Miss Seeton, sighing for her lack of talent, agreed that she believed it was, then blinked as the whole world seemed suddenly turned to purplish-green, and the castle shook to its very foundations. “Right on top of us, that one!” the earl exulted; then, a moment later: “Good God!”
A second thunderous rumble had shaken the floor, even as the first was still dying away, but there had been no lightning flash to herald it. And, as it rumbled on, it changed more to a clattering—not raindrops, not even hail, but—
“The tower!” Ranald dropped his glass of whisky and ran from the room. Liusaidh stared out through the rain. “The roof,” she gasped, looking where Ranald had looked, along to the farthest visible corner. “The portrait tower—it’s been struck by lightning!”
Indeed it had. The clatter was the sound of slates, tumbling from their broken rafters to the ground, and above the roar of the storm and the crack of timber came the grim jangling of splintered glass. “Oh,” moaned Liusaidh, as she clutched the baby to her breast, “if it catches fire . . .”
Marguerite, who until now had been a silent, interested spectator, uttered a little squawk at being so nearly smothered. Miss Seeton uttered her own little squeak of sympathy; and, as with a hasty “Hold her, please,” Lady Glenclachan thrust the baby into the arms of her startled guest to rush out after her husband, from all corners of the castle came other, louder cries as the alarm was raised. People shouted for buckets, and the hose; for axes, and the pump. Mrs. McScurrie’s shrill advice that she had called the fire brigade could just be heard above the slashing hiss of the rain as it pelted past the window and fell in a relentless waterfall from the gutterless roof to the ground . . .
And, as Miss Seeton watched and worried, from the top floor of the portrait tower flames began to flicker.
Next morning, only two persons in the whole of MacSporran Castle were to wake with nerves unshattered by the events of the night. Lady Marguerite, of course, had been too young to participate in any active way in the saving of her future inheritance—but everyone else had had a role to play, whether large or small.
Miss Seeton’s had been limited, on Liusaidh’s instructions, to taking care of the baby as she had done so well on previous occasions. “You’re our guest, Miss Seeton,” the countess had reminded her. “We can’t expect you to start running around with mops and tarpaulins . . .” She was careful to suggest no other reason—indeed, would have felt it foolish, if not an impertinence, to do so. Miss Seeton’s slight form and grey hair might indicate a person some years into retirement, but her physical agility and stamina would have shamed many half her age. Nevertheless, reasoned Lady Glenclachan, there were people in plenty at the castle capable of scrambling about in the fire brigade’s wake, putting things to rights, but Miss Seeton was one of the very few who could keep the baby quiet.
By the time that the fire (mercifully more or less under control before the engine, manned by village volunteers, arrived) had been extinguished, the tower checked for structural damage, and the portraits of past MacSporrans removed to a place of safety, it was so late in the evening as to be almost time for bed. Supper, a meal whose snatched nature brought tears of mortification to the eyes of Mrs. McScurrie, was served to all who had joined in the struggle to thwart the elements. Laird Ranald dispensed drams at triple measure to deserving clan members—which meant everybody there—thanking them in a broken voice for their loyal efforts. Blind Diarmid Pirr, the piper, roused from his cottage by all the commotion, composed a fitting lament, and played it to great approval.
And then, worn out by excitement, heroism, and physical exertion, everyone went home.
chapter
~21~
MEL FORBY, OBSERVING the rush from the bar when the summons to man the fire engine was given, spent an anxious hour or so wishing she’d weaselled her way up to the castle to make sure of Miss Seeton’s safety: but she was enough of a realist, reporter though she was, to know she would only have been in the way, far more of a hindrance than a help. With her physical limitations, she couldn’t even have carried a bucket to any useful purpose. In the normal way, a bolt of lightning and a fire would have had her struggling through the storm to get her story—but she was no longer able to think of the Glenclachans as ordinary headline material. If Thrudd ever found out how soft she was becoming . . .
But the events of the day had put paid, she thought, to any hope that the Jacobites would do anything of interest. She decided to wait for the return of the fire fighters, find out what she could, and telephone the castle if necessary—which it wasn’t. Hamish poured whisky, and smiled dryly as the quality of his Lairigigh was unfavourably compared to Ranald’s Rainbird; and Mel’s ears caught references to the “wee body caring for the bairn as good as any nurse” who, as further comments made plain, could only have been Miss Seeton. Relieved, and resolving to telephone her friend first thing in the morning, Mel went, like everyone else, to bed—where her slumbers, like those of almost everyone else, were disturbed by further rumbles of thunder, and another burst of heavy, battering rain.
Of all the inhabitants of the glen that night, only two enjoyed undisturbed sleep: the Lady Marguerite MacSporran (whose aristocratic thumb lulled her into oblivion and kept her there for the regulation eight hours) and Miss Emily Seeton, who, before climbing into her enchanting four-poster bed, had not omitted (despite the day’s excitement) to perform a single exercise of her yoga routine, and who therefore not only slept soundly, but was able to wake, fully refreshed, at seven o’clock in the morning.
Not a soul was stirring about the castle as Miss Seeton, having carried out the matutinal part of her programme, followed by her toilet, opened her bedroom door and peeked into the corridor. Really, it was not surprising—they must all be so very tired, after so much hard work—and, while one understood that the baby had to be cared for, one had felt rather . . . guilty might be considered self-indulgent, but certainly superfluous, when everyone else had been so busy—though the countess had been kind enough to say that one had been of use, but, though this was no doubt true, it had not been of such very physical use as the others . . .
In another’s house, Miss Seeton hesitated to enter the kitchen, though she longed for a cup of tea. But it was a lovely morning, after the storm, just the day for a walk in the hills, and another picnic—for which there was, surely, no need to trouble anyone at the castle. Had she not seen a fine assortment of snack foods in Mrs. Pictarnitie’s general stores? A bottle of orange squash, perhaps, which one could dilute with water from one of the burns, a packet of chocolate bisc—No, they would melt in the sunshine of what promised to be a warm day. But cheese straws, an apple or two—how fortunate that one did not have too large an appetite—a packet of plain digestive biscuits, which wouldn’t melt, a plastic beaker, if one could be bought. His lordship’s silver flask-top had been around the right size . . .
Miss Seeton collected her handbag, umbrella, binoculars, and sketchbook, scribbled a brief explanatory note which she left on the large oak chest in the hall, and drew back the bolts on the castle’s front door, iron-banded and heavy. With a creak, it swung slowly inwards, and Miss Seeton held her breath. Despite the assurances of Lord Glenclachan that the suits of armour, one on either side of the doorway, had stood there for generations, one couldn’t help wondering . . . But the arc of the opening door had clearly been calculated to within an inch by some long-ago MacSporran. The armour, be-speared and be-shielded (only had his lordship not told her that such shields were known as targes?) remained safe and shining in its appointed position.
She released her pent-up breath, and drew in another. Her nostrils were assailed by a strange, acrid smell, which she soon realised was that of water-soaked ashes warmed by the rising sun, wafted through the door by the brisk, though pleasant, morning breeze. Miss Seeton’s nose twitched; her eyes sparkled. Everything seemed set to make this a perfect day for a walk, and she started out with a joyful step.
She failed to notice
that the incoming breeze had caught up her careful note, whisking it from the top of the ancient chest down behind the back of the carved oak settle, where it was invisible to all but the most thorough search . . .
She would not, she decided, walk in the same direction she’d taken the other day. After all, she hadn’t found the gold mine, and she had found . . . well, she hadn’t found the gold mine. Not that one seriously expected to find . . . but it did no harm to amuse oneself with daydreams, and there was the possibility of a rare bird, at least—and the certainty of fine weather, for the sky was a vivid blue, without a single cloud. Halfway down the long castle drive, Miss Seeton turned to look back at the forlorn sight of the portrait turret’s tarpaulin-covered roof, and sighed. At least there seemed to be no further risk of rain . . .
As she neared the bottom of the drive, she remembered the Wolf Stone she had seen on her first night in Glenclachan, and went to take another look. Her eye was caught by an effect of light and shadow which hadn’t been there at that later hour, and she settled herself on the stone to capture as much as she could on paper. Here, she recalled his lordship as saying, the Glenclachan of his time had mustered the clan’s fighting men in support of Bonnie Prince Charlie, who had tried to take the throne on behalf of his father. Claymores and kilts and bagpipes, she supposed—no, not kilts, from what Miss Beigg had said, but belted plaids, whatever they might be. A most impressive sight, none the less, she felt sure . . .
And so, to her delight, they soon were: striding across her sketchbook, shoulder to shoulder, rank upon rank of brawny warriors, bright-eyed with conviction, ready to give their lives for the Jacobite cause. Mistakenly so, as she had gathered from his lordship and Miss Beigg, but courageously—gloriously—unforgettably. Two hundred and thirty years later, even Miss Emily Seeton, English spinster, could thrill to the symbol of the white cockade in the bonnets of the foremost rows of clansmen, blazing defiant loyalty to the Stuart crown . . . the crown which she hadn’t noticed herself drawing, but which had appeared, mysteriously, as the goal towards which the host was marching, a shining presence in the distant hills. Hills whose perspective made them seem much closer than common sense suggested they must be. Otherwise, she supposed (having puzzled over this for a while), it would not have been possible to make out so much of the detail in the crown. Such an unusual cross on the top . . . such, well, restraint in the number of jewels and their setting . . .
Miss Seeton sat so motionless in thought that a passing blackbird diverted from its course with a curious flick of its wings and alighted on the ground almost at her feet. With an upward flirt of its tail, it hopped a few steps, stopped, listened, and suddenly plunged its orange beak down through the moss to emerge with a worm wriggling frantically in its grasp. Miss Seeton blinked.
“Breakfast,” she said firmly. The blackbird nodded, and flew away. Miss Seeton collected her belongings together and continued her stroll down into the village.
When she pushed open the door of Jamesina Pictarnitie’s shop, it was to find more people there than she might have expected, at so early an hour. Or—she glanced at her watch—was it indeed so early? Days were long and nights were short in a Highland summer, she had been told, and no doubt everyone was accustomed to making the most of the extra hours before winter followed autumn, bringing shorter days and long, dark, chilly nights. Which, thankfully, were some months away.
“Good morning,” said Miss Seeton, as everyone stopped talking at her entrance. She smiled. They smiled back: was this not the shy wee soul who’d found the laird’s baby in a telephone box, and didn’t care to have a fuss made? They greeted her cheerfully and asked how things were at the castle after all the excitement: the excitement which had been the topic under discussion when Miss Seeton arrived.
“Very well, I believe, though tired, of course, with so very much to worry about during the night—his lordship’s ancestors, you see, except that they were removed early on, but it is only temporary, as I understand. And they are to come later today, I believe, to repair the turret roof properly—the builders. Because it can do such a great deal of damage, can it not? Lightning, that is.”
“Aye, so it can, and that’s a fact,” replied Mrs. Pictarnitie. “Though there’s damage and damage, of course,” which cryptic remark she followed with a chuckle, echoed by everyone else in the shop except Miss Seeton, who smiled politely. Jamesina added, as the general mirth died away, how true it was that every cloud had a silver lining. It helped to find it, of course, if you knew from which direction the cloud was to come—as Dougall McLintie no doubt agreed.
Everybody laughed again. Pete Reake, one of the loudest laughers added, sometimes turned up trumps, after all; there was Dougall, being paid twice over for doing the same job of work, all thanks to the weather . . .
Miss Seeton was by now looking so puzzled that Jamesina took pity on her. “The weather cock,” she explained. “Fair and square hit by a dagger of lightning last night, not ten minutes after your trouble up at the castle, and sent crashing to the ground in shivereens. ’Twas by a miracle naebody suffered hurt, for it’s a gey heavy weight. Dougall, the daftie, sees it as a judgement on him for the drink—though he’s not above charging to mend it, judgement or no.”
“And he’s all for putting it back thegither with north and south in their correct place,” said someone, as Jamesina drew breath. “But the minister, now, he’s for having it as it was, on account of people coming frae miles to see—and good for business, of course,” which had everyone laughing again. Really, thought Miss Seeton, one might almost be at home in dear Plummergen, for everyone was so friendly . . .
“And what other cause would people have to come to Glenclachan?” asked someone, with a wink for Miss Seeton. “Save the scenery, that’s to say, for you’re no gun, from the look of you—and besides, himself cancelled the shoot this year, on account of all the upset over the bairn.”
“If you’re wanting an attraction,” suggested Jamesina in some haste, sparing Miss Seeton’s blushes, “never forget there’s the creature.” A smile ran round the little shop. Miss Seeton’s interest quickened, and she nodded.
“The Loch Ness Monster,” she said, producing the broadest smiles so far. “Or rather—that is to say, although art is my subject and not geography, but I believe Loch Ness is rather a long way from here, is it not? If Glenclachan has its own monster, perhaps one could encourage visitors . . .” As the smiles grew broader, she turned slightly pink. “Or there is always, of course, the Best Kept Village Competition, if these are held in Scotland as they are in England. Plummergen,” she informed the shoppers with pride, “came second this year, and the results have been most gratifying—such a great many people, coming to admire, and of course we are all aware of our duty to share our good fortune. Mr. Treeves—our vicar, that is—has written with some eloquence on the subject in the parish magazine . . .”
Miss Seeton is incapable of telling an untruth. She had no knowledge, as she spoke, of Plummergen’s general belief that it had been the vicar’s sister Molly who originally penned those stirring lines which were copied by her dutiful brother and published over his name, but some vague memory of Martha Bloomer’s brisk remarks on the topic now tugged at her conscience. She allowed her words to tail away into silence.
“We’ll stick with the weather vane, I’m thinking,” Jamesina said, with another chuckle. “The shelter in the glen’s not sufficient for growing grand flowers so far north, even in summer—though it’s fine enough scenery, nae doubt of that. Will you be off on another walk this morning?”
Miss Seeton agreed that she would. As everybody was to be so very occupied today with builders and repairs, she explained, one felt it only courteous to remove one’s presence temporarily from the castle so that no one need feel obliged to entertain or otherwise worry about her. Craftsmen, she knew only too well from watching dear Mr. Eggleden the blacksmith at home, found it disconcerting in the extreme to have unskilled persons in the vicinity, maki
ng foolish remarks—not, of course, that she was suggesting for a moment that the earl or his wife would make foolish remarks, or even that she herself would be so, well, careless, she sincerely hoped—but it seemed to her far more sensible to leave them plenty of room this morning to manoeuvre, if that was the word she wanted. The builders, she meant.
“Very sensible,” approved Mrs. Pictarnitie, with a nod. “You’ll take good care, though, that it’s only for the morning you’ll be away? By the look of things, there’s another storm to come, and a wee body like you’d be drowned in no time if it’s half so bad as yesterday.”
The entire shop seconded this view, and Miss Seeton was pink with gratification at such kindly concern for the welfare of a stranger. She promised to be back at the castle well before lunch, and now would like to purchase some few small items for a picnic, or rather, of course, when Mrs. Pictarnitie had finished serving her other customers.
But the other customers insisted they were in no hurry; not a shopper in Jamesina’s little store but threw herself into the task of selecting a suitable picnic for the Sassenach lady who’d saved the laird’s baby, and Miss Seeton was on her way, with adequate provisions in her bag and a warm glow in her heart, before another ten minutes had elapsed.
She remembered to look for the broken weather vane as she passed the kirk, and saw someone she supposed to be Dougall McLintie, the smith, shaking his head over the wrought-iron wreckage at the foot of the clock tower.
Automatically, Miss Seeton noted the time. Rather later than she had thought, but still not too late for a pleasant walk, and perhaps a little exploration . . .
It did not occur to her to wonder why Dougall—if that shaker of so sorrowful a head was indeed Glenclachan’s answer to Daniel Eggelden—had been the first person of the male gender she had observed anywhere about the village that morning . . .
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 17
