by Julia London
“Beg your pardon, milord,” Ewan said, and began to nervously crush his hat in his hands.
Aulay’s father flicked his gaze over Ewan. “Aye?”
“The Livingstones...they’re gone, they are.”
“Gone where?” his father asked, confused.
“I donna know where, milord, but they’re gone from the gatehouse.”
Aulay’s mother looked shocked. She turned her gaze to her husband, who had leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed in a frown. “Are you certain, then?”
“Aye, milord. They’re no’ in the gatehouse, and no one has seen them.”
“Where could they have gone?” his father asked rhetorically, and shifted his gaze to Aulay.
Aulay casually bit into his bread.
“All right, then, thank you,” his father said, and gestured for Ewan to take his leave. He shifted around in his seat to glare at Aulay. “How odd, is it no’, that the Livingstones, who have enjoyed our company and our food for nigh on a fortnight, who have waited patiently for the lawful judgment of the justice of the peace for their crime, should leave now?” He leaned forward, his gaze piercing Aulay’s. “Where do you suppose they went, Captain Mackenzie?”
That voice would have frightened Aulay as a lad. Not now. “I donna know. Far away, I hope.”
His father looked at Rabbie, who shook his head. And then at Catriona, who was buttering a piece of bread. Thoroughly.
He made a sound of disgust as he looked to Aulay once more. “Of all my children, you are the last I would suspect in this.”
“Arran, please,” his mother tried.
“We have lost everything!” his father roared, and brought his fist down on the table so hard that plates and cups rattled into each other.
“No, my lord, it is I who have lost everything!” Aulay roared back at him. His mother gasped loudly. Catriona dropped her knife. “It was my ship, my arrangement, my livelihood that is lost! The only place I ever felt myself was on the sea! The only floor that I have ever commanded has been a deck! All my life, I have sought your approval. All my life, I have wished that just once, you would bestow your smile of approval on me! And you think you have lost everything?”
His family stared at him in shock, but the floodgates had opened. Aulay’s father suddenly surged forward. “I donna know what you are nattering on about, but I do know that for the want of a name, we could have had a ship restored to us! To you! You could have restored your pride!” he shouted, shaking his fist at Aulay. “But as it stands, we will empty our coffers and borrow money to repay what we’ve lost for the mistakes you made! Am I the only Mackenzie who feels wronged? Am I the only one to stand among us and demand that justice be done?”
Aulay had never defied his father that he could recall, but he was unmoved by his father’s speech. “It was my loss to bear, and I will bear it. But no one has the right to feel more wronged than me. No one!” he shouted. “And even I can see that to have them incarcerated or worse, hanged, will no’ bring back my life! We’ve lost everything, aye. I’ve lost everything. But extracting a pound of flesh for it will no’ change it—”
“Giving the name of who has brought us so low is no’ extracting a pound of flesh!” his father roared to the ceiling. “It is justice! It is living by the rule of law! It is what civilized people do!”
Aulay took a breath and forced himself to speak calmly. “Had they acted maliciously, I would likely agree with you, Athair,” he said. “But they did no’. They made mistakes, that they did—but their intentions were never to harm anyone. Their intentions were to survive. Circumstances can make fools out of all of us, aye? Circumstances have made me the fool in this case. No’ you.”
His father groaned. “’Tis the lass, is it no’? That bonny lass has caught your eye.”
This was not a childish infatuation, of that Aulay was certain, and he would not reduce it to that to appease his father. “It is far more than that, and I think you understand it, aye? It is everything I’ve ever tried to be in this family.”
“What?” his mother said in disbelief. “Well, I don’t understand you, darling. You are our son. You are as cherished as anyone!”
“Màither,” he said, and shook his head. “You canna understand the heart that beats in a man, aye?”
His father groaned and then cast his gaze to Catriona. “What have you to say?”
Catriona squared her shoulders. “I agree with Aulay. Completely. They’re no’ bad people. I should rather arrange for repayment than see any harm come to them.”
“Of course you do,” the laird said irritably. “Rabbie?”
Rabbie glanced at Aulay. “I donna know.”
Aulay shrugged. At least his brother answered truthfully; he could not fault him for that.
Frang stepped into the room. “Milord, the justice of the peace,” he announced.
Everyone jerked toward the butler. “So soon?” Aulay’s mother said.
“Aye, madam.”
Arran Mackenzie sighed to the ceiling. “Show him to my study, Frang. We’ll be along directly.”
When Frang had gone out, Aulay’s father rose to his feet and picked up his cane. “I’ll forgive you this, Aulay. But I’ll no’ allow them to escape with their crime and pay no consequence. I will no’. We have been dealt a blow, all the Mackenzies, and it canna go unpunished. Come now, the rest of you. Let us make our case to the justice of the peace.”
* * *
THE JUSTICE OF the peace, a diminutive young man with a hook nose, was pacing the floor when the family entered. His clothing was dusty, and he looked tired in spite of it being early in the day. He was in the company of a clerk, a thin fellow with a nervous habit of scratching his neck.
After the introductions were made—the justice of the peace, it would seem, hailed from the lowlands—the clerk looked at his pocket watch and nodded at the justice. “Well then, let’s have it, aye? I’ve an agenda in these hills as long as a man’s arm.”
“Our ship was stolen—” Aulay’s father began.
“Borrowed,” Aulay’s mother politely interjected. She patted her husband’s hand. “It was borrowed, darling.”
“It was stolen,” the laird insisted, “by another clan, aye? And as a result of their mishandling, the ship has been lost at sea.”
“Aye, what clan?” the justice of the peace asked, and nodded at his companion to make a note. “The MacBeths, was it? I’m no’ surprised. A pack of thieves, they are.”
“No,” Aulay’s father said. “The Livingstones.”
“Livingstone,” the justice of the peace repeated. “Livingstone.” He shook his head. “No’ familiar with that name, I’m no’.”
“Pardon, darling, but I think you have that wrong. It was Leventon,” Aulay’s mother said.
Aulay’s brows rose. His mother’s gaze flicked over him, and he could have sworn he saw the barest hint of a smile.
“I beg your pardon?” his father blustered, his face going red. “It was Livingstone, for God’s sake! By all that is holy they have been here at Balhaire for a fortnight!” He turned back to the justice of the peace. “They’ve escaped.”
“From this fortress?” the justice of the peace asked, clearly surprised. “How, then? Did they climb the walls?”
His father’s brows dipped into an unamused vee. “Aye, it would seem so.”
“Well, we’ll find them, will we? From where do they hail? These thieves always return to their dens to hide like moles. It’s incumbent on us all to root them out and dispose of them if we’re to set Scotland to rights, aye? Where do they call home?”
“What do you mean, set Scotland to rights?” Rabbie asked.
“Well, it was the rebellion of Highlanders that put us back on our heels, was it no’? A lot of their sort still about.”
“Lismore Island,” Aulay’s fa
ther said.
“Pappa, it was Linsfare,” Catriona said, and looked desperately to Aulay. “I’m quite certain it was Linsfare.”
“The Highlands donna need to be set to rights,” Rabbie said. “And my sister is wrong as well. It was Lybster. I know verra well it was, as I have met many Leventons from Lybster.”
The justice of the peace looked around the room with disgust. “I donna have the men to go here and there on a wild hare’s chase!” he said. “Where do these...Leventons call home?”
“I would suggest you start in Lancashire,” Aulay’s mother said smoothly.
“England!”
“Yes, England. I personally conversed with the gentleman who fancied himself in charge, Mr. Charles Leventon, and he assured me they hailed from there. It’s close to the sea, you know.”
“For all that is holy,” Aulay’s father muttered, and sagged in his seat.
The justice of the peace’s face was turning red. “Shall I suggest that when you have determined precisely where these Leventons have gone, you inform me when I return to your part of the Highlands next spring? I’ve no’ the time for this confusion! If you’ve no complaint now, then donna waste my valuable time!” He stood to go, gesturing for his assistant.
“Spring!” Aulay’s father blustered, but the justice of the peace was already moving, barking at his assistant to come along. “We’ll be gone from here by spring, pushed out by poverty!” his father shouted after the man.
Not that it helped. The justice of the peace was gone.
Arran Mackenzie glared at his family. “I’ve been betrayed by my own blood,” he said. “I never thought I’d see it, that I did no’, but aye, you’ve all betrayed me.”
He pushed up, grabbed his cane, and stomped from the room.
None of them said a word for a long moment. None of them looked at each other until Aulay’s mother said, “I’ll go and soothe his ruffled feathers. He does hate to lose. Aulay, darling, you best think of what next.”
“What have we just done?” Rabbie asked of no one in particular when their parents had left the room.
“Enraged our father. Set free the verra people who ruined us. Lied to a justice of the peace,” said Catriona.
“Aye. And none of it will stop the Campbells,” Rabbie groused.
Aulay knew that, too. But Roy Campbell thought he was in pursuit of a man. Not a wisp of a lass with hair the color of pearls.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE LIVINGSTONES REACHED Lismore Island at dusk the next day and were greeted by a dozen rabbits hopping around on the little strip of sand as they made their way up from the beach. When they’d crested the dune, Old Donnie sounded the horn, startling Drustan and causing him to wail.
Very soon, Livingstones were coming down the path to greet them. People were laughing, throwing their arms around them, kissing their cheeks. The commotion unsettled Drustan even more. “I want to go home, Lottie. I want to go home,” he said, flapping his hands uncontrollably.
“Aye, we’re almost there,” she assured him.
“Where’s Bernt, then?” called out a woman. She was one of three widows in their clan. All three had been frequent visitors to Bernt’s salon, coming round with a pie, or to mend shirts that did not need mending. Lottie had hoped she’d not have to address her father’s absence so soon. She needed to think. She needed to plan. But she knew these people—they would not rest until they knew what had become of their chief. So she slowed her step and reluctantly turned around to look at the crowd behind her. Her heart crawled to her throat. For all his faults, her father was a beloved man. “Have you no’ heard from Norval and Mark, then?” she asked.
Everyone looked around them. “Norval and Mark were with you,” someone said.
“They’re probably hiding,” Mr. MacLean muttered.
“Where is Bernt?” someone called.
“My father...” Her throat tightened, and she cleared it. How did one announce that their chief had passed on? “He’s... Well, he’s dead.” Her inelegant announcement was met with gasps and soft cries of distress.
“Dead! But how?”
Lottie’s eyes began to burn with tears. “We met with a wee bit of trouble, we did. And we...we—”
“I’ll tell them,” Duff said firmly, and removed himself from the embrace of his wife and children and stepped before Lottie. “Allow me, Lottie.” He turned to the group. “It’s a tale as old as time.”
There were several stifled groans, but Lottie was grateful to Duff for sparing her the necessity of telling the story about their demise. Duff told it all right, on that grassy hill, with rabbits all around them. And when he was done, some were quietly weeping. Others were visibly angry. “’Tis no’ right,” said Gavin Livingstone. “’Tis no’ right at all.”
“What are we to do without a chief?” someone near the back shouted. “We must have a chief, aye? We’ve taken the stills as he asked, but he said we’d all be rich.”
“What?” Lottie asked, lifting her head. “My father asked you to take down the stills?”
“Aye,” said another. “The morning you left, he bid us take down the stills, and remove any trace so that no one could ever know. We didna need them any more, Lottie, for we’d all be rich.”
“We’re no’ rich,” MacLean said bitterly.
“The laird is to come Monday!” said a woman. “Who will answer for the rents?”
“We must have a chief,” said another. “It must be Lottie.”
“What? No!” Lottie exclaimed, and held up her hands. “No, I canna be your chief. Duff will take charge for now, aye?”
“For God’s sake, no’ Duff,” Mr. MacLean said. “He’d turn us into a theatrical troupe, he would. It must be you, Lottie. I daresay it is you. We all know you’ve been chief for a verra long time, aye?”
A chorus of ayes rose up to agree.
Panic rose so quickly that Lottie thought she might choke. “No!” she said again, and took several steps toward the small crowd, imploring them. “Do you no’ see that I’m the last person who should be chief? I am the reason we sailed. I am the reason we took the Mackenzie ship! It is because of me that we’ve come to this terrible place, with no money, and no occupation, and no way to pay our rents.”
“Aye, but you’ll think of a way, Lottie,” said Mrs. Livingstone Blue. Several heads around her nodded in agreement. “You always do. I’ve always said you’re right clever, you are.”
Lottie looked around at their hopeful faces. What was the matter with them? “Och,” she said, flicking her wrist as her father used to do at the lot of them, and whirled about and continued the march to the house, rabbits and people following behind her.
At the manor house, Lottie said, “We’ll think on this again on the morrow, aye? But now, some rest.”
There was some rumbling, but the crowd began to thin, gathering their sailors and taking them home. Lottie and her brothers went inside and she shut the door behind them.
They stood in the foyer, looking around them. “I never thought I’d see it again, in truth,” Mathais said.
“Neither did I,” Lottie breathed.
“I’m hungry,” Drustan said.
“Aye, me too,” Mathais agreed.
Lottie had no appetite. The last twenty-four hours had been an eddy of conflicting emotions, of despair and hope, of fear and utter relief. She was grateful for her freedom, afraid of being discovered. She’d found love with Aulay, and they’d parted so suddenly. He’d disappeared from her life almost as irrevocably as her father had.
Lottie went to her father’s bedroom and opened the door, hesitating a moment before stepping over the threshold. Just inside, she found the stub of a candle and lit it. She held it up—his room was comfortingly familiar, essentially unchanged since her mother had died. And yet it felt strangely distant from the person she
was now. That voyage had changed her in ways she didn’t fully understand.
The spirit of her father was still very much alive in these walls, as was her mother’s spirit, and Drustan and Mathais and Lottie’s, as well. But she felt herself miles and miles from here. She didn’t know how she could return to being the woman who had left this island three weeks ago.
She picked up a wooden box and opened it, inhaling the scent of the cheroots her father had kept there. It was his scent, and the familiarity of it felt almost as if he’d wrapped his arms around her. She sank down onto his bed and curled onto her side and allowed her tears of exhaustion and loss and heartache to fall.
She awoke the next morning to the sound of birds chirping. Sleep and tears had made her groggy, and she slowly sat up, uncertain at first where she was...until she saw the rabbits through the window, come to devour what was left of the grass.
Lottie swung her legs off the side of the bed and rubbed her eyes.
She knew what she had to do. She’d known all along, but hadn’t come to fully accept it until she’d found herself at Balhaire. It had taken her a grand adventure and deep loss to come to terms with it. “I’ve no’ forgotten what I want, Mor,” she said to her mother’s departed spirit. “But I’m no’ clever enough to achieve it.”
She stood up and went to her room. She opened her wardrobe and examined the gowns there. She owned precious few, but the yellow one with tiny rosebuds and green leaves would do.
By midmorning, while her brothers still slept, Lottie had bathed and dressed, and had made the eggs she’d found in the hen house. She donned her sturdy walking boots, picked some flowers from the garden that the rabbits had not yet feasted on, and set out for the south end of the island.
An hour or so later, the MacColl house came into view. Her father was right—it was larger than theirs. It had six chimneys across the top, four of them with smoke curling out of them. The lawn was better tended than the Livingstone house. Well, in fairness, they’d never been particularly orderly on the north end of the island, but really, how did the MacColls keep the rabbits from destroying every green thing?
