study walls were lined with books behind mesh-fronted shelves, and the small, cozy library beyond, with its horsehair sofa, wing chairs, and fireplace, was filled with even more books, most of them collected by his grandparents, though some had belonged to previous generations of the lairds of Struan. His grandfather had purchased the property in his middle years, and had been elevated to a peerage for brave ser vice in the military, so that James had become the second Viscount Struan.

He picked up a sheaf of his grandmother’s book, the topmost of the handwritten pages with their curling edges and the smell of the ink, even years dry, lingering still. Her handwriting was small and certain, and every page was densely covered, some of them even crisscrossed with sentences. There were at least six hundred pages, he had estimated. He had spent nearly a fortnight just reading, either Grandmother’s close, fine handwriting, or various books on fairy lore and social customs in Scotland. All the while, he had taken new notes of his own, so that the pile of papers grew daily.

The scope of the thing was more than he had expected. Lady Struan’s handwritten chapters were not fairy tales, but scholarly assessments of aspects of Highland lore. He had to admit that some of it was fascinating, if fanciful. Ever since his arrival, he had applied himself diligently to reading her manuscript and studying reference books, but for long walks for
exercise, and to search for rocks to support his geological studies.

Needing a stretch, he rose and walked to the window that faced toward the back. Gazing at the vast, upward-sloping garden—expanded to contain a grotto cut from a rocky hill behind the house—he watched the rainfall, and saw something moving about high up on the garden slope.

For a moment, he thought it was a girl. The fairy the maid had seen was no doubt an illusion formed of flowers, rocks, and atmosphere. Amid the silver rain and twilight, whatever it was moved again—very much like the fleeting form of a girl. Whether wraith, ghost, human, or mist, something was at the top of the hill.

After a moment, he saw her again—definitely a girl. Dark hair, pale face. She looked toward the house, then disappeared behind the wet shrubbery.

He frowned. Rain trickled in rivulets down the hillside. Perhaps it was a tree or a garden statue blurred by the downpour, and he ought to check into it. A garden statue or some of the decorative rocks could dislodge in the mud.

A lightning flash showed the form again—female, or looked that way. The grotto was up there, completed the year before Lady Struan’s death. A fairy portal, his grandmother had called the hillside in her manuscript notes.

Fairies, indeed. If someone was mucking about in his grandmother’s fairy grotto in this torrent, James intended to find out why.

Turning on his booted heel, snatching up his cane, James marched out into the corridor. Osgar the wolf
hound, who lay sleeping in the hallway outside the door, rose and loped after him.

She had to hurry. Two vehicles had left the house in the time since Elspeth had entered the garden, and someone else might still be in the house. She had hoped the place was empty, and thought the storm might hold off, but she had been wrong on both counts. Now she could only hope that the viscount himself was not there.

Given another day, the staff would be gone to avoid the fairy riding, and she would not have had to lurk like this in the garden. But with the poor weather, today had seemed the best chance to look for the stone her grandfather wanted.

She had told Mrs. Graeme that she would stay with Margaret Lamont if the weather got bad. She enjoyed visiting Margaret and her husband and children, for Elspeth loved the company, as well as the chance to lend a hand in the process of combing, dyeing, spinning, and twisting the new wools. But rather than walk the nearly ten miles straight through the glen—like most Highlanders, she was used to walking long distances—Elspeth had stopped at Struan House first. Now she regretted the detour.

But she had to find the stone for her grandfather. According to legend, and Donal, too, a fairy portal existed somewhere in the hill. And she wanted to see for herself if Donal’s tales were true. Now, the rain and lightning had set her plans awry.

She even wondered if the
daoine sìth
themselves had taken a hand in this weather, for tradition claimed that they could wield such power. Growing more un
easy, she stood by the rock wall that thrust up at the top of the hill and looked around.

The original hill had been crested by a great cluster of rock, but the work of the last few years had enclosed much of the slope. Elspeth tried to remember where Donal had stood when he had visited this rock, and disappeared into what he said was the fairy world. Where had he hidden the crystal?

In the rain, she pulled up her plaid shawl to better cover her head. Her gown, spencer jacket, and leather boots were already soaked, but she was intent on her task. She could not be discovered here—how could she ever explain that she searched for a precious crystal rock to steal from the garden, a stone that was a key to the fairy world. She would seem mad indeed. The late Lady Struan had been interested in local lore, but she was gone. The others might not be so curious and accepting.

Lady Struan had invited Donal and Elspeth to Struan House once or twice to talk about fairy legends. Donal had told some of his tales, and had warned Lady Struan that certain stories must not be written down, at risk of angering the fairies. Lady Struan had been intrigued; she had also been fascinated by Donal’s tale of his son, who Donal said had chosen to stay in the fairy realm forever.

Well, at least the fairies would be dry and out of the rain, Elspeth thought wryly. She stood, wiping a muddy hand over her brow, and studied the high rock. Shivering, she gathered her green plaid shawl snugly over her short jacket. Of the long sort called an arisaid, the shawl covered her head to knee in old Highland tradition. Pinned at the neck, it protected from
the elements, but it was growing as soggy as the hem of her dress.

Spanning her hands over the rock, she moved along, the ground mucky under her feet. Thunder boomed then, and she jumped a little. She had to hurry, and find shelter soon until the storm abated. It was not safe, now, for her to travel over open moorland.

Just then she heard a dog bark, and a man call out. She whirled to look through the sheeting rain, stepping forward, her foot placed just where muddy water sluiced down the hill. Her heel went out from under her, and she tumbled and slid downward. Bumping, shrieking, she soon landed at the bottom of the slope, skirts tangled around her, legs sprawled. Slowly she sat up and pushed the plaid away from her face.