The Highlander's Return

by Marguerite Kaye

  Except there was the passion that had flared between them yesterday. But it was an old flame, merely, fuelled by loss and memory. Ailsa was a beautiful woman. Of course he desired her. Any man would.

  It signified nothing. Nothing at all. So Alasdhair reminded himself as he strode out towards Errin Mhor castle on that dull grey morning to attend the Rescinding.

  The ceremony was to take place in the great hall, a huge room, stone-flagged, with a hammer-beam ceiling and a massive stairway at the far end that ran up towards a gallery. The long table, set in front of the fireplace that took up most of one wall, was piled high with food and drink. As he took in the scene, Alasdhair felt slightly nauseous. It was not just the memory of that last confrontation with the laird, but the memories of all the other times. He could see the ghosts of himself, the lost boy, the rebellious one, the callow youth, and the angry young man, all of them hauntingly present, tauntingly real. The ghosts he’d come to exorcise. He hadn’t realised there were so many of them.

  Calumn was sitting on the high carved chair that was only used for formal occasions. Beside him, on the right, and much more comfortably seated, banked by cushions, was a petite blonde female, heavily pregnant and with the exotic look of a sea nymph. This must be Madeleine, his wife and, judging by the way she was looking at his friend, clearly very much in love with him. Lady Munro stood at Calumn’s left-hand side. Ailsa presided over the table. She stood as he entered the room, made as if to come forwards to greet him, caught her brother’s eye and sat back down again.

  Various tenants formed a line in front of Calumn. Alasdhair recognised some, including Hamish Sinclair, the smiddy and the old laird’s champion. It had been Hamish who had been forced to see him off the lands. Poor Hamish, it was a duty he would rather not have been forced to carry out, especially when Alasdhair had insisted they wait until the last possible moment in the vain hope that Ailsa might still show up.

  ‘Please Alasdhair, we must go, lad,’ Hamish had entreated him not once, but several times. ‘The laird will have my guts for garters if we tarry any more.’

  ‘Just five minutes more, Hamish,’ Alasdhair remembered replying each time, little knowing that five years more wouldn’t have made any difference.

  Proceedings for the Rescinding had not yet begun. As the villagers took note of Alasdhair’s tall form standing like an avenging angel on the edge of the room, the low hum of conversation ceased, silence fell and all eyes turned towards him. There was not a soul who did not know his identity, for his presence at the graveyard the day before had been much discussed in his subsequent absence from the wake. As he strode across the room, the villagers fell back from the laird’s chair to give him precedence.

  ‘My Lord Munro.’ Alasdhair took off his hat and made a low, elegant bow.

  Calumn, in a mark of respect, rose from the chair to return the bow. ‘Mr Ross.’

  ‘I am come to demand the lifting of my banishment.’

  A shocked murmur came from the onlookers. Tradition for the Rescinding was for the petitioner to beg forgiveness and the laird to grant absolution, but Alasdhair, now standing straight and proud, meeting the new laird’s eyes boldly, showed no signs at all of penitence.

  Calumn pushed his hair from his brow, and approached his friend, looking slightly discomfited. ‘Alasdhair, there is a form to this,’ he said quietly. ‘You must apologise first before I can perform the act of rescinding.’

  ‘It was your father who gave offence,’ Alasdhair replied. ‘Your father and one other,’ he said, eyeing Lady Munro balefully.

  Calumn sighed heavily. ‘If you would say a few token words, you don’t have to mean them, then maybe …’

  Alasdhair shook his head stubbornly. ‘I don’t want your forgiveness. The only thing I want from you is a formal lifting of my banishment and an acknowledgement that it was a mistake.’

  ‘Alasdhair, you must realise I need to uphold tradition. I must be seen to respect the ancient ways.’

  ‘Calumn, we were friends once, good friends. Do you trust me?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘I did defy your father, I admit it, but the punishment far outweighed the crime. I give you my word of honour that it was completely undeserved.’

  ‘You don’t make it easy for me, you know. You’re as stubborn as you ever were.’ Calumn ran his fingers through his hair, frowning hard, but eventually he nodded. ‘Very well, we’ll do it your way. I hope you mean to stay with us for a few days—you owe me that much for making me break all the rules on this, my first day as laird.’

  Alasdhair grinned. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  Calumn put his arm round Alasdhair’s shoulder and turned to face the audience. He raised his hand for silence, but he had no need. The two made a striking pair, the one so dark, the other so fair. ‘Yesterday we mourned the passing of my father. He is buried now, and with him, as is the custom, all of his past grievances. As most of you are aware, this is Alasdhair Ross, son of Alec, who has been wrongly exiled, unjustly banished, and from whom, on behalf of my family, I beg pardon.’

  Hearing his friend’s words, the generous terms of his acceptance and the whole-hearted acceptance of his integrity, only then did Alasdhair realise how much it meant to him. A weight he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying rolled off his shoulders. He bowed before Calumn and, as was the custom, kissed the ring that bore the Munro seal. ‘Thank you. With all my heart, I accept your apology, Laird.’

  ‘Alasdhair Ross, I now proclaim your exile at an end. Welcome back to Errin Mhor.’

  There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the onlookers. In the months since his return, Calumn had made an excellent impression on his people and his neighbours. If the new laird wished to break tradition, they were only too happy to concur.

  As Calumn made his way back to the laird’s chair to resume the formal Rescinding, Alasdhair was surrounded. The welcome was repeated and questions were flung at Alasdhair from all sides, most concerning his absence and obvious success, some—which he ignored—more persistent about the circumstances of his departure. Astonishment and admiration, envy and respect, pleasure and a little skepticism—all were expressed. That the son of a factor from Errin Mhor could now be a rich merchant, with land that outstripped the laird’s and his own fleet of ships, too—no one could really believe it. And though some, such as Hamish Sinclair, claimed they had always believed Alasdhair would go far, and others minded well that he was never shy of hard work, still it was difficult to believe that this sophisticated man of the world in his velvet suit and polished boots and feathered hat was Alasdhair Ross, son of Factor Ross and his runaway wife. Not that anyone dared remind Alasdhair of that. Not to his face, at any road.

  In the centre of it all, Alasdhair felt strangely detached. It was a good feeling, right enough, to be vindicated. It meant something, but not as much as he’d thought it would. Though he continued to nod and smile and talk and joke, what he really wanted was to escape.

  As soon as the Rescinding was over, Calumn pushed his way through the crowd. ‘Alasdhair, if you’ve had enough of catching up for the moment, I’d like to introduce you to my wife.’ He led the way over to the table, where the pretty blond woman was now seated. ‘This is Madeleine, who has given up her native Brittany in the name of cementing the auld alliance we Scots have with the French,’ Calumn said with a tender smile at his wife.

  Unexpectedly touched by his friend’s obvious love for the charming Frenchwoman, Alasdhair bowed with a flourish of his hat. ‘Enchanté, madame. Calumn is a lucky man.’

  Madeleine beamed, showing a pair of dimples. ‘Bienvenue, Monsieur Ross, it is a pleasure to meet such an old friend of my husband’s. He tells me you are one of the few men as able as he with a broadsword.’

  ‘I think your husband has been misleading you,’ Alasdhair replied, raising a quizzical eyebrow at his friend, ‘I don’t recall a single occasion when Calumn bested me in a challenge with the claymore.’

 
; Madeleine cast her husband an impish look. ‘You must forgive him, Monsieur Ross, it is in the nature of a husband to boast to his wife.’

  ‘Aye, and it’s supposed to be in the nature of a wife to accept what he says without question,’ Calumn said with a grin.

  ‘Oh, but I do, mon chère, only it would be rude to say to our guest that I don’t believe him,’ Madeleine replied contritely, making both men laugh.

  Seeing them together, Alasdhair had no difficulty at all understanding why Calumn was so contented. A starker contrast between Lady Munro’s austere beauty and the frankly sensual bundle who was her successor could not be found. At the head of the table, having taken over from Ailsa to preside regally over the meats and cheeses, bread and wine, the new dowager sat with a face set in an expression of frozen disapproval.

  ‘Where is your brother, Rory?’ Alasdhair asked Calumn, ‘I saw him at the graveside yesterday, I think. I assume it was him since I almost took him for you, the resemblance was so striking. I am anxious to finally make his acquaintance.’

  ‘He left immediately after the funeral to return to Heronsay.’

  ‘He and your mother are not reconciled, then?’

  ‘When he’s here she can hardly bring herself to look at him. I sometimes wonder if it is guilt that makes her so.’

  ‘In order to feel guilt she would need to have a conscience and a heart. I have seen little evidence of either.’

  ‘Nor are you like to, I’m afraid. Come, we might as well get the formalities over.’

  Lady Munro’s expression seemed to gain an extra layer of ice as she watched her son ushering his guest towards her chair.

  ‘Mother, you remember Alasdhair Ross.’

  ‘I do, though I would rather not.’ Lady Munro did not rise.

  ‘Mother, you will be hospitable and welcome him into our home.’

  ‘I will not,’ Lady Munro said in a low voice. ‘Your father banished him. Alasdhair Ross is dead to me.’

  ‘No, Mother,’ Calumn continued implacably, his arm on hers, forcing her to her feet, ‘it is my father who is dead. You will do well to remember that I am the laird now. It is I who dictate who is, and who is not, welcome in my home or upon my lands.’

  Calumn’s mother cast him a bitter look, but after a tense moment she deigned to give Alasdhair a nod. ‘Mr Ross.’ As if her contempt was not clear enough, Lady Munro made no curtsy.

  Alasdhair, on the other hand, swept the widow a deep bow. ‘Lady Munro. As warm and welcoming as ever, I see.’

  Lady Munro looked through him. Her very determined indifference made him furious, equally determined to raise some sort of reaction from her, but even as the taunt formed in his mind, he caught Ailsa’s frowning look and remembered her warning. She was right. Much as it went against the grain, she was right. He would not afford Lady Munro another opportunity to anger him again, nor would he allow her to see he was angered. ‘A toast is in order, I think,’ he said, turning to Calumn.

  ‘One of Errin Mhor’s finest vintages.’ Calumn filled the glasses from a dusty whisky bottle that had obviously lain many years in the dungeons.

  ‘To old friendships and new,’ Alasdhair said to Calumn and Madeleine, ‘and to old enemies, too,’ he said, turning to Lady Munro, ‘may they find a suitable resting place.’

  ‘To the return of the prodigal,’ Calumn said with a smile.

  ‘The return of the prodigal,’ they all said in unison, raising their glasses. With the exception of Lady Munro, that is, who said nothing. Her hands remained clasped tight together on her lap. The pain from her nails, digging into her palms, was a sweet relief.

  Later that day, in search of solitude after the drama of the morning, Alasdhair made his way to the churchyard, where his father was buried in the small cemetery that adjoined the kirk. Kneeling on the ground, he traced the fading name on the large stone with his fingertips and lost himself in the meagre memories of the gentle man whom loss had destroyed.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here.’

  He had been kneeling there for so long his knees were stiff, so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed Ailsa approaching. Alasdhair got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his breeches. ‘I was paying my respects.’

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  ‘No, I was done.’

  ‘You were very young when he died.’

  ‘Old enough to know he’d gone.’

  ‘Only a few weeks after your mother—left,’ Ailsa said awkwardly, ‘you must have felt as if they’d abandoned you.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘And he?’ she asked after some hesitation, for she had heard the rumours.

  ‘I don’t believe he took his own life, if that’s what you mean,’ Alasdhair said harshly. ‘It would be more accurate to say he died of a broken heart, for that is what happened. It was my mother’s fault—if anyone’s to blame for his death, it is she. Her, and the man she ran off with.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  Alasdhair shrugged. ‘No one seems to know. She kept her sordid little affair secret.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder about what became of her?’

  ‘Why do you ask? You never have before.’

  ‘I don’t know. Thinking about my own mother after what you told me yesterday, I suppose. Why did she lie to me like that? I can’t think of any reason except that she must really hate me.’

  ‘I felt my mother must hate me too, the way she just disappeared. Not one word to anyone, not even to Mhairi Sinclair, Hamish’s wife, and they were old friends. I asked her, several times, but she always claimed to be as much in the dark as me.’

  ‘Are you thinking of trying to trace her? Is that why you’ve come home?’

  ‘No, I’ve no wish to see her. She made her choice and has never made any attempt to contact me, so, no, I have no wish to see her, she is not part of my life now.’

  ‘But?’

  Alasdhair laughed bitterly. ‘Like you, I want to know why.’ He shook out his coat skirts and started to make his way back to the cemetery gate. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘I came looking for you. I couldn’t get near you this morning, with everyone so keen to hear all about your life across the sea.’

  ‘The return of the prodigal,’ Alasdhair said with a wry smile. ‘I hope Calumn knows there’s no need to slay the fatted calf. I’m glad you’re here. Will you walk with me and we can catch up properly? We might not get the chance again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ailsa said gratefully, ‘that’s exactly what I’d like.’

  Errin Mhor village was a cluster of whitewashed thatched cottages facing out to the long strand of golden sands that bordered the sea, each with a strip of cultivated land at the back, reaching towards the hills. The kirk where they stood was at one end, at the other the inn, the smiddy and the harbour that formed a secure arm in which a number of little fishing boats lolled drunkenly on their sides, for it was low tide. They made their way across the tough grass that formed the border with the beach and walked along the hard sands at the water’s edge.

  ‘Tell me about Virginia,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘You must have heard more than enough from the interrogation I was subjected to this morning.’

  She laughed. ‘Enough to know that you’re as rich as the king and have three, twenty, a hundred times more land than Calumn, depending on who you talk to. I want to know what it’s like, not what you own. I want to be able to picture you there. Tell me what’s different about it from Errin Mhor.’

  ‘Well, in the summer the light is often hazy. It’s hot, but it’s damp, as if the sun is raining, and everything looks as if the colour is bleeding out of it. The earth smells rich, a sweet smell, like a clootie dumpling, and it gets sweeter as the tobacco ripens.’

  ‘What does Virginia look like?’

  He described it to her, and when she pressed him for more information he gave her that too, allowing her enthusiasm, and the wry sense of humour she’d always had, to lead him into talking fa
r more about himself than he ever usually did. Eventually, he turned the conversation to the recent Rebellion.

  Ailsa cared not for the cause, but having had a brother on each side, felt its effects deeply. ‘I think our life here is going to change for ever because of Charles Edward,’ she said sadly. From what she had not said, Alasdhair was forced to agree.

  They walked on. They talked, they laughed, then grew sombre, then laughed again, at ease in one another’s company for the most part, as they had always been. At times they grew silent: tense, awkward moments when they threw each other sideways glances. As she walked at his side, Ailsa’s skirts brushed against Alasdhair’s legs. Their hands touched. Awareness flickered like the stars in the dusk, there and then gone, then there again.

  Eventually, they sat down in the dunes, taking shelter from the wind. In front of them the sea glittered turquoise and green. Above, the sun glinted, peeking in and out of the puffy clouds. The air was cold and fresh, sharp with the snow which held to the peaks higher up, smelling of peat smoke and mud, of salt and pine. The breeze whipped the waves on to the shore with a soothing slap, slap, slap. A cormorant dived for a fish, emerging triumphantly an impossibly long time later, a flash of silver in its beak signalling success.

  Ailsa dug her hands into the sand, allowing the grains to trickle through her fingers. ‘Why did you approach my father without even consulting me?’ she asked abruptly.