by Susan King
Elspeth felt breathless suddenly. “Is it so? I expect he will stay but a few days. He does not intend to live here. He is a Lowland man. If we ever see him here, it would be outside the kirk on a Sunday morning for a minute or two. There is no match there, Grandda. A grand laird would never marry a weaver’s girl.”
“Your grandfather is a wealthy weaver, as they go. I did hope you would be married and away from Kilcrennan by now. It is a constant worry to me, your birthday approaching, and no hint of marriage yet.”
“You think me a spinster already?” She wanted to tease him into his usual bright mood, but knew he was serious and remained convinced she was in danger. She had heard Donal’s stories of meeting the Fey, and he claimed to visit them every seven years. While she rather liked the notion that she could be part fairy and that their weaving had a magical element, and while she talked as if she believed it, she had hesitations.
Privately, and especially since she had grown to womanhood, she wondered if Donal MacArthur had invented the tale to please the orphaned little granddaughter that he loved so. And she, adoring him, kept silent about her doubts.
Mrs. Graham always said that Elspeth’s mother was dead and her father had run off. But Donal and local rumor both said that Donal and Niall had gone over to the fairies; Donal had returned and Niall was lost to them. Her grandfather insisted it was true, and that the spell placed on her would come due on her twenty-first birthday in mid-October. Then, he claimed, the Fey would appear and take her back to their realm—unless she found love before that day. Truth, or a fascinating fairy tale from a charming man?
At fourteen, she had followed Donal to a hillside near Struan House, where she watched her grandfather set a blue crystal stone into a rock wall. He had seemed to disappear into an opening that appeared there. And Elspeth had run home thoroughly frightened.
Donal had been gone for two weeks, and she had worried every day of that time. When he finally returned, he said that he had only gone to the city. Elspeth had questioned him, and he had told her, finally, the story of his enthrallment by the fairies. He had confessed that even his weaving talent was a gift from them.
Nearly seven years had passed since then, without incident. Her grandfather was a good storyteller, and she loved him dearly, but she could not believe his tales. She did believe, though, that fairies existed. Few who grew up in the glen failed to believe that. Too many traditions, legends, and strange occurrences permeated the area for generations, and most grew up accepting the tales. Yet she had a practical side, too, and felt no reason to fear Donal’s dire warnings.
“You worry too much about me, Grandda.” She patted his arm.
“Because you do not worry enough.”
“I do believe in the fairy ilk. But I wish I knew truth from fancy for some of it.”
“In your heart, you know what is true.”
“Grandfather, with another seven years coming to an end next month, do you fear that you might go back to the fairies again? And tell me that you went to Edinburgh?” She meant to tease but saw him accept it seriously.
“When I go, I come back each time. But if they succeed in taking you, lass, you will not return.”
“I’ve made no agreement with them, so I have nothing to fear. Nor do you.”
“Be wary,” he said. “Never look back if you see them. Remember it. Swear it.”
She sighed. All her life she had accepted the Sight and the fairy stories, but the older she got, the more she wanted proof. “Grandda, what became of the blue stone you said was a key for entering the fairy realm? I have never seen it since.”
“It stays in its rightful place, hidden in the hill above Struan House.”
”Is it still there? With the gardens enlarged at Struan House in the last few years, I wonder if it is gone. Now a stone wall runs up the hill behind the house.”
“The blue crystal is safely hidden, but I suppose you are right. Once I return from the city, I should make sure it is still out of sight.”
“If Lord Struan is to take over the estate, you should look for it soon. I could stop by the gardens there when I go to Margaret’s to fetch the yarns.”
“Best I attend to it. The fairies go riding through there. You keep away.”
Elspeth frowned. She had already decided to find the stone herself. If she found the stone and set it into the rock on the hill as she had seen Donal do, and if nothing happened then, she would know the truth.
And if something did happen—if she saw the fairy realm—then she would know her grandfather’s tales were true, and she should indeed be cautious. And besides, the blue crystal belonged to Donal, and he should fetch it. Otherwise, it might be lost in Struan House’s new gardens.
What if fairy magic, Donal’s bargain, and the story about her birth and destiny were all true? She shivered, hoping it was fancy.
Chapter 4
These spritely creatures often inhabit the lush wooded groves of Scotland, particularly in the Highlands, found in caves and hillsides…fairies prefer to reside in hills, mountains, caves, and near natural wells and springs...
What a load of pretty nonsense, James thought. He dipped his pen in fresh ink to make a note on the creamy paper. Find local sites, he wrote.
As a knock sounded at the study door, he looked up, grateful for the interruption, for he had worked all afternoon. Mrs. MacKimmie peered in the door and then entered. “My lord, I beg your pardon, but Mary the downstairs maid has just quit your service.”
“Another one?” He set down the pen. “Was it the banshee again? That sent the other girl screaming from here three days ago.” The creature, or the door hinge, had shrieked through the whole of the first two nights after he had arrived.
“That, and the haunts and fairies. Mary says she canna stay in a household plagued by strange things. She wants to return to Edinburgh today.”
He frowned. “That’s all the housemaids gone in less than a week.”
“Aye, sir.” She stood with hands folded. James noticed then that she wore a long pelisse and a bonnet.
“Are you ready to leave my service as well?”
“Of course not, sir.” She smiled faintly.
“So we are infested with fairies as well as banshees, ghosts, boggles, brownies, some nesting doves, and a few mice,” he said, pen still poised in his hand.
“The fairy ilk, aye, they’re about, and soon will ride, as I told you.”
“Surely you don’t believe that, Mrs. MacKimmie. But it is a charming local tradition. What did the maid see today? A moth flitting from lamp to lamp?”
“She said there was a fairy in the garden today, a beautiful creature that turned and saw her, then vanished among the bushes. Poor girl was so upset she could not stay another day. Those Southron lasses Lady Rankin sent have no head for a good fright. Begging your pardon, sir. Being Southron yourself.”
“I’m surprised the girl could see anything in the garden with all this rain,” James remarked. “Not even the bravest duck would be out in such a downpour as this. Not that I believe in such phenomena as phantasms, fairies, and whatnot.” He dipped his pen in the ink again to resume writing about just such whatnot.
“Struan House is a favorite place for the fairies, sir. Used to belong to them, so they say. There is more of the Otherworld in our own world than we know.”
“If there is a fairy in the garden, we should invite her inside to dry off and have some tea.” As he spoke, he turned a page in the manuscript and took a few notes, inked nib whispering over paper. Fairy riding, he wrote. Local custom in autumn.
“I came to tell you, sir, that I must leave, but only for a day or two.”
He looked up. “I hope the fairies have not frightened you away as well.”
“Oh, no! I always leave the house for a few days to allow for the fairy riding. We all do. But my daughter just had another child, and so I’d like to visit her, and must leave earlier than planned. Mr. MacKimmie as well, of course.”
“
Certainly. As I told you, I am happy to have a few days to myself here.”
“If you feel comfortable, sir. Thank you. One of the grooms will drive me and then return with the gig. Mr. MacKimmie will take the landau to drive the housemaids to catch the post-chaise in Callander to go back to Edinburgh. He will meet me at our daughter’s house. We will be gone no more than a few days. Beg your pardon for leaving you thus.”
“Not at all.” Locals avoid the Fairy Riding at all costs, he wrote.
“There’s food in the larder, sir, and soup in the kettle today. The groom will be back to see to the milk-cow in the byre, the horses, and the chickens. And I’ve sent word to a local family to ask if their daughter could come round to see to the housekeeping for you until I return.”
“That’s very efficient, Mrs. MacKimmie. Thank you.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she said. “The post arrived just now, very late. The post driver said the roads are that muddy, and he does not expect to be back for a week or more.” She set three letters on the corner of the desk. “I’ll just leave, shall I?”
He took the letters and smiled. “Good day, and safe journey.”
“Thank you, sir.” She shut the door.
James sat back to open the letters. One was from the lawyer, Mr. Browne, another from Lady Rankin, the last from his brother, Patrick. He scanned each one. His great-aunt wrote to inform him—again—of her travel plans, fretting about whether Struan House was acceptable for sophisticated city guests. James snorted a little at that. Patrick reported that he would travel to the area with Sir John Graham, who was interested in a business venture in the north. They had declined Lady Rankin’s invitation to join her party. James laughed softly at that, too. The lawyer’s terse note made him frown. He set it aside; it required no immediate response.
Reaching for one of the books stacked haphazardly on the desk, a volume of Scott’s work on ballads and legends, James flipped until he found a section on fairy lore, then picked up his pen to jot more notes.
“‘Fairies and elves,’” James read aloud, “‘are interchangeable terms in the Highlands.’ Ah. So the elven sort are the fey sort. Right, then.” He scribbled that down.
The most formidable attribute of the elves, Sir Walter Scott had written, was their practice of carrying away, and exchanging, children; and that of stealing human souls from their bodies...the power of the fairies extended to full-grown persons, especially those found asleep under a rock or on a green hill belonging to the fairies...
“Good God, Sir Walter has succumbed to this nonsense too,” James muttered, shaking his head. He flipped pages, skimming the essay. A farmer, he next read, had gone out to wait for a procession of fairies, and then heard “the ringing of the fairy bridles, and the wild unearthly sound that accompanied the cavalcade.”
James sat up, finding that of interest, considering the fairy riding that Mrs. MacKimmie kept mentioning. He wanted to be sure to include these details in his grandmother’s book. Flipping pages, he came to the old Scottish ballad of Tam Lin. Tam had been lured by the irresistible charms of the queen of fairies; appearing to his true love, Janet, he asked her to meet him when the fairies rode in procession. Janet must grab him and hold fast no matter what so that he could be free.
Betwixt the hours of twelve and one
A north wind tore the bent
And straight she heard strange eldritch sounds
Upon that wind which went.
Outside, the wind and rain picked up fiercely, rattling the windows. He glanced up, hoping that Mrs. MacKimmie and the others traveled in safety, for they would be on their way by now. He took up a stack of handwritten pages from Lady Struan’s thick manuscript. More pages piled beside his right hand. To his left, stacks of books teetered on the desk, with some on the floor as well. He placed his own notes in with the manuscript pages.
Standing to fetch another book from a high shelf, stepping on an iron stool to reach it, he limped back to the desk. He moved around as much as possible without his cane. The thing was more useful for distances and handy on cold and rainy days, when the leg ached, as it had done for days now in this dreary weather. He settled in his chair to read again.
“Fairy rings...fairy phosphorous...now that might prove interesting,” he said.
The study walls were lined with books behind mesh-fronted shelves, and the small, cozy library beyond, with its horsehair sofa, wing chairs, and fireplace, was filled with even more books, most of them collected by his grandparents, though some had belonged to previous generations of the lairds of Struan. His great-grandfather had purchased the property in his middle years, having been elevated to a peerage for brave service in the military, so that James had become the third Viscount Struan. A shiny new title, as most went.
He picked up a sheaf of his grandmother’s book, the topmost of the handwritten pages with their curling edges and the smell of ink, years dry, lingering still. Her handwriting was small and certain, and every page was densely covered, some crisscrossed with sentences. There were at least six hundred pages, he had estimated. He had spent nearly a fortnight just reading Grandmother’s close, fine handwriting, or various books on fairy lore and social customs in Scotland. All the while, he had taken new notes of his own, so that the piled papers grew daily.
The scope of the thing was more than he had expected. Lady Struan’s writing was a scholarly study of Highland fairy lore. Some of it fascinated him, he had to admit. He had applied himself diligently to the work, taking little leisure time, though he had gone on a few walks to stretch his muscles and search for rocks to support his geological studies.
Now he rose and went to the window at the back of the house. Gazing at the vast, upward-sloping garden—expanded last year, he understood from MacKimmie, to include a grotto cut from a hill behind the house—he watched the rain.
Then he saw something moving high up on the slope.
For a moment, he thought of the fairy the maid had claimed to see. No doubt that had been just an illusion created by greenery, flowers, rocks, and mist. In rain and twilight, a shadow moved on the hill—
A girl? Wraith, ghost, human, or mist, someone was there.
He narrowed his eyes as he saw her again—definitely a girl. Dark hair, pale face. She looked toward the house, then disappeared behind wet shrubbery.
He frowned. Rain trickled in rivulets down the hillside. If someone was there, they might slip on the unstable hill, running with rivulets of rain and mud.
A flash of lightning showed the girl again. The grotto, completed a while before Lady Struan’s death, was supposedly a fairy portal, or so his grandmother had said in her manuscript notes. Whatever it was, just now it was a precipitous slope.
If someone was mucking about in the grotto in this torrent, he intended to stop them before disaster occurred. Turning, snatching up his cane, he marched out into the corridor. Osgar the wolfhound, who had been sleeping in the hallway outside the door, rose and loped after him.
Best hurry, Elspeth thought. Two carriages had left the house since she had entered the garden, but someone might still remain in the house. She had hoped the place would be empty, had thought the storm might hold off. She had been wrong on both counts. Now she could only hope Lord Struan himself was not at home.
The staff would be leaving to avoid the fairy riding, and she had thought she would be safe to explore the garden later. But with the poor weather, today had seemed a better time to look for her grandfather’s stone. In good weather, someone might come outside to the grotto.
She had told Mrs. Graham that she would stay with Margaret Lamont if the weather turned poorly. Elspeth was always happy to visit her friend Margaret and her husband and children, and often lent a hand in the process of combing, dyeing, spinning, and twisting the new wools. But she had impulsively decided to stop at Struan House first to look for Grandda’s stone. Now, in this rain, she regretted it.
Well, she thought, since she was here she may as well search. According t
o legend—and to Donal too—a fairy entrance, a portal into another realm, was hidden somewhere on this hill. Curious to know if Donal’s tales were true, she was wary of the rain and mud, not to mention the risk of lightning; she ought to leave.
For a moment, she wondered if the Daoine Síth had something to do with this weather. Tradition said the Fey had such power, and they would want to prevent anyone from finding the entrance to their land. Uneasy now, caught between belief and logic, Elspeth stood by the rock wall high on the hill and glanced around.
Originally, a cluster of rock had crested the slope, but the work of creating the grotto had changed the hill’s profile. Elspeth tried to remember where Donal had stood when he had visited this place years ago, disappearing into the fairy world, or so he later said. Where had she seen him set the stone as if it were a key?
Pulling up her plaid shawl against the slanting rain gave her a little protection, but she could do little about her gown, Spencer jacket, and leather boots, all soaked by now. She had to hurry, for she could not risk being discovered by someone in the great house. How could she explain that she had trespassed to search for a stone that she intended to steal away? Even though it belonged to her family and might be a key to the fairy world—it sounded pure madness. The late Lady Struan had been keenly interested in local lore and would have eagerly supported the search. But that kind lady was gone now. Others would not be so accepting.
More than once, Lady Struan had invited Donal and Elspeth to Struan House to talk about fairy legends. Donal had told her many of his stories, warning Lady Struan that certain tales could not be written down for fear of angering the fairies. The lady had been fascinated, promising to protect Donal’s stories if she could use some of what he said in her book.
Even the fairies had enough sense to stay out of such rain, Elspeth told herself, wiping a muddy hand across her brow. Shivering, she gathered her shawl closer, the long arisaid favored by Highland women, which covered her head to knee and protected her from the elements. But even that good wool was becoming soggy.
