Jamie MacLeod

by Michael Phillips

  He had had many grand dreams. But remember, my dear daughter, if you find love you will have attained the greatest dream of all.

  Alice MacLeod knew what her husband was made of. She knew that his kind nature would always be at war with his innate restlessness and pursuit of unreasonable goals. Perhaps she, too, feared the daughter would follow that same path.

  Yet despite all these new realizations that womanhood shed upon Jamie’s childhood, she continued to love her father—perhaps even more. And standing in this very room where they had lived, she could almost sense the love he had had for her. It may have been misplaced, but she could not deny it, nor deny him. He was her papa!

  Jamie turned and stepped outside. She had come here seeking memories, but all at once they had become almost more than she could bear.

  Gray clouds had covered the morning sun and a chill north wind had sprung up, lashing her in the face. She walked into it away from the stone house, away from the turmoil of remembering. Now was the time for prayer. Papa was gone, as well as his land. But now perhaps she understood a little better the danger she herself had always been in. Now perhaps for the first time she could join into the prayers her grandfather had always prayed on her behalf.

  As she drifted by degrees up the hill away from the house, a gradual sense of thanksgiving began to steal upon her. Yes, the memories of the past brought with them heartache. But there was so much to be thankful for! God’s hand had been upon her; she could see evidence of His leading and protection with every turn her life had taken. Perhaps her father’s last wish for her had been fulfilled—but in a way he wouldn’t have anticipated. No, she would never be a lady. But he had wanted the best for her, and she couldn’t be happier with the life the Lord had given her. Was that not all anyone could ask for?

  Without realizing the direction her steps had been taking her, Jamie found that she had come all the way to the broken old wall separating the field from the moor. The wind swirled around her and seemed to be springing up from the dreary moor itself. She shivered for the cold and the eerie spell of the place. She recalled Mrs. Ellice saying that Frederick Lundie was killed out on the moor; it was easy to imagine such a thing happening there. Then, as if her thoughts had suddenly sprung to life, she heard from behind her—

  “He died oot there,” said the hollow, empty voice of Iona Lundie.

  Jamie could not even force herself to turn and confront the drawn, bitter countenance. Still facing the moor, she said, “How are you—why—did you follow me here? It seems I see you wherever I go.”

  “There’s nathin’ left me but t’ wander aboot, lass, seeking my revenge wherever I might find it.”

  “But what have I to do with it? Please,” Jamie implored, “leave me alone. Stop following me—please!”

  An empty laugh followed. “I ain’t followin’ ye, lass. It’s fate that draws us togither. Dinna ya see? Fate will avenge us both!”

  “But I want no revenge! Please, just leave me alone!”

  “So ye say noo. But ye hanna heard the story o’ my Freddie an’ yer ain father.”

  “And I don’t want to hear it!”

  “But ye must, lass. Ye’re bound t’ hear it. The moor is where it all began. They was both killed oot there.”

  “No, no!” shouted Jamie, facing the widow. “My father died at home—in the cottage back there—I was with him!”

  “It all started on the moor, I tell ye,” she replied flatly. “Ye must ken—an’ I think ye’ll listen.”

  “No,” Jamie insisted.

  “Ye’ll listen—because he was yer ain father.”

  Jamie was silent. Iona Lundie was right. Whatever there was to know, she had to listen.

  “My Freddie was a desperate man. When he left that last night, I told him t’ do nothin’ crazy. He said he had nae choice fer Graystone said he’d keep him frae workin’ again—onyplace. He said he was goin’ t’ git what he had comin’ frae the laird—he said he would leave Aviemere a rich man or the laird would come doon with him. He told me if onythin’ was t’ happen to him I’d know it was the fault o’ them Graystones, an’ t’ make sure they paid. I was sore afraid, but he said Gilbert’d speak up with me if necessary. Then he left aboot whate’er business it was, an’ I ne’er saw him alive again.

  “The day after they brocht his body home t’ me, yer ain father turns up dead. I tried t’ tell them what happened, but no one would believe a word again’ the laird. An’ what was I but jist an’ auld, bitter widow. Then the story spreads aroun’ that it were yer father what killed my Freddie. Folks said they were in on some scheme what went sour an’ they turned on one anither. They seen that yer father was beaten before dyin’ in the cottage doon there. They said the two men fought oot on the moor here, an’ that Freddie was killed an’ yer father, half dead, dragged himsel’ home only t’ die the next day. Mighty convenient, I say! Both deaths explained sae neatly, leavin’ nae need t’ look elsewhere fer the true killer!”

  Jamie gripped the jagged edge of the stone wall. Could she believe this woman? Did people really think her father was a murderer?

  “But it was them Graystones!” the Lundie woman continued, “that did in my husband an’ yer father. Not the old man hissel’. He would hae sent his son oot t’ do the dirty work. The Graystones killed the both o’ them!”

  “No!” screamed Jamie, but the wind seemed to carry away all her intended force. “I can’t believe that,” she said. But as she looked into Iona Lundie’s eyes, what she saw made her stop short. Even if what she said was not true, Iona Lundie passionately believed what she said. There was such certainty in her face that it defied protest.

  “Ye take one look,” the woman continued, her voice seething with passion, “at Edward Graystone, an’ tell me he wouldna be capable of murderin’ fer his precious Aviemere. An’ his brother’s cut frae the same dirty cloth!”

  “How can you say that?” Jamie’s voice shook as she spoke. “They wouldn’t do such a thing!” But the words had barely parted her lips before an image rose in her mind of the man she had first seen at Aviemere—the man who had turned his back on his helpless son for two years, the man whose dark eyes at times held a smoldering fire and at others an icy hostility. But she shook the vision from her mind’s eye—he had changed!

  “Ye can tell yersel’ what ye want,” Iona said. “But I ken ye can see the trowth in my words—because ye’ve seen him!”

  “Go away!” cried Jamie. “Leave me alone!”

  “’Tis noo oor chance t’ see justice done,” the woman went on, ignoring Jamie’s pleas. “I couldna do onythin’ aboot it before alone. I asked my sister Bea—”

  “Bea is your sister!” said Jamie with a shudder. How many times had she trusted Andrew into that woman’s care? He was with her right now! What if something should happen!

  “Aye. But when I asked her help, she refused. I thought she could find oot what Freddie discovered. But she’d hae nae part o’ it. But noo ye’re there. Ye could find out somethin’. If only we ken what happened, then people’d hae t’ believe me.”

  “I would never be party to such a thing,” Jamie replied. “Give up this thirst for revenge. It won’t bring him back. What’s done is past!”

  “’Tis nae revenge I’m wantin’, ’tis justice. Yer father went t’ his grave with people thinkin’ him a killer—dinna ye think he deserves some o’ the justice due him?”

  “Stop!” screamed Jamie over the wind, howling now. “I won’t listen to anymore!”

  She rushed past the woman and ran across the field. She did not stop until she had reached the road and met Ellice as he drove the wagon back to meet her.

  She climbed up silently, saying nothing, and the factor—not seeing from whence she had come, nor seeing the solitary figure standing in the distance at the edge of the field—assumed she was still overcome with the memories of the place, and asked no questions.

  She spoke hardly a word all the way back to Aviemere, and Ellice did not intr
ude into her silence. And what could she have said? She could hardly share with this loyal man the accusations she had just heard against his employer. He would not even listen to hints of fraud, much less an accusation of murder! Especially coming as it did, he would say, from a crazy lunatic woman! She did not even believe the accusations herself. They were nothing but the ravings of a bitter old woman—best forgotten altogether! Of course! Forgotten!

  But why then could she not force them from her mind?

  Dear Lord, help me to forget this terrible day, she prayed inwardly.

  Yet even as she prayed, Iona Lundie’s searing words seemed to burn still deeper into her mind the more she tried to erase them.

  The wagon pulled up in front of the house. She climbed out, thanked Mr. Ellice, then walked toward the doors over which the inflexible, belligerent, combative words still silently cried out Aut pax aut bellum: Either peace or war! How fitting a motto for this cold, stern family!

  She had just closed the door behind her when a shout from the stairs above stopped her in her tracks.

  “There you are!” cried Edward Graystone, descending the stairs. There was anger in his voice and fire in his gaze. “What have you been doing!”

  “I was out with Mr. Ellice,” Jamie replied, shivering at his menacing tone. Somehow she knew this was not the time to tell him where she had been or what had occurred there.

  “Why you incompetent malingerer! Is that all you have to say for yourself!”

  What was this change that had come over him? Then all at once she went cold with a different kind of fear.

  “Why—what’s happened?” her words came out as a bare whisper.

  “While you were off—God only knows where!—Andrew was hurt.”

  “Oh, no!” she cried. In a panic she raced past him and flew up the stairs, all her fears and confusion lost in terror for the little one.

  Edward could hardly have missed the sight of her stricken countenance as she rushed past, and perhaps he felt some remorse for his harsh words. And perhaps later Jamie would forgive him, for she could not have known that less than an hour before he had received a most disquieting visitor onto the grounds of the estate.

  32

  An Unexpected Visitor

  It was later that same evening, after she had seen Andrew safely to bed and detected by his face that he was at last asleep, that Jamie left him for the first time and went to seek out her employer.

  The injuries had not been serious. The boy had fallen down a short flight of steps and received a nasty cut on his forehead. Bea was so beside herself with anxiety and self-blame that Jamie instantly repented of any thought that she could have intended the boy harm. But she could hardly assauge her own guilt. What Graystone had said was right—she had been shirking her duties. And the knowledge that she must keep silent about where she had been made it all the worse. But at least Andrew was now sleeping peacefully, with his “Baba” tucked securely under his arm. She knew what she must do. She left the nursery and went straight to the library.

  Graystone’s voice answered her knock.

  “Come in.”

  She entered, and he appeared surprised to see her.

  “What do you want, Miss MacLeod?” he said, the harsh edge still present in his voice.

  “Mr. Graystone,” she said. “I’m so sorry about what happened. You were right. I wanted to apologize.”

  “You do not need to apologize,” he replied stiffly. “Just see that such a thing does not happen again.” His tone was like ice and his eyes were hard and darker than usual.

  “I will see to it, sir. That is, I will do my best.”

  “Then you may go.”

  Jamie turned and was about to leave, feeling worse than when she had come, when another voice broke through the thick silence and stopped her.

  “Edward, do you plan on denying me an introduction?”

  All at once Jamie realized that in her single-minded resolve to speak to Graystone himself, she had not noticed that there was someone else in the room. Unconsciously she turned toward the voice. The man was seated, or rather draped, in a chair adjacent to the desk, slightly shaded in the evening shadows. It was understandable that she might have overlooked him initially. That would have to be the only reason, for his was not a figure easily overlooked. He was of about Edward’s size, and though his face bore an odd resemblance to Edward’s, it was much more striking—as handsome as it was free from those hard lines of care and turmoil which had come to characterize the younger of the Graystones. His smile was quick and relaxed and would have been almost friendly save for the conflicting cynicism of his pale blue eyes. What she failed to notice was the keen look of appraisal he had cast in her direction.

  Edward sighed before he spoke, as if every word was an effort. “This is my son’s nurse, Miss MacLeod,” he said.

  The man stood and stepped toward Jamie with his hand extended. “I see my brother is not up to this introduction,” he said with an amused lilt in his voice. “I am Derek Graystone, your employer’s elder brother.”

  All at once the sudden change in the laird—the tension, the harsh words—came clear to Jamie. No doubt it was all due to the unexpected arrival of his brother!

  Jamie stumbled a few feeble words of attempted greeting, then made to leave. But again Derek Graystone’s voice stopped her. “I hope we will have the pleasure of your presence at dinner,” he said, the broad, good-natured grin dominating his face once more.

  “It is not cust—that is, I usually eat with—” Jamie began, but Derek interrupted her.

  “To blazes with propriety!” he said. “Edward, surely you’re not going to deny your poor brother—home from the wars after nearly ten years—the pleasure of a lovely face to cheer my first dinner back at Aviemere!”

  “I have my duties,” Jamie tried to explain.

  “Edward, you are a tyrant! A cold-hearted tyrant. I suppose this lovely young woman must eat in the scullery with the stable hands!”

  “We observe certain customs here at Aviemere,” replied Edward flatly.

  “Hang your customs!”

  Edward’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly, and the muscles in his jaw rippled. But he answered coolly, “The decision rests entirely with Miss MacLeod.”

  Jamie sank with almost visible dismay. She was bound to cause someone’s displeasure no matter what the outcome. She could not sit at the table with these two gentlemen! She would be completely out of place!

  “I really do have my duties,” she said weakly.

  “And I insist,” Derek replied with his grin still in place.

  She glanced lamely at Derek’s now silent brother, hoping for some support from him, but his eyes were boring a hole through the opposite wall—there would be no help there! He wasn’t even going to help her gracefully refuse. And Derek was certainly not a man to withstand once he had his mind set.

  Dinner, at best, was uncomfortable and tense. Edward spoke hardly at all, and when he did his words were clipped and terse. Concentrating so hard at not making a fool of herself, Jamie was hardly the witty dining companion she was certain Derek Graystone had expected. And the taut atmosphere was made even worse by the shocked, scandalized expressions of Jamie’s fellow servants.

  It came as an immense relief when the last course was completed. Edward quickly excused himself, telling his brother he could join him in the parlor for coffee if he wished.

  Jamie rose also, and hastened toward the dining room doors. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone with the Lord of Aviemere.

  But Graystone had other ideas. In two strides he was at her side and laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Certainly you don’t mean to compound my brother’s rudeness by leaving me high and dry when the evening is still so young?”

  Tensing at his touch, she could hardly find her voice. “I—I really must—I have to go check on Andrew.”

  “A sleeping child cannot need you as much as a lonely soldier,” he said, drawi
ng uncomfortably close.

  “I—I dinna ken—I mean, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You must think me forward,” he said, still grasping her arm. “But one in my position—facing constant danger and uncertainty, never knowing what tomorrow will bring—well, I’ve learned I must never hesitate when something good comes my way.”

  “I really must go,” she said uneasily.

  Spurred on by the obvious discomposure of her innocence, he took her chin in his hand, gently but firmly. “Please, at least grant me a walk in the moonlight.”

  “I have to go . . . I must go!”

  She slipped her arm from his grip and fumbled for the door handle.

  “Perhaps after we become better acquainted,” he persisted. “I shall be here for some time.”

  Without a reply, Jamie hurried out and ran all the way to her room.

  33

  Brotherly Strife

  A steady drizzle during the night had left the roads muddy and slick. However, Derek had insisted on a tour of the estate, and since the weather did not seem as if it would improve over the low clouds and gusty wind of that morning, his brother made no protest. Moreover, Edward was aching to get out of the house even if it meant spending the day with his brother.

  They mounted their horses, Edward on his sorrel stallion, and Derek on a lively chestnut. Edward spoke but little. Silence was the only way he could hide the emotions swirling within him. When he had answered the knock on his study door yesterday to find his brother in front of him, with that incorrigible smirk on his face, he had felt something akin to nausea. It had been ten years since Derek last set foot on Aviemere, and Edward had wishfully begun to imagine that it might last forever.

  But Derek had never been one to leave his younger brother in peace. From their earliest years Edward remembered that he never missed an opportunity to goad him—to remind him who was heir and who was the apple of their father’s eye. And then as if to twist the knife still further, he would demonstrate an utter disdain for the estate, considering it a great joke that the heir gave not a fig for the land. Knowing how Edward loved the estate, he derived a great morbid pleasure in throwing his own possession of it in his face.