Summer of Love (12 page)

    
Initially, the young man tried to read, only to find his mind drifting off,
invariably meeting up with Helen. Since their traumatic encounter in the
shielings, Helen was constantly on his mind. Whatever he did, he felt her
presence. Repeatedly and at the most unexpected moments, he saw her
frightened eyes. He might encounter one of the maids in a dark corridor, and
she became Helen. He might be listening to a tenant’s complaint, and
Helen’s face rose in his mind. For the first time, he admitted to himself that
he loved her deeply, and he wondered about her feelings toward him. But
then he also instantly conceded that it didn’t really matter, that no way would
a MacGregor marry a Campbell, particularly not after what had happened.

 * * *

Three weeks after the incident, a vague longing drew him back into the hills
south of Loch Tay. He knew that it was foolish and outright dangerous to
venture there alone. However, he couldn’t help it. Even if he would not see
Helen, it felt good just to know her close-by. So, one early afternoon, he
found himself above Lochan nan Geadas on a small promontory, a large flat
rock sticking out over the dark waters fifty feet below. Under an exceptionally blue sky with only a sprinkle of small white puffs slowly floating by, he
watched his grey mare graze on the succulent growth near the lake, thrilled
by the serenity of the scenery, his mind at peace for the first time in weeks.

    
On a cloth he arranged the various delicacies the cook had packed for his
lunch. Suddenly, a rustling noise made him look to the right. Helen stood
near the wall where the narrow path opened onto the rock. She wore the
plaid and brooch Andrew had returned that fateful night. She looked
haggard, her cheeks sunk into her face, her eyes riveted on the food, raw
hunger staring from them. He lowered the chicken piece he was just going
to bite into. Her eyes followed his hand.

    
Softly, he called out: "Hello, Helen, may I share the food with you?"

    
For a moment, she did not react. Then she looked over her shoulder down
the path and approached cautiously a few steps. With an almost pleading
smile, he took a chicken thigh and proffered it to her. She hesitated an instant
before she took it and then crouched facing him, taking big bites, eyeing him
apprehensively, ready to jump and flee. He passed her some bread. She
relaxed somewhat. He watched, unable to eat himself, anguish gripping his
heart. When she had reduced the thigh to its bare bone, he offered her a
breast piece. "Here, take it. There’s more."

    
Her eyes locked with his, she began eating it, more slowly now, seemingly
enjoying its taste. He smiled at her again, and a fleeting response lit up her
face for a precious instant.

    
"You’ve no food left?"

    
She shook her head. He put the untouched drumstick in his hand back to
the remaining pieces and rummaged through his pouch, finding a wedge of
cheese and honey biscuits. He was suddenly aware of the huge amount of
food the cook had packed for him. After folding the cloth around it, he held
it out to her, including the bottle of claret he had taken along. Again, she
hesitated for a moment and looked at him bewildered before slowly taking
the cloth, but not the bottle. She got up, her eyes cast to the ground. Then she
raised her gaze and for a short moment their eyes locked again before she
broke contact and hurried off the promontory. Where the path disappeared
behind the rock wall, she quickly looked back once more.

    
He called after her: "I’ll bring more tomorrow. I’ll hide it here in a crack
of the rock wall," pointing to a huge fissure at the top of the path. She
nodded again, and then she was gone. Not a single word had she uttered
during their brief encounter. He suddenly realized that she had never spoken
to him yet. A few minutes later, he saw her herd six goats into the remains
of a hut maybe a hundred feet up the glen from the lochan and barricade its
entrance. Then she milked them expertly and left over the ridge, almost
running. So, they were hiding the goats here, away from their huts.

 * * *

When Helen returned to the shielings with the milk and her little packet, her
mother took the cloth holding the food without a word. She didn’t want to
know who had given it to her daughter, and Helen said nothing, turning away
from her immediately. In the aftermath of the attack by the dragoons and the
search of the area by the soldiers the following day, they had not dared to
venture far in search of food, particularly not down to the glen. The trauma
of the brutal rape was still in her guts. It would take a long time to heal. So,
they had gone hungrier from day to day. The roots they dug and cooked up
as a soup without any salt, just some herbs to spice them, could lessen the
dull gnawing feeling of hunger but temporarily. Only the small children got
goat milk daily.

    
Mary’s sense of smell, sharpened by the ever-present hunger, let her guess
the content of the little package. Opening the cloth, she was sorely tempted
to take a bite of one of chicken pieces, but quickly began cutting them up into
small chunks and adding them and the bones to the soup of roots simmering
in a pot over the fire. Then only did she lick her fingers, savoring the salty
flavor of chicken fat. She hid the cheese for another day, called the children
to her, and handed out the bread and biscuits.

    
Betty savored her small piece of bread in small bites, chewing each until
it tasted sweet. She wondered where the bread and biscuits came from. They
had not had any for weeks now. She joined Helen who sat behind the house.

 
    
"You want a bite?" Betty offered.

    
Helen shook her head and moved over, so Betty could sit next to her, and
she put an arm around her shoulder, hugging her.

    
"You are sure? It’s good, better than our own, when we still had flour
left."

    
"I know," Helen replied with a smile.

    
"You had some too?"

    
"Yes."

    
"Did you bring it?"

    
"Yes, but don’t tell anybody."

    
Betty would have liked to ask who gave it to her, but there was a strange
expression on her sister’s face and she didn’t seem willing to volunteer more.

 * * *

That evening, when they shared their communal meal, Helen did not eat,
claiming to feel sick.

    
Next day, she returned to the lochan. After releasing the goats, she hurried
up to the promontory and searched the fissure. A soft cry of joy escaped her
throat when she discovered a heavy jute sack. Her keen nose detected the
smell of oats. She could hardly lift it out. It must weigh at least forty pounds.
She realized that if they were economical, this quantity would sustain all of
them for more than a month. If they stretched it with roots, and berries later
in the summer, it could even carry them for two.

    
Behind the bag was another small parcel, wrapped in a red cloth. It felt
soft. Curiously, she unwrapped it. Her little russet jacket dropped out. She
held it out in front of her. It was undamaged. Where did he get that from?
How did he know it was hers? The thought of Andrew having held this in his
hands made her go crimson. It had been her most priced possession. She held
it against her cheek, smiling, and whispered: "I got it back!" She quickly
slipped it on and brushed it smooth, looking down at her bosom, admiring
it.

    
She grabbed the sack and, feeling hard lumps inside, opened it. On top of
the oats were four honey biscuits and a smaller bag, containing white grit.
She tasted it and contorted her face into a grimace. It was salt, but she did not
spit it out. After its first, sharp tang, it actually tasted good. She couldn’t
resist eating one of the sweet biscuits right away and put the others into the
pocket of her jacket.

    
With difficulties, she lugged the sack back to the shielings. She would
have to go back to the lochan and milk the goats later on. Mary saw her
coming over the rise.

    
"Why are you coming back already? Has something happened to our
goats?" she called out, alarmed. Then she saw Helen struggle with her heavy
load and ran to help.

    
"Where did you get this, child?" she asked when she smelled its content.

    
For a short moment, Helen almost panicked. She was so full of joy that
she hadn’t thought about what to tell. She uttered the first thing that entered
her mind: "I found it in a hole under wooden planks in the hut where we
keep the goats."

    
She felt her cheeks getting hot under her mother’s critical gaze, saw her
look at her jacket. Did she guess who gave me these oats? Suddenly, she
remembered the salt on top. This surely would give her away. It disturbed her
even more that her mother did not pull her up for such a clumsy lie.
Mother
must know, but doesn’t care where the food comes from,
she surmised. The
only important thing for her was that they had food. So she wasn’t surprised
anymore when her mother repeated her lie to the other women and none
questioned it.

    
The evening meal was a feast. The best food they ever tasted, everybody
agreed. The men congratulated Helen for her lucky find. Were they really
that naive as to believe her story? Only her father searched her face
thoughtfully, and her heart jumped into her throat, waiting for him to
challenge her. But he said nothing.

 * * *

Next morning, Helen went to the lochan early to release the goats. Her
thoughts were with that young man who had assumed such an enormous
importance in her life. She suddenly became aware that she had never
spoken to him. She hadn’t even thank him for the food the first time. But
somehow she felt that he hadn’t really expected it, that he had almost been
grateful to share his food with her—to give her all his food, she corrected
herself.

    
She picked flowers on the shores of the lochan. Then she climbed up to
the rock and wove a small garland, humming contentedly.
Will he find my
little token of thanks silly?
she asked silently. But, something inside assured
her that he wouldn’t. She carefully put it into the crack where she had found
the oats.

    
She checked again next day and found it still there. But three days later,
it was gone, and in its place was a small package of honey biscuits. Her feet
dangling over the edge of the rock, looking over the lochan, she ate one of
them. She wondered when he had come. Except for a period around noon
yesterday, she had been with the goats all day. Before she realized it, she had
eaten all biscuits. But she didn’t feel bad about it. He had intended them for
her, her alone.

    
What a strange man! Why did he help them? The only plausible explanation she could think of was that he fancied her, fancied her very much. She
had never been aware of a grown-up man being in love with her. Oh some,
she knew were lusting after her from the way they looked her over,
undressing her with their eyes. But he didn’t look at her in that way. Vaguely
she remembered how he had almost bashfully covered up her exposed breast
when he had lain on her that dreadful day. And then he killed that officer! …
Did he really fancy her that much that he put himself in danger? It felt
exciting and a bit scary at the same time. Didn’t mother warn her sternly not
to get involved with gentry from the castle, sprang to her mind? But she
didn’t have the sense that he expected something from her, that he wanted
something in return for the food he brought. If all he wanted was to ravish
her, he could have done it then. No, he loved her. She leaned back on her
elbows, idly watching the inexhaustible clouds march across the gray sky.
She felt light and happy. And then, suddenly, her father’s words rang in her
ears again. "Five, woman," he had said. Tightness gripped her heart. He must
never find out that master Andrew came up here… Would he come again?
… Did she want him to come again? She knew her answer was ‘yes’.

 * * *

Helen now checked every day for any signs of his coming. On Saturday
morning, his horse was grazing near the lochan. She released the goats and
hurried up to the promontory, where she expected him to be. As she came
nearer, she slowed her steps. Suddenly, doubts rose in her. Why was she
running to see him? A MacGregor running to a Campbell. Enemies like oil
and water who never mixed. And an illegitimate son moreover. For a
moment, she hesitated, ready to turn back, but then she was slowly driven up
the path. She found him sitting in the morning sun, leaning against the wall,
a book in his hand. She watched him for several second, before he sensed her
presence and looked up, his eyes locking onto hers, drawing her to him