‘He will stay at Cluain, however,’ I said. ‘No one could imagine him leaving.’
‘You will build again, then?’ The man was looking at me with frank curiosity. ‘You will go into production?’
‘Why not?’ I answered. ‘There is a distillery, isn’t there? The men haven’t lost their skills overnight because of a fire! We will find warehousing.’
‘It will have to be adequate, Miss Howard. Bonded is bonded. It must be secure, and with accommodation for Excise officers. It isn’t like the old days, you know, when Mr Macdonald first set up. They say that in those days he had a fence and a shotgun. That sort of thing won’t do now.’
‘It will be done exactly as it should,’ I retorted. ‘Cluain has never been in trouble with the Excise, has it? It has never been short on quantities? Well ‒ that is how it will go on.’
And the Exciseman, staring at me, was wondering how it was to be done, just as I was. But he said no more about it. It was my business. No doubt the word would run through the whole Excise service that Angus Macdonald’s granddaughter was just as tough and irascible as the old man, that he would not be dead while she lived. But I was not Angus Macdonald, and this was not the Cluain of forty years ago, a simpler, more trusting world, where things could begin small, and be permitted to grow. The distillery waited ‒ but that was all. Its product had to be stored and guarded, it had to be serviced. There was so much, and it had to come from me.
But once I could bring myself to look beyond the fearful ruins of the warehouses, I was calmed. The world of Cluain was still here, damaged, but essentially the same. The sleek cattle grazed the river meadows, the barley was safely stored. This was no dubious heritage Angus Macdonald had left in my hands.
And as I went back to eat dinner with Samuel Lachlan after that interview with the Excisemen and the police, I pondered the fate of Morag. Had we really seen her, Neil Smith and I? Was it a trick of the fire? ‒ unnatural shadows thrown for a few seconds only that had deceived us? No young body had been found crushed and charred in the wreckage. It was not possible she had found some other way out. There was no other way. I imagined her, as calmly as she had stood in the stableyard watching the race to bring the horses out, then going, in the midst of the incoherent pattern of that first fire, into Neil Smith’s cottage, taking the keys, and making her way right back to the very end of the warehouses ‒ the place hardest to reach with the hose, the place where it would least be noticed. And there setting the first small blaze, which she knew would take hold. And then as calmly opening wide and hooking back each set of doors as she returned through the building, leaving the front door itself open to the wind. And then, with the same unhurried calm, replacing the keys on Neil Smith’s rack ‒ for that was where they had been when he had thought to look ‒ just before the fire took his cottage. He still held the keys to the blackened, roofless ruin.
And where was Morag now? Had she just walked as far as Grantown and taken the first train from there in the early morning? ‒ before news of the fire had come, before anyone thought to look for a young girl? With a plaid half over her face, she would not be in any way remarkable. I thought of her, and the future. She would go, probably to Glasgow, and lose herself in its teeming warrens until the search and enquiries about her would die away. She could turn her hand to so many things, could Morag, and her tongue and wit would not betray the background of Cluain. But Morag did not care for crowded places. In time she would go off ‒ Canada or Australia. Clever as she was, and knowing her own worth, she would not give herself to anyone who asked; when it came to marriage, Morag would choose well. She was beautiful, and young, and clever. And how her heart must have been filled with rage and hate to do what she had done. It was formidable to think of that lovely face, its skin flushing apricot in excitement and passion, the shining red curls ‒ and the kind of inner madness of greed and cunning it had masked. She had dreamed of being Mistress of Cluain, of having Callum. And yet, had I not dreamed the same dream? How different were we? It was a sobering, humbling thought.
I shivered in the September wind as I scurried across the yard from the distillery office; light drops of rain blew into my face. No, I did not think that Morag MacPherson had died in the fire. Somewhere she went on, planning, under another name, a future just as great as she had sought here at Cluain. And, being Morag, I thought it was very probable that she would find it.
III
I faced Samuel Lachlan with the facts as we sat before the fire that night.
‘Mr Lachlan, I have told all the workers that they will stay on. I have told them that we might have to miss a season’s production, and that they might have to turn their hands to anything that comes ‒ building labourers, farm workers, anything that Cluain needs. But they need not leave their cottages, and their wages will be the same as if they worked in the distillery and the warehouses. I cannot let them go … they will be needed, more than needed, when we are back to full production.’
‘And where will you get the money?’
‘You will lend it to me, Mr Lachlan.’
‘On what surety?’
‘Cluain.’
‘I charge a high interest rate. What would I do with Cluain if you fail?’
‘If I fail you will own a fine farm ‒ and distillery buildings. You will own the assets of Cluain.’
‘The assets of Cluain would not pay me back what you need to start again. The insurance will cover what you will owe to the blenders whose whisky was stored in the warehouse, but Cluain’s wealth rested in those barrels of unsold spirits which Angus Macdonald held for himself. Have you any idea how much money you are asking for?’
‘No ‒ I thought you would tell me.’
‘You expect me to be broker and banker at the same time? You ask a lot, young woman.’
‘Yes, I ask a lot. My grandfather asked a lot of you the day he walked into your office in Inverness and asked you to take his case for no payment, but the justice on which it rested. And then he borrowed from you to make his beginning. Was he really asking for less, in those days, than I am asking for now?’
‘But he was … well, he was Angus Macdonald.’
‘And I am Angus Macdonald’s granddaughter. You’re going to say that a woman cannot run a distillery? Have any tried? Have any failed? Yes ‒ I know, my great-grandmother failed, but she was on a poor little island out in the Hebrides. There was no Cluain for her.’
‘If you were married …’
‘If I were married I might be married to some fool who would spend your money foolishly. Men have failed also, Mr Lachlan. Ferguson’s is now in the hands of the Receiver. A year ago, would you have said it could happen?’
‘I told you I watched Ferguson closely. I heard the stories of him. And I never bought a penny share of his stock.’
‘Would you buy my stock? Would you buy the stock and seed of Angus Macdonald? That is all I have to persuade you with. I am ignorant, yes ‒ I’m too well aware of that. So have others been, and they have learned. Look at me, Mr Lachlan. Do you see any of Angus Macdonald in me? The men will stay with me, and I will learn ‒ from you and from them. There are all those ledgers in my grandfather’s office from which I will learn. I expect long days ‒ and nights ‒ of work. I welcome them. You will see no grand living here, Mr Lachlan. And no silk, even for Sundays. What do you say, Mr Lachlan?’
‘It is a risk. A huge risk. And what is in it for me? I am old. I may be dead before you sell your first cask.’
‘That too is a risk, Mr Lachlan. And what is in it for you? ‒ am I presumptuous if I say that in it for you is the right to sit where you now sit, at Cluain’s fireside ‒ the right to guide Cluain, as you have done for forty years. You can always go back to your rooms in Inverness, Mr Lachlan ‒ and I’ve no doubt I could go and find buyers. There would be buyers, I haven’t any doubt, for a fine farm, and a distillery in good working order, with skilled distillery hands ready. Oh, I think there are plenty who would take it off my hands. Let
us start with the Macquaries and the Camerons. They know the value of Cluain ‒ even just as a name, a reputation. Yes, I think I could sell it all. And then you and I, Mr Lachlan, we both would have lost it. I would have some money in my pocket, instead of debts. And you would avoid a big risk. But what would we lose, both of us?’
‘You will be cheated. Men will try to cheat you because you are a woman.’
‘Let them try! They’ll not do it a second time. Do you forget what I learned in China? There, I knew by exactly how much each was allowed to cheat. It is quite a skill, Mr Lachlan. Not learned in an accountant’s office. And, yes, I will make mistakes with the farm ‒ but I will listen to advice. Has no man ever left his crops too late? ‒ or a storm come before they were ready? Well, these are the problems my grandfather fought, and I would want to try to fight. It would be easier if I did not. I would have money, and some comfort, and no doubt, in time, a husband who liked the bit of money I brought with me. And you would still have your money, safely invested wherever it is invested. Or we both can have Cluain. Which, Mr Lachlan ‒ which?’
‘You press me very hard, woman. Very hard.’
‘I am Angus Macdonald’s granddaughter, Mr Lachlan. Would you expect anything else?’
‘Yes ‒ you are Angus Macdonald’s granddaughter. And that is where I will put my money.’
I went and got him a whisky. ‘It is your own private reserve now, Mr Lachlan. For as long as Cluain’s whisky lasts, it is for you alone. For ourselves, for the first years, we will make do with an inferior product. You will live ‒ you will live to drink these last casks, and by that time the first of Cluain’s new distilling will be fit for drinking. You are like Ailis. You will live to be a terrible great age ‒ at Cluain.’
‘Ah‒’ He shrugged off the words. ‘There will be little enough time for me to be at Cluain. Do you realise, Kirsty, how I will have to work to get this money to lend you? I must be back to Inverness to-morrow to draw up the papers. Everything must be in order. I will be back next week …’
And every week, I thought, so long as he lived. And he must be ever welcome at Cluain’s fireside ‒ however old, however irritable. Angus Macdonald’s granddaughter must always make sure of that.
Chapter Twelve
It was early the next morning when I rode up to Callum’s cottage on Ailis. It was the first time she had been ridden since her illness; there was the bouncy freshness of a young pony in her step, but, as always, no trace of skittishness. It was a grey morning, chill, with a light wind. I held my plaid closely about me, glad to leave behind the yard of Cluain, where the smell of the charred timbers and the earth soaked with spirits still hung, despite the wind. Ailis did not hesitate as I turned her head up the track that led to Callum’s cottage; if she thought at all of the fearful journey when she had last come down here, she did not show it. I carried a pigeon, shot by John that morning, in the pouch. Giorsal would not eat any but fresh-killed meat.
I checked Ailis before we crossed the burn to the cottage, looking at the scene, thinking that already, in the few days it had been untenanted, it seemed to wear an air of desolation. There were leaves gathering before the door of the cottage, and against the walls; in a few weeks weeds would grow there. If there were not regular fires kept up in the range, the damp would begin to creep in, and as the winter snows began to drift down from the heights, the field mice would find an entry, and settle, and the rooks nest in the chimney. I could not bear the thought of it falling into ruin ‒ like that other cottage up there, where Mairi Sinclair had grown up. I wondered, sitting there on Ailis, if Neil Smith would come up here to live. He would no longer be with the Excise, but he would stay at Cluain, I knew. He could have Callum’s pony for the trek up and down to Cluain ‒ I was sure Mairi Sinclair would agree to that.
I looked about me. It was so lonely here, in this little clearing by the burn, the silence so complete. I wondered if Neil Smith would mind the loneliness, he who had always lived so close to the centre of Cluain’s life. Would he want to bring Big Billy and the flock with him? And where would we make a pool for them? ‒ the burn was too swift and too narrow. And I realised, as I sat there, looking at the place that had been Callum’s own, and would be forever that way in my heart, that the practical, everyday problems of Cluain were already impinging. What I had promised Samuel Lachlan last night must be carried out. There could be no waste at Cluain. To think of it inhabited by any other than Callum was like pressing on a raw wound, but some arrangement must be made. I pictured it as I knew it ‒ the books stacked haphazardly on the shelves, the untidy rolltop desk. I would ask Mairi Sinclair to come up here and select that which she did not wish to leave to another. For myself, I did not think I could ever enter that door again.
I put Ailis in the empty stable. Giorsal greeted me with a harsh cry, and ran up and down on the perch. She had ceased bating off at my arrival. It signalled food to her, and she welcomed me, welcomed, also, the release from the boredom of sitting on her perch. She was growing very restless. It was too many days since she had sat on her block, too many since she had bathed and preened herself. She danced up and down the perch in greedy anticipation. She spread her wings for me, as if to remind me that she had them, that flight was being denied her. I slipped on the gauntlet, and took the first piece of pigeon out of the bag. Without hesitation, she stepped on to my fist, and began to pull with a claw and beak at the piece of bird I held between my fingers. It was strange how quickly I had become used to handling the pieces of pigeon, watching her pull a few feathers away, and then swallow the rest. It offended me now no more than seeing the uncooked meat in the pantry at Cluain. This was Giorsal’s natural food; with it, she stayed healthy.
But she would not finish the whole pigeon. I kept extending the pieces to her between my gloved fingers, but finally she moved back on to the perch, and took up again the restless pacing, up and down, up and down. Even when I stroked her with the feather she was not appeased. She looked towards me and uttered her strange cry.
‘Come now, Giorsal. It is time.’
First of all I removed the hood; it would be easier here where she was on the perch, and I had both hands free for the task. I could not hope to match Callum’s dexterity with his teeth and one hand. When the hood came off I left her alone for a few minutes, talking all the time to her though, while her eyes grew accustomed even to this amount of dim light after the long darkness. I sweated with nervousness as I released the jesses from the swivel, and twined them through my fingers, trying to remember how Callum had done it. She did not at once realise what had happened, and I had to entice her with a piece of fresh-cut carcass meat to move forward from the perch on to my fist. Then, as she pulled and tugged at the meat, I took my first steps backwards away from the perch. She stopped in surprise. I saw her wings begin to flex up, and wondered what I would do if she bated off my hand, and would not return, finally hanging head downwards, and swinging from the jesses. She would sense, of course, that I was frightened. A timid, uncertain handler was an invitation to trouble from a hawk. Desperately, I did not want to botch these next few minutes. If she did not completely trust me, if I had not learned enough from watching Callum’s calm, sure handling of her, there would be trouble and danger for her before I got her into the open. If she spread her wings here and tried to escape me, she could damage their tips, and perhaps be hampered in flight. If the hood were back on her she would be calm, but with either course I would have difficulties.
I opened the door very slowly, so that she did not see too much of the sky at once. But the light streamed on her, the pupils of those big eyes contracted in response to it. Again she raised her wings, and I felt a powerful tug on my fist. But we were safely past the doorjamb, and in the open. Here her wings could stretch, and she might attempt a flight, but with no harm, except for the possibility of pulling me off balance.
But she was wonderfully quiet, just raising her head to the sky, seeing her world again, sensing it, smelling it.
I swear that she took her time to look around the clearing, and up beyond it, where the folds of the mountains could be seen. She felt she would soon be among it all again, but she was in no hurry. In all my nervousness I also paused; Callum had shown me one of the noblest sights seen by man, the flight of the falcon. And now I looked at that wonderful, proud head as it slowly turned, and I was grateful. No span of time, no dimming of memory, would ever take this from me.
The next was the hardest, and the most dangerous ‒ dangerous for Giorsal. If I bungled it, she would be dead in a very short time, and she would be a trapped and maimed creature for whatever time she did live; she would die miserably, tangled in a tree or thicket.
So I took the piece of fresh grouse meat, shot illegally on Ballochterra’s moors that morning, the piece I had saved for this moment. I put it between the thumb and first finger of my left hand, where Giorsal sat; I twitched it a little, to make her notice it. Her eyes were full of her world, and her crop was full already, but the scent reached her, and she began to pull daintily, at it, as if it were something to play with. While she was absorbed, I reached into the bag with my right hand, and groped about for the scissors. They were small, with blunted end, but a sharp cutting edge, borrowed from Mairi Sinclair who used them for preparing dressings. I had explained what I needed them for, and she had shaken her head, even as she tried to sharpen them still more. ‘I doubt they’ll cut through. They are not meant for leather.’
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