‘It’s not your fault.’
‘No, but it is my dishonour to inherit.’
‘Not as far as I am concerned. You do realise this means you and I are brothers?’
Calumn’s brow cleared. ‘By all that’s sacred, so it does!’ He clasped Alasdhair’s hand. ‘I know I’m twenty-odd years too late, but welcome to the family, brother.’
Alasdhair laughed. ‘Better late than never.’
Ailsa awoke on the morning of her wedding to find that fate had provided them with a beautiful day. She would still have thought it beautiful even if the skies had opened and the rain pelted off the ground, for the sun seemed to shine straight out from her heart these days. Though under strict orders to keep to her room this morning, she was far too excited to stay in bed, so she wrapped a blanket around herself and perched on the window seat.
Outside, she could see the fishing fleet strung out on the seas beyond the Necklace like one giant fishing net. The shoals of herring had come to Errin Mhor’s waters. The silver darlings ran here for only a few weeks of the year, but when they came they were plentiful. Within the hour almost every woman from the surrounding villages would be down at Errin Mhor harbour, her fingers bound with strips of cotton, ready to gut and salt the catch as soon as it was landed. The precious harvest would then be packed in careful layers in wooden barrels, providing vital sustenance throughout next year’s long winter.
Out on the moors, the back-breaking task of peat cutting had already begun. In the big enclosed kitchen garden on the far side of the castle, they were getting ready to plant out the summer vegetables. Madeleine had been experimenting with some strange specimens she’d had sent over from her father’s farm in France, with no encouragement at all from Lady Munro, of course. The new orangery that Calumn had had built for her was filled with boxes of unfamiliar seedlings. Lambing was over and calving had begun, and soon enough the rush of early summer bairns would also be born. Another harvest, this time the product of the long autumn’s nights. It was a pattern so familiar that Ailsa thought of it as a huge round tapestry, like a wheel. The seasons, and Errin Mhor life with it, revolving slowly and inexorably.
‘And very, very soon, I’m going to a new world with a whole new round of seasons I know nothing of,’ she said to herself as she stared, unseeing now, out of the window. ‘Far across the ocean, a whole new beginning. With my husband, Alasdhair.’ A now familiar heat spread out from her belly at the thought of him. ‘My husband,’ she whispered again experimentally.
Her face softened into tenderness. Though the last six weeks had passed in a blur of activity, from preparing her trousseau and her bottom drawer, the all-important collection of things a bride must bring with her to the marriage, to organising the wedding feast and taking her leave of all her special places, the man in question had been forced to spend much of his time in Glasgow on business, though he had been to the kirk, as required, on the three Sundays when their banns had been called. ‘It makes it easier to keep my hands off you before the wedding,’ Alasdhair had whispered the last time he’d set off for the south, but Ailsa found it a poor consolation. She ached for his touch. Much as she longed for the ceremony and looked forward to the celebrations, she could think of little else but this, their first lovemaking as man and wife.
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Ailsa’s breakfast. Madeleine and Lady Munro, now formed into a most unlikely alliance, were conspiring to keep her appearance secret until the moment she left for church. Guests had been arriving from near and far for days now. Morna Ross had graciously accepted the invitation to attend her son’s nuptials, but had declined the offer of a room at the castle, preferring instead to stay with the Sinclairs where she and her old friend Mhairi spent many happy hours reminiscing about the old days and catching up on the latest gossip. The castle was overflowing with visitors, including friends and acquaintances of Lady Munro from her childhood, of whom neither Calumn nor Ailsa had even been aware. Her daughter’s wedding, a long-overdue visit to a frankly astonished Rory and his family on Heronsay, and the imminent arrival of her second son’s first-born had given Christina Munro a new lease of life. It would be something of an exaggeration to say that she had become light-hearted, but a smile had been sighted on at least five occasions, and once she had laughed, quite startling all those present. She was softening, mellowing, Ailsa thought in astonishment, as she realised that her mother was not about to fidget with her hair, but was actually kissing her cheek. She was blurring at the edges, like an icicle caught in the first rays of the spring sunshine.
As the morning progressed, Ailsa bathed and washed her hair and tried to relax. But the clatter of a constant stream of people going up and down the stairs, doors banging, the scraping of heavy furniture being moved about, and over it all the continual muffled noise of people talking and laughing, made her desperate for the ceremony to begin. The clock seemed to tick more and more slowly, seconds becoming minutes, minutes stretching into hours. As she finally began to dress, she felt as if she’d been waiting a lifetime in her room for this moment. Her wedding to the man she loved.
Madeleine and her mother helped her with the final preparations. Her dress was silver and blue, the colours of constancy, a striped open robe worn over a sky-blue silk petticoat. Her stockings were tied with silver ribbons, her hair dressed with silver pins, and a silver coin placed in her left shoe, after she carefully put her right shoe on first. Though she was not usually superstitious or one for following tradition so slavishly, she wanted nothing to go wrong, nothing to be left to chance, even allowing her mother to drape the mirror in her room, lest she catch sight of her own reflection. Pearls were for tears, and so were considered unlucky, but as she was preparing to leave, her mother produced the most delicate gold locket and fastened it around her neck.
‘It belonged to my own mother,’ she explained. ‘I wore it myself on my first wedding day, to Rory’s father, but not on my second.’ She gave Ailsa another unprecedented peck on the cheek and went so far as to hug her. ‘My first marriage was a happy one. I know yours is going to be, too.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’ Ailsa fingered the gift, touched beyond words.
‘And this is from Calumn and me,’ Madeleine said, fastening a bracelet around her wrist. ‘The sapphires are for the sea, and the little diamonds are for the sand, so you never forget Errin Mhor and your family here.’
‘I’m going to miss you, all of you.’
‘You’ll be far too busy with your exciting new life to be worrying about us. Anyway, I’ve got plenty to occupy me here. There’s Rory and his family to get to know and Maddie here is about to provide me with a new grandchild.’ She smiled benignly at her daughter-in-law. ‘Now, no crying on your wedding day,’ Lady Munro said, hurriedly dabbing at Ailsa’s eyes. ‘Stand there now, let us look at you. Aye, you’ll do well,’ she said, nodding crisply, but Ailsa could not help noticing her mother dabbing surreptitiously at her own eyes too.
The two women left her to descend the staircase on her own. She paused at the top, looking down into the great hall that had been transformed by swathes of bunting and spring flowers. Calumn awaited her at the foot of the stairs, in full ceremonial Highland dress, ready for the short walk to the kirk where everyone else awaited them. She took his arm, grateful for his solid presence, for her legs were beginning to feel decidedly shaky, her heart was a-flutter and she could think of nothing except that in a few short moments she would be there. Alasdhair would be there, too, and they would be joined for ever as man and wife. A new entity made of two separate people.
Later, she would have no recollection of the walk, a journey she had made thousands of times. The doors of the kirk were open wide. Those who arrived too late for a seat inside clustered round the gate, lining the path, crowded around the entrance-way, smiling and shouting good luck wishes, but their faces were a blur.
‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ Calumn said to her gently. She smiled with such certaint
y that he laughed and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m duty-bound to ask, but I recognise that look. You’re sure,’ he said and gave her his arm.
‘How do I look?’ Ailsa asked nervously.
‘You look radiant, Sister, and I am the proudest man in Scotland to be giving you away. Alasdhair is the luckiest man alive.’ He squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Come, now, let’s get you wed.’ With that, they walked slowly into the church.
Ailsa had eyes only for one person. It was always the same, as far as she was concerned, if Alasdhair was there, he was the only one present. And he was there, waiting for her exactly as he had promised he would be. He wore a touchingly anxious expression. She took a deep breath and walked with graceful confidence towards him, her eyes locked on his, her mouth hovering on the cusp of a smile—for it would not do to smile too openly on such a solemn occasion.
Like Calumn, Alasdhair wore full formal Highland dress. His plaid had been woven especially by Mhairi Sinclair. The buckle at his waist bore the Ross arms, made for him by Hamish. His coat was of dark blue cloth, short and fitting tightly across the breadth of his chest, the width of his shoulders. His filleadh mòr was fastened with an ornate pin made of silver topped with a large sapphire, a tiny version of which was nestled in his necktie. His hair was neatly tied back.
His face, his beloved face, softened into the most tender of expressions as she made this, her final journey as Ailsa Munro. Alasdhair took her hand when she arrived at his side, pressing a tiny kiss to her palm, pulling her as close into the solid shelter of his side as decency would allow.
They said their vows not to the minister, but to each other. In truth, he almost felt superfluous to the occasion, and in truth he was rather shocked at the kiss that followed the conclusion of the ceremony. A simple peck on the check was the custom. A touching of the lips was just about permissible. But what he witnessed—well, he could only be relieved that the cheering and stamping of the congregation finally reminded the two of them of where they were.
Later, it would be said that no one had ever said their vows so earnestly, though there were some who felt that Ailsa should have shown more maidenly hesitation. Later, it would be said that never had such a bonny couple graced the kirk at Errin Mhor—a statement much disputed by those who had attended the wedding of Calumn and Madeleine. Later, it was rumoured that Lady Munro shed a tear, though that was never proved conclusively. But none disagreed on the touching charm of the occasion, and all agreed vehemently there was no doubting the radiant love that seemed to emanate from the happy couple.
The formal ceremony over, everyone save the happy couple were very much focused on beginning the festivities back at Errin Mhor castle as soon as decorum would allow. Calumn threw the shoe, symbolising the passing of responsibility from himself to the groom. Everyone cheered and clapped, and Ailsa and Alasdhair led a long and extremely noisy procession back to the castle where they presided at the top table over endless toasts to their health, wealth and happiness, holding hands under the table and feeling guilty for wishing to be left alone.
‘I recognise that look,’ Jessica McLeod, Rory’s wife, whispered to Madeleine, nodding in Ailsa’s direction.
Madeleine giggled. ‘Me, too. Guilt at wanting to escape from your own wedding party. I remember. How long do you think it will be before they sneak away?’
‘As you did,’ Jessica teased.
Madeleine blushed. ‘I thought no one noticed.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Rory and I did the same thing ourselves.’ She nodded at Lady Munro, keeping an eagle eye on her daughter. ‘If we could just distract our dear mother-in-law, we’d be doing Ailsa a very big favour.’
‘Teenie!’ A rasping voice was heard above the mêlée.
‘Mon Dieu! That is Angus McAngus,’ Madeleine exclaimed, spotting the distinctive tangle of faded red hair across the room. ‘I have not seen him since before I was married. I remember now, he told me he used to have a tendre for Lady Munro before she married Calumn’s father.’
The two women inched forwards, eager to see what their stiff-necked mother-in-law would make of the man being presented to her. Angus McAngus was a typical Gael, short and lean, the top of his head falling some inches short of Lady Munro’s height. His hair was a rusty colour, streaked with grey, but it was obvious to Madeleine that he had made an effort on Lady Munro’s behalf, for though it still resembled a bird’s nest, it was a combed one, and his straggly beard had been trimmed. With a claymore by the look of it, but trimmed none the less.
‘Christina,’ he was saying with a roguish smile, ‘you’ve no’ changed a bit. Still as bonny a lass as I’ve seen in many a year, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’
Lady Munro bowed stiffly. ‘Laird.’
‘Away now, it was always Gussie to you, as you were aye Teenie to me.’
Madeleine and Jessica exchanged looks, their eyes dancing.
‘I have not been referred to as Teenie for many years,’ Lady Munro said in her best cut-glass voice.
Anyone else would have dropped her hand and made his excuses, but McAngus, it would seem, was made of sterner stuff. ‘That’s because you’ve no’ met anyone else to replace my special place in your heart,’ he chortled. ‘Aye, Teenie, ‘tis a long road we’ve travelled apart, but destiny has brought you to me, widowed and free at last. I’ll no’ mince my words. I’m a lonely man with a cold bed for you to warm. What do you say?’
‘If that is a proposal, Angus McAngus,’ Lady Munro said, her voice now as chill as the January gales, ‘the answer is categorically no.’
‘Come now, Teenie, ye’ve no’ thought it through.
That laddie of yours is going to be filling the place wi’ weans soon enough, and before you know it, ye’ll be turned into an old crone of a grandmother wi’ no life of your own. I ken for a fact that man o’ yours was a cold bugger—God rest his soul. What you need is a bit of a life of your own.’
‘Nonsense. I am far too old to be thinking of marriage. As you are, Angus.’
McAngus chortled. ‘You’re in the prime of life, Teenie, and as for me—well, you know the old saying.’ The old laird patted his sporran with a leer. ‘The older the stag, the harder the horn.’
Jessica managed to stifle the shocked laugh that rose in her throat, but Madeleine did not, though she made a paltry attempt to turn her giggles into a fit of coughing. Her husband muffled her mouth with his hand, and the familiar warmth of his palm on her lips had the effect of distracting her completely from the tableau playing out before them. In fact, she would have happily taken advantage of Lady Munro’s preoccupation to drag her husband up to their rooms, for she never could resist him in his plaid, and they had not been alone for what seemed like days, what with the wedding preparations and …
But Calumn resisted her tugging at his sleeve. ‘Later. We can’t all disappear, and much as I would love to, my sweet, I think it’s only fair that we let Alasdhair and Ailsa have first call. It is their wedding day, after all.’
Even as he spoke, Madeleine noticed that the couple were making good their escape, heading through a side door unnoticed by their celebrating guests. ‘Remember our own wedding night,’ she whispered, standing on tiptoe to reach her husband’s ear.
His arm curled around her, and he rested his hand on the swell of her belly. ‘I love you, Madeleine Munro.’
‘I love you too, my lord,’ Madeleine replied with an answering gleam.
‘Maybe we could just …’
But at that moment, the resounding slap of Lady Munro’s open palm making contact with Angus McAngus’s cheek made them look round. There was a shocked silence, then McAngus laughed. ‘I’ve a mind to take your mother off your hands,’ he shouted over at Calumn with a lascivious wink, ‘auld leather makes a fine saddle.’
They had opted to spend their wedding night in the relative privacy of a cottage out by the stables that Calumn was having refurbished for Madeleine’s new French head gardener, not yet arrived from her native Brittan
y. It was a simple affair, two rooms separated by a wooden partition, but Calumn had had a fireplace installed, and the two small windows glazed. The fire was lit when they arrived, and an oil lamp was burning in one of the windows. Madeleine’s work, Ailsa guessed. She had caught her sister-in-law’s conspiratorial wink as she and Alasdhair left the great hall.
Ailsa was nervous. Turning to her husband for reassurance she was suddenly lifted off her feet, and carried, laughing, over the threshold. Alasdhair kicked the door shut and headed straight for the bedroom. The lamp and the firelight cast a warm glow. Flowers were everywhere. Madeleine must have scoured the entire reaches of Errin Mhor to find such quantities. Even the covers of the bed where Alasdhair set her down were strewn with petals. She had no doubt that underneath would be a twig of willow, traditionally used to bestow fertility. She had already been presented with the pot of salt and the moppet doll by the women of the village, Shona MacBrayne at their head, that signified the same thing.
She watched from the bed as Alasdhair unfastened the pin that held his filleadh mòr in place and divested himself of his boots and hose. Such domestic actions, but so incredibly intimate. He was her husband. She was his wife. She couldn’t quite believe it. He looked over at her and smiled, the smile that made his eyes turn smoky and made her insides turn to jelly.
‘I love you, Ailsa Ross,’ he said, joining her on the bed.
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