Jamie MacLeod

by Michael Phillips

  © 1987 by Michael Phillips and Judith Pella

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-0-7642-1860-6

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Eric Walljasper

  Judith Pella is represented by The Steve Laube Agency

  Dedication

  to

  Jeannie Pella Storbakken

  Our Mutual Friend and Sister Whom We Both Love

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Part I: Gilbert MacLeod

  1. Evening Vigil

  2. A Dream of More

  3. The Ebony Stallion

  4. Lundie’s Proposal

  5. Parting

  Part II: Finlay MacLeod

  6. The Shepherd

  7. Sunset

  8. The Old Trunk

  9. The Lass of the Mountain

  10. Another Farewell

  11. Winter

  12. The Sailor

  13. Rescue

  Part III: Aberdeen

  14. Sadie Malone

  15. First Days in the City

  16. A Row on Hogmanay

  17. Broken Dreams

  18. The Vicar’s Wife

  19. Lessons

  20. Another Change

  Part IV: Aviemere

  21. A New Home

  22. The Master of Aviemere

  23. An Afternoon’s Excursion

  24. Edward Graystone

  25. Guests

  26. Two Conversations

  27. A Midnight Intruder

  28. Father and Son

  29. The First Flowers of Spring

  30. Candice Montrose

  31. A Journey into the Past

  32. An Unexpected Visitor

  33. Brotherly Strife

  34. Midnight Encounter

  35. Rumors

  Part V: Robbie Taggart

  36. The Sailor Returns

  37. The Call of Love

  38. Dreams

  39. Andrew

  40. Thoughts

  41. A Surprise Visit

  42. The Laird and the Sailor

  Part VI: Jamie MacLeod

  43. Pledges

  44. A Piece of the Puzzle

  45. Donachie

  46. The Laird of the Mountain

  47. The Unmasking

  48. Family Secrets

  49. Derek Graystone

  50. The Final Return

  About the Authors

  Books by Michael Phillips

  Books by Judith Pella

  Back Ad

  Introduction

  This story of a Scottish shepherd lass growing up on a wild but beautiful, untamed but silent Highland mountain called Donachie typifies all men and women. As Jamie MacLeod (pronounced MacLoud) grows, she begins to look into the distance, scanning the horizon for what life can offer. The only hope she knows of to validate her own existence is to fulfill her father’s dying dream—that somehow she rise from her humble beginnings, the poverty and restrictions of her upbringing, to become a lady, to be someone in the world.

  Jamie’s quest is a universal one. We have all climbed to the top of our own mountains, gazed into the distance, and wondered, “What’s out there?” We all long to “make something” of ourselves. Shackled by muddled notions of what constitutes a fulfilled life, our roving eyes scan the horizon for the distant sunrise, for the greener grass on the other side of some ethereal fence.

  But the tragic fact is that we often seek the roots of our own identity, our own personhood, outside the one place where true personhood begins.

  Equipped for a joyful life of communion with God—with His creativity built into our natures, with His love and goodness surrounding us in the world He made, and with the peace of His Son available to our souls—we yet spend fruitless years looking elsewhere for that which we think will satisfy this deep longing.

  Our eyes look “out there” for something which can be found only by turning upward and inward. In vain we pursue the meaningless search for things that can never be, when all the time true life is before us, around us, and within us—life from God himself! We try to make ourselves men and women of stature in the world’s eyes, failing to understand that the only stature of real and eternal value is to grow in wisdom and to find “favor with God.”

  He is not as concerned with the horizons of “over there” as He is with nurturing and maturing our characters right where we stand. When we come to the end of the search and grasp at last where it has led us, the question is: are we willing to “lay down our arms” and surrender to the One whose hand has been guiding, urging, encouraging our steps all along? The search is not one which can find an answer in the streets and byways of the world or in a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in Aberdeen. Only in listening to that “still, small voice” of God in our hearts will we discover the fulfillment of our heart’s dream.

  This, then, is the tale of Jamie’s quest for ladyhood, a journey leading from the land of her beginnings to the city of dreams, and then back to the source from whence it all had sprung. The lure of adventure and romance tug at her, but in the end Jamie finds true love, the peace of the God of her fathers, and the essence of her own personhood where she least expects it.

  This first book in “The Highland Collection” is a story of true personhood as revealed through the eyes of God, not of men. The complete picture of personhood will be seen in this series of books through the three essential ingredients which comprise it: manhood, womanhood, and sonship. Personhood—the relationship of God’s created beings to himself as Creator and to themselves—cannot be grasped one-dimensionally, but only as manhood, womanhood, and sonship are clearly understood in their relationship to their Maker. Book One, Jamie MacLeod: Highland Lass, asks, “What is true womanhood? What does it mean to stand before the God who made me as the complete woman He created me to be?”

  As you walk by Jamie’s side, enjoying the mystical beauties of Scotland’s mountains and valleys, look through her eyes as she searches the horizons of life for her own true person. But as she comes to the end of her quest, look through her eyes into your own heart. There you may be surprised to discover, as she did, that the meaning to life for which you have been searching has been in your heart from the very beginning; that for which you have longed has been within reach.

  Jamie’s granddaddy read to her from his Book, “Seek and ye shall find. . . . If any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him. . . .” By looking too far into the distance, our eyes will be out of focus to see His ever-near presence on our own personal Donachie—right beside us.

  The door to being a fulfilled person is inside
, not on distant horizons. As Jamie discovers, womanhood before God is the most intimate discovery a woman created in the image of God can make in the quiet of her own heart. For He promises, “Lo, I am with you always.”

  Michael Phillips

  Judith Pella

  Part I

  Gilbert MacLeod

  1

  Evening Vigil

  The thin moon inched its way toward the top of the night. The silvery hues from its reflected brilliance cast ghostly shadows over the moorland below. Later in the month it would shine out boldly upon this lonely land, but in its first quarter it could barely illuminate the humble cottage standing silently in the ethereal glow, as if awaiting some change which was at hand. But even the light of a new moon was sufficient to reveal the stout stone walls and massive chimney and the cobbled pathway leading to the sturdy oaken door. It was hardly the home of a gentleman squire, yet there was an air of substance to the place—if it did not exactly emulate affluence, at least there had been a brave, though perhaps faltering, step in that direction.

  Inside, the cottage seemed to show its truer face. All was simple and coarse, even by the standards of the 1860s, but it was tidy and clean. A dark-haired girl was alternately stirring and blowing at the struggling peat fire on the hearth, encouraging the fading embers once more to life and warmth. Her pure face and wide, innocent eyes, seen in the flickering dance of an occasional flame, would have given a stranger the impression that she was no more than four. Yet she carried herself about the place as if she were twelve; in reality she was seven. Rising from the fire, she returned to her wooden stool and, with her elbows propped on the rough pine table, rested her chin in her tiny hands. After a few moments her eyes drooped, but she quickly jarred herself awake, refusing to fail in her evening vigil.

  Many nights she would sit thus, alternately tending the fire, dozing off, staring, entranced, into the red-orange glow of the single candle in the room, and glancing out the window at every sound—waiting ever for that one sound which would light her lips with a smile and her emerald green eyes with a sparkle more radiant than the combined efforts of fire and candle. Though small for her age, with thin, frail-looking limbs and pale skin, there was a certain upward tilt of her chin, a firmness about her lips that spoke of strength and determination well beyond her tender years.

  It was difficult for any amount of tenacity and pluck to keep a child awake so late, however. Her day had begun before dawn, and a steady flow of necessary chores had followed. After milking came the preparation of a hearty Scottish breakfast of oatmeal porridge with cream. Then had come washing up and sweeping out the cottage. The cows had to be taken out to pasture, and today had also been laundry day. The day had been warm, so she had been able to hang the garments outside, and had only just retrieved them as the purple-pink dusk gave way to the descending night.

  Suddenly she heard a sound outside.

  She jumped up and hurried to the window, pressing her warm face against the clear pane. But all was still and quiet.

  The girl sighed. It must have been only the breeze through the birch tree sending the tips of some of its branches against the window.

  She shuffled back to the fire to have a peep inside the kettle perched on its three-legged stand. The simple barley stew had boiled away into an almost tasteless, gooey mass. She gave it a deft stir, hoping it would not cook away to nothing. The biscuits she had so lovingly prepared were already cold, but they could be salvaged with a few moments over the coals of the fire.

  She never thought of complaining, never questioned her lot, knew no other life but this. The smile on her lips and the sparkle in her eyes came from her heart, for it was a heart full of love. Though her life may have been a hard one, she did not consider it so. If she went to sleep tired each night, she also went to sleep content, for the object of her youthful ministrations was one she loved. Was he not her own?

  She returned again to the stool and her endless waiting. Had she known how to read, the hours may have passed more quickly. But she could not read, and there were no books in the cottage. There was mending to be done. But she was tired, and it could wait.

  So she waited in the light of the peat fire, as the cottage wherein she sat waited in the pale northern moonlight—waited for something which seemed to be at hand. But neither she nor the cottage knew what was to come, for neither was aware of the true object of that waiting.

  Though she was content, there had been many times in those long, lonely hours when she had recalled with longing the way it used to be. She could just vaguely remember when Mama had been there, but she sensed, with more of an ache in her heart rather than a recollection in her brain, that those had been sweet days of joy. Maybe it was the laughter from Papa’s mouth she remembered. He didn’t laugh like that anymore. They were happy, the two of them. But there were long hours of being alone, too. And even when they were together, she sometimes saw loneliness in her papa’s eyes.

  She certainly did not begrudge him the hours she spent alone. It was not her father’s fault that he must work so hard. Winter was coming, and the harvest had been poor. The girl knew very little about the value of a farthing or a shilling, but she could tell that the cupboards were emptier than when Mama had been alive, and emptier now than they were a year ago. She knew her father sometimes had but one biscuit at mealtime in order to spare the rest for later. He could not hide his hunger, though he tried to make light of it. And although it took far less to feed the furnace of her tiny body, she could feel her own hunger at times as well.

  But Papa said things would get better! And she knew he must be right because he was the wisest person she ever knew. He said she would have fine dresses and be a lady. Their house would have furnishings befitting its stalwart exterior—perhaps they would even have a new house, larger, more stately, with servants.

  They were landowners, after all! He had said so many times. They should live up to their station. The child did not know what her station meant, and gave the matter little thought. But once in a while she did think of pretty dresses and a soft bed. She knew these things would make her father happy, so they must be good; they must be important. Thus, she wanted them too—because they would make Papa happy.

  All at once she heard another sound outside. She went quickly to the door and listened. Then she heard the footfall on the wooden step, and her heart leaped inside her tiny chest. The long-awaited moment had finally come!

  2

  A Dream of More

  “Ah, Jamie, my darling bairn!” exclaimed the man as he gathered the petite child into his arms.

  He was so tall he had to duck to enter the cottage, his gaunt frame accentuated all the more because of his dark, deep-set eyes and well-pronounced cheekbones. And by this time of the day the tiredness clearly evident in his countenance added still more to that look. When he smiled at his little daughter, the smile seemed too large for his face, a strange contrast with the sad drooping of his weary eyes. But Gilbert MacLeod did smile, and that was all young Jamie saw, or cared about.

  “Papa, how tired ye must be!” the girl said, snuggling her head into his shoulder.

  “Tired, indeed,” he sighed heavily and the edges of his smile faded. “Tired mostly of havin’ to leave ye all to yourself.”

  “I dinna mind, Papa.”

  “Tired of havin’ nothin’ to show for a whole day’s livin’,” he continued as if he had not heard her. “Tired . . . but from all the wrong things.”

  “Supper’s ready fer ye, Papa!” said Jamie, doing her best to sound cheerful.

  “Ah, ye dear child! What would I do without ye?”

  She slipped from his arm and went about the task of laying his supper out before him on the coarse old table. She smiled all the while under the sweet balm of his praise. She served him like the handmaiden she was, anticipating his every need before he asked, making sure he never wanted for anything. As the last swallow of tea disappeared, she was there immediately to refill his cup, watching all
the while that he ate each of the three biscuits she set on his plate. She forgot all her previous drowsiness.

  When the meal was finished, Gilbert pushed back his chair, the only highbacked one in the cottage, stretched out his long legs, and occupied himself with the complex process of cleaning and lighting his pipe. Stopping what she was doing, Jamie watched the procedure with fascination, absorbed in the deep look of concentration in her father’s eyes, which seemed to reach its climax in the knitting together of his bushy black brows. Before long Gilbert MacLeod was puffing away contentedly. And then came the most delightful moment of all for Jamie—for Gilbert could execute the most perfect smoke rings in the village and Jamie never grew tired of following them upward till they lost their shape in the accumulated haze which hung near the roof.

  The father took the daughter’s hand and drew her to him. “Come here, Jamie, my dear,” he said, lifting her onto his lap. “Tonight ye can leave the washin’ up till the morrow.”

  She made no protest and relaxed in his arms.

  “I’m glad ye are young, child,” he went on. “Too young to understand how things are. Or do ye, lass?”

  He gazed deeply into her eyes as if he sought there to discover the answer to his own question. But the only reply reflected was the simplicity of love and admiration.

  “I wonder if too much has been put upon ye, child. The moon is fully risen, and ’tis the dark of night, and ye should be in bed asleep. But here ye are layin’ out a supper for me.”

  She clung still closer to him, saying by her mere presence and the extra squeeze of her loving arms that to be with him was enough. She needed to understand nothing beyond that.

  “But I swear, my bairn, things will be different—they will! Ye’ll have the things ye deserve, the things I should be providin’ for ye. I only wish your mama could have been able to see that day. But you will see it, lass. I feel it’s comin’, Jamie! I’ve been savin’ the best news of the day for the last.” Here a smile crept onto his face, and a mischievous glint lingered in his eyes for a moment.

  “A surprise, Papa?”