The Chieftain (16 page)

She had been very ill, that much was clear. Before that, long before, she had met Hector in the garden. The little scene stood out clearly in her memory, his lithe figure vividly alive under the orchard trees. Those dark eyes had haunted her illness. She had seemed to see him always a long way off, and she could never make him hear her, cry out as she would.

Her husband, Hector MacLean, who had carried her to Ardshee, and whom she loved... She closed her eyes and smiled gently to herself. She was to bear his child - and perhaps, when he knew, he would love her for it. She laid her hands over the place where the child was growing. Her body was painfully thin, her stomach flat as a girl’s.

Panic rising in her, she remembered the rest. John, the friend turned suddenly to a terrible enemy. The quarrel, some dreadful moment of danger that she could not clearly bring to mind. And then the illness—

She gave a cry of anguish and her mother, who had wandered for a moment to the window, came swiftly to her side.

‘My wee lamb,’ she crooned, drawing Isobel into her arms. ‘Wisht now, my love! It is all over.’

Her face muffled against her mother’s soft shoulder, Isobel struggled to speak. ‘The baby... Mother, the baby...!’

Her mother kissed her and laid her gently back against the pillow, smoothing her hair. ‘Just get well now, my darling. Don’t fret about anything.’

Isobel felt tears flood her eyes. Could her mother not understand what she was asking?

‘Mother,’ she whispered through dry lips, ‘will the baby be all right?’

Her mother sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and took one thin hand in hers, stroking it tenderly. ‘I am sorry, Isobel. You have lost the baby. But do not grieve. It will be for the best, you will see.’

But Isobel was not listening. She lay heaving with silent sobs, the tears trickling from her closed lids over her sunken cheeks and onto the pillow. The last lingering hope had gone from her world, and she was desolate.

It was a long time before at last the tears subsided and she lay exhausted, longing for the release of sleep, closing her eyes against the anxious faces hovering over her. She resisted their coaxing attempts to make her eat and drink, for why should she do as they said and build up her strength? There was nothing to live for now. Their despair left her unmoved, for hers was greater.

The physician came and clucked over her and prescribed this medicine and that. Her mother wept and her father pleaded, but still she lay there, listless and apathetic, unwilling to make the effort they asked of her.

Late one evening she woke from a brief restless sleep to find Janet once more at her bedside. That in itself was a relief, for Janet did not, after that first moment, weep and plead and trouble her with incessant demands to do this or try that. Instead she sat quietly, and smiled as Isobel’s eyes reached her face. And when she spoke, there was no mention of Isobel herself.

‘The snowdrops are out in the garden,’ she said quietly.

Isobel felt her mouth tremble and tears fill her eyes, but she swallowed hard.

‘Oh,’ was all she could say, in a harsh whisper.

‘It will soon be spring,’ Janet went on, in the same cheerfully conversational tone. ‘Though it’s been a hard winter this year.’

Isobel thought fleetingly of the women at Ardshee singing through cracked lips as they laboured in the biting wind. A hard winter would leave them close to starvation. It would have been good to take her wealth with her to bring them food, and sound roofs over their heads...

She raised her eyes to the maid’s broad rosy face. ‘Janet,’ she said, ‘shall I tell you something?’

‘You can tell me whatever you like,’ answered Janet, her voice still robustly non-committal.

‘I should like to go back to Ardshee.’
 

Isobel watched Janet’s face for any sign of astonishment or disapproval.
 

But Janet simply nodded. ‘I thought you might,’ she commented. ‘You were calling out enough when you were ill. You get well, my lass, and then you can go back, if that’s what you want.’

Without further ado she went to the fireside and brought a bowl of broth to Isobel, helping her to sip it a little at a time.

Afterwards, trying hard to conceal her delight, she returned the empty bowl to its place, and laid her hand over Isobel’s, saying very gently: ‘You love that man, my lassie, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Isobel. And she poured all her fears and hopes and griefs into Janet’s sympathetic but undemanding ears.

Her parents were jubilant at Isobel’s first hesitant step on the road to recovery, but they were too afraid of a relapse to make their delight too obvious. Awed by Janet’s success, they were careful to follow her advice in their manner towards their daughter. There were no more over-anxious requests for her to eat or drink, and all possible sensitive topics of conversation were strenuously avoided.

It was Isobel herself who had to ask directly for news, for as she grew stronger there were many things she wanted to know.

‘Has Mr Campbell called at all since I became ill?’ Isobel asked as she sat up in bed one afternoon, idly turning the pages of a book.

Margaret Reid looked up from her sewing, frowning slightly.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ she admitted. ‘I find that a little strange. He was most distressed when you were taken ill so suddenly. He was kindness itself, too, and ran for the doctor and did all he could. We fully expected that he would call many times to ask how you did. But we have not seen him since. And,’ she went on, rather more hesitantly, ‘I don’t know that I should speak of it, but they say he has left town. To raise a troop for the King, some say. Though I have also heard talk of money troubles—But you know how people will gossip, and I find that hard to believe. It is strange, though, when he was such a close friend. You would have thought—’ She smiled suddenly. ‘But there now, perhaps he’ll come back soon.’

Isobel thought it most unlikely, but said nothing. Clearly her parents had no suspicion as to what had passed between the two of them that day.

‘He was always a good loyal King’s man,’ Margaret went on. ‘I think it very possible he felt his duty called him to take up arms against the rebels.’

The rebels: Isobel felt a twinge of alarm. She had heard no news since she and John had talked together on the way back from Ardshee. The Prince’s army had been in England then. With a beating heart she questioned her mother.

‘Will they succeed, do you think?’ she asked, not quite knowing what answer she hoped for. So long as Hector was safe—
 

‘To be open with you, Isobel, no one seems very sure what will happen,’ her mother explained. ‘When the rebels retreated from England we all thought it only a matter of time—And then they took Stirling, and won another victory, at Falkirk this time, and they still hold much of Scotland. Though we thank God daily that they have passed us by here. We have all had endless sleepless nights fearing what might happen. However, we hear that their supplies are low, and in this cold weather—’ She shrugged eloquently. ‘We shall have to see. It is hard to believe that a handful of ragged Highlanders can hold out much longer against the best modern troops—Yet we hear that they are irresistible in the heat of battle. On each occasion it has been our men who have fled from the field in terror, although we have guns and muskets and they have only swords and shields for the most part. Still, the King has sent the Duke of Cumberland to take charge now, and for all his youth he is said to be a fine general. No, surely in the end the King must have the victory.’

And whether they met with victory or defeat, Hector must soon go home to Ardshee. And she would not be there to welcome him. Unless—

‘Mother,’ she announced with sudden vigour, ‘as soon as I am well I shall go back to Ardshee.’

Margaret was white-faced and motionless with shock, her needle suspended in mid-air. ‘Isobel! You can’t be serious! You were to end your marriage—Though you did talk of that man in your fever—’

‘I shall remain his wife, and I shall go back to Ardshee,’ said Isobel firmly.

Her mother was silent, clearly searching for the right words to use in this suddenly perilous situation.

‘Don’t be hasty, Isobel,’ she advised at last, trying to sound like any reasonable mother counselling her daughter on a trivial matter. ‘I think it would be sensible to wait until the outcome of the rebellion is clear, and you know what has become of your husband. If they are defeated, he may well find his property is forfeited, and you as his wife would lose all your fortune too. If you remain here they will leave you alone, knowing you had no part in it.’ She saw that Isobel was unmoved by this argument, except possibly to a greater sympathy towards Hector. She went on hastily: ‘In any case, the country is so troubled that it would be most unwise to travel so far, particularly as your health is not all it ought to be.’

‘I shall wait until I’m fully better,’ Isobel conceded, and with that her mother had to be content. It was as well she did not realise that it was not a concession at all.

Once she was determined to recover, Isobel quickly regained her strength, though it was almost the end of March before she knew that she would be able to consider facing the long and arduous journey to Ardshee.

The prospect was a terrifying one, and would have been so even in peace time. It was not for nothing that Hector and his men preferred to travel to and from Ardshee by sea. The deadly rocks and treacherous currents presented far less of a hazard to men familiar with their ways than the wild wastes of the mountains, with dangers to be faced from an unpredictable climate, poor roads, little shelter and the fear of robbery or murder by the wayside. And for a solitary woman, who was not even a Highlander, the journey would be hazardous in the extreme.

But Isobel acknowledged that she was utterly foolhardy even to think of attempting the journey, steadfastly put the dangers out of her mind, and set to work to make her plans.

By discreet enquiries among friends they visited as she grew fit for company again, she managed to acquire a map of sorts. She set to one side the clothes and other items she would find essential, the blue woollen dress, the plaid and the deerskin shoes - better, she thought, if she travelled in Highland dress - and some money.

March had turned to April when she was ready at last. She sat at her window in the growing dusk and tried to think how best to break the news to her parents. She had scratched out her third attempt at a letter when Janet came in, softly, without knocking.

Isobel looked up sharply, laying her hand over the untidy page. Janet closed the door and came towards her.

‘I know it’s not my place to be told what you won’t even say to your own kin,’ she said, ‘but that there’s something going on I’m quite sure. And I can’t let you run yourself into danger and pretend I know nothing of it.’

Isobel’s heart beat faster, but she tried to keep her anxiety from her voice.

‘Why should I be running into danger?’
 

‘Well,’ said Janet wisely, her head on one side, ‘you might be planning to run away back to that place you spoke of—Ardshee, was it now? You’ve been very quiet about it of late, and I don’t like that. And though I’ve mentioned it to no one, I think it a very strange thing you should hide a map under your pillow. Did you forget I might be tidying in here one forenoon?’

Isobel reddened, chewing on the end of her quill. What should she do now? There was no point in denying it, for she could no longer hope to make her escape unseen. ‘You shan’t stop me,’ was all she said, stubbornly.

‘I didn’t think I should,’ returned Janet. ‘But that’s not to say I think you’re wise. I can’t see what good you’ll do by going all that way.’

‘I shall be at Ardshee when he returns,’ Isobel reminded her.
 

Janet’s response was brutal in its frankness. ‘But will he care whether you’re there or not?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry, my lass,’ she added, seeing the stricken look in Isobel’s eyes, ‘but it’s got to be said. You’ve given me no reason to think he cares for you one jot.’

‘He might do,’ returned Isobel bravely, ‘when he sees what I have gone through to return to him. When he knows I love him.’ She did not add ‘when I tell him he can have every penny of my fortune’, though her reason told her it was likely to be the surest way to his affections. But she knew what Janet would make of that. ‘You cannot make me change my mind,’ she added, for good measure.

‘Then you’ll not go alone,’ asserted Janet. ‘I’m coming with you—Now, tell me what I’ll need.’

Chapter Thirteen

The garden was hard with frost when Isobel and Janet stole across it just after midnight. Behind them the house stood dark and silent, its occupants all innocently asleep, oblivious of the shock that must await them in the morning.

The two fugitives crept quickly through the deserted streets of the little town and into the enveloping darkness of the countryside beyond. A small moon gave a faint light to show them the way.

They followed the road that took them north, towards the mountains, walking in almost total silence, anxious only to cover as much ground as possible before dawn. Isobel knew it was more than likely that her parents would set out in pursuit the moment they found her gone.

Her one hope was that they would expect her to make for the road built some years ago by General Wade, the only truly passable way into the Highlands for the ordinary traveller. But that would have taken her too far to the east, and brought her more readily into contact with English-speaking Scots who would be able to betray her whereabouts. And so she planned to take the north-westerly path through glens and mountains known well only to Highlanders. Then, if her parents did follow, they would not easily find anyone able to speak their language and tell them where she had gone.