by Betty Neels
Her mother gave her a thoughtful glance. ‘Was Fergus there?’ she asked.
‘Fergus? Oh, yes—he was with the Provost’s party, but there was such a crush we hardly spoke…’
‘He must look fine in the kilt?’
‘Yes, yes he does.’ Rosie crumbled a slice of toast. ‘I thought it might be a good idea if I phone round to get the knitters organised. I was talking to Lady MacTavish, and she was telling me that there’s a new boutique opening in Inverness, planning to sell hand-knitted goods. I thought I might find out a bit more about it.’
If this abrupt change in the conversation surprised Mrs Macdonald she didn’t comment upon it, but discussed the knitting question at some length, and then suggested that Rosie might like to find Old Robert and ask him to dig some potatoes. Something Rosie not only did, but also helped him dig them, and the effort needed helped her to forget the feeling of desolation which was threatening to swamp her.
Just for a few days she nurtured the hope that Sir Fergus might come to Inverard, which she had to admit was silly, for he had no reason to do so, and she cried quietly into her pillow each night.
Which was a pity for, in actual fact visiting her was the one thing the professor wished to do more than anything else. He was quite sure about that, but he wasn’t quite sure about Rosie; he loved her and he was in love with her and he had every intention of marrying her, but only when she was ready and willing. He wasn’t a conceited man, but he was aware that if he exerted his charm and will she could be plucked like an apple from a tree. He didn’t want that; he wanted her to fall, as it were, of her own accord into his waiting hand.
So the days went by, and Rosie busied herself getting her knitters organised for the winter. Many of them lived in isolated glens, and depended upon her to bring wool and patterns and collect their work when it was finished; she got them organised, for there had been no one else to do it while her uncle had lived at Inverard, and then she took herself off to Inverness to seek out the owner of the boutique there.
The owners were more than willing to take anything she could bring them; the samples she had brought with her were right for the tourist market, and they would pay well. She left the shop feeling satisfied, and came face to face with Mrs Cameron.
‘My dear, what a delightful surprise! And just when I was wondering if I should stop for a cup of coffee. Let us pop into this café, I shall be glad to rest for a little while.’
The meeting was unexpected; besides, Mrs Cameron had a compelling manner. Rosie found herself sitting at a small table exchanging small talk.
‘You really must pay me another visit, Rosie,’ said Mrs Cameron. ‘Fergus told me that you had been at the ball, but I know these affairs are crowded—no chance to talk.’
She prattled on, seemingly unaware of Rosie’s replies, while she studied the pretty face opposite her. Fergus had been remarkably terse whenever she had mentioned Rosie; what was more, he was working harder than ever and, when he did go to his home, walked miles with the dogs. Something wasn’t quite right, but he was a patient man, and she had no doubt that he would get whatever he wanted—and she was sure that it was Rosie—in his own good time. She wondered if they had quarrelled, and thought it unlikely. A misunderstanding, perhaps?
She sighed; when one was in love one was so sensitive.
They talked about the knitting for some time, and she observed, ‘I don’t come to Inverness very often, do you, Rosie? But it was an opportunity I couldn’t miss today. Fergus is operating at the Northern Infirmary, and I needed some odds and ends. He will meet me for lunch. I suppose you wouldn’t care to join us?’
Rosie had gone pale at the very idea. ‘I—well, I’m afraid I have to get back.’
She sought feverishly for an excuse, watched with some interest by Mrs Cameron.
‘It’s very kind of you, I would have enjoyed it very much, but I promised to let Mrs Barr know about this knitting—she really runs it once it’s organised, you see. I just take round the wool and collect it.’
She stopped, aware that she was babbling, and Mrs Cameron, a kind woman, said soothingly, ‘What a pity—but I quite see that you can’t stop. It’s quite a long drive back, isn’t it? It’s been delightful seeing you again; I shall write and arrange a day for you to come over to lunch, and do bring your mother with you.’
They parted outside the café, and Rosie went back to the car park and got into the car, and drove out of Inverness absurdly afraid that she was going to bump into Fergus too if she stayed there a moment longer.
When he went into the foyer of the station hotel his mother was already there. He didn’t see her at once, and she was able to study him unobserved. He looked tired, and she wasn’t surprised at that, but he looked inscrutable too. A bad sign. He saw her, and came over to her table and sat down.
She smiled and said, ‘I had coffee with Rosie…’
She was right, she knew she was. His face became a bland mask. He lifted a finger to a waiter, and said quietly, ‘Oh? Rather far from home, surely?’
‘She is getting the cottage industry going again—knitting and so forth. Had to come here to get orders from a boutique. I asked her to have lunch with us, but she had to hurry back. Such a pretty girl, but she looked tired—or do I mean unhappy?’
She cast a quick look at her son, and went on quickly, ‘Have you had a very busy morning? What time will you be finished, dear? I still have quite a lot of shopping…’
‘I’ve several patients to see, but I should be through by half-past four or thereabouts. Will you be all right until then?’
‘Of course, dear. I shall treat myself to tea at that chic little place where they have those delicious chocolate cakes.’
Several days later Rosie drove to Fort William to have lunch with Lady MacTavish and tell her that she had been successful with the boutique at Inverness. Lunch was a leisurely meal and, by the time her hostess had asked her advice about the new material she had just bought for curtains, and taken her up to the attics to search for a particular piece of tapestry she had found there and mislaid, it was time for tea. After tea the daughter of the house and her husband arrived, and since she and Rosie hadn’t seen each other since Rosie had gone to England the time flew by.
‘You must stay for supper,’ insisted Lady MacTavish. ‘I’ll give your mother a ring, dear. We have seen so little of you, and I want to know about Wiltshire, and you and Chloe have such a lot to talk about still.’
So Rosie stayed, and by the time she had made her farewells the evening was well advanced and the sky had clouded over.
It started to rain within a few minutes of leaving Fort William, and with the rain came great gusts of wind so that she had to slow down once she had left the town behind her. The mountains were shrouded in clouds, the whole wild countryside was obscured by the downpour, the road empty of traffic.
She drove on steadily; she knew the way like the back of her hand and the car was running well. She had passed Ballachulish and was driving along a lonely stretch of road skirting the Rannoch Moor when she caught a glimpse of a light well away from the road. She slowed the car and took a second look, and then stopped. There were no crofts there, no huts used for sheltering walkers, only bog and pools and wild ground.
The light was flickering on and off and moving around as though someone was waving a torch. The light was bad, but she thought it came from an outcrop of rock well away from the road, probably on the West Highland Way. The rain
had settled down into a steady drizzle. She got out of the car, got her shower-jacket from the boot and put it on, wishing at the same time that she had put her wellies in as well. At least she had a powerful torch with her. She locked the car doors, checked the light once more, and set off across the moor. She knew the moor quite well, and the walk was about three miles away, she reckoned, although the light appeared to be much nearer than that. Probably someone had strayed from the walk and got lost. She struck out across the rough ground, first flashing her torch in reply to the wavering light in the distance, praying that they didn’t switch off their own light.
It was further than she had thought; it took her twenty minutes to get within shouting distance of the light. Her ‘hello’ brought an answering cry and five minutes later she, slowly clambering over rough ground strewn with rock, almost fell over the torch-holder.
A young man, little more than a boy, lying awkwardly in a patch of bog, very wet, with a leg twisted under him and blood matting his hair.
She dropped down beside him, took off her jacket, and slipped it carefully under his head.
‘How long?’ she asked. ‘And where does it hurt? I’ll try and make you more comfortable.’
Brave words, for she guessed that the leg was broken, but at least she could help him out of the bog.
His voice was faint. ‘I lost my way. Caught my foot on a rock or something and fell over backwards, hit my head…’
‘Your leg hurts?’
‘No. Can’t feel anything.’ His anxious eyes sought hers. ‘It’s broken, isn’t it? So why can’t I feel it?’
Rosie said bracingly, ‘I dare say you’re numb with cold. Does your head ache?’
‘Yes.’
He was mumbling now, and she had to bend low to hear him.
‘Did it for a dare…’ And then, ‘Don’t leave me alone…’
‘Of course not. I’ve got a powerful torch with me, any car passing will see it. Try and go to sleep for a while. I promise you I won’t go away.’
He closed his eyes, and she squatted down beside him. He felt very cold, and he was wet to his skin, too, but then so was she. She flashed the light and then she switched it off—better to save it until she saw the headlights of a car on the distant road.
‘Someone will be along presently,’ she said cheerfully, and turned a cautious light on to his face. He didn’t answer. He appeared to be asleep, but his breathing was loud and snoring, and his eyes weren’t quite closed. A frisson of fear shot through her. She didn’t dare to move him; he had said that he couldn’t feel his legs—perhaps he had damaged his spine. On the other hand, they couldn’t stay there.
But they might have to, she reminded herself—at least until morning, when there was a chance that someone might see them.
It was still raining and very windy. The clouds hung low over the mountains around them, and it was no longer possible to see any distance. Rosie doubted if anyone from the road would see her torch, and even if they did they might not stop. It was time to get help.
‘Oh, God,’ whispered Rosie, ‘do please send Fergus.’ She meant every word of it, and she felt better having said it. Her voice was quite cheerful when she observed to the unconscious boy beside her, ‘He’ll be along presently; we just have to be patient.’
It was after midnight as Fergus drove through Bridge of Orchy, past the hotel, now in darkness, and on to the desolate stretch of road curving round the moor. He had had a long, hard day, and he was tired, and he was looking forward to a day at home. He wanted time to think, to decide what to do about Rosie. A patient man, his patience was fast running out. Perhaps he had been too patient…
He said to the sleeping Gyp, curled up beside him, ‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow.’
The road circled, and he caught the faint flash of a torch away to the right of the road. He slowed the car’s speed and watched for it and, when it flashed again, drove on until he was level with it.
‘We had better take a look,’ he told Gyp, and got out of the car, and saw Rosie’s car in the curve of the road ahead of him.
‘No lights, the little fool,’ he muttered, and went to take a look. There was no sign of damage or any kind of violence, and it was securely locked. She had left it deliberately, and for a good reason. He whistled to Gyp, switched on his torch, and flashed it in the direction of the tiny pin-point of light.
It flashed back at once, and he set off, as familiar with his surroundings as she had been, going steadily and, as he neared the light, whistling cheerfully. Her nerves would be stretched like violin strings, he guessed, and to creep upon her silently might send her into screaming hysterics.
Rosie was so cold and wet she was oblivious of anything else. Now and again she waved the torch, but it was a purely mechanical gesture, while her other hand clutched the cold hand of the boy beside her. Sir Fergus’s rendering of ‘O, my luve’s like a red red rose…’ roused her as nothing else would have done. She started to get to her feet, but she was stiff and numb with cold, and she was still scrabbling around when Gyp pushed up against her and licked her hand, waving a tail with the pleasure of meeting her again.
Sir Fergus paused when he saw her, taking in everything at a glance. The next moment he had swept her up gently and was holding her close, his great arms tightened around her.
‘My brave little love,’ he said softly, and bent to kiss her with a most satisfying urgency before setting her down on a nearby rock.
When he spoke he might have been in one of his hospital wards.
‘How long? And has he been conscious at all?’
‘It wasn’t quite nine o’clock when I left the car; he was conscious then. I didn’t move him because I think his leg is broken, but he said he couldn’t feel anything.’
‘Good girl.’ He was squatting beside the boy, examining the inert body. ‘And you’re quite right, the leg is broken, and I suspect that his back is damaged. Any idea how it happened?’
She was still bewildered from his kiss. ‘He was lost—he’s been on the West Highland Way—on his own, for a dare. He fell over something and went over backwards. He—he stopped talking soon after I got here.’
Sir Fergus got to his feet. ‘I’m going back to the car to phone for help. Gyp will stay with you.’
He took off his weatherproof jacket, took off the pullover he was wearing, and pulled it over her wet head, stuck her arms in the sleeves, and pulled it down over her sopping dress. He did it very gently and impersonally.
‘Mustn’t let you get cold,’ he told her in a voice as impersonal as his manner, so that she decided that she had imagined his kiss.
‘Will you be long?’
‘It’s about a mile to the road—I should be back within half an hour.’
She watched him go without a word. Only Gyp, told to ‘stay’, whimpered very softly as her master started to wend his way back to the road.
Once at the car he alerted the mountain rescue post a few miles away, warned the hospital at Fort William, asked for an ambulance and the police, and finally phoned Rosie’s home.
‘Mrs Macdonald, Rosie will be coming home rather late. There’s been an accident—she’s not involved, but she is waiting with the lad who’s injured until we can get him to hospital. I’ll see that she gets safely home.’
Mrs Macdonald kept her voice steady. ‘We’ll wait up, Fergus, and thank you for ringing—we were beginning to wonder. I won’t keep you.’
He started back across the
moor, desolate in the dark; the mountain rescue team would come presently, and then the others from Fort William. Getting the lad to the ambulance would be a slow job. It was difficult to be sure he was unconscious, but as well as a badly broken leg there was almost certainly a fractured spine.
Sir Fergus tramped along, already weighing the pros and cons of the situation, while at the back of his head he was conscious of Rosie’s beautiful face and the expression on it when she had seen him. He allowed his thoughts to dwell on it for a moment with the deepest satisfaction.
A satisfaction which almost rocked him off his feet when he reached the bedraggled group among the rocks, for the face Rosie turned to him held a sudden glow of enormous happiness at the sight of him. But her words were prosaic enough.
‘Will they be long? He is so cold; I’ve been rubbing his hands and arms.’
Sir Fergus crouched down beside the boy. ‘About half an hour, I should think. We must keep him as warm as possible. Gyp…’ The dog came to him at once and, obedient to his quiet command, lay down close to the lad.
‘He’s wet, but he’s warm, too. Go on rubbing that arm, Rosie; I’m going to take a closer look.’
Rosie was tired and wet and still rather frightened, but she did as she was told, watching Sir Fergus carefully probing, knowing that there was really no need to be frightened now that he was there beside her in complete command of the situation, knowing what to do, and doing it with calm assurance. She rubbed the flaccid arm until her own ached.
The mountain rescue team were the first to arrive—trained men who knew what to do once Sir Fergus had assessed the lad’s injuries. He and the three men rolled the boy on to the stretcher so that he was lying face down, and then strapped him carefully. They had barely finished this slow and difficult task when the police and the ambulance arrived together.
