“We will be watched and scrutinized,” he went on. “How we handle this—for Alasdair’s sake, for the sake of the community, for the sake of our witness of Christ—I as a curate, you as the duchess…everything must be absolutely scrupulous. We must walk in complete transparency and integrity. Your reputation will be my highest priority. With my living in Huntly we can be open, we can see one another as often as we like, while still preserving our lives in separate communities. I cannot think that it will strike anyone as untoward for two former friends to reestablish their friendship in full view of the community.”
Again came a brief pause.
“I don’t know what we are to do,” Iain added. “I know that I love you, Angel Dawn Marie Buchan Lorcini Reidhaven. I will never love another. When the angel who is beside me appeared in my life, she was the only angel for me. Yet we must walk slowly and carefully…and give God time.”
I slipped my hand through Iain’s arm and we walked along the sea for another mile without a word. I don’t think I have ever been so at peace in all my life.
Chapter Fifty-three
Interlude of Peace
Where the roses blush and bloom mid the waving trees and broom,
And the busy bees are gath-ring in their store,
I would sent me in the glade, mid the green and gold array’d,
And breathe the breeze of heav’n ever more.
—J. S. Skinner, “Where the Roses Blush and Bloom”
Things obviously changed dramatically with my knowing Iain was now living in Huntly. The fact that he made no secret of his return made it easier. Within a week everyone knew he was back in the north, knew that I had gone to London to inform him of Alasdair’s death, knew that he was no longer in the active ministry but was working in construction, and knew that we were unembarrassed about our friendship and that we intended to see as much of each other as we wanted.
He visited the Deskmill Parish Church regularly, was often asked to read Scripture by Reverend Gillihan, and substituted for him when he was away. Though he and his sister Katie lived in Huntly, he was often seen in both Port Scarnose and Crannoch. He had no intention, he said, of slinking about or of trying to hide himself from view. Let people say what they wanted, he would live in the light. He would likewise visit me in full sight of the community.
On Iain’s first Saturday back, we lunched together at Puddleduck at the busiest time of day. Then we walked through Crannoch’s streets, popped into Crannoch Collectibles and Abra Antiques and Slorach’s Hardware, and the Crannoch Ice-Cream Shop for two ice-cream cones before heading on foot along the viaduct to Port Scarnose. After that day, news about the return of the former curate was out in the open in full view of everybody.
The tide was out as we walked along, the golf links stretching a gorgeous green below the viaduct all the way to the equally gorgeous blue of the sea. It was a warm summer’s day. The beach was filled with children and dogs and swimmers and walkers.
“Why is that rock down there called Florimel’s Rock?” I asked, pointing out to the elongated black mussel-encrusted rock that stretched a little way out into the water opposite the towering red boulder at the shore called the Bore Craig.
“Its traditional name is the Black Foot,” replied Iain. “But the name Florimel comes from George MacDonald’s classic that was set in Crannoch and Port Scarnose.”
“The Victorian novelist—yes, I know about MacDonald. I’ve read some of his books that are in the castle library. ”
Iain nodded. “Did you know that he stayed in Crannoch in the 1870s when he wrote his novel set in this region?”
“I’d heard that. But I haven’t read that one. I couldn’t follow the dialect.”
“One of his characters, the daughter of the local marquis, was sitting on the Black Foot reading a book as the tide gradually came in and engulfed her before she realized it.”
“Was she in danger?”
“Possibly of being swept off the rock, but hardly of being drowned. The water wouldn’t have been higher than her waist. But it took her by surprise. You can always tell where the tide is with a quick glance at Florimel’s Rock. At high tide it is invisible, completely submerged. At low tide its base is visible on the sand and you can walk all the way out to it.”
“I had almost the same experience once,” I said. “It was the day when I was thinking about your sermon about the prodigal and about the meaning of God’s Fatherhood. But I got off the rock I was on before it got that high. So what happened to the girl Florimel?”
“The hero of the story, a young fisherman called Malcolm, ran through the water, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her back to the beach.”
“Sounds romantic. Did they fall in love?”
“Uh…a difficult question to answer.” Iain smiled mysteriously. “Not exactly. Florimel thought Malcolm rude—and he smelled of fish.”
“I can tell I will have to read it,” I said, laughing. “I will have to keep working on trying to read the dialect.”
“Findlater also comes into MacDonald’s tale. A terrible accident takes place there and the marquis, Florimel’s father, is badly injured. It really is a dangerous place. There’s also a witch-lady in the story who knows of a secret passage to Findlater.”
“Is that true?” I asked.
“Some say so,” replied Iain. “The story goes that the first inhabitants of Findlater, for it was the first of the three castles or great houses of the region—”
“Which three?” I asked.
“Findlater, then Deskford, then Castle Buchan. The Picts who first occupied this coastline were particularly exposed to the attacks of the Vikings. When the Viking onslaught began it was especially fierce in the north of Scotland. It is said the Picts contrived to escape by means of the tunnel they had discovered, which led inland. When the castle was later built on the site, perhaps it served some other purpose, or was used in the same way against threats from the Danes.”
“Was it a natural tunnel?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they excavated it to lengthen what the sea had carved out naturally through time.”
“Why doesn’t anyone try to find it?”
Iain laughed. “Actually, Alasdair and I did. But we found nothing. Everything about Findlater now, its inner rooms and vaults and broken staircases, is much too dangerous and far beyond the stage of decay where exploration is possible. Any tunnel that might once have existed would surely be caved in and filled with stones by now anyway.”
“Are there really ghosts at the castle?” I asked.
“Your castle?”
I nodded.
“It depends on who you ask.” Iain laughed. “My friend Leslie Mair says he has heard strange noises when working there. The years are full of stories of sightings—the green lady, she’s called. But then Fyvie Castle has its own green lady, too, as well as a secret burial crypt where legend says a mad earl trapped the green lady, then sealed her tomb from the outside, leaving her to die where no one would ever find her. She takes her revenge by roaming about haunting the place. The similarity of the two stories would seem to diminish the likelihood of either being true, in my opinion.”
“It all sounds spooky!” I said with a shudder. “I’m glad the sun is shining. What about the crypt beneath the church?”
“That much of it apparently is true,” said Iain. “No one knows how to get there, because, like the mad earl’s hidden tomb at Fyvie, the descent to the crypt from the church was entirely covered over by the floors of the church that were built on top of the original structure. The present floor now contains tombs of the Ogilvies and Grants and Sinclairs and lords and ladies of ages past, including some portion of the entrails of Robert the Bruce’s wife, Elizabeth.”
“Ugh!”
“She died while visiting this region, you know. This whole area, including your home, is very historic. But the long and the short of it is that no one will ever find the way to the crypt because the graves and tombs beneath t
he church floor are not only historic, they are a sacred part of Scotland’s legendary past. No one would ever get permission to excavate and potentially disturb the bowels of one of Scotland’s queens.”
By this time we had arrived at the end of the viaduct and into the streets of Port Scarnose. We made our way down to the promontory at the end of town where Bow Fiddle Rock was visible, then through the village, past the harbor, and eventually all the way back to the entrance of Castle Buchan.
Gossip, of course, in the weeks that followed raged like a wildfire. The tongues of the auld wives wagged indeed.
But it died down soon enough. Our obvious unembarrassed and unabashed enjoyment of each other, Iain’s perfect decorum as a gentleman, and that we gave not the slightest appearance of being other than good friends was evident. And as word got around that Iain was writing a book about Alasdair, which would obviously involve me, people got used to seeing us together. As there was no talk of marriage, there ceased to be much to fuel the gossip. People spoke of “the curate and the duchess” as not scandal, but as one of the many facts of interest that surrounded the life of Castle Buchan and its environs. I didn’t mind the talk. I liked having Iain back in the area. Simply knowing he was nearby, as Alasdair’s friend and mine, gave me a sense of security and safety.
Meanwhile, Sunday open-castle gatherings resumed. I encouraged both Iain and Ranald to participate as much as they were able, as my twin spiritual advisers and male authority figures, whom I now depended on with my husband gone. I took comfort in knowing I had two strong men close to me and watching out for me. Gradually a few mothers began asking about harp lessons for their youngsters. My harp studio slowly began to fill with the happy sounds of young musicians. Intimidated at first by taking lessons at the castle, by the time of our first recital, the Music Room was filled with parents and friends and grandparents of the young harpists, as comfortable in their surroundings as if we had been in the town hall.
Nigel Crathie and Alicia Forbes were married by Reverend Gillihan the following spring at the Deskmill Parish Church, with a great reception on the castle grounds. By then Nigel had become such a friend to us all and such a fixture around the castle, I approached him with an offer. He had already decided to relocate his office to Port Scarnose from Elgin. He did not want to take Alicia from her friends and roots, he said. He could conduct his business anywhere.
I proposed to him to inexpensively let he and Alicia as many rooms of the south wing as they might need to feel comfortable—even to remodel to suit their needs—if they would like to establish a home in the castle to begin their marriage.
“The place is huge,” I said. “I want it filled with people. I know it may not fit into your permanent plans, but you are welcome to be part of the castle family as long as you like.”
Nigel took my suggestion one step further. In the end we not only remodeled for their living accommodations, he set up his legal offices in the south wing as well.
“It will be the most prestigious solicitor’s address in Scotland,” he said proudly.
Alicia continued to act as my part-time housekeeper in charge of the day staff. I hired Cora as her assistant, and she moved into Alicia’s former apartment. As confidentiality was so important in his work, Nigel set up his offices such that he and his clients were free to come and go through a separate entrance without disturbing or being seen from the rest of the house.
Chapter Fifty-four
Surprise Visitor
Hoo, O! Soon shall I see them, O; Hee, O! See them, O see them, O;
Ho-ro! Soon shall I see them, the mist-covered mountains of home.
There I shall visit the place of my birth, and they’ll give me
a welcome, the warmest on earth;
All so loving and kind, full of music and mirth,
in the sweet-sounding language of home.
—John Cameron, “The Mist-Covered Mountains of Home”
When Alicia came to me with a repeat of the announcement she had made the day Iain unexpectedly appeared, I was naturally curious when I saw her expression. I was not able to read what she was thinking.
“You have a visitor,” she said.
I returned her statement with a look of question.
“You will want to see this one,” added Alicia. “Trust me.”
“Iain again…with flowers?” I asked as I rose.
“Just wait and see.”
I followed her downstairs. At the door stood Adela Cruickshank. It was a greater shock than seeing Iain.
My mouth fell open. Suddenly I understood Alicia’s expression.
The expression on Adela’s face, however, was much different than I would have expected. She was obviously embarrassed and a little intimidated, perhaps almost fearful. She could not meet my eyes.
“Adela!” I exclaimed. “How nice to see you! Won’t you come in?”
“I dinna ken gien I sud…I came only…That is…I jist—”
“Adela, please,” I said, reaching out and taking her hand. “The past is forgiven—please, it would mean a great deal to me if you came in.”
She smiled sheepishly, still embarrassed and averting her eyes. Alicia stood in the entryway. I could read her face like a book. I knew it might be more difficult for her to forgive than it was for me. She was eyeing our visitor with a cold stare.
“Alicia,” I said, “tell Cora that Adela is here. Why don’t the two of you fix us a great tea. This is time for a celebration. It’s like Adela has come home, isn’t it? We will be in the studio.”
Slowly, Alicia turned away.
“Come, Adela,” I said. “You remember the way!”
Hesitantly, still not quite sure what to make of my welcome, Adela timidly followed. She was obviously shy about entering the regions where she had herself been housekeeper for a season.
“I don’t know if you knew,” I said as we went, “but Alicia is married now—to Nigel Crathie, my husband’s friend and solicitor.”
“I had heard somethin’ aboot it,” said Adela.
“They are actually staying here, in the south wing,” I went on. “And you remember Cora; she is working for me, too. She is staying in Alicia’s former rooms…and yours, too, of course. She will be delighted to see you.”
We entered the studio. I led Adela to one of the couches and sat down opposite her. She glanced about at the familiar surroundings, but remained uneasy.
“I…wanted tae see ye, mem…Duchess—” she began.
“Please, Adela. We know one another too well for that!”
She smiled nervously.
“I didna ken fit I sud call ye. But I’ve been workin’…ye may hae kennt…I went tae Aberdeen, ye ken, wi’ Olivia—”
“Yes, I knew.” I nodded.
“I dinna ken hoo tae say’t…er, uh, Marie…’tis a sair thing, ye ken…but I see noo…that is…I ken noo that I was mair nor a mite foolish an’…I sudna hae believed all o’ the things she said aboot ye…I ken…that is, I think I kennt they werena true, but…I, that is…she could mak me sair confused like, that I believed onythin’ she telled me…She has a way, ye ken, a way o’ makin’ people believe her…an’ I dinna ken—”
She glanced away. I stood and walked over and sat down beside her and placed my hand on her arm. She sniffed a time or two. I reached for a tissue from the low table in front of us and handed it to her. She was struggling with tears. Knowing Adela as I did, I suspected that it was difficult for her to cry.
“I see noo…she was sae full o’ anger an’ hate…why I didna see’t afore…I dinna ken hoo she cud mak me hate jist like her…She blint me een, I believed things I sudna hiv believed…I am sorry, Marie—I sud hae kennt ye werena what she said.”
“Oh, Adela,” I said, “she could make us all terribly confused. She confused me, too. I understand how difficult it must have been for you.”
“But I sud hae kennt…I am aye sorry—”
She glanced away and wiped at her eyes.
“I
didna want tae face ye, Marie,” she struggled to continue. “I didna ken fit ye might say. Ye hae ilka right tae be angry wi’ me for all the mischief I caused ye. Div ye think Alicia will e’er forgive me? She was sich a frien’, but I was dreadfu’ tae her, too.”
“I am sure she will,” I said.
Just then Alicia and Cora came in, wheeling a cart with a spread of finger foods and two pots steaming with tea. Their expressions as they entered were obviously a little mixed, with hints and reminders of the past. But one look at Adela on the couch with me, my hand on her arm, and she wiping at her eyes with a tissue, was enough to begin thawing both their hearts. Most people—not all, but most—I believe are ready enough to forgive in the light of a humble and repentant heart.
“Adela has apologized to me for misunderstanding many things before,” I said, breaking the ice. “She says that Olivia was able to confuse her and make her believe things she knew weren’t true. Is that right, Adela—have I represented accurately what you meant to tell me?”
“Aye…’tis jist it, ye see.”
That was all it took. We had all suffered from the same fate. With Adela’s contrite admission unlocking the dam, the floodgates broke open wide. Within minutes the three friends of youth were chattering away like schoolgirls about their memories of their time together under Olivia’s control. Alicia and Cora shared how they had struggled to break free from it in recent years. Adela explained how her eyes had at last been opened to the truth of what Olivia had been doing to her for so long. As they chatted, with the harps of my studio around us, it occurred to me, as much as it represents the music of heaven, the language of the harp is the language of forgiveness. It was obvious—among her friends, forgiven, at last at peace with them and herself—that Adela felt at home.
After an hour or so, the conversation took an unexpectedly serious turn.
“I dinna ken gien ye heard,” said Adela after Cora had just returned from the kitchen with fresh hot water, “but Max was killed on the rigs a year syne.”
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