by Joan Wolf
His hands stopped and he looked up. "Oh? Who is worrying you, then, mo cridhe?"
"Van."
"Van?" His black brows rose in surprise. "What has Van done?"
"It's not what she has done, Alasdair, it's what she hasn't done that worries me. Do you realize that apart from a few trips to Edinburgh over the years, she has never left the Highlands?"
He was frowning now. "Why should she leave the Highlands? She loves it here. You know that."
"Yes, I know that." She leaned a little toward him in her earnestness. "Van's heart is as strongly rooted here as your own. But that doesn't mean she shouldn't be exposed to other places, other cultural influences. She should see something of the world, darling, just for her own education. After all, we sent Niall to Paris for that reason."
"Niall is a boy. It's right that he know something of the world."
"Van should have her opportunity too," Frances insisted. "When I was a girl I was taken to concerts, the theater, the opera, and I led a very sheltered life. Van has had none of those experiences, and she would love them, Alasdair."
He had finished unbuttoning his shirt but he made no move to take it off. "Do you want to send her to Edinburgh?" he asked.
"No." She spoke with calm determination. "I want her to go on a visit to my cousin Katherine in England."
His face closed. "England," he said. "I do not want Van to go to England."
Well, she had known how it would be. Still, she must make him see this her way. "England is not the inferno, Alasdair," she said, "and my cousin is not the devil. I am English, if you remember. You didn't mind that when you married me."
"You are different," he replied simply. "And Van will marry Alan MacDonald."
Frances sat bolt upright in bed. "Oh? When was this arranged?"
"It has not been arranged," he replied patiently, "but surely it is obvious. Ever since he returned from Paris Alan has doted on Van."
"If Van wishes to marry Alan, fine," Frances returned, her voice sharp. "He is an extremely nice boy. But she must have her chance in England first."
Alasdair walked to the foot of the bed and stood staring at his wife out of suddenly hard gray eyes. "Are you thinking of marrying my daughter off to a Sassenach?" he asked.
And there it was, Scot against English, all the ancient hatred fierce and alive in his heart. Frances stared back, refusing to be intimidated. "No, I am not. I simply want her to have a chance to encounter wider cultural opportunities than she has here at home. Good God, Alasdair, she spends her days here galloping her horse along the beach and roaming through the mountains like some wild creature!"
"Make her help you around the castle," he said.
"Yes," she returned ironically. "It is so easy to get Van to do what she doesn't want to do."
There was a long pause. Then he leaned his hands against the footboard of the bed. "This is not the time to be sending Van out of the country, Frances." His voice was sober. "There is great talk of a French expedition."
"There is always talk of a French expedition, Alasdair. If we wait until there is no talk, Van will be as gray as you are."
Another long pause. "Is your cousin a Jacobite?"
"Her father was," Frances returned with perfect truth. She did not mention the fact that Katherine's husband, the Earl of Linton, had been a staunch supporter of the Hanoverian succession. After all, the earl was dead now. "I certainly do not wish Van to be presented at court," she assured him. "She will not have to curtsy to the elector or anything of that nature, Alasdair. I simply want her to meet a wider variety of people than she has had a chance to here at home, and I want her to have a chance to hear some music!"
"For how long would she stay?"
Her heart leapt in her breast. He was thinking of it! "Through the summer, I thought. She can leave for England in March, when the weather breaks a little."
He straightened up, stretching the muscles in his back. "This is important to you, isn't it?" he asked slowly.
"Yes, Alasdair," she replied. "Yes, it is."
He nodded and began to take off his shirt. "All right," he said, "she can go. But only until the end of the summer.'"
She smiled at him, a warmly beautiful smile. "Thank you, darling."
"And when she comes home," he continued imperturbably, "I expect that she will marry Alan MacDonald."
CHAPTER 2
Van was up by six-thirty the following morning, her usual hour. In summer the sun was bright at six-thirty but in January she rose by the light of the stars. Winter or summer made no difference to Alasdair, however. Everyone in the castle, with the exception of his wife, rose very early.
After a breakfast of tea and bread and butter, Van went into the drawing room to the harpsichord. She lit a few candles, as it was still dark, and then sat down at the instrument.
It was one of the favorite moments of Van's day, the moment her fingers hovered over the keys, delaying for a moment to touch them, the way a lover might delay touching his mistress's skin, just to prolong his pleasurable anticipation. Van had been playing the harpsichord since she was four years old. She had never had any teacher other than her mother, but Frances was a very skilled musician.
It was because of Frances that the harpsichord stood here in the drawing room of Creag an Fhithich. Alasdair had brought it from Paris for his wife two years after they were married, when he had realized how much she missed her music. He had sold an Italian Renaissance painting in order to pay for it, and Frances, who knew how he hated to part with any part of his heritage, had been touched and grateful.
It stood now near one of the five large windows, as much a part of the drawing room as the glass-fronted cabinets, the Oriental rugs, and the Louis XIV chairs. Van took a deep, long breath, placed her hands on the keys, and began to play.
Two hours later, as she finished a piece by Bach on which she had been working for weeks, she became aware that her mother was in the room. Van swung around on her stool.
"When did you creep in, Mother? I didn't hear you."
"The house could burn down around you while you were playing, Van, and you wouldn't notice," Frances returned humorously. "That last piece is sounding very polished."
Van did not look satisfied. "It isn't quite right. Perhaps you could help me with it, Mother."
Frances smoothed the skirt of her blue morning gown. "You see, darling," she said gently, "you've gone beyond me. You are at the point where you need a professional teacher."
Van's light eyes, gray-green as Loch Morar in summer, widened. Imperceptibly her whole body tensed. "Would that be possible?" she asked. "Would Father get a teacher for me?"
"I'm sure your father would if he could, darling," Frances returned calmly. "But a musician of the excellence that you require is not going to come to Morar. Professionals of that caliber are only to be found in places like Paris, Rome, Naples, London."
'"Oh," said Van quietly.
"Which is why," Frances continued briskly, "I have arranged for you to visit London for some months."
Van stared at her mother as if she had taken leave of her senses. "Visit London?" she echoed. "Whatever are you talking about, Mother?"
"I have arranged for you to visit my cousin Katherine, Lady Linton. You've heard me mention Katherine, Van." Van nodded numbly. "She is a widow with only one son and no daughters. She is delighted at the thought of having you. And she has promised to engage a music teacher."
A look came over Van's slender face that gave her an unmistakable resemblance to her father. Her back was ramrod straight. "I do not want to go among the Sassenach," she said.
"I am a Sassenach," Frances returned. Her voice was perfectly pleasant. "I do not think I am so very terrible."
Van stood up. "Of course you're not terrible, Mother." She herself sounded impatient. She began to pace the room.
Frances watched her in silence for a few moments. Then she said very seriously, "Listen to me, Van. There is more to the world than the glens and hills
of Morar. There is another kind of life beyond the clan. In London you will mix with people of culture, people with a wide range of interests. There will be concerts and theater. There will be the opera. There is a whole world out there, my darling, of which you know nothing."
Van had stopped pacing and now she stared at her mother in astonishment. "Don't you like it here in Morar, Mother?"
"Of course I like it here. This is where your father is. But do I miss the company of intellectual people, people to whom books and ideas seriously matter? Yes, I do. Do I miss music? Yes, I do."
Van was looking appalled. "I had no idea you felt this way, Mother. Why haven't you ever gone on a visit to England, then?"
Frances looked amused. "Because, once I was in England, I would miss your father even more."
Van smiled uncertainly in response. Then, "But I am perfectly happy here," she said.
"'I know you are. And you have had the advantage of growing up in what is perhaps the most beautiful place in the world. But you are eighteen, Van, not a child any longer. We sent Niall to Paris so he could see something of the world. I would send you to France as well, but I have so few connections there now. It will be best if you go to England."
"England," Van said. She raised an eyebrow at her mother. "And Father agrees?"
"Your father agrees."
Van's rare smiled dawned. "That must have taken some doing."
Frances smiled back serenely. "Your father in his youth spent several years in Paris. It was in Paris that we met, as you know. He thinks you need a little polish as much as I do."
Van sat down on the harpsichord stool. "What if there is a French landing?"
"If there is a French landing, of course you will come home."
"Your cousin, Lady Linton, is a Jacobite?"
Frances scarcely hesitated. "She was brought up to be as good a Jacobite as I. Our fathers were brothers, you know, and both Papa and Uncle James were dedicated Tories." What Frances did not mention was that the family into which Katherine had married, the Romneys of Linton, were among the most prominent Whigs in England.
Van drew a deep, uneven breath. "I feel as if someone has just hit me over the head," she said frankly. Frances looked at her daughter tenderly. "You will enjoy yourself, Van. I would not send you were I not convinced of that."
Van frowned. "When am I to go?"
"In March. You will stay until September. That is the period of the London social season. Which reminds me,"—Frances looked purposeful—"you will need a whole new wardrobe."
"I have my gold satin dress," Van said.
"You have had it for two years at least," Frances agreed cordially. "We will have Marie make you one or two dresses, and I'll let Katherine supply the rest of your wardrobe in England."
Van's finely drawn black brows came together. "It sounds very expensive, Mother."
It would indeed be expensive, but Frances had some money of her own put by. Alasdair, she knew, was not likely to finance the sort of wardrobe she planned for Van. The MacIans were rich in land and Creag an Fhithich was filled with priceless things brought back from Europe by previous MacIan travelers, but cash was always short in Morar.
"Don't worry, darling," she said now to her daughter. "I have been saving your grandfather's money for you."
Van stared at her mother in amazement. Frances rose to her feet. "If the MacDonalds are coming, I had better go to the kitchen and order the food," she said.
Van stretched her shoulders. "Hmmm," she said. "Wait until Alan hears I'm going to England."
Frances looked sharply at her daughter's face but could find nothing in its expression beyond a faint amusement.
The MacDonalds arrived early in the afternoon and were greeted warmly by all the MacIans, including Van. The sun set at three in the afternoon in the winter and company in the long Highland evenings was always welcome.
The following morning all the men except Alan went out hunting. The mountains of Morar were filled with stag, wolf, cat, and deer, and hunting was one of a chief's main pleasures. When Alan begged off, however, no one protested. And Niall looked smugly at Van.
After the men had departed, Frances and Lady MacDonald settled in front of the fire for a long gossip. Alan asked Van to go for a walk with him. They both wrapped themselves in plaids and took the path that led from the castle down to the loch. When they reached the shore, Van turned to look back at her home.
Creag an Fhithich had one of the most spectacular locations in all the Highlands. It jutted up from the rock that had given it its name, its turrets, spires, and towers standing out against the magnificent mountains that backed it. At its front stood Loch Morar, a saltwater inlet of the Sound of Arisaig. The loch was surrounded by mountains, which on clear days one could sec mirrored, purple and blue, in its depths. The sands of Loch Morar were almost purely white. Van thought that her home was, beyond qualification, the most beautiful place in the world.
"I wonder if Murray will have news of the prince," Alan said beside her.
Van looked at him. Alan MacDonald was taller than Niall, but he had the same narrow-boned look of the Celt. His hair was brown with a distinct tinge of red in it and the eyes that were looking back at her were a clear hazel. Van smiled. "The prince, the prince," she said teasingly. "That is all you and Niall think about. Charles Edward certainly made an impression on you two."
"He must make an impression on everyone he meets," Alan said. His hazel eyes began to sparkle. "If only the French king would give him an army! Then we could chase the elector back to Hanover and set King James on his rightful throne. A Stuart king come into his own again."
Van smiled at Alan's ringing tone and ardent face. "That, of course, is what we all desire," she said. She frowned thoughtfully. "Do you think it will happen soon, Alan?" If it did, Van knew, her trip to England would be canceled. To her profound surprise, she felt a pang of disappointment at the thought.
"I don't know," Alan returned. "Niall and I met the prince in Paris last July. The French are so involved in this war with England that they have little extra manpower." Alan gave an impatient snort. "Or so they tell the prince." Alan's face set. "Niall and I told him to come anyway," he added defiantly. "We don't need the French. The clans alone can put King James back on his throne."
Van's long lashes lifted in surprise. "Are you serious, Alan? I know Father and Lochiel have said they will support the prince only if he comes with an army."
"So has my father," Alan said disgustedly. It was obvious what he thought of such caution.
Van changed the subject. "In March I am going to England on a visit."
Alan's head snapped around. "What!"
"Yes. Mother arranged it. I am to spend six months with a cousin of hers."
"Are you serious, Van?" he demanded.
"Perfectly serious. Mother says Niall went to Paris and now it is my turn for a little... polishing."
"London!" Alan sounded horrified. "But what if there is a French landing?"
"If there is a French landing I shall come home."
He was looking very upset. "Van," he said, "you can't go away now. You know how I feel about you."
Van looked up into his troubled face. It was an honest face, she thought, and handsome too. "We've known each other since we were children," she began, but he interrupted her.
"I'm not talking about that! You were a child when I went away to Paris, yes, but you're not a child now. When I first saw you when I came back..." He broke off and then, very determinedly, he took her hands ii his. "I love you, Van. I want you to marry me."
Van gazed into Alan's dear, familiar face. He had so many good qualities, she thought. She liked him very much. Why, then, did she not want to marry him? For she didn't—there was no disguising that fact from herself. She was suddenly very grateful she wa: going to England. If she stayed at home, she thought, she would probably find herself married to Alan MacDonald simply because she could think of no good reason to refuse him.
; She smiled at him now and said softly, "Let's talk about that, Alan, when I return from England." And she disengaged her hands.
He frowned, frustrated, but no matter how much he argued, she would not change her mind.
CHAPTER 3
Van sat on a gilt chair in the middle of the drawing room. The only sounds in the huge room were the crackling of the fire and the snip-snip of Frances' scissors as she cut her daughter's hair. The old sheet that had been spread under the chair was covered with locks of hair, strands of black and black-and-gray. There was no resident hairdresser at Creag an Fhithich and Frances always cut her family's hair. Van was the last in line today; Alasdair and Niall had already preceded her.
"There," Frances said at last. "I think all the ends are even." She stepped back, scissors in one hand, comb in the other, to regard her handiwork critically. Van's long hair streamed down her back and over her shoulders, a mantle of heavy black silk. Frances nodded decisively and Van immediately reached up to push her hair back away from her face. She stood up and stretched her back.
Frances was putting down her scissors when Van said abruptly, "I suppose I shall have to powder my hair when I go to England."
Frances looked at her daughter thoughtfully. "It's certainly the fashion," she said after a moment, "but I don't think it would suit you, darling. You're not a fair-skinned English girl. Powdering would only make your skin look sallow."
Van grinned. "It would make me look dark as a Gypsy, you mean."
"I mean that it would not enhance your beauty," Frances replied temperately. "Wear your hair au naturel. It will be more becoming."
"That will suit me fine," Van said instantly. "And as to my beauty..." She gave her mother a swift, ironic look that was the duplicate of one of her father's expressions.
Frances' blue eyes were steady on her daughter's face. "Don't you think you are beautiful, Van?"
"I? Beautiful? Of course not." Then, as Frances continued to look at her, she put a brief, reassuring hand on her mother's arm. "Don't worry, Mother. I realized long ago that I would never be a beauty like you. It doesn't distress me at all, I assure you."