The Highland Countess (8 page)

And what of Morag after seven long years? She had grown in beauty, but it was a cold, still kind of beauty with little animation.

She had inherited great wealth from the earl and was extremely rich even by English standards. Suitors had flocked to the castle after the period of mourning was over and were turned down one by one. Morag was wrapped up in the care of the child, whom she had come to think of as her own. All the love in her love-starved life was poured on the child. In her doting eyes, Rory could do no wrong. And since Rory was equally devoted to Morag, he made sure that she never found out the worst of his tricks, and if she found out about any, he always had a charming excuse.

Morag had instigated many changes at Murr Castle. An architect had redesigned the chimneys so the rooms were well heated in winter. New plumbing had been installed and there was running water in a marble buffet outside the dining room. Carpets had been woven in Ayrshire to cover the stone floors and tapestries had been imported from Belgium to cover the walls. The stuffed pike had been given to Hamish, who, at first, did not know what to do with it, but had finally sold it at an auction in Perth and got drunk on the proceeds.

The castle wall had been moved half a mile to extend the gardens and a conservatory and succession houses had been built at right angles to the castle with a new servants’ wing behind. Extra servants had been hired and Hamish proudly told his friends he was head of an army.

Lady Phyllis was eaten alive with jealousy.

The apartments in Edinburgh had been sold and Mr. James Murray, the lawyer, had advised selling the house in London since it would fetch a very good price. But somewhere in the back of Morag’s mind there was still a vision of a young man with black hair and green eyes and she felt if she sold the house, she would have admitted to herself that she would never go to London—never see him again.

She still led a fairly isolated life, and Rory had no friends—that she knew of—to play with since she considered the children of the local families not nearly good enough for her angel. She did not know that the enterprising Rory often slipped away from the castle when he was supposed to be in bed and played with the children of the local village, some two miles away. When he appeared at the breakfast table with purple shadows under his eyes, Morag would wring her hands and send for the doctor. Doctor McQueen would confirm her opinion that the child was delicate. Privately, the good doctor thought that Rory was as strong as an ox, but to tell her ladyship so would mean a curtailing of his frequent visits, and her ladyship paid well.

And so, for the most part, the world slipped by outside the castle walls unnoticed. Stories of the Peninsular War were duly reported in the newspapers as Wellington won battle after battle against Napoleon Bonaparte’s troops. But the immediate daily concerns seemed more important. Wheat was fetching such a high price that Morag’s extensive farmlands were almost doubling her fortune. Her fields were prosperous, her tenants well housed and her servants well fed. She was adored by one and all. Although her steward, Mr. Baillie, technically ran things, it was Morag who added the personal touch. Any sick tenant could expect a visit from her ladyship and a carriage full of comforts. Any bright child had his or her schooling paid.

Morag was queen of her small empire and almost content. But on the morning that Hamish and Mrs. Tallant were happily tearing the character of young Rory to pieces, two things happened which were to rend apart the quiet tenor of Morag’s days.

Firstly, she bought a newspaper in Perth to read on the road home, a thing she had never done before, being completely uninterested in the outside world.

Rory was asleep beside her in the carriage, his fair head lolling against her arm. Morag’s lady’s maid, Scott, a recent acquisition, sat stiffly opposite.

Morag glanced idly through the pages until her eyes fastened on the social column. She idly read of the marriage of lord this to lady that—and then she felt a strange, apprehensive qualm. Marriage. Of course, he might already be married! She felt his presence so strongly, felt the feel of his lips against her own so vividly, he might as well have been in the carriage with her. All the hurt and longing which she had kept down over the years welled up and bubbled over.

She could go to London! Why had she never thought of that! But the house was rented from year to year. “But it’s
my
house,” she thought, “and if I want to live in it, then I can.” She looked at the paper again. There was the account of a ball at a certain Lady Pomfret’s.

She found herself carefully studying the long description of the fashions and then looked down at her own serviceable clothes. She did so much walking and riding that she had had her clothes made accordingly; good, tough material in plain styles.

But it was ridiculous! There was dear Rory to think of. He should not be exposed to the dangers of London.

Did Lord Toby ever think of her?
nagged the voice in her brain. Why had he left without so much as a good-bye?

She was a fool. He was probably happily married with, oh, twelve children.

The carriage rolled over the new gravel on the new drive up to the castle and Morag gently shook Rory by the shoulder. “We’re here, dear. We’re home. Wake up.”

Rory struggled out of sleep, his face flushed, his eyes bright. Morag caught her breath. He was an incredibly beautiful child and she never tired of looking at him.

“Can I go and play, mother?” he yawned.

“No,” said Morag with fond firmness; “dinner first.”

Dinner had been moved to a more fashionable hour.

Grumbling under his breath, Rory climbed down from the carriage and waited outside the castle door for his “mother.”

Suddenly there was the sound of a report and a bullet whined through his blond curls to bury itself harmlessly in the thick wood of the castle door. The horses plunged and reared. The footman leaped down from the backstrap and ran toward a spinney from which a pale wisp of smoke was rising. Hamish jerked open the castle door, “Whit was that, my leddy?” he cried. “I heard a shot.”

Morag pushed past him, clutching Rory in her arms. “Someone tried to shoot Rory,” she cried. “Quick, Hamish, have all the men out to search the grounds.”

Her devoted servants scanned the countryside for miles round about. But of Rory’s assailant, there was no sign. Mr. Baillie, the steward, was hastily called and gave his opinion that it was probably only a stray bullet from a poacher’s gun. “Nobody would shoot the laddie,” said Mr. Baillie, although he privately thought—“Shoot, no. Strangle, yes.”

Rory had quickly got over his shock. He was inclined to agree with Mr. Baillie—having joined the local poachers some nights himself. He was desperate to escape to the freedom of the fields but his mother kept him close.

Like most children of his age, he had various small rituals which were important to him. One of the most important was that every evening, before dinner, he would go out beyond the castle walls and climb his favorite copper beech tree just as the light was fading. There he could sit, high up in its branches, looking over the rolling Perthshire countryside toward the distant blue mountains. He looked impatiently at his mother from under his long lashes as she sat over her embroidery.

“Mother, can I lie down before dinner?”

Morag stared at him. The poor child! He must indeed have received a bad shock.

“Of course, Rory,” she said gently. “I will come up in a few moments to see how you fare.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” said Rory. “I mean, I would really feel much better on my own and if I do not want your company, mama, then I do not want anyone’s.”

A glow of maternal love animated Morag’s face. “Go then, darling,” she said softly. “I will call you for dinner.”

Rory walked slowly to the door and closed it very gently behind him. Then he fled. He escaped from the castle by his own secret way—a small little-used door in the cellars which led through tangled shrubbery to the back of the castle.

He dodged from bush to bush, moving as quietly as a shadow, frightened that one of the servants should see him and call him back.

Once out of sight of the castle, he slackened his pace. “I really must get mother to take me out of skirts,” thought Rory, looking down miserably at his outfit. He was wearing an ankle-length frock with puffed sleeves and a high waist over long frilly pantaloons. On his curls was balanced a straw top hat—suitable perhaps for a child of five, thought Rory gloomily, but for a man of seven…!

When he reached his favorite tree, he began to climb with an incredible agility for such a small boy hampered by frilly pantaloons.

He now felt excited at the idea of having escaped death. He felt tremendously brave. He hesitated at his favorite perch and then decided, for the first time, to go higher. He dreamed of being a soldier and he climbed on up.

After all, drummer boys were little older than himself. He came out of his dream to realize that he was near the top of the tree, the branches were very thin, and he was a long way from the ground.

He looked down.

In the gathering dusk, the ground seemed to swing beneath him. The young buds had only just begun to sprout so he had an unimpaired view. Terror choked him and he clung to the tree for dear life. He could not go up, he could not go down.

He edged one chubby leg over a branch to take some of the strain off his arms and then clasped them tightly round the thin trunk of the tree.

But after only five minutes of this agony, he heard the hue and cry from the castle. He would be rescued—but then his mother would know he had tricked her and he would never be able to leave that way again. He was not a soldier. He was a coward. Rory’s education, such as it was, had been given him by his mother—a little Latin, a little Greek and a great deal of romantic tales. None of his heroes would behave like this. He would get down—
and get down himself!

As the sounds of the search grew nearer, he carefully and bravely freed one arm and jerked his dark blue dress up over his bright curls to hide them. His pantaloons were dark blue as well. With luck, he might not be seen.

The search passing by the very foot of the tree gave him all the courage he needed. As soon as the last dark figure had disappeared over the field and the last flaring, smoking torch had twinkled off into the distance, he began his cautious descent.

It was black night now and he could not see the ground. He seemed to have been edging down for a century until at last he felt the turf beneath his feet. He settled his topper at a jaunty angle on his head and skipped off toward the castle.

He crept quietly through the cellar door and then up a winding back stair to the first floor. He emerged onto the main landing and prepared to make a dash to the sanctuary of his room.

His mother was standing on the stairs, looking down. Morag gave a great cry and rushed forward, hugging him to her bosom, her frightened eyes taking in the blood smear on his face—a branch had scratched it—and the torn mess of his clothes.

“Rory!” she cried. “Dear God, what happened to you?”

Rory’s fertile brain sprang into action. Not for worlds would he tell his mother he had lied to her.

“I went to my room like I said,” he began, standing back from her and putting his hands behind his back. “But I felt dizzy and went outside the back of the castle for some fresh air… and… and… a man sprang out of the bushes and threw a sack ower—over—my heid—head.”

“Dear God protect us!” wailed Morag. “What then?”

“I was slung on his back and carried off but the sack gave way and I fell oot—out. I ranandIranandIran,” gabbled Rory now that this momentous lie was nearly at an end.

Had it not been for the earlier attempt, it is doubtful that even Morag would have believed this tarradiddle. But fear made her believe the worst. She called a council of war, and any servants who were not still out scouring the countryside for the boy were now sent out to look for the kidnapper.

By midnight, all the searchers had returned. There was no sign of any stranger in the area for miles around.

Panic-stricken, Morag slept in Rory’s room that night with the small knife boy asleep on a truckle bed outside the door. Rory bitterly resented the guard supplied by the knife boy since he was but little older than himself.

Morag’s last waking thought was, “
Now
I should go to London. Not for myself, but for Rory.”

But when the next day dawned bright and fair, she wondered if she had been too precipitate in her decision. But that day brought a visit from Lord Arthur and his wife, who could barely conceal their dislike of Rory. Morag talked commonplaces with them, her voice growing husky as a nervous seizure caught at her throat. Of course! Lord Arthur stood to inherit should anything happen to Rory. He wouldn’t… he
couldn’t.
He might, said a niggling voice in her brain.

Then arrived a letter from Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer. He had visited the castle several times since the earl’s death and had been profoundly shocked when Morag had put off her mourning. He obviously expected her to wear the willow for her husband until the day she died.

“I trust you are comporting yourself well,” the letter ran, “and that Rory is behaving himself. We must always watch that
doubtful family characteristics
do not appear in the boy.”

Morag bit her lip in vexation. Cosmo would never let her forget the illegitimacy of Rory’s birth. Oh, to fly to London and leave them all!

She at last firmly made up her mind and, when Cosmo’s letter had gone up in the flames in the fire and Lord Arthur and Lady Phyllis had taken their leave, she drew Rory to her side, fondling his long golden curls.

“Rory,” she began. “We have a fine mansion in London. I think perhaps a visit to the metropolis might be exciting. You will be able to see all the sights. What think you?”

Rory’s mind rattled busily while his gaze merely reflected a limpid innocence.

“Shall I be allowed to have my hair cut and stop wearing petticoats?” he asked, after a long pause.