by Jen McConnel
He wooed her with poetry and freshly picked heather, and took her walking along the coast in the chill of the evening, so he could put an arm around her to keep her warm. Their love blossomed quicker than any summer flower, and they planned to wed with the turning of the New Year. Strangely, Isobel’s parents did not seem as charmed with her lover as she was, and they attempted to caution Isobel to seek a different match. In her youthful arrogance, Isobel only allowed their concern to strengthen her love for Alexander. She found it not bothersome that her beaux was almost a decade younger than her, and shut her ears to her parents’ complaints.
Hours she spent giggling with Margaret in their loft, discussing his countless virtues, and slowly Isobel found herself plotting with her sister. Because of her parents’ overt displeasure, Isobel doubted that permission would ever be given for her and Alexander to wed. Despite the close-knit structure of the Key family, Isobel began to consider openly defying her parents. Swept up with the romanticism of a young lass, Margaret encouraged her older sister to abandon hearth and home and ride off at Alexander’s side. Although skeptical at first, Isobel began to warm to the idea when her beau himself suggested that elopement was perhaps their best option. Gradually, the two made plans to run away from the village and start fresh, somewhere they would be unknown to all. Isobel couldn’t bear to leave her family behind entirely, so they compromised on a homestead five miles outside the village: still close enough for the families to have contact once the dispute was resolved, but far enough removed to help prevent any scandal or gossip from tainting the marriage.
On the twentieth of August, 1647, at the hour of midnight, Isobel Key crept down the ladder from her loft, past the smoldering ashes on the hearth in the common room, and out into the black night. As arranged, Alexander waited for her down the narrow wynd just past her home, already mounted on a borrowed chestnut brown horse. Isobel carried only a small bundle of clothes, and as Alexander swung her up behind him and turned the horse away from her home, she felt a pang of worry deep in her spleen. Leaving in the night was perhaps a cowardly way to conduct themselves, and she couldn’t help but wonder at the pain and fear that her parents would feel when they awoke to find her missing. But just when she was about to ask Alexander to stop, to turn back and ask for permission to marry her in daylight, she felt the warmth of the man seated in front of her. Isobel tingled, feeling a sense of liveliness that was completely new to her. Leaning forward and wrapping her arms tight around her lover’s waist, she turned her face away from her childhood home and began to dream of her future.
Chapter Ten
Lou leaned against the window of the bus and shut her eyes. Her head wasn’t throbbing too badly, considering the amount of booze she and Tammy had gotten away with the night before, but every now and again the bus hit a pothole in just the right way, sending sparks of pain through Lou’s head. She glanced at Tammy, annoyed that her best friend seemed as chipper and fresh as always.
The rain had stopped, finally. The group was still planning a short hike, but they had to drive a bit to get there, stopping here and there to unload everyone for photo opportunities. The ominous feelings brought by the rainclouds seemed to have changed overnight into a feeling of magic, and Lou could almost believe the stories of giants and faeries that Brian told them as they drove. Despite her hangover, Lou hung on his words, soaking up his deep voice and thinking about her dream.
At one point, the bus stopped at yet another bend in the road and Brian gestured to the blue, mist-shrouded mountaintop to their left.
“If we’re lucky, we might be seein’ a peek of the Old Man himself. A top that hillock, folks, rests one of Scotland’s giants. Now, you remember when we saw the Giant’s Causeway this mornin’, yes?” He looked around at the assembled tourists, all nodding at him. Lou nodded vigorously; the rocky cliff face he had shown them that morning had supposedly been formed by a running giant, traipsing back to Ireland after attempting an unsuccessful raid on the Isle of Skye. Something about the way his face lit up when telling the story made Brian even more attractive, and Lou had found herself hanging on every word, committing the legend to memory.
Satisfied that his audience was paying attention, Brian continued the tale. “The Old Man of Storr lived with his giantess wife not very far from where we’re now standing. One day when the two were out walking, a heavy enchantment fell upon them, and they felt so tired that they knew they must sleep or fall over.” Brian paused, a mischievous shine in his eyes. “You see, it wasn’t unlike the scene in that lovely old film, ‘The Wizard of Oz’, when all the creatures fell down in the red flowers to sleep.” His audience chuckled in shared remembrance, and Lou felt herself blushing as red as the poppies Brian had referenced. She wouldn’t mind falling asleep in a field with him!
Unaware of the thoughts playing through the mind of one of his group, Brian continued with his story. “The Old Man and his wife, they sat themselves down right there,” here he gestured to the low hilltop behind him, “and they settled in for a bit of a nap. Days passed, and weeks, but still the couple slept. The enchantment on this mountain was so strong that they stayed there, sleeping, until many centuries had passed and an enchanter turned their two forms into stone. And they are still sleeping there, to this day!”
Everyone looked obediently at the mountain, still hidden behind the thick mist, and Brian sighed. “They’re a wee bit shy, folks. But you’ll just have to trust my word that they are there, slumbering away.” Lou snapped a picture of the spot where the sleeping giants waited, and followed Tammy and the rest of the group back to the bus, her spirits high despite her headache. She wasn’t sure if she was in such a fine mood because of the beauty of the day or because Brian had been especially talkative today, sharing stories every few minutes, allowing Lou to listen to his lilting voice all morning. Lou could have listened to him forever.
She glanced up and noticed Brian ambling down the aisle of the bus toward them. Sinking into her seat, Lou felt her face heating up as she half-remembered the dream she’d had last night. Something straight out of a trashy romance novel, she remembered that much, with Brian as the handsome criminal or pirate or some such; she wasn’t sure, but she remembered that he had been wearing a ruffled shirt. He’d wrapped his strong arms around her, and Lou could still feel the heat from his skin if she closed her eyes. It had been the best dream she’d had in a long time, but now that her dream man was headed toward her, Lou felt tongue tied. Hoping he couldn’t read her mind, Lou tried to act nonchalant when he suddenly stopped beside her seat.
“And how are the American girls doin’ this fine morning?” Brian’s eyes looked bright with some secret laughter, and suddenly Lou wondered where in town he had spent the night. He wasn’t staying in their B&B; had he heard about their rather raucous drinking binge? Lou’s face heated up a few more degrees at the thought.
Brightly, Tammy turned from the window and gave the tour guide a wide smile. “We’re wonderful! There’s something about the air here that just wakes me up better than coffee, I can’t understand it!”
“Maybe it isn’t just the air,” Lou muttered, hoping Brian wouldn’t understand what she meant, but he laughed and broke her illusion of safety.
“I hear you girls did a fine bit of carryin’ on last night! Wish you would have told me, I always like a good celebration.”
“Well, then you’ll just have to give us something else to celebrate,” Tammy said, raising her eyebrow provocatively. Lou felt her heart sink to the floor as she realized that Tammy was flirting with Brian. Well, why shouldn’t she? It wasn’t as if they were still in middle school, back when you made vows to your friends to never even think about anyone they liked. And to be fair to Tammy, Lou thought, she hadn’t said anything about her growing attraction to Brian. As far as Tammy was concerned, he was fair game.
“I’d like to do that. I’ll have to start thinkin’ up something before the tour ends tomorrow!” Brian directed his words at both girls, but Lou didn�
��t meet his eye. She stared at the seat in front of her, trying to block out the smell that lingered in the aisle even after Brian had made his way back to the front of the bus. Pine needles and sweat, Lou thought to herself, identifying his scent with a sigh. She closed her eyes, reliving her dream one last time.
“God, isn’t he just the best looking thing on this bus!” Tammy spoke softly, but Lou still shushed her, worried that Brian could hear them.
“Shh, Tammy. He heard about last night; maybe the guy has supernatural hearing or something.”
Tammy giggled and poked Lou in the ribs. “Whatever, Lou. I don’t know why you’re so paranoid. He is hot, you have to admit that.” She stage whispered the last sentence, and Lou glanced once more toward the front of the bus. Brian appeared to be absorbed in the materials on his clipboard, probably checking their itinerary for the next stop. Tammy poked Lou again, obviously waiting for a reply.
Lou swallowed. “Yeah. Yes, Tammy, yes, okay, he’s really good looking.”
Satisfied, Tammy sat back in her seat. “Do you think I’d have a chance with him? We aren’t here much longer.”
Trying to hide her own desire, Lou shrugged. “You’re pretty darn hot, yourself. And weren’t you the one last night singing the virtues of a Highland fling?”
Tammy giggled at the memory. “He would be perfect for that, I’ll grant you.” Looking like a toddler that had just discovered the cookie jar, Tammy relaxed in her seat and gazed toward the front of the bus. “Now we just have to find a fling for you!”
“I think my fling has flown,” Lou murmured, but Tammy didn’t hear.
1647
Alexander installed Isobel in the cottage after they stole away together in the night, promising to return in three days time with a willing priest to seal their union. He left her there with enough foodstuffs to last a month, including a deer he had killed and she had roasted, and she was quite content to wait there for her love.
Days passed, and he did not come. Weeks passed, and still there was no sign of Alexander. She knew that their love was true, so instead of wasting her days worrying, Isobel worked to transform the cottage into a home. She searched the surrounding woods for herbs which would be useful to her should she conceive a child, and she gathered other plants, as well. Isobel waited there, drying her herbs and dreaming of her love until her food had almost run out. Just when she was beginning to feel an inch of concern, she heard a horse on the path.
It was not Alexander. It was her father, tears streaking his face and anger turning him a wicked shade of purple. He had grievous news, he told her, news he would rather not speak. Alexander had—
Here Isobel prepared herself for the worst: her love had died in a bar fight, her love had fallen from his horse and broken his neck. Nothing could have prepared her for the news her father had for her.
Alexander and Margaret had stolen away from the college, a few days after Isobel herself went missing. Fearing some harm had come to their youngest daughter, her parents and their friends had spent the month searching for the missing people, only to discover that Alexander had wed Margaret in secret, legally signed and authorized by the same priest he had promised to bring to Isobel, and the two were now living as husband and wife. Alexander had hidden his bride in his bachelor student lodgings, the last place anyone thought to look, so that by the time they were found, the marriage was not only witnessed by God but also consummated many times over. As he told her this heavy news, Mr. Key watched his daughter’s face for some sign of her emotions. She spoke not a word, and sat still as stone. When he had finished his sad tale, he took her hands in his and squeezed them, looking into her empty eyes.
Isobel squeezed his hands back, kissed his cheek, and handed him his hat. No, she would not return with him to live in the house of her childhood. She quite liked this cottage, and she would rather not see the newlyweds just yet. Her father expressed concern for her welfare, noting that the foodstuffs were all but gone, but she assured him that she could keep herself alive, from her skill with herbs given to her by her mother and her father’s years of cooking lessons. She sent him home with love for her mother and congratulations for her sister, but not a word for Alexander. She vowed that she would never speak his name again. Her sister shared her blood, and for that she must find forgiveness in her heart, someday, but for a man such as he, there was no reason to forgive.
And so she made a life for herself in the cottage that was to have been a honeymoon cottage for two souls deeply in love. She resigned, then and there, that she would never again fall under the spell of any man, and she swore that she would live out her days without knowing the pleasure of a man’s embrace. It was not bitterness that caused her to make such a vow, but rather wisdom: a man had already altered her life irrevocably, and while she was determined to make the best of a bad situation, she saw no reason to plunge headfirst into any other life altering choices. Alone, she could control her own life, and she would have more freedom in her cottage than if she were to wed some man and become his wife.
Gradually, she began to venture from her solitude, and she came to know her neighbors and offer help to them when they were ailing. Her skills as a midwife brought her food, and she went about her business quietly. Her parents journeyed to see her whenever they could spare the time. They never spoke the name of her sister’s husband, but they did bring news of Margaret herself: she was happy, she was well, she had not conceived yet, but she was still young and had much time. Unspoken in these words was the knowledge that Isobel would never bear a child in her own body; her age and isolated living situation guaranteed that she would wither without knowing the joys and pains of motherhood.
Still, she offered her care to mothers near to her cottage, and even ventured back to the village of St. Andrews from time to time. She had a marvelous record with very few stillbirths, and only one mother lost in labor. Women spoke of her kind hands and her wise ways, and men beamed with pride when she handed to them yet another healthy babe.
And so she lived, and almost thrived, through the years. She lived in this manner when first her mother, then her father, passed on. While she mourned their passing, she did not seek out Margaret at their funerals; she came late and stood alone each time, eyes cast to the ground, and by the time her father passed away, many of the villagers had quite forgotten her connection to him. She was known for her healing skills and her eccentricities, her strange insistence on absolute solitude being the most notable, but it had almost been forgotten that she bore the name of Key. Isobel did not mind the forgetfulness of the people of St. Andrews, for the sooner they forgot her family name, the sooner they would forget the scandal over her sister’s marriage. Isobel relished her silence and peace, and she lived in this way through ten years, until the birth of her sister’s first child.
Chapter Eleven
The final day of the tour promised to be a quiet one. The rain had started falling again sometime in the night, and all the tourists seemed infected with the melancholy that had plagued Lou for weeks.
When the bus unloaded at Culloden Moor in the drizzling rain, Lou shivered. The windswept field was dull and lifeless, covered in dead grass. The cold rain suited the place perfectly.
“This, as you know, is the site of the final battle of Scotland.” Brian spoke quietly and the group arrayed themselves around him in a crescent to listen.
“The Jacobite uprising was crushed here at Culloden, and so were the clans. The field out there,” he gestured behind him to the waving grass, “bears stones to mark the fallen dead. But Culloden was such a slaughter that none of the stones bear more than the name of the clan that is buried beneath them.” He paused and looked at his audience solemnly.
A woman raised her hand and he nodded. “But if the clans were destroyed, why is Scotland still its own nation? Why didn’t the soldiers try to conquer it for England?”
Brian nodded. “Remember, we are technically part of the UK, but that’s a good question. The clans were broken, an
d the power of the Highlands would never rise again. But there have always been Scots in the lowlands, and to be honest, most of the British didn’t want anything to do with Scotland.”
A man piped up. “Then why did they slaughter the clans?”
Brian sighed. “The Jacobite uprising was an attempt to take the throne of England and return it to the descendants of King James. The British fought to protect their king, not to conquer the Scottish people.”
The group glanced around the desolate field. Lou fought the urge to snap a picture; after her experience with the orbs in the shots from Edinburgh castle, she had had enough of ghosts. If any place in Scotland would be haunted, Lou thought it must be Culloden. She shivered.
“Take some time to walk about. We’ll meet back on the bus in ten minutes.”
Quietly, the tourists started to walk around. After she had wandered a little ways off, Lou paused, looking at a flat gray stone with the word “MacDonald” on it.
Tammy put her chin on Lou’s shoulder. “All these people. It’s so sad.”
Lou nodded, glancing around the desolate field. “I think it’s worse that they’re buried without tombstones.”
“We know they were MacDonalds,” Tammy gestured at the stone. “That’s something.”
“But wouldn’t it be awful to be buried in a mass grave?” Lou shuddered. “I’d hate that.”
Tammy frowned. “I guess so. But at least the graves here are marked!”
“I don’t know if I ever want to be buried.”
