by Alisa Adams
"Quiet!" she shouted at the top of her voice. Silence fell. "Alasdair McPhail was found dead in the castle grounds this morning. He had his head bashed in. It could have been anyone so they are not sure if they are going to investigate or not."
"How is Lady Rosina?" one of the kitchen maids asked anxiously. Maisie smiled but carried on pouring her milk.
"She is upset, shocked and saddened as you can imagine," Maisie replied, "and unable to eat. The Laird is making arrangements for a funeral as we speak. I cannot say anymore because I don't know anymore."
* * *
There was a shocked silence for a moment, then everryone started to talk at once.
"I feel awfy sorry for her, Miss Maisie," the cook said sadly. There was a chorus of agreement.
"I will tell her," Maisie smiled, "she will be very happy that you are so concerned about her."
She made her way through the throng and went back to Rosina, who was looking out of her window as if mesmerized by the view.
"The staff is all asking after your health, Mistress," she said, giving her the milk, "what are you thinking about?"
* * *
Rosina took a sip of her milk.
"About Laird Fraser," she answered, "he seems to be such a good man, yet nobody likes him. I feel sorry for him."
Maisie waited a while before answering.
"I have a feeling," she said, frowning, "that a long time ago his heart was broken, and he does not wish to see it happening again, so he keeps the world away."
Rosina looked at her, interested suddenly.
"You could be right," she twitched a smile, "but there are many maids who would queue up to get a look at that handsome face!"
They laughed, then Rosina put her hand over her mouth.
"I should not be laughing or smiling, Maisie. This time yesterday Alasdair was alive. Now he is dead and I killed him!"
Maisie took her by the shoulders and shook her a little.
"Mistress!" she said sternly, "it was self-defense! It was not your fault and it is not your fault that we are having to cover it up! The law is on the side of men. Stop blaming yourself!"
* * *
Rosina nodded. She could see the sense of that, but the guilt would not leave her.
11
Connor
When Connor received the letter he felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. His only brother was dead, the one he had loved and hated all his life, and whom latterly he had loathed with a passion, had been struck down in his prime. Finally one of the lowest of the dregs he associated with had murdered him. Connor was not surprised, but he felt desperately sorry for his wife. By all accounts, she was very young, but a fine woman. Connor sat down to pen a reply, but for a long time, the words would not come. He thought of the final few bitter words he had had with his brother and tears came to his eyes. His father, with Connor's full support, had denied him his birthright and even entrance to his own home. Of course, he had the town house, but it was a tenth of the size. Thankfully, they had managed to keep his reputation intact, but Connor was not proud of the harsh means his father had used to do that either. He had persuaded his father to give Alasdair a monthly allowance, however.
* * *
"Father," Connor had said firmly, "if you give him nothing he will have to sell the house. He may gamble it away anyway, but we cannot prevent that. The only way we can stop him from gambling is to imprison him in the dungeon! It is a sickness - a disease of the mind!"
"And if he gambles it all away?" his father asked irritably, "what then? Is there no cure for this - sickness?"
Connor sighed. "None that I know of, Father," he shook his head sorrowfully, "I have asked the minister at the Kirk about it, and he says he will pray for him, and that we must pray too. He says that only God can cure him. I have prayed as hard as I can, but I have my spies out, and they say he has done nothing to stop himself from playing cards - or drinking." He turned away and went to the window. "I hear that he has just started courting a lovely young maid called Rosina Buchanan. She is the heir to Dumbarton Castle, and if they marry he can lay claim to her fortune. Should we tell her about his drinking too? Some men become affectionate, some sleepy, some mean-spirited when they are in their cups, but Alasdair becomes violent, and it is not fair on the poor girl if she is not warned."
John McPhail put his head in his hands.
"What did I do to deserve this?" he asked wearily, "I had a wife in a thousand, Connor. I loved her so much. When she died in childbirth I was lost - devastated, and I also drank too much for a while, but as far as I know, I never took my anger out on anyone except myself. Was I a bad father, Connor? Truthfully?"
* * *
Connor went up to stand beside his father, then he put his arm around his shoulder
"Sometimes you felt things too much," he replied, "and I always wondered why. But now I realize that grief takes a long time to leave us. I never really knew my mother. I was only three when she died, and I was too young to understand. I used to wonder why you looked so sad sometimes, though. But you were a good father, and still are."
"Thank you, son." John covered Connor's hand with his own, and they smiled at each other.
Three months later his father was dead. There was a lavish funeral which Alasdair did not attend, and no apology was forthcoming for his absence. They told Connor that his father had most probably died of a heart attack, but Connor knew better. His father had died of a broken heart.
When the invitation had come for the wedding Connor was so busy that he barely acknowledged its presence, but put it away to be dealt with at a later stage. A week later he found it again and groaned. It read:
"To the Laird Connor McPhail
I have the pleasure of inviting you to the marriage of my daughter, Lady Rosina Buchanan, to your brother, Alasdair McPhail, on Sunday 24th of May 1760. We look forward to your attendance,
Your servant,
Laird Hugh Buchanan."
Connor sat for a long time thinking. There was no question of his going to the wedding - it did not even cross his mind to accept - so he sent a short, but polite refusal. After that, he wondered if he should tell Rosina about Alasdair's violent streak but after worrying about it for a while he put it away, intending to deal with it later. The truth was he had always wanted Rosina for himself, and seeing her married to his worthless brother would cause him more pain than he could bear. If he sent a letter to Rosina warning her about Alasdair she would only accuse him of being jealous. It was a terrifying thing to have to do, but he had been a coward. Rosina herself sent him several more letters, none of which he bothered to read, and eventually she gave up.
* * *
So here he was, contemplating whether or not to go to his only brother's funeral. He wondered if any attempt had been made to contact his children and grandchild. They should know, but his daughter Mairi and son William lived in Inverness, a long distance away, and by the time a message reached them it would be too late for them to come to the funeral. But he wrote to them anyway. Tears came to his eyes as he did so. 'He was my brother,' he thought, over and over again, 'we came from the same womb. How could we have been so different?'
He remembered times when they had gone kite-flying together, fished in the river for mackerel, and skiffed stones across its surface. They had gathered shells and found strange stones on the beach, then took them back to display in their rooms. They had learned their lessons together and Alisdair had helped him with his arithmetic and the strange Latin words and grammar that he had to learn. To this day, he thought, with a soft laugh, he had no idea what earthly use it had. But his spelling was better than Alasdair's even though he was five years younger so he was able to repay the favor. Alasdair had taught him to swim and let him ride on the back of his horse, but all that ended when he was fourteen, and then he began to change from a boy to a man. Suddenly he was taller, stronger, hairier, his voice was deeper and he had no time for his irritating little brother. He w
as replaced by a series of kitchen maids, housemaids and eventually respectable young ladies, one of whom he eventually married when he was but nineteen. For some reason, his father was not pleased about the match, and it was only when he was much, much older than Connor had realized that Senga was with child with Alasdair when they wed.
He himself had never married. He told himself that he had never found the right woman, which was true, but he had also seen that Alasdair's marriage was not a happy one. Senga dutifully bore him two children, a boy, and a girl, then she had a stillbirth and died of childbed fever with her second daughter. The baby, two months premature, had lived for two months then died too, too small and weak to survive.
Connor decided, for his father's sake, to go to the funeral, not just for that reason, but to say goodbye to the brother he had loved and hated in equal measure. He could not do otherwise.
12
The Funeral
When he got to Dumbarton Castle Connor was greeted very civilly by the Laird, who came forward and took him by both hands, shaking them firmly.
"It is so good to see you here, Laird, and my condolences for your loss," he said sadly, "your brother was a fine man and would have been an asset to our family."
Connor bowed slightly.
"Thank you, Sir," he replied solemnly, "do you know what happened?"
* * *
"It is a bit of a tale," Hugh said heavily, "I do not quite know where to begin."
"I will begin," Rosina said, her head high, "I am surprised to see you here, Laird McPhail, since you did not deign to come to our wedding. What kept you away? Was it me?" Her blue eyes sparkled with a dangerous light, and he could tell that she still bore a grudge over his refusal to come to the wedding.
"Certainly not, my Lady," he assured her, as he bowed politely, "my brother and I had certain - differences - of a personal nature which need not concern you."
She almost quailed under his steady gaze. Like most people, she found Connor's calm demeanor quite unnerving. She took a deep breath and told him the carefully-constructed fictional story as quietly and straightforwardly as she could, trying not to let her voice tremble. It had been almost a week now but she could still not sleep. As soon as she fell into slumber she was assailed by dreams of Alasdair emerging from the darkness at the bottom of the bed or coming through the window to stand over her and stare at her. It was guilt which would not stop plaguing her, and guilt was the reason that her eyes were red with weeping, not sadness, because she had realized that the man she had based her future on was a product of fantasy, and she was glad he was gone. By dying he had probably saved her from a lifetime of unhappiness.
* * *
Little did she know that Connor was feeling the same way. He was half-glad that his brother had died, then felt guilty for feeling that way, and he was ashamed of that. Damn him! Alasdair had caused so much misery.
Connor sighed as she finished her narrative.
"Do you think he suffered?"
She shook her head.
"Father and the doctor do not think so" she replied, "the head wound is the only one he has, and it is very deep, so they say that it was probably very sudden and he knew nothing."
"That is a mercy anyway," Connor said thankfully, "may I see him?"
Rosina shook her head again.
"He is already wrapped in winding sheets," she replied regretfully,
"Father advised me not to look at him, so I did not. He said it was better to remember him the way he was."
Connor made no reply beyond a slight nod. Just then the figure of Logan appeared, resplendent in his dress tartan and blue bonnet. He had been wearing the same clothes on her wedding night but she had been in such distress that had not noticed. He was taller than any other man in the room, and as their gazes locked she had a feeling that she was looking into a pair of cold suns. She had never seen such blue eyes. He came up to her, bowed and kissed her hand. He was wearing his usual stern expression, but now that she knew the heart of gold underneath, she did not find him so intimidating.
* * *
"Lady Rosina," his deep voice was soft, "I am so sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do please let me know at once."
Rosina inclined her head graciously.
"Thank you, Laird Logan. Have you met Laird Connor McPhail, Alasdair's brother?"
"My condolences, sir," Logan said as the two men shook hands.
"Thank you, Sir," Connor replied with a slight smile. He looked as if he were about to say something else but was drawn away by another couple offering their sympathies.
"How are you?" Logan asked, frowning slightly.
"Well under the circumstances," she replied with a sigh, "and you?" she gazed up at him, her eyes full of meaning.
"I am well," he smiled slightly, "but it is the strangest and most terrifying thing I have ever done. I hope I shall never have to do anything like it again."
* * *
"Thank you for everything," she whispered, "you are a good man, and I am privileged to know you."
He bowed again.
"My pleasure, Lady Rosina," he said, then walked away, wishing he could have wrapped his arms around her for comfort - not for her, but for him. But, he reminded himself sternly, that path lay behind him and he would not travel it again.
Rosina sighed inwardly. She would have welcomed the strength of Logan's strong arms around her. Connor watched both of them covertly, thinking how close they were. Logan Fraser had a reputation for being a dour and stern man, but when he looked at Rosina he was not that man at all. He did not know if Alasdair had loved Rosina, but he was sure that she had loved him. He wondered if he could court her once the mourning period was over. He had loved and wanted her for so long, and after all, did they not both need comfort now?
When they went into the chapel, six of the biggest and strongest men carried the coffin. It was a very plain and simple place, having been stripped of all its decorative carvings, images and statues after the Reformation, but the graceful arches and high ceilings still remained. It was a beautiful day, and the sunlight streamed through the mullioned windows, illuminating the satin sheen of the oak coffin standing, solitary and sad at the front of the altar. The minister was a stern, solemn man whose wrinkled face expressed his belief that life was to be endured and not enjoyed. He extolled the merits of a godly life and clean living and expressed the hope that Alasdair's soul had ascended into heaven. Rosina and Logan doubted that very much, but Connor still held out a faint hope. Maybe God in His mercy would be kind to him. Hopefully one day he would meet his brother in paradise. During the service Rosina only managed to keep her composure with some difficulty. Part of her wanted to scream and thump her fists on the coffin, but there was another part that grieved for the happiness they might have shared and the children that might have been born if only Alasdair had been kind.
* * *
After the service had finished they went to the family graveyard in the little cemetery just outside the castle walls. Rosina had drawn her black veil over her face, and she was silent and dry-eyed as the minister drearily intoned the final prayers over Alasdair's body. She took a handful of earth and sprinkled it over the coffin, then watched as everyone else did the same. When the last 'Amen' had been said she walked into the castle for the wake but could not face everyone's sympathetic gazes. She felt like such a hypocrite, mourning for a man she had just killed. When Maisie came in, Rosina had never been so glad to see anyone.
* * *
Maisie looked at Rosina's pallid face and asked her if she had a headache. Rosina nodded, wincing. Maisie led her to her bedroom after making her excuse to the Laird, then made her lie on her bed.
"I will fetch you some Valerian tea, Mistress," she said, then, when Rosina tried to get up, she gently pushed her back down again, "I am the nurse and you are my patient, Mistress," she warned, "it is best that you listen to me. Close your eyes and rest for a while." Rosina closed her eyes and kept them closed for twel
ve hours.
13
Maisie and Hugh
After the funeral, with all its attendant preparations and ceremonies, followed by feasting and endless small talk, the castle seemed to be enveloped in a shroud of gloom. For months Rosina had looked forward to her wedding, but after Alasdair's death, there was only guilt and depression, followed a horrible sense of anticlimax. She was sorry that she had killed him, but only for Connor's sake. For her own, she was beginning to care less and less. He had been plain and simply a bad man.
* * *
After a few days of trying to prise Rosina out of her depression, Maisie decided that the best thing to do was to consult Hugh and ask his advice. She went to his office and he bade her sit down then looked at her kindly across the desk.
* * *
"How are you, my Laird? " she smiled. She had always liked her employer, but now even he looked a little low in spirits.
"In truth, I could be better, lass," he sighed, "and you?"
"I am well, my Laird, but worried about Mistress Rosina," she paused, frowning, "she is depressed and sad, Sir, and although it is understandable as she is recently bereaved, there is something more. I cannot explain it. She seems very lonely."
"She has you to talk to," Hugh pointed out.
"She does, and we do talk, but I think she needs the occasional society of a young man." She looked at him frankly, "sometimes a young lady needs to be admired, flattered, told she is beautiful, just to lift her spirits. In the mistress's case it would not be a lie. She is very beautiful."
