Sarah Gabriel (26 page)

Fiona caught her breath, wanting desperately to accept, wanting to stand and loop her arms around his neck. Yet she sat, looking down. “There is something I have not told you.” What she had left unsaid weighed upon her.

“I know you have secrets, and that there is a reason you came here, beyond teaching. If it has nothing to do with me or my glen, Fiona, you need not tell me.”

She reached for the notebook and opened it to show him the drawings of the fairies that she had
attempted. “I have been working on these tonight, trying to get them just so,” she said. “This one is drawn from memory as you suggested, the night that we—”

“She is beautiful,” Dougal said.

“There is something not quite right about it. I have not captured her,” she said. “Dougal, I have made promises that I must keep. You should know that.”

“What promises?”

“My grandmother made a will with certain conditions that my brothers and I must meet. I am bound by it—bound in ways that I must explain, before you say anything more.”

He looked at her patiently, and nodded. Fiona stood, and quickly, quietly, told him about Lady Struan’s will and how it asked something unique from Fiona and each of her brothers, each request involving fairies and certain conditions before the siblings could win a combined inheritance. “I am to make drawings of fairies for the book my brother is finishing, which our grandmother began. I came here for that—I could have gone anywhere, but fate, and the Edinburgh Ladies’ Society, led me here to Glen Kinloch. When I return home, our friend Sir Walter will judge the genuineness of what I have accomplished.”

“I am sure these drawings will please Sir Walter and fulfill any conditions.”

“There is…something else I must do if my brothers and I are to win our fortune,” she said.

“The final condition requires me to find a Highland husband.”

“We could solve that, Fiona,” he murmured.

She looked away. “The clause says I must find a wealthy Highland laird.”

“Ah,” he said. “I see.”

She moved toward him, but he stepped back—and her heart seemed to sink when she saw that caution, that distance. “Wealth comes in all forms,” she said. “I know that now, deep in my heart. You have so much here in this place—the lairdship of this beautiful glen, the loyalty of your kin and friends, even the rare secrets of the fairy realm. So much,” she said fervently.

“But that will not win your inheritance.”

She sighed out. “Truly, I do not know.”

“Of course you do,” he said. He studied her for a moment, then leaned past her and picked up the Conté pencil. A stroke here, there, and suddenly Fiona saw the drawing spark to life under his hand—reminding her that she, too, had come to life in his arms. “There,” he said softly. “She looks a little like you. That was what was missing.” He stepped back.

“Dougal—” Fiona stretched out her hand.

He went to the door, placed a hand on the latch, stopped. “Fiona, you know best what you must do. I cannot tell you that. As for me—whatever happens, my life will not change, either way. Life goes on in the glen. Hearts endure somehow. I learned that, years ago.” He opened the door, stepped out, and shut it firmly behind him.

Fiona ran to the door, placing her hand on the latch, leaning her head against the door frame.
Hearts endure somehow.
She realized that he had learned that after his father’s death; she knew it herself, for after Archie’s death, she had spent eight years simply enduring.

Now they each had a chance for happiness. Yet if she chose him, and the humble yet adventurous life he led in this glen, she would set her own family up for ruin.

In the weeks since she had come to Glen Kinloch, the impossible had happened. She had seen a fairy and sketched her; and she had fallen in love with a Highland laird who would not do, according to the will’s tenets.

Hearing a whimper, Fiona looked down to see Maggie beside the door, pawing at it to be let out. Fiona opened the door. “Go find him,” she murmured, watching the dog dash off. “Go on!”

Fiona longed to run through the darkness to find the laird, too, and claim what she wanted most in the world. But her choice seemed clear.

She closed the door and returned to her drawing. It seemed beautiful now, after the touches Dougal had made, but she herself felt dull and restricted once again. She had tasted freedom for a while in Glen Kinloch, finding it as sweet and potent as fairy whisky. And soon she would leave.

“T
he game is going well,” Fergus said, as someone shoved into him hard, causing the powerful blacksmith to push back, straining, his face red. “Very well, I think,” he ground out.

“So far,” Dougal agreed, his shoulders engaged against the shoulders of other men as they huddled together. He watched his feet, as did many, for a sight of the feather-stuffed leather ball that eluded most of them as it darted and rolled amid a forest of legs.

He and Fergus hovered on the outer part of the great press of men and boys, near a hundred of them crammed together in a great, wicked beast of a crowd, grunting and shoving and sweating as they vied to find, snatch, and direct the ball between one goal and the next: the North side claimed an old, crumbling stone wall on the hill below Kinloch House; the South side claimed the standing stones near the loch side road. No quarter was offered and none given, and whenever the ball was in sight, each man was determined to take control over it.

And here they all were toward the end of a long day, Dougal thought—still stuck somewhere along the
glen floor. They had been up the glen side and down the loch side, through byres, houses, and burns, and now were back again on the low, boggy meadow.

They were exhausted to a man, after hours of shoving, pushing, running the ball in packs from one point to the next. They had endured pummelings and hardships for the sake of the ball, so that most of them were bruised, aching, thirsty, and uncomfortable; they were crowing, swearing, taunting, and shouting, those who had the breath for it; the ball had been stolen from gripping hands, hidden under shirts, rolled under torn wads of turf or sunk in a stream while men looked elsewhere for it, and yet each time it was found, claimed, lost, and pursued again.

The day had begun in a civilized enough way, with the teams assembled, North and South, at a middle point in the glen. Dougal had played a tune on his bagpipes, and rousing cheers had bounced off the hills, shouted by the men about to play and the people ready to watch. Rob MacIan, the innkeeper, who had brought two carts loaded with ale and tankards, had thrown the leather ball up, and the game had begun, with no particular rules beyond no deliberate harm done to another, and no particular time set to end the match. The only thing sure was the existence of the two goals.

Near a hundred men in clusters had gathered around the ball, chasing it, though most of them had no idea where it was, moment to moment, but for the greatest shouts and scrambling. They had chased through houses and byres, and some had
broken away to run through the schoolhouse after the renegade ball, so that one of the weakened walls now bore a great hole; they had shoved their way past more than one illicit still, stealing swallows of illicit peat reek from kegs opened for the purpose, or had guzzled fresh ale on their way through or around other houses—including Helen MacDonald’s house, where she had set beer in great tankards and jugs on a table outside her home—and all of it was considered fair play. Anything that stood in the ball’s path was open for the game, according to the rules—or lack of the same—set out for the tradition generations ago.

Laughing, Dougal watched now as the ball somehow popped free of the crowd, and one fellow went for it, with another hopping on his back while they spun about, while the ball was snatched off by a third man, then pursued with hooting goodwill by the sturdy pack.

Earlier that afternoon, they had crossed the glen floor, coming to the loch side road but diverted to the cove by the wayward path of the ball batted about. Dozens of men had thundered in a steady stream through Mary MacIan’s little house when the ball was kicked through her open door; they had tumbled over chairs and knocked her ticking clock from the mantel. Maggie had barked and leaped about and risked being squashed in the fray—but Dougal had snatched her up and tossed her to Hugh MacIan, who had shouted he was free. And though he meant the ball, he got the dog, to great guffaws of laughter.

More than one man had taken a dunking in one of the burns that crisscrossed the glen, but they all knew that if the ball reached the shores of the cove, it could be lost in the loch, and they would all be splashing about in the water, nearly drowning themselves to get the ball back. So to avoid that calamity—a little logic prevailing—they had driven their leathery prize inland again, and back to the moor that separated the North goal from the South. The players were coated with sweat and mud, some of them were bloodied, all of them were bruised. And yet, for the sake of the battered ball, they struggled onward.

And they were each enjoying it to the hilt, Dougal knew. He grinned at Fergus, wiped his brow with a forearm, and shouldered his way back into the press. He had made it to the center of the cluster more than once that day, had even taken possession of the ball three times, a greater accomplishment than many could claim. Once more he wanted to delve into the center of it all, shouting and shoving, each of them sharing a bond of effort and boyish, lunatic joy, together with his kin and his tenants and even some strangers from the south he did not know, but who were now his brothers in the ba’.

And soon enough, he would ease his way out, and duck away with Fergus or another of his uncles to do what they had planned all along. But for now, each man there strived to the best of his ability, regardless of age or shape, to defend turf and find that blasted ball.

Luck was with him this time, for as Dougal bent
to avoid a thrusting elbow, he spied the ball rolling between the feet of the man in front of him. Reaching out, he scooped it up and had it between his knees, then under his shirt—the linen had long ago come untucked from his kilt waist—and he was away, diving out of the eye of the storm. Dozens of men were after him, but for now, this moment, that bit of leather clutched against him was his, and he would not let go.

Not yet. As soon as he reached the outskirts—no mean feat, and took some time, with the others pulling at him once they knew he had the ball—he grabbed it out of his shirt and threw it high over head. Shouts and arms reaching up, and men leaping like salmon, and then the thing disappeared, swallowed once more into the cluster.

Dougal looked about and saw Ranald and Hamish. “Let’s away,” he said, breathing hard.

“Aye,” Ranald growled, and Dougal turned with them to slip free of the ragged edges of the great crowd. Looking back, he saw that Fergus was in the thick of it once again, swearing like a savage; he did not seem ready yet to give up the game for a bit of smuggling.

“Where are the gaugers, have you seen them?” he asked Hamish, who had kept back from the heavier part of the game to keep watch with Thomas MacDonald and others. Pol, Neill, Andrew and the rest of the lads had been unable to resist the lure of the ba’ and had not kept watch as promised.

“Aye, all about, the game has brought them up
here, just as we thought—but they are watching, and some are playing by now,” he said, tilting his head to indicate the throng. “Patrick MacCarran is there now, as is Tam’s son. Tam himself I have seen about, but he and the other gaugers with him are watching the scrimmage and are not concerned with what we might do.”

“Huh,” Ranald said, “because they think we are all in the thick of it with the rest.”

“Just so,” Dougal said. “Come ahead.”

The darkness was gathering as he ran toward the loch side road with his uncles. There were enough men scattered about the moor, along with spectators, that they were not particularly noticeable. They could be going down to the loch for a dip in the water, as some players had done throughout the day.

The air felt fresh and particularly cool now that he was outside the close, sweaty throng. He breathed deep, felt the relief as air fluttered his shirt and damp hair, and he paused to tuck his shirt back into the waist of his kilt and straighten the swath of plaid over his shoulder.

Once again he looked about for Fiona, as he had done often during the day. Earlier he had seen her with Mary MacIan, and later she stood with Lucy and others. The sight of her had bolstered his stamina, given him reserves of strength he had thought exhausted.

But after the old woman’s house had taken a bit of a pounding, Fiona and the others had disappeared from the group of spectators. Later he in
tended to apologize to Mary and offer repairs and a cask of his very best whisky; but he did not know how to make up to Fiona the damage that fate had wrought between them.

He wondered if she was done with the unruly lads of Glen Kinloch and their laird, who vastly preferred mucking about in a rough game, smuggling whisky at night, tending herds of sheep, and examining sheaves of barley to suiting up in a black frock coat in the city. He would not discount book learning, for he savored that himself, on his own. But he was different from the educated rich men who followed a human herd, of a sort, in social circles and business. Dougal would always choose roaming free over that, regardless of the level of his wealth. He could not blame Fiona if she left the glen to return to the city.

Tonight, though, he had other matters on his mind, and had best get to work.

Standing on a hill overlooking the glen, Fiona tucked her shawl around her shoulders as a cool breeze wafted past. The ruckus of the game continued, and she watched for a little while. Nearby, Lucy gathered flowers, humming to herself, and Fiona glanced toward her, smiling to see the girl well occupied with creating a bouquet of the primroses, buttercups, and bluebells that scattered the hills here in blurs of color.

Fiona had spent much of the day with several of the women in the glen—Mary MacIan, Helen, and some of the others, as well the girls from the
school. Lucy had come with Maisie to watch her kinsmen play, and Jamie and Annabel were with them, too. As the day wore on, women and children drifted away in small groups, some following the men who ranged about the glen in pursuit of the hapless ball, while others returned home to tend to practical matters.

Lucy, Jamie, and Annabel had stayed with Fiona, exploring for rocks. Together they had kept to the ridges of the lower hills, watching the football scramble. The day was sunny, breezy, and brisk, and Fiona had removed her straw bonnet, letting it hang behind her from its ribbons; she wore a lightweight shawl over her dark blue gown, a patterned cotton, its easy style and layered skirts wide enough to allow her freedom as she walked.

Jamie had collected rocks and scouted for insects and small animals; finding a pocket of rabbits, he had wisely let them be. The little girls had gathered flowers, and Lucy had explained to Fiona the importance of flowers to the end result of the whisky-making process. Impressed with Lucy’s understanding of the steps, Fiona felt sure that Dougal, with his good sense as a surrogate father, would make sure that years passed before the girl tasted the whisky she discussed with such innocent expertise now. Annabel, whose mother was a brewer, had some knowledge herself, and added to the discussion. As the shy girl walked with them, she began to sing a little in her clear, beautiful voice. Fiona smiled, listening, and asked to hear another song.

High on the hill, Fiona had discovered an outcrop of limestone that contained several fossils, including rare ammonites, shell remains, which she showed to the children. Having brought her knapsack and tools, she took out her small hammer to carefully break away some stone bits. Lucy, finding a particularly fine spiraling shell impression, had taken a rubbing of it with Annabel, and Jamie found a fat trilobite petrified in stone, which he proclaimed a true beastie. After more rubbings, Fiona had split away the stone so that the boy could carry his treasure in his pocket.

And all the while that she walked about with the children, she watched down the hill hoping for a glimpse of Dougal. The game continued as the men edged ever closer toward the loch side goal.

“The Southies will win,” Jamie said, “they have more players. And besides, the gaugers will be happy then, and will pay no attention to what Cousin Dougal is doing.”

Pausing as she sketched the ammonites, Fiona looked up. “What would Kinloch be doing today, other than playing the ba’ game?”

“Smuggling,” Lucy said. She was sorting flowers now, laying them out in groups on a sun-warmed rock. “He and my other uncles are smuggling tonight, and as soon as it gets dark, they will be meeting a great secret ship from France or Ireland, come to take their load of whisky and give them good coin in payment. We will be rich,” she said, looking up.

“It will be a cutter or a sloop, not a ship,” Jamie
pointed out. “It is only a loch, and connected to other lochs by rivers, and so only fast boats can come up here for the whisky runs.”

“Is it so?” Fiona asked. “Only fast boats on the loch?”

He nodded. “They sail up here and then down, and when they reach Loch Lomond, they take the river route to the sea. Dougal MacGregor showed me on a map,” he said. “I have seen the cutters coming up the loch.”

Fiona had seen one, too, she remembered. Frowning, she glanced toward the game, with the great clog of men at one part of the meadow, and spectators and other players standing or walking about. It seemed as if the men would never give up and go to their homes. Some of the women had told her that the game could go on for a day or two, even near a week, it was said, generations back. Men came and went in shifts, giving each one a chance to eat some and rest a little before diving back into the fray.

Women, being more sensible creatures, Mary MacIan had said, soon went about their business at home or tended to whatever wounds needed it. Now and then, women would dive into the throng, too, welcomed like any player, to give as good as they got, and then some.

Now Fiona saw men walking over the moorland, and she recognized the one in the lead. She knew the set of those shoulders, the rhythm of that walk, the swing of the dark-sheened hair. Her heart quickened to see Dougal, and she wondered if he had seen her,
too, standing on the hill with the children. He was not coming toward them, but rather walked toward the loch along with his uncles. No doubt they knew that the game was thrusting toward the lochside goal.