Let Me Be Your Hero (14 page)

The accent of one’s birthplace lingers in

the mind and in the heart as it does in

one’s speech.

François de La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680),

French writer.
Reflections, or Sentences and

Moral Maxims
(1665)

H
ow many times had he ridden down this same path, rounded the side of the mountain, and seen Monleigh Castle rising up out of the rocks, buffeted by the North Sea? Yet, it had never looked as dear and beloved as it did today.

“Welcome home, brother,” Bran said.

“ ’Tis a grand sight, is it not? And one I have seen in my mind’s eye many times since I have been gone. ’Tis a good feeling to come home. I never realized how true this really was before now.”

Arabella was the first to see them from the place in the garden where she was practicing with her bow and arrow. Bran and Fraser rode close enough for Fraser to shout, “Careful, you are aiming a bit high, lass,” at the moment she released the arrow,
which sailed over the target and landed in the bushes.

She stamped her foot and turned around and the frown disappeared. “Fraser!” A moment later he was off his horse and swinging the only sister in the family around in his arms.

“I have left a little sister and have found a beautiful woman in her place. ’Tis sorry I am to have missed the gradual change in ye.”

She tucked her arm in his and walked along with her brothers, three black heads close together, arms around one another.

As soon as Jamie, Niall, Tavish and Calum came out, Arabella had to back away, where she stood next to Sophie, both of them with their arms crossed and a tolerant but not completely understanding expression on their faces, as they watched the six Graham men engage in mock battle with one another, until each of them had been rolled in the dirt and came up looking more like gingerbread than men.

She observed the lot of them—groaning, sweating and admiring one another’s cuts.

“You look like you’ve been rolling in a pigsty,” Sophie said.

“Aye, and ye probably smell as if ye have been in one, too,” Arabella added. “One would think ye would reach maturity eventually…say, by yer ninetieth birthday. Ye have been playing these same war games since ye were bairns. Are ye no tired of it yet?”

“No,” they said in unison.

“And how would ye be knowing how long we have been at this?” Tavish asked. “Ye are the youngest and could have no recollection of that.”

“I’m a good listener.” She had her gaze fastened on Jamie. “You are not so supple at the knee. Mayhap you are too old to be doing this and should leave it to the younger ones.”

He grinned at her, then gave his wife a teasing look. “I am a wee bit out o’ practice.”

“Aye,” Tavish said, “all that desk work, yer lordship, is turning yer backside to hog lard.”

“Careful… I can still pin yer ears to the ground,” Jamie said.

“Weel,” Fraser said, “in that case, how about we go have ourselves a dram or two of whisky.”

“There is nothing like the mention of whisky to get them moving,” Arabella said to Sophie as they watched them disappear through the door.

“No, but it is certain to slow them down soon enough,” Sophie said. “
Sacré bleu,
I have never seen men who could drink so much and still remain standing.”

Arabella knew they would not get much sleep tonight—not with all the boisterous jokes and manly pride inflated with each glass of whisky that went down.

The next morning when Arabella came downstairs she expected to see her brothers sleeping in the hall, and she was not disappointed, but it did surprise her to see the three Scottish wolfhounds sleeping soundly and reeking of whisky. They must have spilled a lot, she thought, and then took a seat to enjoy the sight of her brothers waking, puffy-eyed and headachy.

Arabella was sitting at the long table that ran the length of the room, busily writing, as they began to wake up.

“Who are ye writing a letter to?” Calum asked.

“I am not writing a letter,” she said. “I am making an accounting, and so far, I have the following:

1. Three drunk dogs

2. Six broken glasses

3. Niall’s initials carved into the tabletop

4. Two black eyes and one not so black, but passing through purple at the moment, and completely swollen shut

5. Three busted lips

6. Various and assorted nicks, scrapes and cuts

7. Two shirts ripped beyond repair

8. One boot smoldering in the fireplace

9. A belt chewed in half by whichever dog was the last to pass out

“And six men who smell like they have just bathed in offal, and do not seem to mind the fact that we are leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow to attend the ball given by the Earl and Countess of Wick. Would anyone like to tell me how ye are going to go to Edinburgh and a ball with busted lips and purple eyes?”

“’Tis a costume ball,” Calum said.

“Aye, ’tis at that, and now would ye mind telling me if ye are planning on wearing a pumpkin over yer head? Ye canna find a mask big enough to cover all the damage ye have done.”

“We will think o’something,” Jamie said. “After all, Fraser is a lawyer now, and lawyers are famous for extracting the less fortunate from their predicaments.” He slapped Fraser on the back.

“I am a lawyer,” Fraser said, “but I was given a degree, not a magic wand.”

It was not until the night of the ball that Arabella learned how her brothers planned to work around their various swellings, cuts and bruises.

It was a blessing for Claire that she had the title of Earl, as well as the Chief of Clan Lennox, for that added another dimension to her existence. She not only had herself to think of, but her sisters, the clan, the management of the Lennox properties and the preserving of the inheritance she had been given.

Some time ago, she dedicated herself to the task, and forced herself to look forward and to push ahead with the plans and dreams her father had. She finished the construction underway on the castle. She purchased more breeding stock to improve the herds of cattle on their lands in the far northern parts of the Highlands. She kept good records, was punctual in the taking of her yearly inventory, increased the amount of land allotted to the tacksmen, and left the rent at the same nominal amount. In turn, she instructed the tacksmen to pass on the favors to their cottars, so that each would have a house, enough grass for a cow or two, and enough land to sow a boll of oats. She was careful to add that she expected it to be in places they could reach and work with their plow, and not the areas where brush and rock forced them to dig with spades. As a gesture of kindness to ease the poverty of the tenants, she freed them every year from their arrears of rent.

She poured herself into her work, for it was the only way she could hide the lonely emptiness within her. She was determined that her own misfortunes, faults and failures would not carry over into her role of
Countess of Errick and Mains, and she managed its affairs with great skill, relieving it of many debts and carrying out great improvements.

Because Lennox Castle was situated on the southernmost point of Inchmurrin Island, in the middle of Loch Lomond, it commanded a beautiful view of the loch. As the castle had been in need of many repairs when she inherited the title, she took pride in the improvements she made, both within the castle and without.

She enlarged the enclosed courtyard and built a long walkway that connected it to the castle. The gardens, which had been overgrown were planted with an impressive variety of vegetables and herbs, and the trees in the small orchard produced an abundance of fruit, most of which Claire insisted on drying. To anyone’s eyes, she took on responsibilities that packed an incredible amount of work onto her slim and narrow shoulders.

When she wasn’t attending to affairs of the clan, she served as both sister and mother to her three sisters, became the family historian, local politician, and an expert horsewoman and archer. But she scandalized her youngest sister when Briana woke up one morning and looked out over the loch and saw Claire’s flaming hair in the water. That sent Briana running down the hall to Kenna’s room to tell her their sister was doing “the wickedest thing. She is in the loch!”

Kenna only smiled and said, “Then she must be swimming,” and went back to sleep.

Briana gave Kenna’s arm a shake. “I didna ken she knew how to swim.”

“Weel, ye ken now,” Kenna said.

“May I swim, then?”

“No, ye don’t know how to swim.”

Briana shook her arm again. “Do ye think Claire will teach me?”

“Why don’t you ask Claire?”

By the end of the summer, all four of the Ladies Lennox were regularly swimming in the early hours of the morning.

Claire found she liked having so much to do, for hard work hid the emptiness inside, and kept alive the incentive to do more, and ignore the cost it extracted from her person.

The primary benefit was when she went to bed at night, she was too tired to look back on the past, or to think about the future. Her life and her reward was her work and the things she accomplished.

The millstone around her neck continued to be Isobel and Lord Walter, and now she had the ball she did not want to attend to look forward to.

I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in

his shoes—and as cold as Charity, Chastity or

any other Virtue.

Lord Byron (1788-1824), English poet.

Letter, November 16, 1814, to Annabella

Milbanke—later Lady Byron (published in

Byron’s Letters and Journals
, vol. 4, ed. by

Leslie A. Marchand, 1975)

T
hey left before daybreak for Stirling, and although it was too dark to see, Claire did not need the light of the sun to know they passed through the beloved green-and-purple countryside she had known since she was born.

The sun was well up by the time they passed the impregnable stronghold, Stirling Castle, sitting as it had for centuries atop a steep, stony hill of volcanic rock. She thought of many of her ancestors who took up residence there for protection, and the battles fought below the castle; the first the Battle of Stirling Bridge, where William Wallace defeated the English; the second, the Battle of Bannockburn, where Robert
the Bruce and the Scottish army routed the forces of King Edward II.

Today it stood silent and solemn as they passed beneath it and headed out of town on the ancient Roman road that ran from Stirling to Edinburgh. A few times they veered off the main track to ride along rather dubious bridle tracks through low and marshy terrain that ran down to the Forth, and on toward their destination through fields of heather and bracken.

By the time they arrived in Edinburgh, Claire found bogs, heather and bracken far superior company to that of Lord Walter and Isobel. Now she had meeting up with Giles to look forward to.

Prestonfield House, where they would stay, was remarkably close to the heart of Edinburgh, yet it had very much the feel of a country house, lying as it did in the lee of the volcanic mass of Arthur’s Seat, surrounded by lovely parklike grounds. As they approached the white-fronted house, they passed a herd of Highland cattle.

Lord Walter, who had been rattling on about how Prestonfield was built in 1687 for Sir James Dick, the Provost of Edinburgh, by the king’s architect, Sir William Bruce, was suddenly drowned out by the raucous complaint of a large group of peacocks displaying brilliant plumage. Claire ducked her head lest he see how it did please her to see his preaching drowned out by the cry of peacocks.

A few seconds later, she had to put her hand over her mouth to cover her laughter, for what the peacocks were screaming sounded like
Help…Help…

When they stopped at last they were greeted by liveried footmen who escorted them inside to the
entrance hall, where a ceiling with a very large cupid towered over them. Everywhere she saw splendid gilding, opulent velvets and Italian brocades, mingled with an exceptionally fine collection of art and antiques, many of them Italian, which probably helped the Countess to feel connected to her homeland.

Fortunately, the Earl of Wick’s wife, Countess Laura Maria Cavallaro, had placed Claire in one of the finer bedrooms, as due her status of Countess of Errick and Mains, while the disgruntled Isobel and Lord Walter were given lesser quarters along with Giles, who seemed too bored with everything to care.

The next day, Claire and Isobel ventured forth into Edinburgh to be fitted for their costumes, which by Lord Walter’s orders, had already been started, and only needed a final fitting. Claire wondered if Lord Walter was trying to tempt Giles by choosing for her to go as Lysistrata, from an outrageous Greek comedy about war and peace written by Aristophanes. It was reportedly a bawdy play, at least that was the reason her father gave for not allowing her to read it.

A few nights later, on the night of the ball, Claire stood patiently considering herself in the full-length mirror. Two maids fussed over dressing her in the shimmering, gossamer folds of a saffron-colored silk gown, beautifully embroidered.

She was allowed to sit afterward while they piled the masses of her red hair up in the classic Greek fashion of the era and dressed it with ropes of pearls and golden ornaments. Her cheeks were painted, and seven golden bracelets clinked on her arm. She held out her feet to study the saffron silk evening slippers.

She felt like a doll, with nothing to do but sit around
beautifully dressed and coiffed, looking quite ravishing in a dress she thought was too sheer, with her feet in dainty saffron evening slippers.

Half an hour later, Isobel, dressed as Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, came for her, and the two of them proceeded downstairs where Lord Walter and Giles awaited them in a large supper tent erected in the garden. The Earl and Countess of Wick, dressed in Renaissance splendor as Beatrix and Dante, were seated on a low dais to greet their guests as they arrived.

Claire felt as if she had stepped inside a de Medici villa when she entered the tent, which was completely floored with Italian tiles and warmed by the golden glow of candlelit sconces and candelabra. Roman tapestries hung on the walls, interspersed with fine marble statues and fluted columns. In the center of the room, towering almost thirteen feet tall, stood an antique Italian gazebo, made of Vicenza stone. Beautifully carved Italian urns, filled with flowers were everywhere.

And on the other side of the tent, she caught a glimpse of the side of a man’s head, and for a moment she thought it was Fraser Graham.

She dismissed it as wishful thinking and gave her attention back to the boring account Giles was giving of his latest grouse hunt, but when he had proudly shown off his birds he found he had killed ptarmigan instead.

Giles did not seem to have the nasty side his mother possessed, but that could have been because of his tendency to dismiss Claire altogether. In fact, she noticed that he seemed to dismiss
all
women with the same bored indifference. He did get a nice gleam in
his eye whenever he stopped to speak to another man, however. Claire began to put six and six together. Oh, wonderful, she thought, would it not be perfect to be married to a man who had a preference for other men?
Weel, Claire, it might be preferable to having to suffer through making love with someone ye canna stand.
It doesn’t matter, she thought, for she would not marry Giles, and she began to think of ways she could prevent that.

The dancing started off with dancers from Sicily and Sardinia performing their folk dances in native costume. When it was over, Giles escorted her to join the highly popular country dancing, where they joined groups of eight or ten people and danced to the lively strains of reels and strathspeys, accompanied by piano, flute, accordion and fiddle.

He was a good dancer, and she complimented him on his graceful movements. “Where did ye learn to dance so well?” she asked.

“William, Baron McCandless, taught me.”

“Oh, he is a dancing instructor?”

“No, he is a baron who likes to dance as much as I do.”

Claire concentrated less on conversation and more on dancing after that, which seemed to be what Giles preferred, anyway.

In spite of his weasel face and darting eyes that always made her uncomfortable, she had to admit that Giles could have been worse. His biggest problem was his customary rude and disrespectful behavior, which was not so prevalent tonight. Claire did not know if the change was his doing, or because Lord Walter had given him some kind of ultimatum, but she suspected the latter.

The strains of the contredanse, a playful dance that started with a thump on the floor by one of the musicians, startled everyone into laughter. Soon Claire was stomping to the rhythm of the dance, laughing and thumping her heels to the warm, dark sound of the flute that swirled in a rhythmic pulse around her, and she responded with a burst of energy that seemed to make her feet fly. That is, until she looked up and saw a man standing among those not dancing. He was watching her and all the laughter she felt inside vanished.

When the dance ended, she sent Giles for something to drink, and she ventured a quick glance around the room, but did not see the man again. She tried to think what it was that she found so startling. After all, he was wearing a mask, so she could not see much of his face. Yet, there was something….

She felt uneasy, and certainly not in the mood to dance anymore.

“I knew ye would not care for whisky, so I brought ye a drink made from Sicilian lemons. The ladies around the table who were drinking it said they found it most pleasing.” He handed the cup to her.

“Thank ye, Giles.” She drank a few sips. It was quite good. “I find it verra delicious.”

Giles was looking around the room. “What? Oh, I am pleased to hear ye find it satisfactory.”

“Giles, please do not feel ye must stay here with me. I do not wish to dance again, but do not want to prevent ye from doing so. I would like to visit with the Countess of Wick, and a few others, and then I shall retire.”

“You are certain ye do not want to dance again?”

“Yes, I am not accustomed to so much dancing in one evening. I find I am tired.”

Giles seemed delighted to excuse himself and Claire noticed he was soon talking to a tall young man about his own age. She was beginning to think Giles did not care for women in the normal manner of most men.

The cry of a peacock made her think of the charming garden and she decided to leave the tent for a while, so she could sit upon one of the lovely Italian benches. She waited until another dance started then slipped quietly from the tent, to make her way to a bench without a back that was sequestered behind a rowan tree.

She seated herself and removed her mask. She took a deep breath. The air was clear and fresh, and scented with lilacs. She could still hear the strains of music coming from the tent, which was a muckle more to her liking than being inside. With a sigh that hovered somewhere between weariness and relief, she leaned back and looked at the stars overhead, thankful that she was alone in the garden.