The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Banishing the niggling doubt, he hailed a friend and chatted for a couple of minutes. In the end, she’d be as comfortable at Strathaird as she was here. He felt certain of it.

  Satisfied that everything would work out, he put all thoughts of Scotland aside and set about acquiring the painting he’d decided on.

  Leaning out the window of her old Land Rover, Charlotte breathed long and deep, smiled at the pale sunbeams piercing the traveling clouds, and sighed as a strong westerly breeze carrying subtle scents of brine and heather mussed her hair. Overhead, gulls squawked and beyond the fields of grazing sheep divided by low stone walls, a soft purple haze draped the moors. Strathaird might change, she reflected with a rush of pleasure, but this would always be hers.

  She headed down the bumpy single-track road, slowing when a tractor trundling in the opposite direction obliged her to veer onto the grass before coming to a grinding halt.

  The driver respectfully raised a hand to his faded tweed cap. “A good day to ye, Miss Charlotte. Am nae’ sure this fine weather will last, though.” Old Fergus Mackay sniffed doubtfully. Eyes narrowing, he pointed to the drifting clouds hovering overhead. “There’ll be rain later on,” he remarked with the satisfied assurance of one who knew his weather.

  Charlotte looked up and nodded in solemn agreement. He was right. When wild gusts moved inland, they brought heavy warm rain in their wake. She smiled, chatted for a few minutes and sighed inwardly. It was sweet how the locals still called her Miss Charlotte, even though she’d been married for years.

  “I hear the new lordship’s arriving shortly.” The statement was followed by a dour sniff.

  “Yes. He’s meant to be here early next week,” Charlotte responded enthusiastically.

  “Aye. And about time too. It’ll nae do fer him to stay away from the land too long.”

  “Brad’ll be here. Don’t worry. He’s a good sort,” Charlotte encouraged, cringing at the note of disapproval she heard in the old man’s voice. Speculation in the village and among the tenants was rife.

  “Aye. I remember him as a wee laddie.” Fergus Mackay straightened his cap and smiled sadly, his eyes surprisingly blue and bright under thick bushy white brows. “’Tis a pity yer ain’ brother Colin passed on, Miss Charlotte. A fine laird he woulda’ made. We’re all agreed on that.”

  “He would. But it wasn’t to be. Brad wasn’t brought up here and hasn’t had the advantage of knowing you all the way Colin did, but I’m sure he intends to do his best. And the more help he gets from all of us, the easier things will be and a better job he’ll do. For all of us,” she added pointedly, hoping that by paving the way with old Mackay, an elder in the church who held strong influence over his peers, she’d ease Brad’s transition.

  They conversed for several minutes, then the tractor continued its lumbering course up the hill and Charlotte drove on down toward the sea and the village. She glanced up to her right at the castle, rising rugged and alone.

  A shard of sunlight washed the weathered stones of the east turret, illuminating the faerie emblem of the MacLeod flag, fluttering proudly in the brisk breeze. Before she could stop them, another rush of tiresome tears made her jerk her head away. Stop it, she commanded herself, biting her lip. It was ridiculous to get sentimental and silly about Strathaird. The castle was moving on, as it always had and always would. It was nothing new or different from what had occurred in the past. Merely the last male MacLeod, the heir to Strathaird, was coming home, as was right and proper. But how long would he stay? she wondered, swerving into the village, past the snug harbor packed with colorful fishing boats and into the main street, thinking still of all the inevitable adjustments that were bound to take place. If Brad were to do the job properly and stake his claim as laird, he’d have to introduce his own ideas and innovations.

  And what about Mummy, without whose quiet yet efficient hand everything would have run amuck? What would happen once Brad and Sylvia were installed and they didn’t need her any longer? she wondered, heart aching.

  Charlotte drove between the narrow row of whitewashed houses. With an effort, she sent Mrs. Bane, the newsagent, a bright smile and a wave, thinking worriedly about her mother’s situation. Penelope MacLeod was an integral and fundamental piece in the smooth running of the estate. She knew everything. The tenants, their worries and needs, how to handle the drove of MacLeods who appeared every year from all over the world, anxious to trace their ancestry and who always received a warm personal welcome from Lady MacLeod herself, however inconvenient, before she sent them on their way to Dunvegan, the seat of the MacLeod clan.

  As for what she herself did around the estate, Charlotte thought that was less important. Still, perhaps she valued her involvement more than she liked to admit, she realized uneasily. How would it feel, now that Sylvia, and not she, would be doing those same things?

  She parked in front of the Morissons’ quaint house on the edge of the village and waved to Genny and Lucy, waiting for her, heads together, on the front steps. Genny was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt, her colorful backpack slung over her right shoulder. The friendship with Lucy had helped her become part of the group, Charlotte realized, watching as the two girls hugged before Genny came down the path toward her and circled the vehicle. As always, Charlotte had to stop herself from jumping out and helping her climb in, knowing she must allow her daughter to be independent.

  “Have a lovely time?” she asked as Genny settled beside her. Gosh, how she’d grown this last year. And with her trendy clothes, really looked like a teenager. Like every mother, she smiled with pride and listened, amused, to Genny’s description of the sleepover at Lucy’s.

  “You’re not too tired?” she inquired as they drove down the village street headed for school.

  “No. It was cool, Mum.” Genny turned and smiled. “Can I tell you a secret, Mummy?”

  “Of course.”

  “You sure?” Genny cocked her red head warily.

  “Come on, don’t leave me in suspense,” Charlotte urged, suppressing a smile.

  “Lucy’s decided she wants to be a famous actor like Daddy.”

  “Really? Well, that’s a change,” Charlotte countered. “Three weeks ago she wanted to be a vet.”

  “I know, but she’s changed her mind. She’s going to cut her hair. Mummy, can I have a belly piercing?”

  “What?” Charlotte nearly swerved into an oncoming vehicle.

  “Why not, Mum? Everybody has a piercing. You have a tattoo,” she added reproachfully. “If you were my age I’ll bet you’d have rings all over you.”

  “Perhaps. But I probably would have regretted it by now,” Charlotte argued, remembering the follies of her youth and feeling hypocritical all at once. “Piercing’s so…I don’t know. It gives me the creeps. Why don’t you wait until the twins arrive and see what they think?”

  “I don’t need male approval to be myself,” Genny replied grandly as they drew up in front of her school. Dropping a peck on her mother’s cheek, she alighted slowly and Charlotte sighed. Last year it had been, “Todd thinks,” and “Rick says.”

  She did a U-turn and drove back the few hundred yards into the main street of the village, parked askew opposite the gallery and got out, slamming the car door a tad harder than she’d intended. Frowning absently, she walked toward the gallery.

  “Ah, Charlotte.” The strident voice of Marjory Pearson hailed from across the street, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pearson.” There was no escape, she realized, heart sinking. Mrs. P. stood firmly entrenched on the opposite side of the street in front of the gallery, hands gripping the handlebar of her prewar bike. She was sensibly attired in her usual outfit of corduroy knickerbockers, the tweed jacket she wore rain or shine, topped by a green felt hat with a long feather acquired on one of her yearly visits to the Tyrol.

  “Off to your gallery, I see,” Mrs. P. remarked over the bicycle’s reedy basket, plump with groceries. “I was just lo
oking in your window,” she added, shaking her head in amazement. “I’m surprised anyone would spend such ridiculous amounts of money on frivolity. It goes against the grain,” she added, glancing disapprovingly toward the gallery window and sniffing. “Just shows one what the world’s coming to.” She peered closely at Charlotte. “I had my doubts about this venture of yours,” she continued grudgingly, “but I suppose you’re quite right to encourage the tourists to spend, my dear, quite right indeed. I myself thought trinkets would have been more suitable, but the Colonel was saying just the other day that he believes you have talent.”

  This last was said with the satisfied air of one bestowing high praise. She sent Charlotte a condescending look of approval. “I must say, Charlotte, you’ve come a long way,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “I never would have thought after the way you behaved in your youth that you’d end up being an example of female behavior to the community. As the Colonel repeats again and again, we must not judge.” She leaned over, her wrinkled face too close for comfort. “I’m very glad to see you staunch, my dear. I was saying to the Colonel only the other day that many a young woman on this island could take a leaf out of your book.” She drew back, sniffed and pursed her lips. “When I think of some of the goings-on…” She ended with a meaningful glance.

  Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, searching desperately for an excuse to get away.

  “Your loyalty to your infirm spouse can only be applauded,” Marjory Pearson continued relentlessly. “How is he, by the way?” she asked, her beady eyes glinting with unabashed curiosity.

  “Pretty much the same, I’m afraid,” Charlotte murmured, glancing hopefully at the gallery door.

  “I’m sorry.” Marjory’s disappointment at the lack of gossip showed. Then she brightened once more. “I hear the new Lord MacLeod will be with us shortly. Will he be making a prolonged stay? I needn’t tell you how much speculation is going on,” she added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “I have no idea what Brad’s plans are.”

  “Quite a job he has ahead of him,” Mrs. P. remarked, shaking her head wisely, avid to be the first to acquire any possible tidbits to pass on down the bush telegraph. “I hear he has a fiancée? One wonders what sort of female she is. Americans can be so very different, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sylvia’s delightful.” Charlotte waxed enthusiastically. “Terribly efficient, and just the right person to be the new Lady MacLeod.”

  “I see.” Mrs. P.’s shoulders drooped. “We must hope so, indeed. We wouldn’t want any changes in the village, now, would we?”

  Charlotte murmured a vague assent, smiled brightly and frowned at her watch. “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Pearson, but I’m expecting rather an important client in ten minutes. I simply have to run. Send the Colonel my best.”

  “Goodness, of course. So selfish of me to be holding you back. Did that large Frenchwoman with the bun buy the necklace in the window? I saw her pass several times while I was at the butcher’s the other day. She seemed quite enamored. I told the Colonel I thought it was a go. Quite amazing that you’re able to command such elevated prices, Charlotte. Are you sure you shouldn’t consider—”

  “Must run, Mrs. Pearson,” Charlotte interrupted blithely. “All’s well on the home front.”

  “Ah. Good. Then I shall report back to the Colonel. He’ll be pleased.” Mrs. P. braced herself, balanced the creaking bike and readied for action, while Charlotte made good her escape.

  She dashed inside the gallery, located in one of the crooked whitewashed houses bordering the main street, nestled between the bakery and the Celtic Café, run by her friend Rory MacLean. Leaning against the door, Charlotte let out a frustrated huff. “That woman,” she remarked to Moira Stuart, her lifelong friend who was now a goldsmith and manager of the gallery, “is simply awful.” Shaking her head, she stepped into the light, monochromatic space, dotted with glass showcases, halogen lights and burlap settings showing off her exclusive jewelry designs, then stopped short, surprised to see Armand de la Vallière, attired in tweed knickerbockers and a cap, examining her latest creation under a magnifying glass. She coughed, smothering the giggles that the sight of his costume always caused her. He looked like a fashion ad for a shooting weekend.

  “Hello, Armand.”

  “Ah, ma chère Charlotte.” Armand laid the delicately crafted platinum choker back in the showcase and hastened forward, raising her fingers to his lips. “Simply magnificent, chère cousine. You have surpassed yourself.”

  “You like it?” Charlotte kissed him on both cheeks, unable to squelch the twinge of pride at Armand’s words. “Any sign of the Americans?” she asked Moira.

  “Not yet.” Her friend’s eyes, shaded behind thick lenses, showed amusement. An Indian skirt and blouse and heavy leather sandals gave her the air of a tired hippie.

  Charlotte turned back to Armand, grinning. “I’m glad you like the choker. I worked a long time on it. I think the jade works, don’t you?”

  “Exquisite. Quite unique.”

  “I have some other designs to show you. The ones I was telling you about the other day,” she said breathlessly, flinging her basket on a chair behind the desk that served as a counter.

  “I would be delighted to view them. You have un talent exceptionel, Charlotte.”

  “Do you really think so?” Charlotte asked earnestly, clear violet eyes sparkling with pleasure at his words. “Or are you just being terribly polite?”

  “Now, now, young lady. You are fishing for compliments.” He wagged a finger at her. “If I were merely polite, I would murmur a few banalities. But non, Charlotte. It is time you faced your own ability and gave it wing.”

  “It’s really just a hobby,” she mumbled, fiddling behind the desk, where she felt protected. “I didn’t even mean to take it this far. The gallery and the workshop, I mean.” She waved a hand vaguely. “It just sort of happened.”

  “And so will the rest. It is inevitable, ma chère. There is no use hiding your light under a bushel. You are who and what you are. An artist of incredible flair. Your ability—I should say genius, rather—is indiscutable.”

  “Oh, rubbish,” Charlotte scoffed, embarrassed, digging her hands deep into the pockets of her worn jeans and flushing, flattered despite herself. He was, after all, a Parisian designer, a man of taste, a connoisseur who knew the world of fashion and jewelry back to front. And since his arrival on the island two weeks earlier, he’d seemed genuinely enchanted with her work.

  “I can assure you that I will not be alone in my opinion. Once your work is known to the world, you’ll soon see that I am right.” Armand nodded wisely, smoothed his fingers gently over her arm, and smiled. “I found it intriguing when our Oncle Eugène mentioned that you had taken up designing with apparent success. I now predict a brilliant and well-deserved future ahead for you, chère Charlotte. In fact, I would be honored if you would consider showing your jewelry with my fall collection in Paris.”

  “Gosh, I don’t know.” Charlotte slumped, gaze shifting as she remembered all the troubles in her life. “I don’t really want a brilliant future, Armand. I just want to survive the present.” Success and the spotlight didn’t seem important compared to getting Genny walking properly again, or finding out what would happen to John’s condition.

  “Give yourself a chance,” Armand murmured gently.

  She shook herself, aware that she’d drifted off again into one of her daydreams, and plastered on a bright smile. “How about a quick coffee before my morning appointment?”

  “Why not? To be in your company is always un plaisir.” Armand bowed gallantly and she laughed. He reminded her of a courtly Pink Panther. The walk, the talk, the tailored tweeds—even a walking stick and mole-skin waistcoat, she noticed. He should have looked ludicrous, yet somehow Armand managed to carry it off.

  She took his arm affectionately and turned to Moira. “Hold the fort for a little, will you, Mo? I’ll be back in under an
hour. And make sure you sell something to those Yanks,” she added, grinning. “I’ve got all the new supplies to pay for, not to mention the leaking pipe in the loo.”

  “Peter’s coming to deal with it later.” Moira looked up from the accounts and smiled.

  “Thank God for that. Come on, Armand. I’ll treat you to one of those sticky green cakes at Rory’s.”

  “Mon Dieu, no, I beg you.” He shuddered.

  “All right, just coffee then.”

  “Merci. But I shall stick to tea. A much safer bet. The coffee—if that is what it really is—” he rolled his eyes “—is undrinkable, ma chère.”

  “Oh, all right, be like that,” Charlotte teased, yanking the wraithlike figure by the arm and out onto the street. “If you’re not careful, I’ll tell Rory what you said.”

  Armand’s lips curved and he caught her eye. “A truly gorgeous young man,” he murmured wistfully.

  “And married, so hands off.”

  “Charlotte! As though I would mix with the common herd!”

  “Ha!” She threw back her head and let out a rich laugh. “If Rory so much as gave you the time of day, you’d be up and running, and well you know it,” she teased in a loud whisper as they entered the smoky haze of the Celtic Café. She spotted Rory, tall and muscled behind the counter, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Charlotte waved and sent him a critical glance. His bright blue eyes were indeed a riveting sight, but being a pal, she’d never thought much about them.

  “Hello, Charlie.” Rory came out from behind his post and gave her a whacking kiss on both cheeks that left Armand sighing. “So, did you finally finish the move? I can help you on Saturday if you’ve odd jobs needing done.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got most of it sorted out.”

  “How was Glasgow?” He quirked a heavy eyebrow at her.

  “The same.” She answered shortly, making for the table. Rory sighed, shrugged and wiped the table off with a damp cloth as Armand sat down. She caught Rory’s piercing gaze and swallowed. He was an old friend, one who knew her well, knew all the ups and downs in her life over the past few years. But, like Moira and her mother, he was unable to understand why she stuck staunchly by John even after the abominable way he’d treated her. None of them understood, she reasoned, seating herself. How could they possibly realize that her troubles were of her own making, that she was to blame?