If the Honorable Andrew Trentham did not know what he himself planned to do in the matter, he had certainly been giving it considerable thought, much of which now involved his own very personal reasons for being interested in Scotland and its future.
Nine
Andrew went back to his flat that same evening thinking that he had to try to write Ginny again. He simply could not let more time pass without trying to explain himself to her.
After sitting a moment, he took down the volume in which he had read the story of Malcolm and Margaret, opened it and stared for a long minute at the color portrait of the two together under a tree, the saintly Queen’s hand resting gently upon her husband’s. There was no way to know how accurate the representation might be—no doubt it was colored by centuries of romantic mists that had embellished the legends. Yet the painting of the two ancient lovers was so compelling! How different their personalities had been, yet they had been devoted to one another.
He replaced the book and made his way to the desk, sat down, and pulled out a sheet of his monogrammed stationery.
Dear Ginny, he wrote. I know it has been a couple of weeks since—
Andrew’s hand stopped.
It was no use. He still didn’t know what to say! He had to say something . . . but what?
He sighed as slowly the paper crumpled in his fist, then remained on the top of the table as a twisted reminder of his uncertainty.
He rose again and this time went straight to his bedroom. It was late, anyway. Tomorrow was just a few hours away.
Andrew awoke a little before seven. It was still dark out. He had tried to resume his morning and evening routine of the previous spring since his return to the city. But all was so changed now. He was not in the same curious and eager frame of mind as when the exploration into Scotland’s history, poetry, and music had been so fresh. Everything had now taken on more weighty overtones—both personally and nationally. It was difficult to read Burns with the same exuberant innocence as before. Now he felt like he was a star-crossed lover in one of the bard’s poems!
What a momentous year it had been. If he thought his life as an MP had been hectic before—now he was a party leader, and the demands on his time and energy and commitments had increased tenfold.
His whole outlook had changed as well. He knew Scotland now—knew it personally. Caledonia had become his friend. He knew its past and its people. He had listened to its music. He knew more than a few of its moors and hills better than places in Cumbria only a few miles from his home. And had he not so entirely bumbled his handling of the incident at Ballochallater, he would probably have said he was falling in love with a certain Highland lass.
That, of course, was the most significant change in his perspective. He not only loved Scotland, he cared for a Scot. A beautiful, intriguing, maddening Scot.
There could be no denying that the politics of Scotland were changing as well. Andrew felt the storm clouds on the horizon perhaps more keenly than any man in England. He knew he must brace himself in readiness. For there was one thing of which he could be certain—whenever the storm broke, he would be right in the middle of it.
Ten
It was early December, with the nip of winter in the air, when Paddy and Bill Rawlings agreed to meet early one morning for a walk in Regent’s Park and then have breakfast together.
Bill had been back a week now, and they had seen one another every day. The time together had been good, Paddy thought to herself, better than she had expected. She was remembering what she liked about Bill—his easygoing nature, his enthusiasm about his work, but also his willingness to stop working from time to time and enjoy a holiday. Because she shared her days with a pack of workaholics—and tended a bit that way herself—she found herself enjoying Bill’s lower-key presence.
But something about Bill had changed too. She couldn’t exactly put a finger on what it was, but she liked it. He was the same old Bill, and yet somehow he seemed more settled, more grounded, more confident in what he wanted. Stronger, somehow—in a way that caused her pulse to quicken when she saw him.
Could it be that she was falling in love again with her very own husband?
Andrew had dropped by unexpectedly one evening and she’d been able to introduce them. The discovery of several mutual acquaintances in their respective fields of journalism and politics gave them more than enough to talk about, and the two men hit it off quickly. Somehow that fact warmed Paddy’s heart in a way she couldn’t explain.
The feel of frost on her face as she left the flat turned Paddy’s thoughts away from Bill and Andrew and reminded her instead of visiting her grandmother in Boston at this time of year. Of being at home in Upstate New York. A momentary pang of nostalgia surged through her.
There might even be snow on the ground by now, she thought.
The melancholy lasted but a minute. This was home now. She would not go back except to visit, even if someone came up and handed her a one-way ticket to the States with the offer of a cushy network job.
For some reason winter always brought her reminders of the past. It was probably the holiday season that did it. When time for Thanksgiving came around every year, she could not keep from thinking of the old stories of the pilgrims and Indians. Then the sweet melancholy would engulf her and linger through Christmas. She realized she had been especially lonely these last two seasons without Bill—though she had worked hard to ignore the feelings.
A gust of wind whipped up, sending dried fallen leaves swirling in a miniature tornado at her feet. Paddy gave a kick at them in instinctual pleasure to be out in the elements on a day such as this. She was nearly alone in the park, for it was early, and the morning was easily the coldest of the season thus far. The sky was covered over in a thick gray that looked and felt as if the overspreading clouds had settled over the whole island for a lengthy stay.
She pulled her coat tightly up around her neck, thinking with a smile about the morning last spring when she had orchestrated her so-called chance meeting with Andrew.
But then quickly her reflections drifted back to her own situation. It would be good if she and Bill could get things worked out in the next couple weeks. She didn’t particularly want to spend another Christmas alone. And as she thought about it, she realized she wanted to spend the holidays with him.
As if in answer to her thoughts, in the distance she saw two men approaching.
“Look who I ran into,” said Bill with a wide smile on his ruddy face when he saw Paddy walking toward them.
“Andrew . . . good morning!” exclaimed Paddy. “Back to your old early-morning wandering practices, I see.”
“Not every day, but when I can.”
“How did you two hook up?” she asked, turning around and joining them at Bill’s side. She always had to stretch a bit to keep up with his lanky stride. “I thought I was the one who arranged chance meetings like this.”
Andrew roared. “You don’t mean to tell me you arranged that last spring!”
“What’s all this?” said Bill, glancing back and forth between the two.
Now Paddy laughed, reddening slightly.
“Let’s just say that I used my reporter’s wiles to ambush the Honorable Mr. Trentham, even before I became a sleuth and detective in the matter of the Stone of Scone.”
“Aha, so it all becomes clear!” said Andrew.
“My apologies,” said Paddy, “although I’m not really sorry.”
“I suppose neither am I,” rejoined Andrew. “—Well, I’ll leave you two here.”
“No, wait,” said Bill as Andrew turned and began to walk off. “Why don’t you join us for breakfast?” As he spoke he glanced inquiringly toward Paddy.
“Yes . . . do, Andrew,” she said nodding. “That would be great.”
Thirty minutes later, the three were seated in Cachao enjoying coffee, tea, and croissants—a more Italian or French version of the morning repast than English—and the subject had gotten around to the upcoming
holidays.
“If I can just make it to the Christmas recess,” Andrew was saying, “it will give me a chance to catch my breath. The opening of any session is hectic, but this has been doubly so.”
“What will you do for Christmas?” asked Paddy.
“I hope to make a quick trip up into Scotland—sort of on my way, if you can call it that,” replied Andrew. “Then I’ll spend several days with my mum and dad in Cumbria.”
“How is your mother doing?” said Paddy.
“Very well. Which reminds me . . . I need to get you up again to Derwenthwaite for a visit. I’m afraid the old girl’s still annoyed with me for running you off last time. Perhaps the two of you could come up together for the New Year.”
“I, uh, don’t know,” said Paddy, glancing toward Bill, then back at Andrew. “We haven’t even made Christmas plans yet, much less for the week after.”
“But if that’s an invitation,” added Bill, “then we certainly shall talk about it.”
“It is an invitation,” said Andrew. “I know my parents would both be delighted.”
Eleven
For the third time in four months, Andrew found himself driving into the small Highland village of Ballochallater.
How different were the circumstances now, and how gray and brown the hillsides that had so recently been adorned by the royal purple garment of Caledonia. Snow now covered the highest crests and was piled at both sides of the road. The cold here at this time of year was bitter, far worse than in Cumbria. Andrew found himself wondering how the ancients had managed to survive so far north.
He had already determined not to make an effort to talk to Ginny. If she did not want to see him, he would respect that. He had finally written her. Beyond that, he would leave whatever happened next between them in her hands. But he had two things of importance to discuss with the laird, and he could not postpone them no matter how his feisty daughter felt.
From his correspondence with the laird, he imagined everyone in Ballochallater would know in advance of his coming. If not, by the time he checked into Craigfoodie and had enjoyed supper with Alastair Farquharson at the Heather and Stout, every man and woman for miles would be talking of his presence.
On this occasion, however, he was relieved to draw friendly nods and greetings from a good many of the villagers, though a few expressions indicated uncertainty about his motives.
The next morning, he had an appointment with the laird. On his last visit, he had gladly walked the half-mile distance to the castle. Today, with a light snow beginning to fall and the temperature several degrees below zero Celsius, he paid his bill to Mrs. Stirrat, then climbed in his car for the short drive.
Twelve
Three hours later, after a conversation he would never forget, Andrew rose to take his leave from Laird Finlaggan and his wife. Already he felt he had known them both all his life. He would not be able to rest until he had seen the laird and his friend Duncan MacRanald enjoying tea and oatcakes face-to-face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, offering his hand. “Your hospitality, as always, warms the heart. I appreciate it very much.”
She brushed aside his hand, and Andrew found himself swallowed up in her motherly arms. When he stepped back two or three seconds later, he realized she had tears in her eyes. The good woman turned and made a hasty exit toward the kitchen. The laird accompanied Andrew outside to his car.
“Ye’ll hae t’ take it slow, laddie,” he said. “The snow’s comin,’ an’ it’ll be piled on the road afore nightfall.”
At the window of her room, peeking from behind the curtain so she wouldn’t be seen, Ginny Gordon watched them leave the house together. A perfect hurricane of confusing emotions swirled about inside her.
For the last three hours she had done everything imaginable to summon the internal fortitude to go downstairs and talk to Andrew. But every time she approached the door, something had held her back. Not a few pillows, several childhood stuffed animals, two books (one poetry, one animal physiology), and one vase of dried heather had been hurled across the room in the interim during the ebb and flow of her ranting tirades against her own indecision.
And now he was leaving!
Andrew and her father were shaking hands . . . he was walking toward his car . . . he opened the door and got in—
Suddenly she spun around, threw open the door, bolted through it, and ran for the stairs.
Outside, Finlaggan Gordon watched the young Englishman he had grown to think a great deal of slowly pull out of the castle drive. The tires of his car crunched in the quarter inch of new white powder as he turned onto the highway.
Suddenly behind him the door swung open with a crash. Footsteps ran toward him on the snow-covered gravel. He turned to greet them.
“Ginny,” he said, “ye’re a wee late gien ye were thinkin’ o’ sayin’ good-bye.”
“He’s gone!”
“Ay. What did ye think, lass? There’s his car jist disappearin’ doon the road.”
“What fer did ye let him go!” she cried. “Didna ye ken I wanted t’ see him?”
“Ye sure got a mixed-up way o’ showin’ it, lass. He thinks ye canna stand the sight o’ him.”
“And maybe I canna!” she yelled, turned, and stomped off a few steps. “Maybe I do jist hate him, the confounded Sassenach!”
“Ginny, ye’re bein’ a bigger fool than I ever saw ye—an’ ye’ve ne’er been a fool! But noo ye’re jist talkin’ nonsense.”
Ginny froze in place, drawing herself up to her full height, the picture of righteous indignation. The next minute, she spun around and ran toward her father. He opened his arms to receive her. But if he thought she was seeking comfort, he was mistaken. She began pounding with her little fists against his chest.
“Why’d ye let him go, Papa? Why’d ye let him go!”
Her father did his best to draw her struggling frame toward him, patting her gently on the shoulders and speaking soothing words. Gradually she calmed and let his embrace enfold her as when she was young.
“Oh, what’s wrong with me?” she wailed. “I’m behavin’ like sich a ninny!”
“Lass, I think ye’re confused ’cause yer head sees an Englishman, but yer hert sees a Scot.”
“He’s no Scot, Papa—he’s jist a Sassenach!”
“No, Ginny, he’s no Sassenach. He’s a Gordon.”
“A Gordon! Hoo can ye say sich a thing, Papa!”
“’Tis true, Ginny. He jist told us himsel.’ His name’s Andrew Gordon Trentham.”
Now Ginny pushed herself away and stared at her father with wide, tearstained eyes. Then she carefully turned and half ran back into the house. She managed to get up the stairs to her room before the tears started again. Then she threw herself onto her bed.
“I canna fall in love with an Englishman!” she cried. “I just canna!”
In the distance, between the village and the castle, his cap and shoulders covered with falling snow, the village blacksmith watched the drama unfold. In spite of the distance, he realized what had just passed between the laird and his daughter.
He turned and walked back toward his workshop, revolving in his mind what he now knew he must do.
Thirteen
Bill Rawlings was already waiting downstairs in the lobby of the BBC building when Paddy emerged from the elevator doors. His well-worn trench coat and gigantic umbrella, hastily furled, still dripped from the downpour outside.
“Bill, what on earth are you doing way out here?” she asked. The BBC headquarters at White City in Shepherd’s Bush were at least a twenty-minute train ride from the apartment Bill had sublet from a friend.
“I thought you might fancy a drive in the countryside,” he answered. “On a lovely day like this, who could resist?” With a straight face, he gestured gallantly through the glass doors toward the soggy brown-and-gray landscape outside.
Amused, Paddy followed his gesture. From her desk, she had been watching the cold, slanting rain
all morning. “Perhaps we could have a picnic,” she commented wryly. “We’ll put the top down on the Mercedes.”
Bill pretended to be hurt. “You don’t believe me.”
“What, that we’re going for a picnic in the rain in your nonexistent Mercedes?”
“Ah, but I didn’t say it was a Mercedes.”
“But, Bill, you don’t have a car.”
“Correction. Didn’t have a car. A responsible married man with a responsible job and a promotion needs a way to get around, don’t you think?”
It took a minute for the words to sink in.
“Bill!” Paddy exclaimed after a moment. “You got the promotion?”
“Right,” he said in the fake Liverpudlian drawl that always made her laugh. “And don’t forget the car.”
“What I thought, actually,” he said, dropping the accent, the tenderness of his lopsided smile pulling at Paddy’s heart, “was that a car might come in handy for a lovely Christmas trip up north . . . and perhaps a bit of a second honeymoon. If you’re interested, of course . . .”
Paddy didn’t answer immediately. She just stood gazing into his dear, familiar face, realizing for the first time in a long while that she wanted to see that face beside her every morning when she woke.
Neither spoke for several long moments. Then Bill added, very softly, “So what about it, Paddy? Want to see the car?”
The next instant she was in his arms, heedless of the wet, dripping raincoat.
Fourteen
The new year came.
Paddy and Bill Rawlings, who had celebrated Christmas together as a renewed commitment to their marriage, took the train north and spent two days with Andrew and his family at Derwenthwaite. Nothing had proved such a healing tonic to Mrs. Trentham during the months of her recovery as the lively talk of politics and journalism and recent events in London. By the end of the holidays her speech had improved noticeably, and her eyes shone with a spark of the same fire that had blazed during her years in the Commons.
An Ancient Strife Page 40
