Moreton's Kingdom

by Jean S. MacLeod

  ‘You know I didn’t do it willingly,’ she pointed out. ‘I ran as soon as I knew I was being followed and it was only by the sheerest coincidence that Charles eventually found me.’

  ‘He knew you intended to holiday in the Trossachs,’ Fergus reminded her, ‘and there aren’t so many roads in this part of the world. When he lost touch with you in the Lake District he was very angry, but I think he feels better about everything now you’re here. Mission accomplished, and all that!’

  Above their heads the sound of a light aircraft coming in to land broke the silence of the hills and they saw the Cessna returning like a white homing bird against the blue of the sky.

  ‘I suppose we ought to get back to Glassary,’ said Fergus, although he did not stand up immediately, and Katherine called to Sandy who was playing beside the jetty.

  ‘If your car is going to be out of order for some time,’ Fergus said thoughtfully, ‘why don’t you stay here for the rest of your holiday?’

  ‘I couldn’t!’ Katherine’s decision was spontaneous as she turned to face him. ‘It would be quite impossible because I came here as a prisoner in the first place. Once Charles feels that I can’t do any more harm he’ll want me to go.’

  Fergus considered the position with his head on one side.

  ‘It’s all or nothing with Charles,’ he commented, ‘but when you really get to know him you’ll recognise how kind he can be. I’m a great burden to him, as you can see,’ he went on, ‘but every day I’m getting more and more independent.’ He looked back to the open door of the studio. ‘Now that Emma has forced me into it I must try to sell my paintings to a wider public and make a new life for myself.’ He leaned over to touch her hand, his dark eyes asking the question even before he put it into words. ‘Stay and take care of Sandy for a while, Kate. You’ll be doing me a favour.’

  She drew back as if she had been stung.

  ‘I wasn’t doing you any favour when I took Sandy away,’ she reminded him, ‘and you don’t really know me, Fergus. Charles doesn’t trust me—and perhaps neither should you.’

  He smiled into her stormy eyes.

  ‘We’ve made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Charles can’t.’ Her voice was curiously shaken. ‘He’ll never be able to forgive me for London.’

  His fingers closed over hers.

  ‘Stay, all the same,’ he said earnestly as Charles came towards them through the shrubbery.

  When Katherine turned he was striding across the rough grass which served the Stable House as a lawn and his eyes were as stormy as her own.

  ‘I’ve been suggesting to Kate that she might stay out the remainder of her holiday with us even if she does get her car back in the next few days,’ Fergus said, looking from one of them to the other. ‘We’re near enough to the Trossachs here; she could go off for days.’

  For a moment it looked as if Charles was about to refuse and then his thoughts seemed to switch to something else as he glanced at the electric wheelchair which had been his brother’s sole means of propulsion for so long.

  ‘Just as you like,’ he said without looking in Katherine’s direction. ‘It will be company for you.’

  Fergus didn’t seem to be surprised by the remark, but Katherine wondered if it was the logical reaction of Charles coming upon them as his brother had taken her hand. The confusion that rushed over her at the suggestion had nothing to do with Coralie or her part in taking Sandy away from London. It had to do with Charles and that indifferent, almost mocking kiss he had pressed against her lips as they had said goodnight on her doorstep.

  The memory scorched her as she stood there, her heart in a tumult of indecision as she met Fergus Moreton’s eyes. He was so unlike Charles, so quietly forgiving, that she could not help but like him, yet it was only Charles who could send her pulses racing with a look and make her furious with a taunting word.

  After two days, because she felt vaguely unhappy about his attitude, she was almost glad when he had to leave Glassary for Edinburgh.

  ‘Will you go by road?’ she asked, wondering if she dared suggest that he might take her as far as Killin to enquire about her car.

  ‘I’ll be using the Cessna. It’s quicker by air,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘I was thinking about my car,’ she told him.

  ‘If they had got the spare part from Glasgow they would have telephoned,’ he said.

  She watched him go down to the field where a short grass runway accommodated the plane and saw him circle over the Stable House in a brief salute to Sandy and his father, who would be watching for him. There was no matching salute for Glassary, however. She meant nothing to him at all, except a present encumbrance which he would be glad to shed as quickly as possible.

  Anger and humiliation stirred in her at the thought. Fool that she was, why was she remembering so much that could only be an irritation to him? He was sufficient unto himself here in this mountain stronghold where he had sought to keep her prisoner while he made up his mind about her, and now he seemed willing to let her go, although Fergus had intervened with his suggestion that she might stay.

  Fergus and Sandy returned to the house to collect Charles’s car.

  ‘We’re going down to the hotel,’ said Fergus, ‘to select some of Emma’s sculpture for my exhibition. Would you like to come?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Katherine’s voice was not quite steady. ‘Emma won’t be expecting me, and I thought I’d like to explore the glen if nobody objected to me borrowing the old bike in the garage for a couple of hours.’

  She had made her decision on the spur of the moment, not only because she believed Emma would be happier if she didn’t go to the hotel but because she wanted to get as far away from a deserted Glassary as she could. Out on the moor above the glen she could be alone to think, to make what plans she could for the future.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t come?’ Fergus asked, getting out of the chair to hobble towards the garage with the aid of his stick. ‘We’ll be staying for tea, I expect, and I’m sure Morag would like to have you.’

  ‘You’ll be busy and I might only be in the way.’ She walked beside them. ‘Do you mind about the bike?’

  ‘Of course not! Help yourself,’ Fergus invited. ‘It belonged to my mother and Coralie used it occasionally when she couldn’t have the use of a car.’

  He could speak of his former wife without pain now, and Katherine felt glad.

  ‘You’ll have to pump up the tyres,’ he warned. ‘It hasn’t been used for over a year, but I think the brakes are all right.’

  When they had gone, waving vigorously as the car went across the bridge, Katherine wheeled the old bicycle round to the house where Mrs. Stevas greeted her with some dismay.

  ‘You’re not taking that old thing!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll be risking your neck. It hasn’t been on the road for months and it wasn’t new even then. Originally, it belonged to old Mrs. Moreton who used it to get about the glen when she stopped riding, and sometimes Mrs. Fergus went out on it, but not very often.’

  ‘I’ll be quite safe,’ Katherine assured her. ‘Maybe I could go as far as Killin to ask about my car.’

  ‘I wouldn’t attempt it,’ the housekeeper said, aghast at the very suggestion. ‘You’d be cycling into traffic once you reached the main road.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Katherine repeated. ‘I won’t go out of the glen, if it will make you feel better.’

  She had wanted to escape, she realised as she cycled away; she had wanted to put as much distance between herself and Charles Moreton as she could because he had so many reasons for distrusting her.

  It was a considerable distance through the glen, cycling uphill most of the way, but the track was good, beaten as it was over rock with giant boulders standing out here and there to break up the bogland in between. Although she found herself slightly out of breath on an incline, she pressed on in anticipation of the remembered joy of freewheeli
ng on a downwards stretch with the wind blowing through her hair. It was the kind of freedom which brought back her childhood, although her heart had been lighter then.

  If she was running away from Charles she told herself that she had time to get over it before he returned to Glassary. She had a whole day, perhaps even more.

  Side tracks went off to lonely crofts, more of them than she had expected as she wondered about the people who lived in the glen. Contented people, she thought, hardworking and sincere, who took joys and sorrows when they came with the same quiet acceptance.

  It was a day of fast-gathering cloud without much sunshine, but she revelled in the freshness of the air and the sense of unlimited space which the hills afforded. Perhaps over the next incline she would come across another road into a wider valley where the track would lead her away from the moor.

  The final hill was a long one and she met it with her head down, pedalling hard until she came to the summit, only to realise that she was suddenly in cloud, but although she knew that she ought to turn back she allowed herself to think of the heady exhilaration of freewheeling downhill, even without a wind in her face. For up here there was no wind; only the pall of cloud that was like a thin white scarf lying gently against the hillsides.

  It wrapped itself closely around her as she cycled on, but now she could feel the track going downhill as she went off into the valley of her imagining, the wide green valley of a brighter hope.

  Once or twice she heard a dog bark and the bleating of unseen sheep, but they must have been at some considerable distance, because she could not see them.

  Rapidly the bicycle gained speed, the momentum carrying her downwards at an alarming pace until she came to a sharp bend at the foot of the hill. She had applied her brakes half way down, but they had little effect and she shot head-first into the bank.

  She lay in the heather for a long time, stunned by the impact of her fall and scarcely daring to move in case she would find that she had broken an ankle or injured a knee in this deserted spot where there was no sound and no other movement but her own. She lay with her eyes closed, conscious of the pain in her hand and an aching right shoulder, and when she finally opened them she could see no further than the road. Her vision was distorted, for it seemed that the hills on either side of the valley had dissolved into a nebulous grey mist which had crept towards her across the moor.

  When she realised that it was indeed a mist she struggled to her feet, brushing the fronds of heather from her skirt and the hair from her eyes. Still she could see nothing but the thin, swirling mist, like a veil drawn over the hills and the track down which she had come winding to nowhere. The length of time she had lain in the heather was no longer a burning issue in her mind; she knew that she would be trapped if she didn’t find her way back to the glen as quickly as she could.

  The bicycle lay in the ditch, its front wheel buckled, and nothing she could do would right it. For several minutes she continued to struggle with it, but it was an old machine and stoutly made and she had to confess herself defeated in the end.

  She began to walk back up the hill which she had flown down so carelessly, realising that she had come a long way since she had left Glassary in the early afternoon. Trying to calculate the miles she had covered was very little help because she had covered them with ease, but now she had only her own two feet to rely on and no clear visibility to show her the way.

  Gradually the mist descended, shrouding the moor in a pale grey cloak, and soon she would not even be able to see the path ahead. Instinctively she stopped, listening for some sound that would guide her, like the barking of a dog, but the awful silence of the moor seemed to stretch away into infinity, leaving her standing there like a blind person who could not even feel her way to safety.

  Desperately she climbed another hill, feeling the dampness of the mist against her skin like fingers touching her. It was thicker now, more obscuring, so that she could scarcely see the track, but she could feel its metalled surface under her feet and took courage from the fact.

  Trying to remember the last croft she had noticed on the hillside, she stumbled on, thinking that it couldn’t be far away, but there was no obvious track on either side for the next half hour and by then she felt exhausted. The mist was everywhere: in her eyes and her lungs and clinging to her hair and her clothes. Little beads of it dewed her brow and she shook them off, only to find them forming again immediately.

  When she saw the path her heart gave a great bound of relief. Somewhere up there on the hillside was the croft she had seen as she had cycled carelessly by!

  Walking quickly and blindly, she stumbled over stones, almost groping her way until the barrier of a hedge loomed up in front of her, greyer and more impenetrable than the mist, but spelling safety. She found a rickety wooden gate lying half open and the walls of a house took shape behind it.

  Almost sobbing with relief, she pushed her way through to find that the door of the little house was also ajar, with no light to be seen beyond it. She had come to an empty croft, long since abandoned by its former owner and standing derelict and forlorn in the swirling mist.

  She stood looking at its sagging roof and uncurtained windows, and somehow the deserted building made her feel more alone than she had felt on the road, but it was her only refuge. She knew how dangerous it was to wander on under such conditions, to miss the track, perhaps, and stumble into a waiting bog.

  Pushing the door wide, she paused for a moment to listen, but there was no sound and she felt her way into a narrow hall, then through another creaking door into a small room at the back which boasted a dark monster of a stove and an abandoned table which she leaned against to get used to the comparative darkness. The mist seemed to have penetrated even here and she saw that the window-pane was broken, letting in the damp, thick air.

  For another hour she crouched beside the stove with no way of lighting it even if she had been able to find wood or twigs to make a fire. She was more cold than she had ever been in all her life before and her eyes began to droop heavily.

  Whether she slept or not, propped against the stove, she was never quite sure, but suddenly she was arrested by an unusual sound. It came in drifts, above her and around, fading away just when she realised that it must be the engine of a plane coming in over the hills. Charles returning in the Cessna to find her gone!

  She sprang to her feet, wanting to go to meet him, but how foolish that was! He would be nearing Glassary by now, turning the little plane into the landing strip and walking up to the house where Mrs. Stevas would be waiting for him.

  The minutes fled away. It was quite dark now, with the mist, like a blanket, pressing against the window. Katherine went to the front of the house, staring out, trying to penetrate the grey wall in front of her, listening in the quiet for the slightest sound.

  When it came it sounded like the distant beat of hooves, and suddenly she knew that it was just that. Someone was going down the road on a horse.

  She ran then, stumbling in the darkness, aware that the sound was going gradually away from her, but when she pulled up she heard it again. Whoever—whatever—had passed was coming back. She was still standing on the narrow track leading to the croft when horse and rider loomed in front of her.

  ‘Katherine!’ Charles exclaimed, getting down from the mare’s back.

  ‘Charles! Oh, Charles—!’

  She was in his arms, pressing her head against his wet shoulder, holding on to him for all she was worth.

  ‘I found the bicycle,’ he said roughly, not putting her away. 'Why did you leave the road?’

  ‘I thought—if I got to the croft I’d find shelter there, but it was empty.’ She could hardly form the words for sheer relief. ‘I knew it was dangerous to wander about in a mist.’

  ‘We’ll have to go back there,’ he said. ‘For a while, anyway, to give the mare a rest. She came up the glen like the wind, although sometimes we couldn’t see a yard ahead of us. I can’t ask her to go back a
ll that way with the mist thickening. We’ll be safe enough at the croft for a while.’

  He led the way back up the track with the mare’s bridle over his arm and a steadying hand under Katherine’s elbow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, aware that he was deliberately making light of their predicament. ‘I should never have taken the bicycle. I should never have left Glassary.’

  He didn’t answer that, pushing open the door to let her go into the croft ahead of him, and she went gladly this time, feeling herself safe. It was some minutes before Charles followed her in.

  ‘I’ve tethered the mare in an outhouse of sorts,’ he explained, ‘and I’ve found some wood. We’ll have a fire going in next to no time, though I can’t promise you anything to eat. I left Glassary too quickly to think about food.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She stood watching as he held his lighter to the damp wood he had collected. ‘Surely we won’t be here for ever.’

  ‘No.’ His tone was abrupt, although he would not blame her for the predicament they were in. ‘Mists have been known to lift in an hour—or settle in for days. There’s no wind.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, believing him impatient. ‘I had no idea this would happen or I wouldn’t have attempted to come so far.’

  She could still feel the comfort of his arms about her in that first moment of dissolving fear when his face had been close against her wet hair and she had known herself no longer alone, but now they stood apart again, gazing down at a reluctant fire.

  When it burned up a little she could see his face more plainly, but it was without expression.

  ‘Come nearer,’ he said, making room at the fire. ‘We may have some time to wait.’

  Sitting with his back against the table and his arm round her for added warmth, he supported her as her eyes closed. She was utterly exhausted by the trauma of the past few hours and ready to accept the comfort of his arms.

  When she woke her head was against his shoulder, his long legs thrust out towards the fire which was already dying in the grate.

  ‘You’ve been asleep,’ he said, moving his cramped position, ‘and the mist’s lifting.’