The beginning of yet another dance, with several wives coming to claim their husbands, brought the discussion to an end.
Ten
Mornings, thought Paddy Rawlings, were the times she liked best. Early mornings, when the intoxicating smell of coffee from her two-cup pot permeated her London flat, when the light poured in through the high top-floor windows, when morning traffic was just beginning to stir on the street below and walkers and joggers were beginning to fill the park across the way.
Mornings had always been her favorite times to sit quietly and lose herself in the possibilities of a new day. To dream dreams and rehearse the ambitions that brought her here to England and kept her here.
But no, she reminded herself now as she sat by the window and brought her coffee to her lips. I’ve always had my ambitions—but it was Bill who kept me here.
Even at the thought of him, she felt the wave of uncertainty sweep over her that she had worked hard and long to keep at bay. Uncertainty that could bring her ambitions to a dangerous stall. Memories she really didn’t have time to remember.
Bill . . . the cheerful Englishman who had beguiled her heart on her first visit to London . . . who had christened her Paddy because of her fondness for Irish music . . . who had talked her into staying in England and cheered her and encouraged her in her rising career, then asked her to leave it all again and go with him to New Zealand.
But at the time she hadn’t been able to agree to such a change. It was hard enough to start over again in a new country. She couldn’t do it a second time—especially with no idea where his wandering spirit would take her next.
Or could she?
Paddy sighed. She was accustomed to cutting off such doubts before they could interrupt her concentration. Yet she knew she couldn’t put Bill on ignore indefinitely. He had already been gone almost a year, and she was less sure than ever of what she wanted.
A year ago, it had all seemed so clear. She had felt so focused, so sure of where she was going—and of what she had to do to get there. So what if she had to put a huge chunk of her life on hold while she achieved it. That had always been her strength—the ability to keep her mind on one thing at a time and put everything else on the back burner.
She took another sip of the hot, fragrant coffee. Focus, Paddy, she reminded herself. You’ve got to keep your focus.
First, wrap up the Stone story, she told herself sternly. Get back in touch with Andrew and see what he knows.
After that . . . maybe there would be time to think about Bill.
Eleven
Two more days had passed since Andrew Trentham had arrived in Spittal o’ Ballochallater.
He felt almost as if he had stumbled into a Scottish fairy tale. But this fairy-tale world was not filled with dragons and witches and dwarfs—this was no Narnia or Middle Earth—but solid and real . . . an actual place! Would the magic last only for a day, as it had for Van Johnson in Brigadoon? Or would his future perhaps be like Gene Kelly’s?
Andrew’s hostess and guide and companion for the day just past had been the chief’s daughter, who had arranged for her partner to take her calls—”What’s the use o’ havin’ a partner,” she laughed, “if ye canna cover fer one anither!” After a brief tour of the surgery, where he met a variety of four-legged patients and the two ginger cats that lived on the premises, she had taken him to the hills. They had ridden and romped and walked and hiked all over the Highland countryside through the environs of Ballochallater, talking about Scotland and its history. Andrew told her the tales that had so fascinated him in recent months. His free-flowing questions had not thus far caused her to wonder why he was so curious, or what might be at the root of his preoccupation with Scottish politics, history, and the Gordon genealogy.
His wonderful hours at the small castle—talking late into the previous two evenings with Finlaggan Gordon, his wife, and his two grown children—had offered such a broad and personal perspective to the observations Andrew had gleaned from Duncan MacRanald.
But most of all, it could hardly be argued, did Andrew find himself bewitched by the vibrant personality that accompanied the wild red hair of the engaging Leigh Ginevra Gordon. She was the fairy-tale princess, but of a sort that could only be discovered in a story of the untamed north.
With amusement he found himself contemplating walking into a black-tie reception in Chelsea with Ginny on his arm. She was so refreshingly intelligent and knowledgeable, yet in such an unrefined Highland way. Was hers something of the savagery that so intimidated the English two centuries earlier? He could almost imagine her storming into a room full of MPs or lords and drawing a sword, declaring, “Independence for Scotland . . . and we want it now!” And the sword, if she chose a claymore, would be as tall as the warrioress!
What an enchanting combination of toughness and femininity had somehow fused into a single personality with a double portion of energy and vigor!
She was the chief’s eldest, and he was as proud of her as he would have been had she and Shorty been born in reverse order. She could run faster for her size and ride a horse harder and shoot a hunting rifle more accurately than any young man for miles, including Shorty and Alastair Farquharson—and yet she danced lightly and gracefully, could hold her own in any discussion of current events, and knew how to take care of sick animals to boot. Her bright mane and the fire in her black-green eyes, fair ruddy complexion, and accent so thick he had to ask her to repeat half of what she said, all combined to draw around her an aura of mystery and delight in the young Englishman’s eyes.
Here must be a chief’s daughter from some other time—a modern personification of Ginevra of Glencoe or Culodina of Culloden—come back to rouse the Scots’ hearts to their ancient pride in their nation.
Her deepest regret, she said, was that she was not a boy. If only she might become the Lochnagar Gordon chief—for she would have no qualms about using the old word!—after her father. She loved her brother, but it was the one thing in life she begrudged him—his sonship.
And how could Andrew know that his own presence had already caused things to awaken within her that no local-bred man like Alastair could stir. To the young daughter of the laird, the visitor who had suddenly appeared at their Highland Games represented wider expanses and further horizons than the small world of the glens and hills of her home.
Beyond her university days in Glasgow and brief holidays with friends, she had rarely visited far from home. Even today, London seemed almost as foreign to her as Antarctica. The very sound of Andrew’s English tongue spoke to her of adventure, of faraway places, of cities, of romance and drama and possibility, filling her vision with . . . she knew not what.
Ginny too was being drawn into a fairy tale. But hers was of more traditional flavor involving a prince and a chieftain’s daughter—a story whose central figure was a bearded knight who appeared one day in the land of the princess, his shirt off and running up the hill chasing after her own Alastair, and then was too exhausted a few minutes later to give her his name.
Twelve
Ginny had been called out that afternoon to a couple of nearby farms. As Andrew strolled leisurely through the small village reflecting on his days with her, the faded label of a box of chocolates in the window of the tiny post office and notions shop caught his eye. A sudden impulse possessed him, and he walked inside.
“Do you have any more of those chocolates I see in the window there?” he asked the buxom, red-faced woman behind the counter.
“Ay, I du, sir—ahind ye there on the wee shelf wi’ the magazines.”
“Ah, right . . . I see them,” said Andrew. He took a box down and placed it on the counter.
A minute later he was enthusiastically on his way back up to the castle.
“Is Ginny back yet, Mrs. Gordon?” he asked as he entered, trying to keep from giving away his excitement.
“No, Mr. Trent,” she answered. “She said she’d likely be gone the day.”
“Where is s
he, then? I’ll surprise her. Is it within walking distance?”
“Ay, in a manner o’ speikin.’”
“How do you mean?”
“Only that ye’d hae t’ climb the hill o’er yonder,” she replied, pointing vaguely with her hand, “the one ye ran up at the games—”
She paused. Andrew nodded in indication that he was following the information thus far.
“—then over the next ridge an’ doon into the wee glen on the ither side,” Ginny’s mother went on. “’Tis James Gregor’s place. She’s checking his milkers fer wee ones. Ye canna miss it, though it’d be a walk o’ two or three miles, I’m thinkin.’ Why dinna ye speir Shorty t’ take ye?”
“No, I’d like to find it myself,” replied Andrew. “If I get lost, I’ll just come back. It’ll be an adventure. I’ll enjoy myself.”
He turned and left the castle in high spirits. Within minutes he was bounding and puffing up the steep hill whose acquaintance he had made on his first day in Ballochallater.
About an hour later, after a brief detour along a path which led him in the wrong direction, he came upon what he took to be the Gregor farm. There was Ginny’s little red mud-splattered truck parked beside the barn. Led by an occasional moo, he made for the building.
Carefully he slipped through an open side door and crept in. Ginny and the farmer were busy with a row of cows, although from his vantage point as he entered Andrew could not see at first what their business with the bovines actually was. He took a step forward.
The black-and-white animals stood calmly swishing their tails along the railing, munching the oats placed in front of them to occupy their attention as each waited its turn to be checked by the diminutive young woman moving about amongst and behind them. Ginny and the farmer seemed to be deep in conversation about one of the animals. Andrew paused and watched in admiration as Ginny, all hundred and ten pounds of her, now maneuvered around the next Holstein, easily ten or twelve times her weight, gently stroking its head and speaking a few soft words to reassure the creature. She returned to the back of the animal and extended herself up on her toes. Then, to Andrew’s sudden shock, she plunged her gloved hand and arm all the way up to her shoulder into the cow’s backside.
Andrew’s stomach lurched momentarily and he glanced away. Then he had to look again. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The procedure was over in less than a minute. After a brief palpitation of the uterus to see if it was enlarged, she removed her hand.
“Okay, James,” said Ginny. “No wee one here. That’s still only two so far that need to be calved in.”
Hearing the words, Andrew realized what test she was conducting. Now her mother’s words to him made sense. By this time he’d completely forgotten the purpose for his romp over the hillside.
Summoning the courage to look again, he saw Ginny change her gloves, go through the same ritual of speaking a few gentle words of reassurance to the would-be mother, then shove an arm into the next awaiting rump.
“Ay . . .” she said slowly, “I think . . . ay, James—Nora here’s aboot t’ be a mither again. She’s growin’ nicely already!”
“’Tis good news,” said the farmer, noting the information on the sheet he was holding.
Ginny retracted her arm with a soft, liquid whoosh. Turning toward her next patient, she glanced up to see Andrew in the shadows fifteen feet away.
“Andy!” she exclaimed. “What on airth are ye doin’ here?”
She walked toward him beaming in her dirty work jeans and red-and-yellow plaid shirt, heavy rubber boots stomping across the floor, unpeeling the dripping latex glove from her arm and tossing it aside.
“Uh . . . your mother told me where to find you,” Andrew replied, taking a step or two forward, then pausing briefly to still his queasy stomach. “I walked over.”
“Hoo did ye find the place?”
“She gave me directions. I only made one wrong turn.”
“So noo ye really see what I du fer a livin,’” she laughed, glancing down at her mud-splattered trousers and manure-coated rubber boots.
Tentatively Andrew continued forward as Ginny turned back toward the cows and pulled on a fresh glove.
“James an’ I had a time,” she said as she stretched it up her arm as far as it would reach, “coaxin’ a few o’ the ladies back into the barn in the middle o’ the day fer their testin.’—Meet James Gregor . . . James, this here’s oor guest, Andy Trent.”
“Ye’ll hae t’ pardon the dirt, Mr. Trent,” said Gregor, vigorously wiping his palm on his thigh, though by the look of his trousers he was unlikely to accomplish much from the action by way of cleaning it.
“No problem, Mr. Gregor,” said Andrew, extending his hand.
The two men shook hands.
“Wha’s next, James?” asked Ginny.
“Clover,” replied the farmer, patting the next in line on its fleshy midsection.
“I winna be much longer, Andy,” she said. “Then ye can ride back doon wi’ me. So, Clover lass,” she went on in a soft voice, “this wee test will jist tak a second or twa an’ ye’ll hardly feel a thing. Jist enjoy yer oats an’ pretend I’m not even here.”
She turned back and ducked under the rail to begin the probe. She paused briefly, noticing for the first time Andrew’s left hand behind his back as he stood, seemingly embarrassed in front of the wizened dairyman.
“What’s that ye’re hidin’ ahind ye?” she asked, tiptoeing up again and plunging her hand inside the cow.
“Uh . . . nothing,” replied Andrew, gulping a time or two in order to keep his lunch in place.
“Ye got somethin’ there—I can tell that,” persisted Ginny.
“Well, I was in the village,” began Andrew, then pulled the box out from behind his back. “Actually . . . I brought you a box of chocolates,” he said. “I thought I would bring them out to you, but it doesn’t seem . . . that is, I wasn’t exactly expecting . . .”
“Chocolates!” exclaimed Ginny as she stretched yet deeper into the abyss and felt for the uterus. “Hoo thoughtful o’ ye. I’m starvin’!”
Unable to comprehend in his brain the thought of eating at a time like this, Andrew continued to stare at the spectacle before him while fumbling unconsciously with the lid of the box.
“Open it up, Andy,” said Ginny, “and pop one in my mouth.”
Grimacing, as he ventured a step or two closer, Andrew took one of the candies between thumb and two fingers and stretched it forward between Ginny’s waiting lips. “Hmmm, thank ye!” she exclaimed. “Chocolate is one o’ my worst weaknesses. I canna git enough. Hmm, ’tis a good one!”
Almost the same instant, at Clover’s side and with her own test behind her, Nora decided to get rid of some of that morning’s grass.
Two or three loud splats sounded on the concrete floor. Andrew glanced down to see his trousers and shoes splattered in smelly brown.
Still munching on the chocolate, Ginny broke into laughter as she turned to Gregor. “Negative fer Clover, James,” she said, then pulled out her arm with another long schlooorsh.
It was enough. Andrew turned green, lurched several steps to one side, hastily set the box of chocolates on a nearby stool, and proceeded to lose the ploughman’s lunch he had enjoyed an hour earlier at the Heather and the Stout.
Ginny removed her glove and walked toward him as he recovered.
“I’m sorry, Andy,” she said. “I guess I forgot what sich a thing must be like gien ye haena seen it afore.”
“Not exactly the sort of sight one runs into in—” began Andrew. “I mean, no, you’re right . . . I’ve been around animals, but I confess I have never seen a cow’s pregnancy test before now. I don’t suppose I was quite prepared for it, especially with, you know, your little snack.”
Ginny laughed. “It was delicious, though!” she said. “An’ I thank ye fer it. Now, why dinna ye come outside. Ye can wait fer me there. I’ll only be anither ten minutes.—James, I’ll be
right back. I’ll tak Andy outside an’ git him some fresh air.”
Andrew drew in two or three breaths as they left the barn and emerged into the sunlight. Gradually he came to himself, and the color returned to his cheeks.
“Whew!” he said, “I didn’t know how weak my stomach was. I would never have been cut out to be a vet.”
“Ye git used t’ the sights an’ smells,” laughed Ginny. “Actually, some o’ them ye actually come t’ like.”
“I’ll take your word for it!”
That evening when Andrew arrived at the dining room for dinner, he found the laird and Mrs. Gordon awaiting him, but Ginny had not yet made her appearance. He took his chair and was chatting informally with them, telling them of his embarrassing experience in the Gregor barn, when she entered.
After seeing her at her work, unabashed by and even relishing the earthiness of her job, the sudden contrast of her present appearance nearly took Andrew’s breath away. She was wearing a green tartan skirt and white blouse, completed with a lace jabot. A green ribbon was tied in her freshly washed and bouncy red hair, and a hint of eye shadow and mascara accentuated the deep green of her eyes. But her freshly scrubbed and radiant face needed no additional color, for her cheeks possessed a natural glow all their own.
“Hello, Andy,” she said sprightly. “I du hope ye’re feeling better.”
A subtle wave of perfume followed her as she sat down in the seat next to him. It was at that moment, with the two enchantingly different images of her that he had seen that day swirling in his brain, when Andrew suddenly realized that had she not already been spoken for by the blacksmith Alastair Farquharson, his heart might well have been in danger.
Thirteen
Andrew was down from his room early the following morning. Ginny and father and mother and brother were already seated in the kitchen. The smell of fresh-brewed tea rose from the table as he approached, though the unmistakable aroma of fish emanated from the frying pan to mingle with it. As might have come as no surprise, he found them talking about him.
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