by Gian Bordin
Finally, older and more cynical, he spent the last Winter in Devon in the manor of the old Baronet Coville. He was hired as the tutor for the seven-year-old heir by the baronet’s young wife. He quickly discovered that Lady Coville had other designs on him. Within two weeks, they were lovers. At the end of six months she tried to snare him into a plot to speed up her partially infirm husband’s death, so they could get married and live from her inheritance. At that point, he thought it wise to disappear.
He had started to care for life again. The idea of emigrating to North America, Boston or Philadelphia, began to take slowly form in his mind. Having largely lived off other people, mainly women, he had accumulated a sizable purse of close to one thousand pounds, most of which was invested with a reputable London merchant firm on which he could draw, should he need cash. It would be enough to give him a solid start in the new world.
So this trip to Scotland was to say farewell, probably forever, while he waited for the Spring storms on the Atlantic to blow themselves out. The first two weeks he spent in Edinburgh, most of it reminiscing of his student days at the university. Then he went north to Perth, through the mountains to Inverness—he had never been there—and down the Great Glen to Fort Williams and on to Argyle. He wanted to know if he still felt bitter about his childhood days and discovered he didn’t.
The Highlands were full of reminders of the ravages following the rebellion—numerous burned-out clachans, untended fields going to waste, but life in the villages and cities seemed to be teeming. It was so strange to find practically no Highlanders wearing a plaid, and all of them unarmed, except in remote mountain regions. He discovered that this useful, healthy, and highly adaptable form of clothing had almost completely disappeared with the 1747 disarming act that also prohibited the wearing of Tartans and Highland garb.
Inveraray had not changed much. It didn’t awake any feeling of coming home, and he realized that it had never really been home for him. He felt completely detached and looked at the castle only from the outside. Searching his heart for any feelings toward the man—his father—who ruled there, he found nothing, not even resentment, just emptiness. He had no desire to say hello to anybody. In fact, with his neatly trimmed black beard and the foreign clothes, speaking English, nobody even seemed to recognize him, except for that old woman at the inn he stayed overnight.
She was sitting on a bench next to the hearth, stooped forward toward the embers, and as he walked past her after dinner she grabbed hold of his hand and murmured: "It’s master Andrew, isn’t it?"
When he bent down to see her gnarled face, his hand still in hers, she said: "Don’t you recognize aunt Lorna anymore? … Come, sit by me for a while, as you did so often in the castle kitchen when you were but a wee boy."
"Aunt Lorna," he whispered. "What an unexpected surprise!"
"You thought me long gone. They all do," she chuckled hoarsely, coughed briefly, and spit into the embers. "So you went to see the world." She touched his velvet jacket. "I always knew you would … and now you have come back?"
"Only passing through. I’m going to America."
"That is a long way to go. Tell me."
They talked for a while about his travels, his plans. Then he got up, holding her hand, and said: "It was good to talk to you, aunt Lorna. Keep well. Are they looking properly after you?"
"I’m fine. Don’t need much anymore, you know. But you have grown into a fine young man and from your looks, you seem to be doing well. God bless you!"
He was just about to go, when a thought struck him. He sat down again and asked on a low voice: "You were there when I was born, weren’t you?"
"Yes, master Andrew, I washed you… You were such a sweet wee baby, not at all wrinkled like they often are… And your mother wanted to see you, but Lady Argyle forbade it. I had to take you away immediately."
"My mother … Mary MacGregor from Glengyle?"
"Ah yes, you never knew, didn’t you? … Lady Argyle made me swear that I would never tell. But she’s been dead for years now, so it won’t do any harm telling you."
Andrew looked at her in tense impatience.
"What name did you say? Mary …?"
"Mary MacGregor."
The old women pondered that for a while, looking into the hearth. "The redhead from Rob Roy’s clan?"
"Yes."
"She was a haughty one. Thought herself better than the other lasses sent to the castle for grooming… Very pretty though and fell head over heals for Lord Archibald, the silly lass… They all had their dreams of becoming Lady Argyle." She fell silent for a while. "But why do you think she is your mother?"
"She said so herself, a few years back, when I was at Finlarig."
"She did? … Strange woman… Why would she say that?"
Andrew felt on tenterhooks. "Is she my mother? Aunt Lorna, please, tell me."
"No … she had a boy a few months earlier and he died shortly after birth."
With great effort, he forced to keep his voice steady. "You say her boy died?"
"Yes, he only lived a week or so. Didn’t take to feeding. That happens sometimes. Maybe if he had been left with his mother, he might have lived."
"And she was never told her boy died?"
"I guess not … she was sent home a few days after the birth … before he died."
"So, who is my mother?"
"Oh, let me think. She was dark haired … she was … yes, she was a MacDonald … yes, I think Elizabeth MacDonald. Married one of her cousins a year after you were born and died in childbirth, the poor lass… would have done better to enter a convent, as she had wanted."
Andrew did not sleep much that night. He wondered what difference it would have made, had he known. But that could not be changed any more. He might as well bury it in the deepest recesses of his mind.
* * *
He had planned to go from Argyle directly to Glasgow and then make for Liverpool to catch a boat to Boston. But when he reached the top of Loch Lomond, rather than go south to Dumbarton, he was irresistibly drawn east into Breadalbane. He couldn’t understand why. There was really nothing there that he wanted to be reminded of. Helen, the girl he had loved and lost, thinking of her as his sister these last four years? The wound of losing his love had suddenly been ripped open again. She was not even his sister anymore—only a lass that had crossed his path. Or did he want to tell the woman he had believed to be his mother? He had forgiven her and felt ashamed for having cursed her—she had only done what she thought she must do to protect her daughter and her family. What would change if she knew that he was not her son? He was still a Campbell of Argyle and she a MacGregor. She would never let her daughter marry a Campbell. What was he thinking of? Anyway, by now Helen was surely joined with another MacGregor. She might already have a child or two. Nevertheless he continued east along Glen Falloch and down Glen Dochart and so came to Killin.
* * *
After an early dinner at The Bear, he decided to go for a ride. Before long he found himself on the ridge leading down to Lochan nan Geadas. It hadn’t been a conscious act. As the sun reappeared below the bank of clouds over the western horizon, he rode down to the little lake and walked up to the promontory. Sitting against a boulder, he watched the reddish glows of the setting sun bathe the landscape, the shadows slowly fading away. He closed his eyes and leaned back. He saw Helen standing on the path, like on the day when she had come to tell him of her love. The image was so real and so vivid that he opened his eyes, startled, searching. Nobody was there.
He got up and went down to the water. Everything was completely overgrown. He could not find the entrance to the cave and was giving up, when he almost stumbled onto the little tunnel. He crawled in. After a while, his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The piece of driftwood, the round white rock, the bit of crystal were still on the little shelves. The pine cones had lost most of their scales. He opened the book left there, badly damaged by rodents. It was Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. She had called
it naughty. A smile crossed his face.
It was night by the time he got back to the inn.
Next day he visited Finlarig Castle. It felt more like coming home despite its dank starkness. He had been strangely happy and content there. The stable master told him that Dougan Graham had died in the Winter of 1746. Andrew was glad that neither of the McNabb brothers, nor James Campbell were there. All three were still in active service with the English army, last known to be serving in Flanders, he was told.
Mr. Nichols, the innkeeper of The Bear, joined his only guest for the evening meal, making polite but insistent inquiries about Andrew, where he came from, where he was going, which drew no more than vague answers.
Over coffee, Andrew asked: "Is Dougal Campbell, you know, the MacGregors, still farming on Loch Tay?"
"Ah, you’d know him?" retorted the innkeeper suspiciously. "He’d be any relations of yours, if I may be so bold to inquire, sir?"
"You may… No, I made his acquaintance, what … it must be six years ago already."
"That’d be before the rebellion, sir."
"That’s right. Is he still here?"
"He joined the rebels, you know, but seemed to have gotten away unscathed, except for losing his cattle. But shortly afterward had a full herd again. I always wonder how these MacGregors manage to flout the law of the land so brazenly and go scot-free, sir."
"So he has left the area?"
"Oh, no. He and half a dozen other families still farm a glen off Loch Tay. I’d guess if you stayed here for the Spring dance this coming Saturday, you’d be able to meet him. The MacGregors never seem to miss any festivities. Has two mighty pretty daughters, you know."
"Unfortunately, I’ll have to leave before then. I’ve got a ship to catch, as I told you."
"That sure’s a pity. All the pretty lasses of the glen will be here. It’s their last outing before they go into the shielings for the summer. You sure wouldn’t want to miss that, sir."
"I’m afraid I’ll have to be gone tomorrow, but thank you for telling me." Andrew rose from the table. "That was a mighty fine dinner, Mr. Nichols. But now I better retire to get a good night’s rest."
However, sleep escaped him. The opportunity of seeing Helen had stirred him up, old feelings haunting him. By morning he had changed his mind about leaving and went for another ride on Beinn Leabhain.
* * *
Saturday, he stayed in his room on the first floor of the inn, watching people come and go until well into the afternoon. Again, he felt that something was missing. Except for an occasional colorful tartan jacket worn by a few women, it was impossible to tell what clan the people claimed.
Finally, the sound of the music drew him to the green. Leaning against the trunk of an oak on a small rise, he observed the couples dancing in pairs and in groups. Some faces looked familiar, but nobody seemed to recognize him. A few young women and lasses walking by cast curious glances at the stranger. Suddenly, he spotted a young woman whirling around among the dancers. She looked like the Helen he knew. The same blaze of red hair. The same smile. His heart missed a beat. His left hand reached for the chest, as if trying to calm his heart, to comfort it. It cannot be Helen. She would look older. He remembered her features cut more boldly, more defiant. Betty, flashed through his mind. So Helen might be here too. He searched the dancing couples nearby. There! That’s my Helen!
She smiled at the young man with her. Something he said made her laugh. How well he remembered those smiles, the way her eyes opened wide for a short moment and then became narrow slits. After the dance, the young man led her away, a hand resting on her shoulder, a possessive expression on his face. Was this her husband? No, she would be wearing a mutch—a bonnet, nor would he hold her in such a possessive manner anymore, letting everybody know that she was to be his. So, it must be her betrothed. A numbing ache gripped his heart. Had he hoped deep down that she remained unattached? Wouldn’t she have forgotten him years ago already?
Observing their gay interaction, he felt pained, foolish that all these years he had held on to her, that he had never really let go. But this must be the end. It was more final than the belief that she was his half-sister. Now that he could put a face to the man whom she had given her favor, antipathy born in jealousy rose in him. Giving in to the sudden urge to run, to leave town right away, he pushed himself brusquely away from the trunk and headed for the inn. He vaguely heard the musicians announce a creel, and before he was fully aware he paired up with a young woman at the edge of the green.
"New in town?" she asked, a provocative smile playing on her pretty face.
"Yes," he answered, trying hard to return her smile, but not succeeding convincingly.
As the creel went on, he worked himself down to the middle of the green, where he had seen Helen earlier. Unexpectedly, Betty was his partner.
"Hello, Betty," he greeted her, forcing a smile that he didn’t feel.
They turned a figure eight, and, as they faced each other again, her face lit up: "Master Andrew! You’ve come back?"
"Only to say farewell to the Highlands. I’m going to America!"
Again they turned around each other.
"You’ve become a pretty lass, Betty!"
She blushed, smiling bashfully.
Andrew moved to his next partner. And then his hand held Helen’s.
"Helen," he whispered, as his eyes locked onto hers.
For a moment her face kept the noncommittal smile she would give to any stranger at a dance. Suddenly, a flash of recognition made her falter. His firm grip held her steady as they turned around each other.
"Andrew," she replied and locked eyes with him again. There was no smile in either face. Hers showed bewilderment, his hurt. Their hands touched again. She responded to his light pressure. They separated, and he moved on. He saw her gaze search for him, but worked himself to the edge.
Turning his back to the dance, the feelings that he had kept suspended during that brief interlude now overwhelmed him. His vision blurred, he bumped into a young man, excused himself in English, and got sworn at in Gaelic as "a bloody Sassenach" or Englishman. Back in his room he threw himself on the narrow bed. What a fool he had been to come back, pouring jealousy into old wounds! Nothing had changed over these four years. He had opened the lid and found his love for Helen burning as fiercely as ever.
* * *
"I saw master Andrew," whispered Betty to Helen.
So it was Andrew! The emptiness that had gripped her when she saw Andrew got darker. "Did he talk to you?"
"Yes, I asked him if he had come back—"
"And?"
"—he said no. He said he only came to say goodbye. He’s going to America." Her face took a dreamy expression. "I envy him. I would like to go there, leave this bloody country where folks like us never have any hope of getting ahead … not being poor all our lives. I heard you can get land there, lots of land very cheap, and own it forever, do with it what you want, run your own cattle on it. Not be at the mercy of our lords who can kick us out at their whim, and take away the land to run thousands of sheep, as they did last year to Angus McNabb… And get away from the strife between the clans." She got carried away.
Helen wasn’t listening. Her eyes were unfocused, gazing inside. Vaguely, she felt Betty’s hand touch hers, saw her face as if she wanted to ask a question. Her emptiness turned into turmoil.
She had resigned herself to never see him again. She hadn’t thought of him since last March when Robert, her cousin who after the Argyle ambush, now almost four year ago, had come to live with her clan and had asked her father for her hand in marriage. Then she had searched her heart and confirmed that she still couldn’t think of Andrew without a sense of loss, although the hurt was largely gone. And now he showed up again, just weeks away from her wedding. The box that she had locked away deep inside her soul, that she thought she had buried for good, without warning sprung open again, and the memories of their short summer of love came all flooding back.
At first, she hadn’t recognized him with his dark beard. It had only been the touch of his hand that made her look again. She knew of no other man whose palms were so soft and silky. It triggered a fleeting smile. Why did he talk to Betty and not to her? But would she have been able to respond? She didn’t know. Her eyes were driven to search the crowd again.
"Come, Helen, dance!" Robert’s voice felt like an intrusion. For a moment she looked at him without comprehension.
"What’s the matter, lass?" He did not wait for an answer and grabbed her hand, trying to pull her up. "Come, people are lining up."
"Take Betty! I’ll sit this one out."
He shrugged and took Betty’s hand. She followed reluctantly, looking at her sister with a worried face.
"Just go, Betty! I’m all right."
All this time, Mary MacGregor had watched her intensely. After Robert and Betty were out of hearing, she asked: "That young man? It was master Andrew, wasn’t it?"
Helen nodded.
"Why’s he back? What does he want?" Her mother’s voice sounded anxious.
"I don’t know, mother. We didn’t speak."
"Lass, you stay away from him and you know why! His coming back can only spell trouble! And you know father swore that he will kill any Argyle man to revenge his brother."
"I’m almost married, mother. Don’t tell me what to do anymore! … And as to father, it has only been words so far."
Her mother did not respond, just looked at her sternly.
