The murlain, and the creel.
—“The Boatie Rows”
I decided to try to drive instead of walk up to Ranald Bain’s croft. The Ordinance Survey maps of Scotland’s and England’s various regions were so detailed that every trail was shown. I even found a map that had “Bain Croft” on it, with a dotted line winding down to one of the Home Farm roads. So I determined to try it.
Now that Gwendolyn had my harp, I needed to play! Ranald’s was the only other harp I knew of for miles.
I had not gone into great detail with Ranald about the situation with Alasdair, Gwendolyn, and Olivia. His looks and expressions, however, and occasional questions and remarks convinced me that he knew more about it all than he let on.
How could he not?
He had lived here all his life. He was closer to Iain than a brother. He had been Iain’s confidant and mentor during Iain’s youth. He had to know about the stories, about Iain’s and Alasdair’s friendship, then their estrangement. Likewise, he had to know about Gwendolyn.
When I told him about her reunion with her father, I sensed a deeper response than he allowed himself to show. He was clearly pleased. He nodded knowingly, with the hint of a smile on his aging lips, though it was mostly obscured by his white beard.
Whenever Olivia came up in conversation, his countenance clouded—again, subtly, imperceptibly hidden by his beard. More than once I knew I had not imagined his eyes narrowing slightly. Whether it was talk about Gwendolyn, or the mention of Olivia’s name, I sensed that he was thinking about his own daughter, and what she might have been had she lived.
Iain had once let slip that Margaret Bain had despised Olivia Urquhart until her dying day. It was hard to imagine Ranald’s wife not being as loving and forgiving as he.
How Ranald and his wife and daughter were connected to thehostility between Olivia and Alasdair, I couldn’t begin to conjecture.
Most of Ranald’s interest seemed to be about me. That I was involved, that I had been part of taking Gwendolyn, against Olivia’s wishes, to the castle, something about that concerned him, and concerned him deeply. Again his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing except cautioning me to be very careful, especially when I went out walking, as the weather was beginning to change and the shoreline could be windy, slippery, and unpredictable. I assured him that I never went near the edge anyway. He nodded, though he did not seem altogether relieved.
He repeated his warnings.
When we played together on the harp and violin after tea, his mood was different—solitary and more melancholy than I had ever seen him. More than once he lapsed into doleful wailing tunes of lament and sorrow that I knew came from deep within his heart.
Over the following days, there were more visits between Gwendolyn and Alasdair. Before long they became a daily routine. Either Nicholls or I now went for Gwendolyn every morning about eleven, according to Alasdair’s instructions and schedule, and took her to him at the castle. Sometimes the three of us did things together, sometimes she spent the time alone with Alasdair for most of the day.
Mrs. Urquhart went along with everything with silent compliance, though it was obvious she hated it. She spoke not another word to me, shooting daggers into my eyes every time I appeared at the house.
“I asked Gwendolyn if she would like to take a trip on my yacht,” said Alasdair one day when I returned in the afternoon to take her back into the village.
“That sounds wonderful,” I said.
“Can Marie come with us, Daddy?” exclaimed Gwendolyn, glancing back and forth between Alasdair and me.
“Perhaps we shall have to ask her,” replied Alasdair.
“Will you, Marie, will you come?” pleaded Gwendolyn.
“I don’t know.” I laughed. “Something tells me that perhaps this is a trip meant for a father and daughter to share together.”
“I have never been on a ship!” said Gwendolyn excitedly.
“Will you go, then, Gwendolyn?” I asked.
“I hope so. But I do not think Auntie will want me to.”
“You let me take care of Auntie,” said Alasdair. Despite his confident expression, he glanced over Gwendolyn’s head toward me with an expression that silently said, Though I’m not sure how!
Gwendolyn hardly spoke of anything else after that. I knew it was best I not accompany them, as did Alasdair. But we did go out on the yacht one lovely day, just for the afternoon, to Buckie then to Sandend and back, to test Gwendolyn’s sea legs, Alasdair said. This time, so he would not have to worry about all the details of the boat as when he and I had gone out together, Alasdair’s captain was at the helm.
It was a perfect day. Gwendolyn was positively exuberant with delight about everything, running about the yacht like an excited little red-haired Shirley Temple. When we saw a half dozen dolphins swimming and jumping as we passed off the Scar Nose on our way east, I didn’t think she would be able to contain herself.
“That is the first time I have seen the dolphins, Marie!” she exclaimed as we stood at the rail. “Everyone talks about them, but I have never seen them, not so close like that. I thought I saw them once, but Mummy said it was only waves. But I see them now, I really see them! Look, they’re jumping and playing! Do you think it’s fun to be a dolphin, Marie?”
I couldn’t help laughing. It was indeed an exciting sight.
We turned around off Sandend and made again for Port Scarnose. As we glided westward, closer to shore, I thought I saw something along the cliff as we were approaching Logie Head. The yacht was well equipped with binoculars and I had a set hanging around my neck for watching for dolphins. Quickly I placed them up to my eyes and peered through.
“Alasdair,” I called. “What’s that, there on the shore? It looks like ruins of some kind.”
He walked toward me, though he did not need to look through binoculars to answer me.
“Those are the ruins of Findlater Castle,” he said.
“But what is it? Why have I never heard of it? It’s built right on the rock face, like it’s growing out of the stone itself. I want to know about it!”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“It’s spooky-looking. Some of the openings… it almost looks like two eyes, and a slit like a mouth below. It must have a history.”
“I suppose.”
“Alasdair!” I laughed.
“All right,” he said, almost with a sigh.
I couldn’t understand his reluctance to tell me about it.
“Findlater was the original castle here, long before Castle Buchan,” he began. “There may have been a castle here as early as the thirteenth or fourteenth century. But the certain date of construction by the Sinclairs was in the early 1400s. It remained the home of the Ogilvies, my own ancestors and related by marriage to the Sinclairs, for two hundred years, and was one of the great strongholds in the north of Scotland. Castle Buchan was built in 1600 and the Ogilvies moved inland and Findlater was abandoned. By the eighteenth century it had become a ruin and has disintegrated all the more ever since. There, you see—not much to tell.”
“I think it is fascinating,” I said, again raising the binoculars and scanning the cliff face. “I want to see it up close.”
“Don’t even think it, Marie.”
“But why?”
“It is far too dangerous,” replied Alasdair, then paused briefly. “I do not want you to go there,” he added. “The place is treacherous.”
I brought the binoculars down and looked at Alasdair, puzzled by his expression. He had never pulled rank on me like that before. I had never heard his voice sound as it did at that moment.
We were moving past the ruins by then. My curiosity was greater than ever. Again I lifted the binoculars, adjusting the lenses and trying to sharpen the focus.
“All right, I agree. I won’t go exploring,” I said, still squinting through the binoculars. “But can you just answer one more question? It looks like… I can’t be sure from this far away, but it looks like there is
an opening, there at the top… does that go down into—”
“Marie!” Alasdair interrupted. “Drop it. Please, no more about Findlater!”
He turned and walked away. I stared after him, more confused than hurt. I was glad Gwendolyn hadn’t heard the exchange. She was excitedly searching for more dolphins.
I found Alasdair on the other side, staring out over the waters of the firth toward the Orkneys.
“I am sorry,” I said, joining him at the starboard rail. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”
He nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing further. The subject of Findlater Castle did not come up again.
Chapter Fifty-one
Inside Castle Buchan
In yon garden fine and gay,
Picking lilies a’ the day,
Gath’ring flw’rs o’ ilka hue,
I wistna then what love could do.
Where love is planted there it grows,
It buds and blooms like any rose;
It has a sweet and pleasant smell,
No flower on earth can it excel.
—“In Yon Garden”
With Gwendolyn coming to visit her father regularly, the entire spirit at the castle changed. Life suddenly blossomed within its walls.
I don’t know if it was only because of Gwendolyn, though she was certainly part of it. Everyone was more cheery and friendly. Stoic Harvey Nicholls, whom I had known only as the uniformed chauffeur with all the personality of a stuffed mannequin, now smiled and tipped his hat at me whenever he saw me, and even came out with an occasional, “Fine day,” or “Morning to you, Ms.Buchan.” He was tall and lanky, pure blond and fair, and actually very dashing and handsome, with a smile to die for. It’s just that he hardly ever did smile! I began to take it as a personal challenge whenever I saw him to get a word or two out of him, followed by that smile. Gradually, after Gwendolyn began visiting, it became easier. My heart was touched one day to see the two of them, Nicholls and Gwendolyn, alone beside the door of the open garage, I assumed waiting for Alasdair, Gwendolyn babbling away with childlike abandon, while Nicholls kept his half of the exchange going with free-flowing questions and replies and laughter like I didn’t imagine him capable of. An observer would have taken him for her father, or perhaps uncle. I had no idea what his personal situation was, but I couldn’t imagine why such an eligible catch in a small village like Port Scarnose hadn’t been scooped up long ago.
The gardener-gamekeeper Farquharson was a tougher nut to crack. I saw not so much of him. He didn’t live at the castle as did Alicia Forbes and Harvey Nicholls, as well as the cook and her husband. His work for the duke, I assumed, was part-time and my opportunities to draw him out of his shell were more limited. Whenever I saw him in the rose garden or trimming one of the hedges, I took a few minutes and tried to engage him in conversation. But he wore the gruff exterior of the prototypical curmudgeon. I was able to elicit nothing but the occasional grunt or mumbled reply that I could no more understand than had he been talking in ancient Gaelic or Norse.
Alicia Forbes slowly began to warm to me as well.
I called one day when Alasdair and I had made arrangements to have lunch together. I was met at the door by a girl—a young woman, actually, probably nineteen or twenty—whom I had never seen before.
“Oh… hello,” I said in surprise. “I am Marie Buchan. I am here to see the duke.”
“He isna here jist the noo, mum,” the girl replied.
“I see, hmm—”
As I was debating whether I should ask to see the housekeeper, she came around the corner as if appearing out of my thoughts.
“Marie!” said Alicia in a friendler tone than I was used to. “The duke telephoned a few minutes ago from Fochabers. He was held up at his meeting and will be another thirty or thirty-five minutes. He asked me to entertain you while you’re waiting.—Sarah, meet Marie Buchan,” she said to the girl who was still standing at the door. “Marie, this is Sarah Duff. She has just started for us here this morning.”
“Hello, Sarah,” I said, extending my hand.
“Pleased tae meet ye, mum,” said Sarah with a pleasant smile and curtsy.
“Sarah works part-time up at the Leith Care Home,” said Alicia “She is going to help us here two days a week.”
“Well, Sarah,” I said, “I am sure you will enjoy it… if you don’t get lost!” I added with a laugh.
“Actually,” said Alicia, “that brings up exactly what the duke said. He said that he has never given you the grand tour, and suggested I might show you around the castle more than he showed you before.”
“I would love it!” I said.
“Good.—Sarah, you may return to Jean in the kitchen,” she said to Sarah, who then turned and disappeared.
When she was gone, Alicia led the way to the main wide circular staircase. “Shall we go, then,” she said as I followed. “You obviously know your way up to the Music Room, so we might as well start there so that you will have your bearings.”
As we walked up the staircase side by side, her uncharacteristically friendly demeanor on this day caused me to take in Alicia Forbes’s appearance in a different way than before. She had struck me as distant and melancholy, like someone carrying a secret sorrow. She was always pleasant, but in a manner similar to that in which she dressed, in a white housekeepery uniform, and the aspect with which she bore herself had seemed antiseptic and sterile, without emotion.
Her smile on this day surprised me. It gave her countenance a new warmth. She was a very short woman, no more than about five foot one or two, but well-proportioned, neither too thin, which would have given her a pixie look, or too plump, which would have tended toward the “short and fat” stereotype. She looked strong, healthy, and fit. Her features were a little darker than what you normally saw in Scotland, perhaps with a hint of the Polynesian, her nose small, her cheekbones prominent, and the lines in her forehead expressive though reluctant to reveal the thought behind them. What gene of her ancestry would account for the skin coloration I hadn’t an idea, but it contributed to the air of mystery about her. Though redheads in Scotland were a dime a dozen, and though her flesh tones might have led to the expectation of black hair, Alicia’s hair was a rich auburn, which was doubly unusual. It looked natural, but sometimes with perfect auburns it is hard to tell. I saw no telltale roots of differing shade, however, as I surely would have since she kept her forehead bare and her hair pulled straight back either into a bun or held in place by twin barrettes above both ears.
“The Music Room of course you know,” said Alicia as we reached the first floor and turned left along the wide, familiar corridor. “The duke has only been calling it the Music Room since that first day you played your harp for him.”
“What was it called before that?” I asked.
“I don’t know if it had an official name, it was just one of many drawing rooms and sitting rooms. Actually, I think we called it the Occasional Room—a nondescript name if ever there was one. Music Room is a great improvement, and we have you to thank. The library is just across the hall—I think it is my favorite room in the whole castle, though Olivia used to tell spooky stories there when we were young. You have been in the library, haven’t you?” she asked as we passed its great double-oak doors.
“Yes,” I answered.
“No need to detour there now, then.” We continued along the corridor. “Even though the Music Room is in the northeast corner of the castle,” she said as we went, “all this area is considered the north wing.”
“Are all the wings separate?” I asked as we turned right and made our way into what she said began the east wing. “I mean, were they built separately, or are they meant to serve different functions? I don’t really know very much about castles—we don’t have castles in Canada.”
“Every castle in Scotland is unique. Some were built as fortresses, others as homes, others as mere showpieces.”
“Which was this?”
&
nbsp; “Mostly as a home. But it is old enough that a little of the fortress look remains. Findlater was the original castle here, and it was definitely a fortress. When the Sinclairs and Ogilvies moved inland, that wasn’t needed so much. Here at Castle Buchan, the wings all flow together. Different functions were defined more by the different floors rather than the wings—the ground floor for casual entertaining, the Great Room, and the rooms where much of the daily work of the castle took place—the kitchen and garages and maintenance rooms and workshops, those sorts of things. The first floor contained the more extensive entertaining rooms, drawing rooms, the Grand Ballroom, and of course the library and the Music Room. The second floor contained most of the living quarters, as did the third floor, along with storage rooms and the old servants’ quarters.”
“Did they really occupy and use the entire castle?”
“Two hundred years ago, for a family of six or eight, there might have been thirty or more full-time servants, with the whole castle bustling with activity from morning till night.”
“Times have certainly changed.”
“All along here it’s mostly guest rooms and bedrooms and storage rooms,” said Alicia as we went, “one not much different from another. I don’t know why they built these castles with so many bedrooms.”
“How many bedrooms are there in all?” I asked.
“Actually, I don’t even know. I’ve never counted them. But I would guess at least thirty or forty.”
“You seem intimately familiar with every nook and cranny,” I said. “Though I suppose being the duke’s housekeeper you have to be. How long have you worked for Mr. Reidhaven?”
“I’ve been here, let me see, about twenty-five years, I think. I worked for the old duke before Mr. Reidhaven came into the title.”
“No wonder you know the place so well.”
“It’s not only that. I was also here as a girl. Olivia and I, and Alasdair, of course—the duke—were friends.”
“You grew up here? I suppose I assumed otherwise from your speech.”
She smiled. “I was not born here, so in that sense I cannot be said to belong to Port Scarnose. We moved here when I was eight. That’s when I met Olivia… and some of the other village girls,” she added in what struck me as an odd tone. “Adela Cruickshank, whom you know—she was among them, and Cora who works at the co-op.”
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