Summer of Love (22 page)

    
So it was Andrew! The emptiness that had gripped her when she saw
Andrew got darker. "Did he talk to you?"

    
"Yes, I asked him if he had come back—"

    
"And?"

    
"—he said no. He said he only came to say goodbye. He’s going to
America." Her face took a dreamy expression. "I envy him. I would like to
go there, leave this bloody country where folks like us never have any hope
of getting ahead … not being poor all our lives. I heard you can get land
there, lots of land very cheap, and own it forever, do with it what you want,
run your own cattle on it. Not be at the mercy of our lords who can kick us
out at their whim, and take away the land to run thousands of sheep, as they
did last year to Angus McNabb… And get away from the strife between the
clans." She got carried away.

    
Helen wasn’t listening. Her eyes were unfocused, gazing inside. Vaguely,
she felt Betty’s hand touch hers, saw her face as if she wanted to ask a
question. Her emptiness turned into turmoil.

    
She had resigned herself to never see him again. She hadn’t thought of
him since last March when Robert, her cousin who after the Argyle ambush,
now almost four year ago, had come to live with her clan and had asked her
father for her hand in marriage. Then she had searched her heart and
confirmed that she still couldn’t think of Andrew without a sense of loss,
although the hurt was largely gone. And now he showed up again, just weeks
away from her wedding. The box that she had locked away deep inside her
soul, that she thought she had buried for good, without warning sprung open
again, and the memories of their short summer of love came all flooding
back.

    
At first, she hadn’t recognized him with his dark beard. It had only been
the touch of his hand that made her look again. She knew of no other man
whose palms were so soft and silky. It triggered a fleeting smile. Why did he
talk to Betty and not to her? But would she have been able to respond? She
didn’t know. Her eyes were driven to search the crowd again.

    
"Come, Helen, dance!" Robert’s voice felt like an intrusion. For a
moment she looked at him without comprehension.

    
"What’s the matter, lass?" He did not wait for an answer and grabbed her
hand, trying to pull her up. "Come, people are lining up."

    
"Take Betty! I’ll sit this one out."

    
He shrugged and took Betty’s hand. She followed reluctantly, looking at
her sister with a worried face.

    
"Just go, Betty! I’m all right."

    
All this time, Mary MacGregor had watched her intensely. After Robert
and Betty were out of hearing, she asked: "That young man? It was master
Andrew, wasn’t it?"

    
Helen nodded.

    
"Why’s he back? What does he want?" Her mother’s voice sounded
anxious.

    
"I don’t know, mother. We didn’t speak."

    
"Lass, you stay away from him and you know why! His coming back can
only spell trouble! And you know father swore that he will kill any Argyle
man to revenge his brother."

    
"I’m almost married, mother. Don’t tell me what to do anymore! … And
as to father, it has only been words so far."

    
Her mother did not respond, just looked at her sternly.

    
Helen caught herself time and again searching the crowd for Andrew all
afternoon, but to no avail. She tried hard to get back into the dancing. She
returned Robert’s smiles, made an effort to laugh at his banter. However, it
was all a façade. Her heart was not in it. Her thoughts invariably strayed back
to Andrew. Why did he come back? Why didn’t he talk to her? Why didn’t
he greet her with a smile? She had no answers, just the ominous feeling that
her mother might be right, that his coming back could only spell trouble. It
had already upset the fragile inner peace she had fought so hard to find and
keep these last three years.

    
On their way back home, Robert asked her pointedly: "What was the
matter with you all afternoon? Mad at me or something?"

    
"No, Robert, I’m not. Nothing’s the matter… I don’t know, maybe I’m
just a bit preoccupied about our wedding… How’s our cottage coming
along? Is there much left to do?"

    
"You saw it yesterday. So why ask? It’ll be ready for our wedding." He
eyed her suspiciously. "You’ll come for a walk with me tonight." It wasn’t
a question, more a command.

    
Out of habit, she almost said ‘yes’. She had learned that with Robert it
was simplest to say yes. He took a ‘no’ almost as a personal affront. He
needed to dominate everybody around him. It was best to reserve the ‘no’s’
for really important things. But now she hesitated. She didn’t feel like
kissing and cuddling with Robert today—his only reason for enticing her on
a walk. They rarely talked. They didn’t have much to talk about, and then it
was mainly Robert who talked. He didn’t know how to listen. Not like
Andrew! … Why did she compare them? She had never done this so far.

    
"Why don’t you answer? See, you’re mad!"

    
"No, Robert, I’m not mad at you. But tonight I would rather not go for a
walk. I feel tired. We can go another day."

    
"See! I knew you’re mad at me or else you’d come. I know you like it too!
… There’s something the matter. Why were you always looking around at
the dance? … Searching for somebody?"

    
"No, I wasn’t."

    
He stopped, grabbing her arm roughly. "Yes, you were… It’s another
man, I know!"

    
She tried to pull her arm free. His grip tightened. "Robert, let go! You’re
hurting me!"

    
His eyes narrowed to threatening slits, his face reddening. He raised his
voice: "Who is it? … Answer, I asked you a question!"

    
"Don’t be silly, Robert. Now you really make me mad." She again tried
to wrestle her arm free. "Robert, this hurts!" she cried.

    
The others ahead of them turned to see what was happening. He let go,
throwing her arm down, and stormed ahead. She rubbed the painful spot
above the wrist and linked arms with Betty who had waited for her.

    
"Are you going to see him?" whispered Betty.

    
"How could I? … I don’t know where he stays. Anyway, I couldn’t get
away without raising suspicions."

    
"He’ll be at the lochan."

    
"How do you know? Did he tell you?"

    
"No, he didn’t… I just know that he’ll be there tomorrow, waiting for
you." Betty smiled. "I never told you that I had a crush on him… And I never
thanked him."

    
Helen looked at her sister in surprise. "I never thanked him either. He
didn’t expect any thanks."

    
"Will you go and see him then?"

    
A paralyzing battle was already raging inside her. After a while, she murmured: "I shouldn’t, not after what happened between our clans… And I’m
promised to Robert."

    
"But you never stopped loving him… I know, even if you never told me."
Betty squeezed her arm.

    
She’s right, but I must be strong,
she admonished herself.

 * * *

Helen didn’t go for a walk with Robert that evening. Sunday morning the
whole clan went to church in Killin. She hoped that Andrew might be there
too, fearing it at the same time, but he wasn’t. Back in the glen by early
afternoon, she selected a book and told her mother that she was going up to
the terrace behind the clachan to read for the rest of the afternoon. Once out
of sight, she hurried up the path to the lochan. When she came over the crest,
she saw a horse grazing. She looked up to the promontory, but could not see
anybody.
What did I come up here for?
she asked herself suddenly.
Wouldn’t
it be better to leave?
She dithered. But knowing Andrew was up on the
promontory irresistibly drew her up the path. At the corner, she paused. He
sat against a boulder at the back of the rock, his elbows resting on his pulled-up knees, his face hidden in his palms. She watched him for a while. He
sensed her presence and raised his head, a sad smile greeting her. He got up
and walked slowly to her, locking eyes.

    
"Hello, Helen!" he murmured, stopping in front of her, and taking both
her hands. "I hoped you would come."

    
So Betty was right
. "Hello, Andrew."

    
She tried to withdraw her hands, but he held firmly on to them.

    
"You look well, Helen."

    
His green eyes penetrated hers. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t,
feeling herself sliding deeper into his. With a major effort, she broke eye
contact. He let go of her hands.

    
"Come, Helen, will you sit with me for a while?"

    
She followed him to his pouch. They sat, facing each other. Smiling, he
murmured: "I brought a few delicacies."

    
He opened a little jar, broke off a small piece of a bun, and heaped salted
roe on it. He passed it to her. "For old times sake," he whispered.

    
Helen waited for him to prepare a second one. They both took a bite at the
same time, chuckling embarrassed.

    
"Tell me about yourself, Helen."

    
For a while she did not answer. She didn’t want to tell him that she was
getting married soon.

    
"You’re getting married, aren’t you?" he asked softly.

    
She met his gaze and murmured: "Yes, Andrew."

    
"I wish that you’ll be happy, Helen."

    
How can I? Maybe if you hadn’t returned, maybe if I had never known
you I could have found some happiness.
She said nothing, keeping her eyes
to the ground. Then she asked reproachfully: "Why have you come back,
Andrew?"

    
"I’m going to America. I wanted to see the Highlands for a last time."

    
"But why did you come back here? To the lochan?"

    
"I don’t know… I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. I had to see you
once more, Helen." A sad smile lingered on his face. "Why have you come
to the lochan, Helen?"

    
She blushed for having the question thrown back at her. "So this is the last
time?"

    
"Yes, tomorrow I’ll leave for Glasgow and then south to Liverpool."

    
The conversation faltered. Helen experienced again that familiar urge to
flee. Self-conscious, a tinge of desperation, she asked: "Where have you
been, Andrew?"

    
"I traveled… London, France, Switzerland, Italy, Greece… I was trying
to forget us…" The sentence remained suspended. Their eyes met briefly
before each broke away. "I want to make a new start in America, away from
the quarrels of Europe."

    
Away from me,
echoed Helen’s mind.

    
Andrew reached for her book which she had placed next to her. "Pamela,
or Virtue Rewarded, by Samuel Richardson," he read aloud. "I don’t know
this one. What’s it about?"

    
Helen was glad that their talk shifted away from their own unspoken, but
ever present summer of love. "It’s a story told in the form of letters by a
young maidservant to her parents and …"

    
"And?"

    
"—and how she struggled against the attempts by the young gentleman of
the house to seduce her with promises."

    
"And is she successful in defending her virtue?"