But I did give the stray ends of my hair a little attention, and put on more elegant shoes before I followed Morag down the stairs. In the hall I automatically turned to go to the dining-room, but an agonised whisper from Morag halted me. ‘No ‒ no, the parlour! She’s in the parlour! I’ve lighted the fire, and Mistress Sinclair is brewing tea…’ She was pointing to a door opposite the dining-room.
The parlour. How strange I had not been tempted to try this door, to look inside ‒ for all I knew it might have opened on an empty room. Why did I suppose that at Cluain all the doors must be locked? Was it Mairi Sinclair’s hovering presence that deterred me; had I already so much given way to her possessiveness that I did not dare to open a door, or go and sit on a garden bench? If that was true, then I had come from China for nothing, and she would succeed in driving me from Cluain.
So I lifted my head and straightened my shoulders, assuming the air of the mistress of the establishment, as I opened the parlour door.
I had expected to dislike her on sight, but that was impossible. She had been staring towards the window, and as I entered she turned her head slowly with a movement of supreme grace, and rose to her feet.
Her voice was gentle, soft, almost childlike. ‘Miss Howard ‒ I hope I have not come at an inappropriate time. I wanted to welcome you among us. And, of course, to offer my sympathy on your father’s death. And William ‒ dear William. Gavin and I were both so fond of him. It is so sad for you …’
They were ordinary enough words, but when she said them, no one could have believed she did not mean them. I went forward to offer my hand, and she came to meet me. Yes, it could be true ‒ it was just possibly true, what Gavin Campbell had said; she might have been considered the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. She was a golden creature ‒ golden hair swept up under her hard riding hat, golden eyes with darker flecks in them, and a fringe of dark lashes, incredibly white skin. I couldn’t help thinking, in those first moments, that she reminded me of a kitten not quite grown into a cat, a golden striped kitten, with a kitten’s delicate grace, a kitten’s velvet paws in little white gloves, a kitten’s unconscious ability to charm and delight, no matter what she did. Her tan riding- habit, accentuating her tiny waist, and the creamy lace at her throat were all part of a superbly organised design. Only a very beautiful woman in this age of overdressing could have worn clothes so simple ‒ simplicity that must also have been outrageously expensive.
‘And may I present my son, James ‒ Jamie, we call him. I hope he does not bother you, but he was very anxious to come. He and William were friends.’
I had not noticed the child. He had been standing over near a high-backed chair, waiting with still solemnity until his mother had finished speaking. Now he came forward and shook hands. A fair-haired, beautiful child, but he had the intense blue eyes of his father. One day he would be very much like Gavin Campbell. And one day soon, when that old man died in Edinburgh, he would be the earl of somewhere. For some reason the thought made me want to laugh, and so when I took his hand my smile was broad, and it was answered by a flashing smile from him, which utterly changed and irradiated that solemn little face.
‘How do you do, Miss Howard,’ he said, bowing. And then, quickly: ‘You look very like William.’
‘It was kind of you both to call,’ I said. ‘Won’t you please sit down.’
‘Thank you,’ Lady Campbell said. ‘Jamie and I have just been admiring this room. It is very splendid, isn’t it? One doesn’t see much like it these days. Now it is all frills and bows and sashes, like a little girl’s dress. This furniture must be very old.’ She said it with a kind of breathless reverence, as if she had not the means herself to command such things. I found later it was a habit of hers to admire other people’s possessions extravagantly, as if she had none of her own.
I looked around the room, and did not say I had never been in it before. The furniture was the dark, carved oak that was in the other rooms, as sparse, as devotedly polished. There was a long table, a tall press, stiff chairs softened only by faded red silk cushions. This room was grander than the others with its linenfold panelling and carvings on the mantel. There was a central brass chandelier, and wrought-iron fire dogs. It also had the only carpet I had seen in the house ‒ a silken, worn, fragile thing, in fading reds and golds. Instead of the inevitable Clanranald tartan at the windows there was red brocade, very old, and fraying at its long folds.
‘Perhaps it should be your furniture, Lady Campbell. It probably came from Ballochtorra in the first place and was brought here to furnish Cluain, as the dower house.’
‘Do you think so?’ Her red lips twisted in a smile. ‘I’m rather glad it’s not mine. I don’t think I could live up to it ‒ and I do so like to curl up on a sofa. Perhaps I do like the frills and bows, after all.’
‘Those are ours,’ Jamie said suddenly, pointing at the fire-dogs. ‘They have our crest. The Campbells of Cawdor.’
I leaned forward and looked closely, and saw the shields embossed with the swan with the arched neck. They reminded me uncomfortably of Big Billy. ‘So they are,’ I said. ‘But my great-grandmother was a Campbell of Cawdor ‒ and in any case, I don’t think my grandfather would give them back.’ I heard myself with amazement. Was this the same person, two days in the Highlands and already falling into the romantic notions Gavin Campbell had warned me of?
‘I know he wouldn’t,’ Jamie replied. ‘He wouldn’t sell my grandfather a part of Cluain ‒ even though he offered a great deal of money for it.’
‘Oh, hush, Jamie!’ his mother said. ‘You talk too much. We all know Mr Macdonald would never sell Cluain.’
‘Grandfather didn’t. He still thinks it should be part of Ballochtorra ‒ as it once was.’
‘Greedy little boy. You can’t have everything.’
For once I was thankful for the appearance of Mairi Sinclair. She opened the door for Morag, who now wore an even more stiffly starched apron and cap than before, her hair severely tucked in, but her high colour and excitement unquenched. She bore a large silver tray set with cups and a silver tea service. In silence, as Mairi Sinclair stood by the door, she laid it gently on the table, and then went to the hall and brought a second tray, this one set with plates of scones and bread and butter, tiny griddle cakes, two kinds of jam, thinly sliced ham, little golden cup cakes. All this at eleven o’clock in the morning, and all presented as if Lady Campbell’s visit had been expected for a week. I looked with respect at Mairi Sinclair; she had even brought the scents of her herb garden in the fresh parsley and watercress. She did not acknowledge my glance with a look of her own; just stood with the rough hands folded before her, seeing that Morag did each thing correctly, and then both withdrew, the door closing soundlessly.
‘So!’ Lady Campbell said. ‘That’s the wonder-woman of Cluain! I’ve never had a chance to study her before. Oh, she’s in the kirk every Sunday there’s a service, but always in the back pew, and always the first out of the door when the service is ended. Before the last of the gossipers are off the steps, you can see her striding down the road towards home. They say … they say that in any weather she refuses to ride in the trap to kirk when Angus Macdonald attends. How many times has Gavin stopped to offer to take her even as far on her way as Ballochtorra, and all we’ve had is a shake of that head, half-hidden in the folds of a plaid? She will keep that plaid when every other woman in Scotland is wearing a hat. And yet … if only I had her for Ballochtorra. My lazy lot couldn’t produce this’ ‒ she indicated the splendidly spread trays ‒ ‘if I’d given them a month’s warning. And how she keeps this place! Do you suppose …’ She gave a little, childish laugh as she accepted a cup of tea from my hands. ‘Do you suppose a speck of dust is ever allowed into this house? ‒ or is it all frightened away by the sight of her? No ‒ perhaps I don’t want her for Ballochtorra, after all. She rather frightens me. She would think me a silly, useless thing ‒ which I am. But one doesn’t like to know that servants know it t
oo well.’
‘You are a fairy, Mama … and she is a witch! A witch all dressed in black.’
‘That’s wicked of you to say such a thing, Jamie! Mistress Sinclair does nothing but good. She is a good woman.’
‘Some people say she is a witch,’ the boy insisted.
‘What a baby you are! There’s no such thing as a witch.’
‘She must be a witch, or she would have saved William. But William died.’
I thought that white skin turned whiter. She shot an anguished look at me, and then turned to her son. ‘Never let me hear you talk such nonsense again, Jamie. Wicked nonsense. It is cruel, and unkind ‒ and untrue! You know what your father says ‒ it would be better to have Mistress Sinclair nurse one than half the doctors in Edinburgh. Now hush, child, and remember that Mistress Sinclair is a good woman … Here, Jamie, have a griddle cake. They are much lighter than the ones at home.’
She distracted the child, and he munched happily. The dark presence of Mairi Sinclair seemed altered by the good things she presented. We talked for a few minutes of nothing of consequence. The weather ‒ what I might expect of a Highland summer. ‘You will need your woollens all the time,’ Lady Campbell warned. ‘Thank heaven Papa will have the London house ready this winter. But it will take a lot of persuasion to get Gavin there. I almost think he loves it best here when the snow is thick. Oh, but the wind from the mountains …’ The fresh scone crumbled between those delicate fingers, and she left it unfinished on the plate.
She rose to go. ‘You will come to Ballochtorra, won’t you? It’s so dull here ‒ no company. Of course, when the shooting opens we will have almost more company than we want. The Prince of Wales has consented to pay us a visit …’ She tried to say it as if it were nothing, but a look of pleased triumph lighted her face. It was the supreme accolade for such a young hostess. Again the little laugh. ‘Of course it is most kind of His Royal Highness, but it still frightens me a little. So much to prepare. Papa is sending lots of extra servants from London, but still so much can go wrong. All the guests bring their own personal servants, of course, but I must fit them all in somewhere. And all according to the rank of the master. I expect there will be anarchy in the servants’ hall. It will be a simple affair, but we must give one entertainment apart from the shooting. A small dinner, with dancing afterwards ‒ just the local people who would expect to be invited to meet the Prince. You will come, won’t you? The Prince likes pretty women …’
I murmured something, a little awestruck, and already wondering, as women always do, what I would wear.
‘Do you ride, Miss Howard?’
‘Not very well. There were some tough little ponies in Peking, and one just learned to hold on.’
‘I’m sure Gavin will be pleased to mount you from the stables if there is nothing suitable here. William used to use our horses.’ The light little laugh again. ‘I don’t think Mr Macdonald liked that, but William always did what he wanted.’ She took a last look around the room. ‘I’m glad I’ve been here at last. Cluain has always fascinated me. How strange your coming here has given me the first chance to pay a visit. One could hardly pay a call on William. You will come to Ballochtorra, won’t you?’ she pressed again. ‘I am at home every day, except when I ride. It would be nice to have a friend close by. You will call me Margaret, won’t you …?’ It spilled on, the needless, almost guileless generosity, as if she must make an enormous effort to please, she who pleased with no effort but just looking as she did. It was as if a great uncertainty possessed her, as if she must gather everyone into her fold, so that there would be no enemies, only friends.
We went to the front door. Mairi Sinclair was there before us, waiting by the open door; a man, probably summoned from the stables, was standing holding a fine bay mare and an almost cream-coloured pony. Morag stood beside the mare, and she was feeding her from a bunch of young carrots. She offered a shy smile to Margaret Campbell, and the answering smile was radiant. I noted the carrots and thought that Mairi Sinclair was oddly indulgent of Morag at times ‒ or was it that she simply liked animals, but could not unbend to feed the mare herself?
Margaret Campbell’s light, graceful form swung up to the side saddle with only the semblance of assistance from the stableman. Jamie managed to mount by himself, proud of the fact. The woman’s beautiful young face looked down at me. For the first time I saw the faintest hint of shadow upon it. ‘Thank you for receiving me, I’ve enjoyed myself. It’s lonely here. William and I used to ride together …’
And then she wheeled the mare, and the child followed eagerly. They headed down the strath away from Ballochtorra. Big Billy and his flock came towards the pair, but somehow were halted by the faintly imperious wave from Lady Campbell’s riding crop. Could she charm even that surly brute, I wondered? I was conscious of Mairi Sinclair staring after them, just as I was, that lovely couple, graced by beauty and wealth.
But it was Morag’s voice that came from the doorway. ‘Hardly a thing did she eat ‒ and all that fuss! Well, a body can’t stay a slip of a thing and eat your fill and do no work. True enough that Master William rode with her … I’m thinking she’s looking for another company now.’
Mairi Sinclair turned on her fiercely. ‘Hold your tongue, girl! Hold it, I say! We’ll not have evil gossip here ‒’
I could not face them. I let them go back into the house, and I stood there watching as the riders continued on down the road. I was hearing again Gavin Campbell’s words. ‘He was more than half in love with my wife.’ His voice so toneless, as if it were something he had come to expect. ‘An enchantress …’ But somehow my jealousy was dissipated. Even I could not help falling under her spell; if she beguiled and bewitched, it seemed hardly more fair to blame her than if she had been a child, innocent, unknowing. I stood there until they were out of sight.
When I went back into the house the door to the drawing-room was closed. I opened it and looked inside. It was as still, as silent and waiting as if no one had entered here. There was not a crumb of the many Jamie had shed to betray his presence, the rug he had rumpled was straightened, the faded silk cushions plumped up. Only the fire spoke of people having been here. I was sure that Mairi Sinclair was only waiting for it to die, and Morag would be here clearing out the still-warm ashes, and laying a fresh one. A beautiful, sad, unused room, that should have been full of life. Had one of my ancestors stitched the tapestry firescreen ‒ yes, that also bore the Campbell arms. Christina Campbell had locked us together ‒ Cluain and Ballochtorra.
That afternoon, after a mostly silent and hurried lunch with my grandfather, I took out the old serge skirt and the boots I had worn when I rode those Peking ponies. Without permission I borrowed the Inverness tweed cape I found hanging with the various plaids and walking sticks in the kitchen passage. I took a stick that seemed to fit my height. And then I walked all afternoon. I walked along the way Margaret Campbell had ridden, past the distillery and the warehouses, over the small humpback bridge that crossed a burn which had been diverted and channelled around the warehouses, past the small houses that must be tenanted by the distillery workers, the houses with their neat garden plots. Children played there, young children, sometimes tended by older children, hardy, barefoot, rosy children, with shy, engaging smiles. The women did not seem to be about ‒ except for one old woman sitting in the sun by her doorway, who waved her pipe cheerfully at me. Did the women work in the summer on the farm? I supposed it was so. Work was part of these people’s lives, inescapable, unless you were Angus Macdonald’s granddaughter, or as free of toil or worry as Margaret Campbell. I turned off on a track that led upwards through Cluain’s pastures, and bent to follow roughly the twists of a small, fiercely-running burn, whose water was icily cold. The track threaded away from the pasture and into a shadowed glen. A little farther on, stepping-stones led across the burn to a neat stone cottage, with a stout paling fence about it, and a well-thatched stable. But its door was shut, and no smoke came from the chim
ney. Did my senses tell me right that this was where Callum Sinclair lived? It would not be among the other workers ‒ and there seemed no other place this side of the river. It somehow resembled him, this place ‒ the clear-running burn separating him from the rest of the world, the closed door, the air of aloofness and self-sufficiency. This was his manner, and this could well be his place.
Beyond here, the track grew rougher and the glen steeper; I turned back to the high pastures of Cluain. All the time as I walked I kept scanning the sky for the sight of the falcon. If she were in flight would she note and mark me with her hawk’s eye, not something to interest her, and pass on overhead, unseen, unheard, as aloof as her master? I walked until I was tired, until the pasture gave way to heather. I flung myself down on its rough cushion, listening to the bees drone about me. William had described to me how these heather moors of Scotland turned a mauvish haze in the autumn, how the long shafts of sun would suddenly light a spot and turn it to royal purple. But he had not told me how Cluain’s world looked from up here. I could still see the distillery buildings ‒ not handsome, but no longer ugly to my eyes. I could see the far glint of the river, and the rich green meadows. Ballochtorra was out of sight ‒ from here one saw only the back of the massive crag. This was wholly Cluain’s world. It was no wonder my grandfather loved and possessed it with such fierce passion.
I returned with a muddy skirt and a raging hunger. I was waiting, changed, with brushed hair, before the fire when my grandfather came in. ‘You’ve been walking, I hear.’
‘Yes.’
A Falcon for a Queen Page 13
