by Betty Neels
She had her clothes nicely sorted out by the time she reached home.
At the end of three days she wondered why she had bothered; Sir Fergus hadn’t telephoned, and it was already ‘next week’. On the fourth day she invented an excuse to go to Oban, and took herself off to Dr Douglas’s surgery—ostensibly to let him know that her parents were now living at Inverard. That he already knew this was incidental to her visit, and gave him the opportunity to ask her out to lunch.
Over that meal she listened with flattering attention to his aims and ambitions, and agreed that Oban, while a good enough place, held very little challenge for a young man with ambition.
‘I would prefer to go to London or Birmingham,’ said Dr Douglas, ‘and perhaps return to Edinburgh or Glasgow. There is always room for a good man.’
He was a nice young man, but Rosie was appalled to discover that she found him rather boring. How on earth had she allowed Sir Fergus to think that she was contemplating marriage with him? Not that it mattered, since Sir Fergus was contemplating marriage himself.
Sir Fergus telephoned that evening as she was laying the table for dinner. He sounded cheerful and far too casual, so that she found herself telling him that she had had a delightful time lunching with Dr Douglas.
She wished she hadn’t mentioned it when he said cheerfully, ‘Oh, good—the more you see of each other the better. Can he spare you tomorrow? I’ll call for you about nine o’clock.’
‘I’m not sure,’ began Rosie with a touch of peevishness at being taken for granted, and then, anxious that he might accept this as a formal refusal, quickly agreed. ‘Well, yes. Thank you. Are we going to walk?’
‘Wait and see. Please don’t keep me waiting.’
Upon which arbitrary note he rang off, leaving her put out. However, not so put out that she couldn’t bend her mind to the important task of thinking of what to wear. A problem—if they weren’t going for a tramp away from the roads she couldn’t possibly wear a sensible skirt and shirt and stout shoes. Something that would pass muster whatever they did… She decided upon another new dress—a cotton jersey in a vague pink, very plain with a round neck and short sleeves and a swinging skirt; she could wear one of the new cardigans with it—a slightly darker pink, and plain. Tan sandals, flat-heeled and not too flimsy would be ideal.
‘And it will be just too bad if he’s planned some hike to some rugged mountain with the idea of making me climb it!’ she observed to Simpkins, who was watching her from the comfort of her bed.
She went to tell her mother presently, and that lady said mildly, ‘How nice, dear—such an opportunity to get out and about while we still have summer. Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know—he wouldn’t say—I don’t know what to wear.’
‘Well, he seems a considerate man, love; if he planned a walk he would have told you.’
‘I asked him if we were going to walk and he said “wait and see”,’ said Rosie with asperity.
‘If he said that, then he has something planned; he wouldn’t want you mincing along in flimsy shoes if he had a good hike in mind.’
Mrs Macdonald spoke placidly, and glanced at her beautiful daughter with a hopeful eye. Rosie seldom spoke of the professor, and her mother took that as a good sign—Fergus would be a delightful son-in-law, she reflected wistfully. It was a pity about this vague girl in the background, although she was shrewd enough to consider that probably Rosie had misunderstood him when he had mentioned getting married. She picked up her knitting, the picture of maternal calm.
‘That’s a pretty pink dress you brought back from Edinburgh—you could wear it anywhere,’ she observed. ‘But you’d better take a mac.’
Sir Fergus wasn’t mentioned again. Rosie saw to the hens, collected the eggs, and went into the garden to get on with the weeding which Old Robert never had the time to do. It tired her out nicely so that by the time she went to bed any doubts she had about the next day were smothered in yawns and, presently, sound sleep.
* * *
It was a lovely morning; Rosie got up early, saw to the hens, and studied the sky. At the moment it looked as though it would be a fine day, and her spirits lifted. She enjoyed Fergus’s company—she made no bones about admitting that now—but perhaps it would be as well if she didn’t see any more of him after today. She went back indoors to get into the pink dress, and decided that she would concentrate on Dr Douglas.
Half an hour later, watching Fergus getting out of his car, she discovered that concentrating on Dr Douglas wasn’t going to be the answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIR FERGUS had Gyp with him; he crossed to the front door unhurriedly, wearing, Rosie was glad to note, clothes not suited to a day’s hard walking. She was peeping from her bedroom window, and had plenty of time to appreciate the casual elegance of his clothes—he never seemed to wear anything new, she thought confusedly, but it always looked right…
He looked up suddenly and saw her, and stopped in his stride to look at her. It was a long, grave look, and it shook her to her bones so that she was incapable of moving away from his gaze. She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but it was her mother’s voice that broke the spell.
Rosie retreated from the window, and took a look at herself in the looking-glass. She had the feeling that she was under a spell, but her face appeared to be the same as usual.
‘If this is falling in love,’ she observed to the faithful Simpkins, ‘it is the most wonderful feeling; only, however am I going to go downstairs and talk to him as though nothing has happened?’
The longer she thought about it the worse it was going to be. She picked up her shoulder-bag, and went down to meet him.
His ‘good morning, Rosie’, was uttered with casual friendliness, so that for a moment she wondered if she had imagined his look and her sudden rush of feeling. However, the feeling was still there; she would have liked to have run to him and flung herself into his arms and stayed there forever; she hadn’t known that being in love could cause such chaos in an ordinary well-brought-up girl’s head and heart. She bade him good morning in a carefully expressionless voice, not quite looking at him so that she didn’t see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He said, ‘You look nice—are you ready to go?’
‘Yes. I’ll just tell Mother.’
Mrs Macdonald came through the door like a stage character on cue.
‘Fergus—how nice—I was in the kitchen—have you been here long?’ She gave him a guileless smile and offered a hand, and he smiled gently down at her.
‘A few minutes only.’
‘You won’t have coffee before you go?’
‘It’s such a lovely morning I feel we should take advantage of it.’
Mr Macdonald, coming in through the kitchen on his way to the study, came to join them in the hall. ‘Fergus, good morning. You’ve chosen a splendid day, though it’ll rain before night.’
The professor held out a hand. ‘Good morning, sir. I’m afraid you may be right—as long as it holds off until evening.’ He glanced at Rosie, standing very quietly. ‘I hope Rosie will have dinner with me, so please don’t worry if I bring her back rather late.’
‘I have my key,’ said Rosie, her voice faintly acid; just for the moment annoyance that he had taken it for granted that she would accept his invitation without, as it were, being asked, took over from her wish to spend every day with him forever and ever.
They were a
ll looking at her.
The professor said in a voice to charm the birds off a tree, ‘It would be a delightful end to the day if you would dine with me, Rosie?’
The smile with which he accompanied this invitation would have melted a stone.
‘That would be nice,’ replied Rosie, quite unable to resist the charm. ‘I don’t know where we’re going—I’m not sure if I’m wearing…’
‘Quite delightful,’ interrupted Sir Fergus. ‘Shall we get on?’
They said their goodbyes, Gyp clambered into the back of the car, and Rosie was ushered into the front seat. Then Sir Fergus turned the car and drove away up the long drive to the road.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Rosie.
‘You know Loch Eilt?’
‘I’ve seen it—I’ve never actually stopped by it. It looked lovely—all those little islands with those silvery trees… Is that where we’re going?’
‘Yes. Why did you look like that, Rosie?’
She knew quite well what he meant, but she asked, ‘Like what?’
‘As though you hadn’t seen me before. We are moderately well acquainted, are we not?’ When she stayed silent he observed, ‘You don’t wish to tell me, do you?’
‘No. It wasn’t because I wasn’t glad to see you, though.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ He sent the car spinning along the road to Fort William. ‘How is your friendship progressing with young Douglas?’
‘Douglas? Oh, Dr Douglas. Oh, well…very nicely.’
If he considered her reply was less enthusiastic than was to be expected from a young woman cherishing thoughts of marriage he said nothing, but presently began a casual conversation about nothing much which lasted until they had left Fort William behind them and turned off on the road to Mallaig.
‘Are we going to Skye?’
‘No. Would you like to go there one day? Do you know it at all?’
‘I’ve been several times, but I don’t know the north of the island at all, though I’ve been to Kyle of Lochalsh—one could spend a lifetime here and never see it all.’
Rosie was making conversation, anxious to achieve a casual friendliness, and she was finding it difficult; besides, she was puzzled as to where he was taking her. They crossed the head of Loch Shiel and drove though Glenfinnan, and glimpsed Loch Eilt ahead of them. This was where he had said they would be going; she had her mouth open to ask him if this was where they would stop—for a picnic perhaps?—when he turned the car through the open gates and she saw the sign behind them.
‘This is private,’ she pointed out, turned to look at his placid profile; and at his laconic ‘yes’ she knew at last.
‘You live here!’ she said accusingly. ‘You might have said so.’
He didn’t answer, which annoyed her, and she stared out of the window with her beautiful nose in the air. When the house came in sight she forgot about being haughty.
‘Oh, it’s magnificent!’ In her surprise and pleasure she put out a hand and clutched his sleeve, and then snatched it back as though she had touched a hot coal…
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, and knew that she must seem an idiot to him, behaving like a silly schoolgirl.
Sir Fergus didn’t look at her, nor did he speak for the moment, but drew up at the door before he turned to her. He said gently, ‘I wanted to surprise you, Rosie.’
‘You have. Oh, it’s lovely; don’t you want to live here all the time?’
He got out, opened her door and helped her out, and did the same for Gyp.
‘Yes—it’s my home, but if I lived here all the time I’d have to give up my work, and I couldn’t do that.’
They were standing looking at the house, and Rosie said slowly, ‘But when you marry will your wife live here? Isn’t it too far for you to commute? Or perhaps she likes Edinburgh?’
He looked away from her. ‘I hope that she will like to be with me wherever I am.’ He added, ‘Shall we go inside?’
Hamish had opened the door when they had arrived, and had stood well back watching them, nodding his old head in a satisfied way. Now he edged forward to bid them a good morning.
He took the hand Rosie offered, and his ‘Guid day, Miss Macdonald’ was uttered in a contented voice which made Sir Fergus grin.
‘Is my mother in the drawing-room, Hamish?’
‘The wee morning-room, ye ken fine she loves the roses.’
Sir Fergus led Rosie to the back of the hall, and opened a door opposite the sitting-room. It was a small room with deep windows and doors opening on to the lawn beyond, and Rosie could see why Hamish had mentioned roses—the velvety grass was surrounded by rose beds filled to overflowing with every shade of pink, red and yellow. Mrs Cameron was sitting in the doorway with a book on her lap, but she got up as they went in.
‘Fergus—and you have brought Rosie to meet me.’ She lifted a cheek for his kiss, and offered a hand to Rosie, her smile very sweet. ‘I am so delighted to meet you; Fergus tells me that you are living at Inverard again. You are glad to be back there?’
She patted the chair near hers. ‘Come and sit down and tell me about it—we’ll have coffee before Fergus carries you off.’
Gyp, with Bobby at his heels, came in from the garden, and Mrs Cameron asked, ‘You like dogs?’
She began to talk comfortably about the animals, the garden and the delights of living almost on the shores of the loch, with Sir Fergus putting in an easy word or two, so that presently Rosie had the pleasant feeling that she had known Mrs Cameron for quite some time, and that sitting there with her and Fergus stretched out in his big chair was something she had done for years instead of the few minutes she had been there.
Hamish brought in the coffee-tray, and presently Fergus asked, ‘Would you like to walk down to the loch? We can go across the gardens, and come back through the woods.’
The gardens were beautiful; beyond the roses was a small walled garden with an herbaceous border in full flower and then a little herb garden before they crossed rough ground beneath the trees and came out by the loch. Half a dozen miles away, on the further side of the loch, the mountains towered, their lower slopes covered with fir trees, and merging into moorland already tinged with purple heather.
Sir Fergus flung an arm round Rosie’s shoulders. ‘Splendid, isn’t it? I think of this when I’m in Edinburgh.’
She was very conscious of his arm. ‘Do you come here each weekend?’
‘Whenever I can—it isn’t always possible; I have friends in Edinburgh—one doesn’t like to lose touch.’
He glanced down at her. ‘And you, Rosie? There must be old friendships for you now that you are back at Inverard—new ones, too?’
‘Well, yes. It’s as though we’ve never been away…’
‘So you are content to stay at Inverard?’
If she said no he would want to know why, and how could she tell him that she would only be content to stay there if he were there too? She had never been a jealous girl, but now she experienced the first pangs at the thought of him far away in Edinburgh, surrounded by the flower of eligible womanhood ready to pounce if his matrimonial plans should come to grief.
‘I’m not there all the time,’ she pointed out in what she hoped was an uninterested manner. ‘I go down to see Granny and Aunt Carrie, and I go shopping. Aunt Carrie is getting married in two weeks’ time. She wants me to be her bridesmaid…’
‘So it is to be a big wedding?’ he asked idly.
�
�Oh, no! They’re being married in Tron church. I’m not quite sure why; I believe they first met there, or something like that. It’s to be very quiet.’
‘Your aunt deserves to be happy; I should imagine that your grandmother isn’t the easiest of women to live with.’
‘She’s not.’ Rosie gave a little chortle of laughter. ‘Aunt Carrie is a saint, and so kind; but we all take it in turns to be out of favour with Granny; she forgives us sooner or later—all except Uncle Donald.’
‘Does she approve of your marrying young Douglas?’
She did a quick think—it was important to give the right answer. ‘Well, I don’t think she knows yet.’
‘Ah, a secret romance…’ There was mockery in his voice so that she answered before she had time to think.
‘Good heavens, no—he hasn’t a spark of romance in him!’
She could have bitten out her tongue. She went red, and added hastily, ‘Well, you know what men are…’
He quelled silent laughter. ‘Er—yes, but only from a man’s point of view, of course.’
He slid an arm under hers, and began to walk in the direction of the lochside.
‘Just because young Douglas doesn’t quote Robbie Burns to you doesn’t mean to say that he doesn’t think it. “To see her is to to love her and love but her and her for ever, for Nature made her what she is and never made anither”.’
He said the words in broad Scots, and Rosie longed with all her heart that he had quoted the poem just for her. He hadn’t, of course; he would have been thinking of his future wife. The thought made her uneasy; here they were, walking along arm-in-arm, very much at ease with each other indeed—even when he annoyed her the annoyance didn’t touch her deep love for him, and that wouldn’t do at all…
