by Megan McCoy
He was the same age as Ian, mid-thirties, but had the face of a babe. With his rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, he looked like a school boy, except for the fact he wore a priest’s cassock. “May I?” he asked, holding his hands out to her.
“Of course.” She handed him Robbie, standing up.
“It’s a blustery day for the kirkyard.” He led them inside the chapel, sitting down in a back pew.
“I suppose it is,” she said, sitting next to him. “I was just paying my respects.”
“Aye, someone beat you to it.” He gently bounced Robbie on his knee.
“Ian.” They shared a glace between them.
He nodded, smiling. “Though I don’t think he would want either of us to know. I saw him up here early this morning.”
“He’s not one for Christmas.
“No, he’s not.” Robbie held onto one of his fingers and seemed content for the moment to blow wet bubbles at it.
“Doesn’t that bother you, Father? Him not celebrating the holiday,” she inquired lightly. She knew Ian confessed everything to Matthew Carlin. The priest had all but confirmed it last year when he questioned her about the nature of her and Ian’s relationship, neither condemning nor condoning it. Still she wondered how much Ian had said about his father’s death or his need to bury the past.
He rubbed his chin, contemplating the question. “I’ve never met a man who puts so much responsibility on himself. The responsibility of his title, of his land, his tenants, the village, his career and most of all, now you and Robbie.”
“He doesn’t need to do that.”
“Aye, but I think men like Ian do. His need to protect is at the heart of who he is. He would do anything for you and the bairn. Whether it’s right or wrong.” His eyebrow raised at this statement.
Christ, just what had Ian confessed? Ailsa took it as a sign to get going. Anyway, she wanted to revisit the attic and the family tree before Ian returned. “I would like to say I will see you tonight for Christmas Mass, Father, but I’m not sure I can get Ian to go,” she said, standing.
The young priest handed her Robbie, being careful to cradle his head. “On the contrary, my dear. Ian has never missed Midnight Mass. He might not be one for all the holiday festivities, but he’ll come and stand in the back, like a shepherd with his sheep, and when it’s over he’ll leave before anyone has a chance to talk to him.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t quite sure what to say. Father Carlin followed her outside and watched as she settled Robbie in the pram. “Well, if I don’t have a chance to say it to you tonight, Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you too, Ailsa. And remember the star that led the three wise men was steadfast. Be the truth and hope Ian needs right now, he’ll determine his direction, but he’s not going to find it in the past.”
Chapter 8
After feeding and setting Robbie down for a nap, Ailsa grabbed the wooden box and made her way up to the attic. Switching on the lone lightbulb, she began to look around. The family tree was where she’d left it and a closer inspection confirmed she was right, Malcolm’s name had been left off. There were two small initials at the bottom right hand corner, JM. Janet McLennan perhaps? But why would his mother leave him off the family tree? She sat down and placed the box and coin in front of her, examining them both. The box was constructed with craft and skill, although it was found in water, the inside had stayed dry. She ran her hands along the smooth wood, noticing a small label for the first time. George Zee and Company, Hong Kong. Mr. Nutini had mentioned yesterday that Malcolm had died in Hong Kong. Was that a coincidence? Although anything now was just speculation.
She stood and stretched her back, looking over at the dark side of the attic. She switched on the torch she brought with her and a narrow beam of light cut a path through the shadows as she made her way into untouched territory. There was no sense of where to begin, crates, trunks, armoires, and old chest of drawers where stacked end to end in no apparent semblance. The disorder was disheartening, until she noticed a pattern. Someone had taken the time to write a year at the bottom right hand corner of each item. She walked along, running her hand over the decades of treasures as they ticked down through the passage of time. That was strange, the section for the period she was looking for was missing. She made her way deeper into the attic until she reached the furthest corner and there, sequestered against the wall amongst some of the oldest boxes, were the boxes from the years that Cora would have been at the estate.
Ailsa pulled a box down and opened it, revealing several evening gowns and day dresses. Pushing it aside, she opened a travel trunk. On top lay a picture of Malcolm McLennan, recognizing the eyes instantly, she flipped it over. Someone had written on the back in elegant script: University of St. Andrews, graduation 1939. The trunk was packed with care and included items ranging from a box of painted lead toy soldiers, pictures of Malcolm, Donald and the family dog, to a pennant and uniform from St. Andrew’s rugby football club. The sum of a life, hidden away in a dark corner.
Ailsa removed a cedar cigar box from the bottom, she recognized the painting on it as one of the works of the English painter, John Waterhouse. The estate had several of his pictures hanging in the hallways. This was of a nude woman, sitting at the edge of a cliff staring down at a shipwrecked sailor, as he in turn stared up at her. It was very romantic. She opened the box and the faint scent of lavender and lilac wafted up. It contained a stack of letters tied up in a faded blue bow. Her intuition now heightened, she knew in her gut she had stumbled onto a key in the puzzle. The feel of the coin in her pocket almost vibrating with the burden of truth. She opened the one on top, the paper yellowed and as thin as a gossamer veil, shrouding the intimate knowledge in protection rather than deception.
August 24, 1939
My Dearest Cora,
I arrived somewhere safely in the far East. That is all I’m allowed to tell you for now of my location. Our regiment is working in the signal section and we’re very busy in the field laying lines of communication to various outposts. I’m hoping to get to man a telephone switchboard, in time, given my knowledge of languages. Everything seems to be rolling along very smoothly.
I hope this letter finds you safe and well. The rumblings of war I’m afraid are not far off. Please remember that you can always go to Scotland if things get dire. I will write my parents and tell them of our courtship, albeit, somewhat brief, as I know they would welcome you with open arms. I, for one, will never forget the weekend I met you before shipping off. I do miss you and I send you my love.
Yours,
Malcolm
Ailsa set the letter down, rubbing her hand over her face. Cora and Malcolm had been in a relationship. Dear God, it was all starting to make sense: the Mizpah coin, the George Zee chest from Hong Kong, Malcolm being in the Royal Scots. She took the coin out and held it. Was he the owner of the other half? Picking up the next letter she unfolded it and began to read.
September 4, 1939
My Dearest Cora,
You won’t even have received my first letter as I sit down to write this one. The King has declared war.
I beg of you to consider going to Scotland. You will be safe there. Though even as I write the words I know you would never run from fear or danger. Your courage and strength are two of the qualities I admire most about you.
We are now seeing a constant influx of refugees and events on the border are constantly being monitored. I was asked to sit in on an important meeting with top officers as a translator, as the one normally used contracted malaria. I considered this an honor.
Please be safe my love.
Yours,
Malcolm
October 16, 1939
My Dearest Cora,
I just received your letter from September 5 which did wonders for my morale. Thank you for the photograph. I’ll never tire from looking at your beautiful face.
I’m glad to hear that you are well and I’m not surprised to learn of your effort
s to help relocate children out of the city. A difficult job, I assume, for all involved.
Things here have not changed much. Training has stepped up and we are out in the fields more than in the barracks. I’m hoping to get some leave after the holidays and come home. Perhaps a weekend at the coast or we can travel north and you can meet my family. Just a thought.
Wishing I was with you.
Yours,
Malcolm
December 25, 1939
My Dearest Cora,
Happiest of Christmases to you, my sweet girl. Thank you for my scarf and for the Imperial Leather Soap. The latter of which is most appreciated because of the dwindling supply. I’m wondering how many ration coupons you used to procure it? I hope my box made it to you safe. The picture on it is of a famous painter, the girl reminded me of you. I traded my mate Tam two packs of cigarettes for it. The coin is to remind you we’re never really apart, I have the other half with your name on it.
My only thoughts on Hogmanay (New Year to you) will be of you, and I will dream of kissing you as the clock strikes midnight. May next year bring an end to this bloody war.
On a good note, my leave should be coming soon.
Yours,
Malcolm
March 28, 1940
My Dearest Cora,
Please excuse the delay in my letters. As I mentioned before I was struck down with my own case of malaria. I was only just out of hospital when I had a reoccurrence and was admitted for a second time. I promise you I have not gone AWOL. The doctors say once they have cleared me, I can return home for leave. Hopefully within the next week.
I would be honored to meet your parents and time recovering in Cornwall would not be amiss. The only thing that really matters is that we are together.
Next time we talk I will be looking into your beautiful eyes.
Yours,
Malcolm
April 30, 1940
My Dearest Cora,
First and foremost, let me apologize again for failing to mention my title to you. I never wanted to end our weekend together in a tiff, especially with it being such an important occasion. I seldom mention that I am a marquis to anyone. But you were right, you are hardly just anyone. Perhaps I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be with me. I should have told you from the beginning.
I did enjoy Cornwall and meeting your parents. They are truly lovely people. But most of all I simply loved being with you. To hold you in my arms and know that you are mine forever. Your free spirit and view of the world are a light in dark times. I wish I could prove to you how sorry I am and how much I love you.
Yours,
Malcolm
Ailsa stopped there and stood up. Apparently, Ian wasn’t the only person who had failed to mention the dukedom. She was engaged before she learned about his title. She tried to remember what she had learned about the war, but her knowledge was limited to mostly the United States’ involvement. She looked out the one small round window, the sun from the morning had disappeared and blue-gray clouds covered the sky. The light having faded some, she sat back down and continued, before the attic turned too dark.
August 8, 1940
My Dearest Cora,
Your words gave me encouragement that all is not lost. I’m thankful for your forgiveness and understanding. I wish I could do something to allay your fears about my parents. I promise they will love you regardless of what you deem your class status. They will see you for the loving, generous, strong woman that I love. But if it makes you feel better, we do not need to say anything to them right now.
Upon returning I was posted to the telephone switchboard with my mate Tam. This is good news as it requires a level of trust and intelligence. Unfortunately, our defenses here were weakened by the withdrawal of our naval force to the European front and the refugee problem continues to grow.
I love you Cora.
Yours,
Malcolm
September 12, 1940
My Dearest Cora,
Word has reached us about the bombings in London. These are truly dark and scary times. Please consider leaving the city. The thought of you in danger is too much for my heart to take.
Things here continue to deteriorate. We are completely defenseless against the enemy with no Air Force or naval power. It’s rather like being the sacrificial lamb.
Yours,
Malcolm
December 12, 1940
My Dearest Cora,
There is a difficulty in getting letters in and out as conditions here worsen. I did finally receive yours and it brought me great joy to know that you are well. You never cease to amaze me and your story of rescuing children, now orphaned from the Blitz is heroic. You’ve the heart of an angel.
Happy Christmas my love.
Yours,
Malcolm
February 4, 1941
My Dearest Cora,
I cannot express the heaviness in my heart to learn of the death of your parents. The only consolation is knowing they were with you the night before and you were able to see them. The cruelty of this war is unfathomable. I have asked for leave to come home and be with you and I have been granted it.
Be safe until I see you.
Yours,
Malcolm
May 30, 1941
My Dearest Cora,
The separation between us seems even greater after our time together. Seeing London, a mere shadow of the great city it used to be is disheartening. Will there ever be an end to this suffering? It is knowing you are mine, that gets me through each day.
I know you didn’t want to discuss it before, but I’m to the point of almost insisting you go to Scotland. I will write my parents as soon as you give me the go and tell them about us. While I know they, too, have seen hardships, it is that much more removed from the ugliness.
I love you.
Yours,
Malcolm
October 14, 1941
My Dearest Cora,
Reinforcements have been sent here, in the form of two Canadian regiments. Though that is not saying much as they are still in need of noticeable training. Our population has almost doubled with refugees and rations are low.
I know I should not complain because rations are low everywhere. Your continued work with the homeless children and families in London is beyond admirable.
I’m asking for leave after Christmas. It is my hope we spend Hogmanay in Scotland and share our joyful news. It will be a beacon of hope for all, and the surprise on my parents’ faces when we show up on their doorstep will be priceless. They will love you.
Yours,
Malcolm
December 7, 1941
My Dearest Cora,
Your news has left me speechless. I understand you not wanting to tell me, because you’re right, I would have insisted you go to my parents. I’m not sure whether to shout for joy or cry. Maybe a little of both. You have made me the happiest man on earth.
Things here are tense. It feels as if anything could happen at any time. Invasion of the enemy is imminent.
Know how much I love you and our son.
Yours,
Malcolm
P.S. December 8 - We awoke to a surprise attack. We were told to withdraw to a position on a mountain, but arrived to a hopeless situation determined to fight to the death. If you ever receive this letter, know that I love you.
December 9 - We made it through the night. Battles are raging in the valley below on three sides that we can see from our vantage point. We have orders that an artillery barrage will begin and we are to withdraw. Transport will be awaiting us if we make it out.
There was no transport, we walked to a hill under darkness of night and slept in slit trenches that were already dug.
December 10 - When we woke, the enemy was sleeping just meters away. We engaged in hand to hand combat and managed to cause them to retreat, before making it to a city. I’m not sure how this will end, but if anything, know the only thing getting me through this are though
ts of you and our son.
December 15 - Days continue to pass, we are hearing rumors that the enemy has taken over a third of the island. Christmas draws near and all I can think about is you.
December 20 - There are rumors that the enemy have poisoned our water supply. We are out of rations and although we are tired, filthy, and hungry we continue to fight.
December 25 - The British government has ordered the surrender of the Colony. There is to be a cease fire. So many lives have been lost, though our regiment had no thoughts of surrender, we would have fought to the end. We have been told to go to our barracks and surrender our arms. I’m not sure you will ever receive this, but if you do, know that I love you and our son. Happy Christmas.
Tears streamed down Ailsa’s face. For the first time, she was beginning to understand the gravity of the coin. Within, these few short letters, she had come to know both Malcolm and Cora, she could feel their presence even now. It was the three short words ‘and our son’ that her mind wrestled with as she tried to fit the pieces together.
Chapter 9
Ian looked down where Ailsa sat in the attic crying, totally unaware he stood there, letters strewn around her in a frame of lies and deceit. She sat in the center, the devasting truth running down her cheeks. He pressed his lips together tight and cleared his throat.
She looked up startled, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Ian.”
He shook his head slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew in his heart, as soon as he saw the coin with Cora’s name on it, his world would begin to unravel. He just didn’t think Ailsa would disobey his wishes.
“Ian, I can explain,” she said, stacking the letters back in the box.
“There’s nothing to explain, lass. I asked you to leave it alone and you’ve gone behind my back.”
