Summer of Love

by Gian Bordin

  "Oh, Helen, how horrible for you!" Seeing the tears form in her sister’s eyes, she embraced her.

  After a while Helen murmured between sobs: "By now, he has already left for America… It’s over. I shall never see him again."

  Betty broke the embrace. "But he hasn’t left, Helen. Yesterday … and the day before, and today, I saw a horse graze at the lochan."

  Helen stared at her sister in dismay. "No Betty! Why did you tell me?" and she rushed away, her feelings suddenly in utter turmoil. Why didn’t he leave? Why is he so cruel? What else does he want?

  That night she cried herself to sleep in Betty’s arms.

  However, next morning, after completing her chores, she asked Betty to keep an eye on things, and Betty did not ask her why. She climbed to the ridge overlooking the lochan, while inside her conflicting feelings and allegiances fought a bitter battle. A horse was peacefully grazing near the water. Andrew sat at the edge of the rock, looking down over the water. He got up and waved with both hands. Then, his call "Helen" reached her from across the valley, its echoes urging her on. Without any further thought she scampered down the steep slope, while he ran down the path from the rock. He caught her in his arms. If she did have any resolve when she had set out to confirm her sister’s sightings, it was blown into the wind once his hungry embrace kindled her own irresistible passion. She felt the sudden ache in her groin, ready to yield to him, hearing at the same time the silent scream of her conscience. Struggling to free herself, she cried: "Andrew, don’t. You are my brother!"

  He loosened his embrace, raised her chin so that she was forced to meet his eyes, and said: "No, I’m not. Your mother is mistaken."

  She took a step back. "I don’t believe she would have lied to me … not on that."

  "She doesn’t know herself, but her boy died a week old."

  "You are just saying that."

  "Have I ever lied to you? … I met the woman who helped deliver me. She said that I was born about six months after your mother left the castle. She said your mother never saw her own boy and that he died shortly after she was sent home."

  Shaken, she hesitated for a moment and then entered into his outstretched arms. "How horrible," she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder, and then raised her head again, searching Andrew’s eyes. "Is it true? Andrew, is it true?"

  "Yes, Helen, I swear to God it is true… Helen, I love you. I love you more than ever." He kissed her. At first she tried to resist, but then responded with equal urgency, a dam of pent-up passion bursting and sweeping away all resolve, all restraint, all inhibitions. Her blood seared in her veins. She pressed her body against his. He carried her swiftly a few steps to a patch of soft grass and lay halfway on top of her, repeating between kisses "I love you, Helen", and she echoed "I love you, Andrew".

  She sensed his urge to fuse with her, met by her own craving to be one with him. In a frenzy they undressed each other. She was ready for the tender touch of his soft hands, as he skillfully made her soar to greater and greater heights. Suddenly, she wanted him inside her and reached for him, exploding into ecstasy almost instantly. She felt him catching up with her, and then suddenly withdraw—a symbol of their doomed love—his manhood pulsing against her belly, his warm fluid spilling onto her, his head nestled into the crook of her neck.

  After a while, he moved off her and let his head rest on her bosom, while his index traced patterns on her stomach. "I ... l .. o .. v .. e ... y .. o .. u," she deciphered. He lifted his head and searched her eyes. They were like coals, radiating love. She kissed him.

  Then he pulled her up. "I’ll race you to the water."

  She laughed and pushed him back into the heather. They dived into the water together and broke the surface face to face, laughing, oblivious to its icy cold, embracing, kissing, separating, diving again, chasing each other, coming together for another embrace—the playful game of lovers for the moment before the cold drove them out.

  Lying intertwined in the grass, Helen asked reproachfully: "Andrew, why are you still here? Why haven’t you left?"

  "I tried, Helen. I really tried, but I could not. I couldn’t leave you… Helen, come with me to America."

  Could she leave and never see her family again? Leave Betty, her best friend. Could she live with her shame of breaking the promise made before God. Worse, could she betray the honor of her family by marrying one of the hated Campbells, be an outcast forever? "I can’t. I solemnly promised in front of the priest to marry Robert."

  "Why do you then come to me?"

  "Because when I know you’re here, I’m weak. Because when I’m with you, I’m under a spell. Because this is to remember for the rest of my life."

  He kissed her. "I love you, Helen, more than anything, more than my own life. Come with me!"

  Ignoring his plea, she searched his eyes. "Andrew, you must promise now that you’ll leave tomorrow and never come back."

  "How can I deny my love for you?"

  "You don’t have to deny it. You can keep it in your heart. But you must leave. We can’t continue like this."

  "Oh, Helen. I want you. I need you. Come with me! Be my wife!"

  Say ‘yes’ cried her heart, but she freed herself and rose. "No, Andrew, I can’t, and I won’t come back to the lochan again."

  She put on her petticoat and jacket. He got dressed too. They stood awkwardly in front of each other.

  "One more kiss, Helen?"

  "No, Andrew. Never again." She briefly brushed his cheek and dashed away, before he could grab her. She ran until she reached the crest. Only then did she look back, her vision blurred. He was still standing at the same place.

  * * *

  That same evening, Robert came up to the shielings to visit. Donald, one of the young lads, greeted him with a gleeful smirk, teasing him: "I saw you and Helen swim in the lochan today."

  Robert laughed: "Donald, I wish it was true, but you saw somebody else. I wasn’t at the lochan. Mind you, I think it’s a great idea. I feel like cooling off." He winked at the boy, adding in a low tone: "I’ll ask Helen to come."

  "But I saw you two, Robert," the boy insisted, "and later on I saw Helen come back from the lochan."

  The grin left Robert’s face. His eyes narrowed. "What did you say, boy?" he asked threateningly.

  Frightened, the boy took a few steps back. "I saw you and Helen swim naked in the lake." And then he ran away.

  Betty overheard the exchange and quickly dashed into the hut. "Robert’s here and Donald told him that he saw you swimming with a man in the lochan."

  Helen blanched.

  "You met Andrew again. Helen, what did you do?"

  Before she could answer, Robert’s angry face appeared at the hut opening.

  "Get out!" he growled at Betty.

  She left with a last worried look at Helen. He brushed past her and took Helen’s wrists in an iron grip, shaking her. "With whom did you swim in the lochan, lass?"

  "With nobody… Robert, let go! You’re hurting me."

  She struggled to free herself. He tightened his grip.

  "You’re lying. Donald saw you with a man."

  "Donald is wrong. I was alone… Robert, this hurts!"

  He pushed her roughly against the wall. She screamed frightened, as her head hit the rough wood. "Robert, stop it! You’ve no right to treat me like this."

  "I’ve all the rights. We’re betrothed, and you’re cheating on me even before we’re married," he scowled, advancing again.

  She tried to slip past him. He grabbed her arm, shoving her again sharply against the wall. Her face betrayed her fear and increasing anger. This seemed to stir him on even more.

  "Who was it? Or do I have to beat it out of you?"

  "You dare touch me and our wedding is off for good!" she hissed.

  "Ha, your father’s sure to back me up on this! You want me to tell him about you swimming with another man in the lochan? Naked? Did he have you?"

  "I told you. I was alone. Donald is
wrong. He was probably too excited to see me naked."

  "You’re a liar!" he shouted. "You can’t fool me that easily. I know you saw another man, the same one you met at the dance. That’s why you’ve been so strange lately." He went to the hut opening, where he turned briefly. "I’ll find out. His days are numbered as surely as my name is Robert MacGregor. Nobody steals my woman."

  He stormed out. Helen watched him hurry away in the direction of the clachan. Betty joined her again.

  "Helen, why did you see Andrew again? And what did you two do at the lochan?" Betty looked at her reproachfully. Helen just stood there, her eyes empty, her hands hanging down, her body trembling. "What are you going to do now? Robert is sure going to tell father."

  "Nothing," murmured Helen. "Andrew isn’t coming back. They’ll never find out." Her voice sounded unsure in spite of the words.

  "And what about you and Robert?"

  Helen shrugged her shoulders.

  "Do you love him at all?"

  Again, Helen answered with a shrug. "I thought I was fond of him, before Andrew came back… Now, I don’t know anymore. All I know is that he frightens me when he has one of his bad tempers."

  "Oh, Helen! What have you done?"

  Betty rushed to her and took into her arms. In the security of the embrace, Helen let go and sobbed.

  * * *

  Early next morning, Mary appeared on the shielings, her face somber, closed off. She did not greet her two daughters and her youngest son. Her only words were to order Helen to come with her to the clachan. On their way down, she questioned her daughter. But Helen insisted on her story.

  "Lass, I know that you’re lying. You’ve met with master Andrew up there again. One of the men has seen a lone rider heading into the hills each day, ever since Sunday. They’ll be watching, and if he goes to the lochan again there will be a killing."

  He won’t come again. They won’t catch him, Helen tried to reassure herself, but deep down lingered the nagging fear that he might anyway. What then? Mother said there will be a killing. Oh no! Her heart was all of a sudden pounding away high in her chest. She said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t come again. It did little to calm her fears.

  She was ordered into the fields with the other women. They all seemed to watch her closely. Midmorning, her father dropped by. Helen braced herself mentally to be taken to task, but he only stared with a dark frown and told Mary that he and the boys were off. He did not say where, but there was a fierce look in his eyes.

  * * *

  Andrew was back at the lochan on Friday in spite of Helen’s promise that she wouldn’t come again. It didn’t matter to him. Just knowing that she was close was soothing. He tried to read, but found it hard to keep with it. His mind tended to drift. At noon he took a few bites from the generous lunch the inn keeper had prepared —enough for two people. He read some more.

  The faint noise of running feet made him prick his ears. Helen? Was she coming anyway? He got up to meet her. As he came to the corner where he could see the path from the lochan, he stopped in disarray. Four men were running up—in front the young man who had put his hand so possessively on Helen’s shoulder. He held a pistol. Close behind were Helen’s two brothers and Dougal MacGregor. When they saw him, they yelled.

  "Hoy, we caught him!"

  "It’s master Andrew!"

  "A Campbell of Argyle. Get the bastard!"

  They were after him! It couldn’t still be Dougal’s oath to kill him? All at once, it dawned on him that they must have discovered his secret meetings with Helen. That’s why her betrothed was here! Cold fear shot into his guts. He dropped the book and quickly retreated, looking for a speedy escape from the promontory. The boulders and loose scree on the steep slope behind the rock was tricky to negotiate, and the four would be upon him before he could reach the ridge above. He rushed to the edge of the rock jutting into the lake. The water was fifty feet below, dark, cold, ominous. Even if he survived the jump, he would never make it to his horse. They would catch him easily. He had no pistols to defend himself, not even his dagger. There was little else left but to let them take him. They would hardly kill me… or would they? fleetingly crossed his mind.

  And then the first one came running around the corner, sneering: "I’ve got you, you Sassenach traitor! Messing with my woman!"

  He raised his pistol and took aim. Andrew stared helplessly. The bullet hit his left thigh, and he staggered backward under its impact, an excruciating pain shooting down his leg. Dougal had his pistol out by then too. "Jump" screamed his mind, and he went over the edge, while another shot rang out.

  It felt eerie, as he tumbled head over heels through the air. Time seemed to have stopped. The shock of hitting the water was like jumping onto a hard rock surface from ten feet up. And then cold darkness engulfed him. He had forgotten to fill his lungs and almost immediately felt the pressure to breathe. He gasped. A few air bubbles escaped. Calm now he forced his mind as panic threatened to swallow him. He tried to push himself up to the surface, but the intense stab of pain in his left thigh made him freeze. The weight of his wet clothing pulled him down into the murky water at the bottom. The increasing urge to breathe burned like fire in his lungs. Frantically, he pushed himself up with his arms alone. Suddenly, the underwater entrance to the cave opened in front of him. Hanging on with a last effort of will, he pulled himself through and broke the surface with a desperate gasp. How sweet the air tasted in his lungs! He held on to the ledge in the cave, recovering his breath slowly. After a minute or two he dragged himself up and lay on the smooth rock, watching in dismay the blood ooze slowly through the hole of his leather breeches.

  * * *

  Shortly after midday, Dougal returned to the clachan, riding a horse. Instantly, Helen recognized Andrew’s steed. She stared in disbelief, her heart cramped into a knot; she could hardly breathe. Each painful heart beat reverberated in her ears like the sound of drums. Why did he go back? He promised not to. Then she corrected herself. I asked him to promise me. He never did. Desperate, she needed to cling to hope. Father came back alone. Maybe he got away, or were the others digging his grave right now?

  "Who was it," asked Mary as her husband approached.

  "Master Andrew—He must have returned to Killin, the traitor." He stared at Helen with an angry frown. "My own daughter secretly meeting with a Campbell of Argyle. Have you no sense of honor, child?"

  Helen averted her gaze.

  "Did you kill him?" questioned Mary.

  "We don’t know—he simply disappeared in the lochan. We surprised him on that rock high above the water. Robert shot him, and he fell over the edge. We never saw him again. All we saw were a few bubbles of air coming to the surface. He probably drowned himself, wounded and all. It’s a mighty drop down to the water, enough to knock a man out or even kill him. The others are watching the lochan. In a day or two his body will float to the surface. Then, we can fish him out and dig him into the ground somewhere. Nobody will ever know."

  "Unless they find his horse here," retorted Mary sarcastically.

  "I will exchange it with one of our cousins in Balquhidder. I will also send one of the boys to Killin to watch the inn."

  As Dougal gave his account, Helen’s hope rose. He made it to the cave. Nobody but she knew about it. He must be hiding there. He was wounded. She must help him. But how could she without giving him away? At another level, she was disturbed by her mother’s apparent complete lack of emotion about hearing of the death—the man she believed to be her own son. Did she have no motherly feelings?

  The only remark her mother made after her father left was: "Now you see what you have done."

  All afternoon, Helen looked out for her brothers and Robert to return, dreading it at the same time. What if they discover the entrance to the cave? What if Andrew didn’t make it and drowned as father said? Robert shot him. Even if he made it into the cave, he might be bleeding to death. Her thoughts went in circles. She felt a frantic need to run up to
the lochan, to search for Andrew. But she knew that this would only give him away. She was going crazy. Her eyes constantly strayed to the path to the shielings, expecting the others to appear any moment, hoping they wouldn’t.

  * * *

  The three young men returned for the evening meal without having found any sign of their quarry. It gave Helen’s hope a needed boost.

  Robert boasted: "Your lover boy’s done with. I shot him. Tomorrow or the day after we’ll fish his bloated carcass from the water." He seemed to relish painting a gruesome picture.

  She made no response, ignored him, and avoided his presence. Over these last two days she had gradually come to the conclusion that she couldn’t marry this man, that it would be a constant hell. He wouldn’t forgo any opportunity to remind her that she had cheated on him. She had never been really sure about becoming his wife. It was only her parents’ pressure, and particularly her mother’s, that had made her agree in the end. But now her body revolted at the thought of him touching her. She had to find a way to call it all off. But then, why couldn’t she marry Andrew. Because he was a Campbell of Argyle—her father’s stinging words like a barb in her throat.

  While Alasdair went into Killin to keep a watch on the inn, Dougal, Robert, and Robin climbed up to the lochan early next morning. They carefully searched the surface of the lake and combed the shore. But there was no sign of a body. Helen’s hope that Andrew was still alive grew, although Alasdair’s report that he didn’t return to the inn fueled her worry that he might be seriously wounded. She racked her brain for ways to sneak away to the lochan, but no opportunity offered itself. Her mother and the other women watched her constantly.

  In the middle of the night she got up noiselessly from her straw mattress. As she tried to tiptoe past the partition in the cottage, her mother raised herself and whispered: "Helen, what are you doing?"