A Heart In The Highlands

5-1

5Iona came slowly down the carved oak staircase. It was morning, and with the elasticity of youth there was no sign on her face that she had passed a restless, sleepless night, beset by fears and apprehensions.

After her arrival the evening before, she had retired to her bedchamber and her supper had been brought to her there. The Duchess had suggested this, not only from consideration for her fatigue after a long journey but because, as Iona well knew, she wished to discuss her story with the Duke and doubtless to express her quite obvious scepticism of Iona’s claim to be the long lost Lady Elspeth.

Last night Iona had been too tired and too frightened to care what was said of her, but now this morning she felt ready to defy the Duchess and to begin the task she had been set and on which so much depended. In the small hours of the night, lonely and fearful in the darkness of her bedchamber, she had felt that the whole plan was impossible. Humiliated and abashed by the Duchess’s attitude she had also been disconcerted and confused at finding that the Duke was the stranger who had come to her rescue in the streets of Paris.

The morning sunshine brought Iona renewed courage. It brought her, too, a sense of excitement and the return of that exhilaration she had first felt on seeing the natural beauty of her native land.

“I am a Scot! I belong here!” Iona said, looking out of her bedroom window on to the loch, misty blue in the morning haze, and at the mountain peaks, indomitable against the cloud-tossed sky.

Here in this neighbourhood were many of the places where the Prince had lain concealed after the Battle of Culloden. Iona thought of the dangers and the terror of those months in hiding when, despite a price of thirty thou sand pounds on his head, no one would turn traitor and betray him.

What courage he had shown, what fortitude and how gladly those who met him had risked their lives and everything they possessed in an effort to help him! How little, Iona thought, she had to risk. A life of loneliness and drudgery in a milliner’s shop in Paris, a life without even the hope of change or improvement. Then unexpectedly as if by magic she found herself here, in Scotland, entrusted with a precious mission, honoured and enriched by the Prince’s own faith in her.

“I am lucky, terribly lucky,” she told, herself as she reached the wide landing off which lay the salon where she had waited for the Duchess on her arrival at the castle.

She had a chance now to look about her. Last night she had been too bewildered to gain any impression save one of massive, overpowering grandeur. Now she saw that the castle had not only majesty but also charm.

Built hundreds of years ago, it had gradually accumulated an atmosphere of mellow maturity. It had been a fortification and a stronghold for generations, repelling aggression, defying enemies and offering a refuge and shield for those it sheltered within its stone walls. It had also been the habitation of the chieftain of the MacCraggan Clan and the point of convergence for the clansmen.

To them the power and majesty of the castle was a part of their heritage. Childlike in their trust and dependence on their chiefs, loyal to the very core of their being, they were proud of the magnificence of Skaig and as jealous of its traditions and privileges as they were of their own.

When Iona reached the first floor, she could look below into the Great Hall, which was the most ancient part of the castle. The walls were four feet thick and constructed to withstand even the most violent assaults of an enemy. Decorating them were flags and banners captured in battle, and until four years earlier they had also displayed a unique collection of spears and claymores, shields and battle-axes.

These had all been confiscated by the English after Culloden, when the Scots had been required to hand over their weapons of every sort and description. Iona did not know of this and she wondered at the bareness of the walls and the marks where the weapons had been torn down from their resting place of several centuries.

The stone floor was covered only with skins of animals and at one end of the hall was a high-backed, carved oak chair set like a throne on two stone steps and canopied by curtains embroidered with heraldic designs.

Turning from her contemplation of the hall, Iona walked towards the salon into which she had been shown the night before. It was empty save for the sunlight flooding through the windows overlooking the loch.

In one of the gilt mirrors Iona could see her own reflection. She was wearing a gown she had made herself of grey muslin, its severity relieved only by narrow ribbons of emerald green velvet which laced the tight bodice and were tied in a bow at the waist. It was a demure dress which she had chosen deliberately to make herself appear unobtrusive and modest.

But she would have been a hypocrite if she had not realised that the puritanical colour of the gown only accentuated the brilliance of her hair and revealed the almost transparent quality of her skin. The ribbons she had tied so carefully echoed the vivid green of her eyes and made it of supreme unimportance that she owned no jewels and that the round perfection of her neck was therefore left unadorned.

“Good morning,” a grave voice said behind her.

She turned swiftly and saw the Duke standing in the doorway. For a moment she stared at him, wondering why he seemed different, and then she knew. Last night his hair had been powdered. That day in Paris when they had just met it had been hidden by his three-cornered hat, but now she saw that he too was red-headed, his hair a deeper and more chestnut tone than her own, but undoubtedly red.

She stared at him, and then sensing that he was awaiting a reply the colour rose in her cheeks. She swept to the ground in a graceful curtsey, and was aware as she raised her head again that the Duke was looking at her closely, examining her face, it seemed to her, feature by feature.

She waited in silence for him to speak, conscious that her heart was beating a little quicker under his scrutiny, but remembering to bear herself proudly despite an almost overwhelming shyness.

“My attorney is in the library,” the Duke said at length, “He called to see me on business and I took the opportunity of relating your story and showing him the proofs of your identity, which you brought with you from France. But there are several matters on which he would wish to question you.”

“I will do my best to reply,” Iona said quietly.

She moved towards the Duke and he waited for her to reach his side. She looked up at him and realised how exceptionally tall he was. There was, too, something strong and reliable about him. Iona thought that like the castle he gave her a sense of protection and security.

“Shall I lead the way?” he asked. “You will find the castle a trifle puzzling until you have been here some time. That is because my forebears all had a passion for building and each generation has added to the original structure.”

His Grace’s tone was cold and aloof – a manner that Iona had begun to believe was characteristic of him.

She glanced at him sideways underneath her dark lashes and wondered if he disliked her. He had not expressed any personal doubts as to the veracity of her story, seeming inclined to accept it at face value. Yet Iona was sure that underneath his icy, indifferent manner he must have decided opinions on a matter which affected his family and his household.

It was impossible, she thought, for anyone to be so inhuman as the Duke appeared on first acquaintance, and yet she doubted if her experience had been varied enough for her to be a competent judge of the Duke or any other man for that matter.

In silence His Grace led her down several passages until they came to the library. It was a huge room lined from floor to ceiling with books. The windows looked out over the loch, but at a different angle from those in the salon. From here one could see moorland and mountains stretching away to the west, while in the foreground the hillside fell sheer to the edge of the loch to form a perpendicular cliff above which stood a massive black rock jutting out over the water below. Iona had no time to notice anything else for the Duke’s attorney, a wizened, white haired old man of nearly seventy, rose from a chair by the writing-table. The Duke introduced him and he peered at Iona with short sighted eyes for some seconds before he said grudgingly,

“The young woman certainly looks a MacCraggan, Your Grace.”

“There you can certainly speak with authority, Tulloch,” the Duke said.

“Indeed I can, Your Grace, having served your family for over half a century.”

“Miss Iona is not unlike the miniature,” the Duke said.

“Aye, but that doesn’t prove that she’s the Lady Elspeth,” the attorney replied, peering again at Iona and then down at the miniature, which lay on the writing desk.

“I have some questions to ask you, ma’am,” he said at length, drawing a notebook from his pocket.

The Duke drew up a chair for Iona and she sat down. The attorney began his questions. He was irritatingly slow, writing both his questions and Iona’s answers out laboriously.

Iona, while on her guard against making a mistake, found his questions easy as he gave her so much time for consideration before she need reply. But as she spoke or sat waiting patiently for her words to be inscribed, she was acutely conscious of the Duke. He had withdrawn to a seat near the fireplace, but she knew he was listening and watching her.

It was with the greatest effort that she did not turn her head and look at him. She wanted to see his face and the expression in his eyes. She had never known that anyone could have so strong a personality that she could feel it physically. It was almost painful to force herself to attend to the attorney.

Finally the last question was put to her.

“You are anxious to prove yourself to be Lady Elspeth MacCraggan?”

“I am anxious to prove that I have a name,” Iona answered in all sincerity. “I have never had one.”

As she spoke she wondered if by any strange unpredictable coincidence she was in truth a MacCraggan, but then she remembered that her guardian had never spoken of them.

Could that have been intentional? She thought not. He had been a blunt, unsubtle person. He had talked continually of his own family, the Drummonds, of their deeds of valour, of their successes and failures. Had he been in any way closely connected with the MacCraggan’s, she felt he must have talked to her of them, for he was interested only in Scotland and its people and could wander on by the hour, the past events of history being more real to him than the present with its limitations to his freedom.

With a little sigh Iona remembered that to be a Scot and redheaded was commonplace enough. In France she had been outstanding because of the colour of her hair, but here every other person had hair the same colour.

The attorney shut his notebook with a snap.

“That will be all, ma’am, for today.”

He rose to his feet and turned towards the Duke.

“With your permission, Your Grace, I will send someone from my office immediately to France. We must, of course, interview the priest, make inquiries among the neighbours, and find, if we can, the fishermen who rescued the shipwrecked valet, nurse and Lady Elspeth seventeen years ago.”

“It will not be easy,” the Duke said.

“It will not be easy, it will take time and be extremely expensive,” the attorney agreed.

“I would wish, of course,” the Duke said, “that no expense should be spared.”

“I can understand that, Your Grace. May I take the letter with me? I will have a copy made of it in my office.”