Through the Mist: Restoration

by C. Renee Freeman

  He looked flustered. “Oh, beg your pardon, ladies,” he said. “I have forgotten my manners. My name is Robert Douglas. My wife is Emma Douglas. We own the inn down the way.”

  “What a coincidence!” Beth said as she parked the car in the empty lot. “We are staying there. Your wife has taken excellent care of us.”

  Mr. Douglas seemed pleased by her remarks. He leaned toward them and whispered conspiratorially, “Would you ladies like a personal tour of the castle, including all the good areas that guests are not supposed to see?”

  “Absolutely!” they exclaimed in unison.

  ∞

  The car park was located in a paved area beside the castle. As they exited the car, Mr. Douglas pointed to the heavy, wrought iron awning that extended from the building. “This is not the original entrance,” he informed them. “Around 1900, they added the awning and cleared the space so carriages could pull right up to it. The ladies were tired of getting wet in the rain, ye ken.”

  He bade them to follow him to the front of the castle where a large, circular drive swept toward the stone steps of the original entrance. “You ladies entered the estate from a road we use to maintain the property.” He waved his hand toward the tree-lined drive in front of them. “This is the actual entrance. It was built to impress visitors as much in the 1600s as it does today.”

  “From this vantage point, the castle seems even grander,” Tilly said. The left and right sides of the building jutted forward, drawing one’s eye toward the recessed center section where thick wooden doors formed the entrance. The face of the building was covered with windows. The architect obviously intended to dispel any gloom inside with light from outside.

  Turning to Beth, she whispered, “This building was someone’s home. It looks nothing like any home where we’ve ever lived.” Her friend nodded, equally awestruck.

  In the center section, just above the second floor, Tilly noticed “Fion 1645” chiseled into the stone. On each side, the mason added a carving of a hairy boar with fearsome tusks. Underneath each boar, a Latin inscription read Ne obliviscaris.

  Noticing her puzzled look, Mr. Douglas pointed to the words. “It is the Campbell motto. It means ‘Do Not Forget.’ And, the boars are part of the Clan’s crest.”

  He slowly climbed the worn steps. “The doors are made out of timber from our own forest,” he said, tugging open one of them. “You will see many original items, for the family take great pride in preserving this place.”

  The ladies gasped upon entering the castle. Massive white marble pillars rose on either side of them, set in a gleaming parquet floor. Looking up, they saw a barrel-shaped ceiling of dark wood. In front of them, a sweeping, mahogany staircase wide enough to accommodate ten people bisected the foyer and led to the second floor. On the right, they saw an antique clock. It featured a hand-carved woodland scene and resembled a large tree trunk. Their eyes bounced from object to object. Unaccustomed to such grandeur, Beth and Tilly could only stand there with their mouths agape.

  “In the old days, the main floor was reserved for family use,” he said. He guided them to a room on the left. “The Campbells have restored a few rooms for the public to view. This is the first.”

  They strode into what they discovered was the family dining room. While it may have been reserved for personal gatherings, it was very opulent. White marble fireplaces stood on each side of the room. A rectangular wood table that could easily accommodate twelve people had been placed in the center. Ancestors stared disapprovingly from the ornate, gold-framed portraits that covered the walls.

  Beth whipped out her camera and snapped several pictures, even though a sign politely asked that guests refrain from it. Mr. Douglas did not stop her. He seemed to be pleased by her eagerness.

  “If you will follow me, we shall visit what you Yankees call the laird’s chambers,” he said, holding open the door for them. “He would not have been called the laird in his time, though.”

  “Wasn’t the clan system destroyed after the ’45?” Beth asked. She winked at Tilly, who smiled in return. Beth’s minor in college was history, though Tilly often thought it should have been her major. She was so passionate about the subject.

  “I see the lady knows something about Scottish history,” Mr. Douglas said approvingly. “The Act of Proscription effectively eliminated the clan way of life. Malcolm Campbell would not have dared for anyone to call him a ‘laird,’ but I know the term carries a certain romantic association with you Yankees.”

  Tilly lightly touched the man on the arm. “Sir, you should know that calling a native of the southern United States a ‘Yankee’ can be offensive to some people,” she said. “It would be similar to telling a Scot that he is English.”

  “Oh, I did not know!” he exclaimed in horror. “Please accept my sincerest apology.” Shaking his head, he mumbled, “No wonder that couple from Alabama seemed so angry last year….”

  The ladies chuckled.

  They walked to the end of the hallway and stopped outside a room with a tall set of oak doors. The same crest they saw on the exterior of the castle was carved into the wood. “The chamber was last used in the 1800s by Malcolm Campbell,” he said in hushed tones. “His heirs have never used the rooms.”

  “Why?” Beth asked.

  “His son Benjamin felt his father represented the old ways. I suppose all heirs who followed must have agreed.” He pushed open the doors to reveal a small, windowless room. A rather ordinary fireplace sat to the right, with two chairs beside it.

  Beth raised an eyebrow and glanced at Tilly. “Perhaps Malcolm Campbell’s heirs were wise to eschew the austere accommodations,” she murmured.

  Mr. Douglas overheard her comment. “Oh, lasses, do not despair,” he said, grinning. “This is merely the antechamber. Mr. Campbell believed in making it difficult to reach him. He would have posted guards here in times of trouble.”

  They walked through a doorway at the left and entered a study. The shelves along the walls were filled with old books and ledgers. An oak desk sat near the fireplace. “He would have conducted all of the estate’s business in this room,” their guide noted.

  The next room was a private receiving room. It was very masculine with its brown leather wallpaper, deep navy rug, and burgundy velvet chairs. Heavy, green curtains hung over the sole window in the room, allowing only a tiny sliver of light to pierce the darkness.

  They followed Mr. Douglas into yet another room that served as a dressing room and closet. While plainly furnished with two overstuffed chairs, a looking glass, and storage for clothes, the room was still larger than the master bedroom in Tilly’s house.

  Finally, they entered the bedchamber. It was a massive room. Arched, floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the room with light. Looking up, they noticed an elaborate mural painted onto the ceiling. It depicted nymphs and fairies romping in the forest.

  Pointing to the ceiling, Tilly commented, “It seems rather fanciful for a man’s room.”

  “Mr. Campbell personally commissioned an Italian artist to paint the scene,” Mr. Douglas said, shaking his head. “He was a lover of nature, though not of much else.”

  Two green marble fireplaces were no doubt necessary to warm a room of this size. Tilly noticed the oil paintings that hung above each fireplace. “His wife Eleanor,” Mr. Douglas said, pointing to the portrait on the left.

  The woman in the portrait sat rigidly in a burgundy velvet chair. The inky blackness behind her gave no indication of the location. Her auburn hair was arranged in an elegant chignon. The sapphire color of her gown accentuated her pale, smooth skin and green eyes. Save the simple coral cameo on her ring finger, she wore no jewelry. The expression on her face was very sad.

  “It was not a happy marriage,” Mr. Douglas said. “Malcolm married her for the dowry and inheritance, and she knew it. “

  Tilly stared at the portrait above the opposite fireplace. “And this must be the infamous Malcolm Campbell.”

  “Aye. He wa
s a hard man. According to historical accounts from the time, the artist captured his likeness very well.”

  Malcolm’s portrait had been painted in the study through which they just passed. He stood behind a brown leather chair, a large ledger open on the desk in front of him. His hair was as black as a raven’s and neatly held in place by a stiff white bow. The rest of his dull gray garb was nondescript. Judging from the stern expression on his face, his ensemble was of little consequence to him.

  But, those eyes, Tilly observed. His steel blue eyes were unyielding. They challenged anyone who dared look at the picture. She shuddered involuntarily.

  She turned to find Mr. Douglas standing beside the bed. Apparently, it was the real showpiece of the room.

  “This is called an angel bed,” he said proudly as he patted the red velvet bedspread. “Only the wealthiest of men owned something like this.”

  Tilly did not quite understand the significance of the bed. Frankly, it looked downright gaudy. Its square, red velvet canopy hung from the ceiling by thick gold chains. Ostrich plumes dyed red and black protruded from each corner. She peered underneath it and saw the family crest emblazoned in black velvet on the inside lining. She supposed Malcolm was very proud of his family’s history.

  “Is it just me, or does it feel as if we are not supposed to be here?” Beth asked, easing closer to the door. She glanced at the portrait of the former occupant and shook her head. “Dead all these years, and he still has the power to intimidate.”

  As they exited the last room, Tilly noticed the courtyard directly in front of her. She was so excited about entering the private suite that she completely overlooked the wall of windows that led out to the courtyard. When she commented on it, Mr. Douglas informed her that Mr. Campbell added the windows during a renovation.

  “The whole castle was much different when Mr. Campbell inherited it from his father,” he said, guiding them upstairs. “He used every penny of his wife’s sizeable dowry to transform it from the original stone fortress into a fine country retreat worthy of any English aristocrat.”

  “Why was that important?” Tilly asked. The man in the portrait did not seem like the type who cared for creature comforts or the opinions of others.

  “He believed the English were the key to preservation of the estate. He sought their favor in everything he did and often hosted hunting parties on these grounds.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yes. Within ten years of completing the renovations, he became an Earl. Within twenty, a Duke. The title has passed through the generations to the current duke.”

  The second floor was even more ostentatious than the entrance. Tilly felt as if she stepped onto pillows when her feet touched the fine rugs in rich, jewel-toned colors that lay on top of the honey-colored oak floors. She scanned the family portraits in their ornate, gilded frames that lined the walls. She could not fathom how much money it must have taken Malcolm Campbell to create this incredible display of wealth.

  Mr. Douglas ushered them into the formal state dining room. Again, the ladies were astounded at the show of riches. The long, rectangular table easily seated twenty-four guests and was set for a very elegant dinner, with fine china, crystal, and silverware. Enormous flower arrangements stood in the center of the table. Tapestries portraying a banquet for Greek gods lined the walls on one side, protected by a panel of Plexiglas. Though the colors were faded now, it was easy to imagine how vibrant they must have been at one time. Mr. Douglas noted that the dye was likely made from vegetables and lost color over the years, for the tapestries were very, very old. Made in France sometime in the 1500s, they were from the original castle and were quite valuable.

  He pointed to the chandeliers hanging over the table. “Malcolm Campbell commissioned these from the finest glassmakers in Italy,” he said. “We found them in a storage room in the basement. It took us five years to restore them to their current beauty.”

  “It was worth the effort,” Tilly said, moving closer to study them. The chandeliers were delicate with dainty red roses and clear glass flutes. She imagined the room looked lovely when candles were alight. “I want a copy of your pictures,” she murmured to Beth, who was taking photos of nearly every object in the room.

  “What could be more magnificent than this room?” Beth asked, examining the thick gold molding that surrounded a family portrait. “If he wanted to impress his guests, he certainly succeeded here.”

  Mr. Douglas clucked. “Oh, lass, you have not seen the best parts yet,” he said. “You must see the state bedchamber and guest library. Once you see those rooms, I fear I will have to lift your chin from the floor.”

  He was right. The state bedchamber was meant to be the finest suite in the house. It was ambitiously reserved for a royal visit. Mr. Douglas said that, unfortunately, Castle Fion was never graced with His (or Her) Majesty’s presence so the rooms always stood empty.

  Like Malcolm’s chambers, they traveled through a series of rooms before entering the bedchamber. It was far more extravagant than anything they had seen. The room featured a four-poster bed with silk bed coverings that looked like liquid gold. Arched windows along two walls offered the best view of the formal garden below and mountains in the distance. Two fireplaces were framed with white molding that resembled the frosting from a wedding cake.

  Mr. Douglas pointed to the gilded, coffered ceiling. “It cost a bit o’ money to restore that lot,” he said, shaking his head. “They used sheet after sheet of gold leaf. They wanted it to look just as it did over two hundred years ago.”

  He did not object when the ladies took turns posing for pictures in front of the bed. He even volunteered to take a picture of them together.

  “What a waste!” Beth said. “They should have enjoyed that room instead of letting it sit unused all those years. Was it really that grand?”

  “We believe so,” he said as he led them from the suite. “People with fancy degrees were consulted when the family restored the room. His Grace spared no expense. The state bedchamber was meant for a king or queen. It would have been the most glamorous part of the castle.”

  They followed Mr. Douglas to the library. Tilly could not imagine anything more spectacular than the rooms they just left. She was wrong. When she entered the library, she thought she had died and gone to heaven.

  A wall of windows produced soft light for reading. Overstuffed chaises underneath each window gave the reader a perfect spot to enjoy all of the books lining row upon row of the mahogany shelves that climbed to the ceiling. At one end of the room, two chairs were placed in front of a stone fireplace, providing another cozy place for curling up with a book.

  She sighed with pleasure, gliding her fingers over the leathery spines of the books. She wanted to grab a book from the shelf and curl up on a chaise by the window. She feared that Mr. Douglas would be reluctant to grant her that liberty, though.

  She spotted several gaps in the collection. “Has the current family squirreled away the best volumes for themselves?” she joked.

  Mr. Douglas lowered his head. “It is a sad thing to part with one’s treasures,” he said. A hint of sadness crept into his voice. “Over the years, the family needed money to keep the estate running, particularly during times of heavy taxation. It hurt them dearly to part with the books, but they had no choice.”

  He gestured toward a small oak display case on a table in the center of the room. After producing a brass key from his pocket, he unlocked the case and gently plucked the volume inside from its emerald green home. “Benjamin Campbell – Malcolm’s son, ye ken – was a visionary. He collected a lot of valuable works that financed a great many endeavors for his heirs. His foresight saved the family on more than one occasion.” He handed the book to Tilly. “I believe you will find this one to be especially dear.”

  Beth peeked over Tilly’s shoulder and exclaimed in awe. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, a hand to her mouth.

  Beaming brightly, Mr. Douglas nodded. “A
ye, it is the Kilmarnock edition,” he said. “It is rare to find one that is in its original form. Most people bound the book to suit their own preferences.”

  Tilly glanced between them, thoroughly confused. “Will someone please explain the significance to me?” she asked, delicately returning the book to its home.

  “It is the first book published from Robert Burns, the Scottish poet,” Beth said, unable to tear her eyes away from the yellowed pages. “The cover would have been blue, right?”

  Mr. Douglas carefully locked the cabinet. “Aye – and the pages would have been uncut,” he added.

  “Is that an autograph?” Tilly asked, pointing to the stained parchment.

  “The work was valuable without it,” Mr. Douglas said. “The autograph makes it priceless.”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Beth said, “Benjamin Campbell had the good fortune to acquire an amazing book.” Her eyes swept the other books stuffed into the bookcases. “He seems like an interesting man. What do you know about him?”

  “He is credited with saving this great place.” He motioned for them to take a seat on one of the chaises by the windows. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his tweed coat and proceeded to give them a history lesson about Benjamin Campbell.

  After the Battle of Culloden, the English confiscated land held by clans loyal to the Jacobite cause. Some families like the Campbells had remained loyal to the Crown and were rewarded by being able to keep their estates. However, it was difficult to survive. Malcolm faced pressure to sell but preferred to keep the estate intact. He knew it would be more valuable on the whole than in pieces. But, how do you maintain such a vast enterprise?

  By shaping the castle into a hunting lodge, he created a retreat for English nobles who came for sport and fine Scottish hospitality. He could be charming when it worked to his advantage, so he was known as an excellent host. His plan worked brilliantly. He formed important alliances that advanced his own interests and made him a very wealthy man.