Otto gave of his best, his hands flying, his face bathed in sweat. He was in another world, and when he at last jumped to his feet to spread his arms wide and bow to the audience he was Karl Gustav Langer, revered throughout Europe, wildly hailed by other nations over the sea, expecting worship and receiving it, for as one the hall had risen to its feet to cheer and whistle and applaud in wave upon wave of unstinted appreciation.
Tam nudged Fergus and told him, ‘The man can hold his whisky as well as he can the Schnapps. Just look at him, McKenzie, you would think he had drunk nothing stronger than tea, you’ll no’ get your own back on a man wi’ his build and stamina.’
‘Ay, well there’s aye a next time,’ returned Fergus who was himself feeling the effects of his indulgences but would never admit to it. ‘It could easily hit him suddenly, I’ve seen stronger men than him felled at the end o’ an evening’s drinking just when everybody was thinking they’d drunk themselves sober.’
The performance had exhausted Otto but his adrenaline was flowing, somehow keeping him on top of fatigue and pain so that he was able still to smile and be thrilled when the laird presented him with a framed illuminated scroll, beautifully inscribed in copperplate and bearing the words, ‘Otto McKinnon Klebb of Croy, Friend and Kinsman, McKinnon Clan Gathering. Island of Rhanna, 1967’, and at the bottom the by now familiar ‘Mac nan Èilean’.
Officially, the most wonderful concert the island had ever known had come to an end but no one was letting go that easily, the musicians didn’t need much persuading to take to the limelight once more and this time everyone joined in. ‘Song of Rhanna’ had never been sung with such enthusiasm, then ‘Amazing Grace’ with Torquil and Todd on the pipes and Torquill as the solo piper at the end. Song after song, melody after melody, hit the roof.
Otto sat down once more at the piano, the flowing, infectious music of Johann Strauss II came tumbling out: waltzes, marches, polkas.
Rachel, as carried away as everyone else, turned to look at Otto and realized suddenly that he was at the end of his strength, only his indomitable will was keeping him going and she was thankful when he came at last to a halt and all that remained was for ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to be sung before everyone went home.
But it wasn’t the end: someone, it might have been Fergus, began singing ‘Vienna, City of my Dreams’. It was seized upon, taken up, those that didn’t know the words hummed the tune till before long a swelling vibrancy of melody rose up to make for an enchanting finale to the evening.
Otto stood by his piano, shaking his head, so moved by the tribute that tears filled his dark eyes as the evocative words filled every space inside his head.
Farewell Vienna mine,
I’m in the spell of your charms divine,
Dressed like a queen with lights so gay,
You are the love of my heart today . . .
Otto swayed, his legs crumpled beneath him, blindly he felt for the piano stool and sank on to it, his face deathly white.
Tam and some of the other men grinned and told Fergus, ‘You were right, McKenzie, the Uisge Beatha has played its trump card, Otto has had it by the look o’ him and might need some help to get home.’ There was a move forward but Rachel, who was still up on the platform with Magnus and Otto, got there first.
Rushing to Otto’s side she saw that he was in great pain and immediately she looked around for Jon to help. But he had disappeared into the crowd and was nowhere to be seen and it was as well that Mark and Megan had noticed Otto’s distress and were first up on the platform, to be seized upon by Rachel who frantically tried to convey to them that she needed help to get Otto outside.
Without hesitation they each put a shoulder under his armpits and got him as quickly as they could out of a side door and down to Todd’s car, followed closely by Rachel and Magnus.
Somehow they bundled the big man into the back seat and got in after him. Todd had left his keys in the ignition, Mark started up the engine just as Todd reached the scene to peer in the window with enquiring eyes.
‘We’re taking him home,’ Mark quickly explained. ‘All he needs is a gallon of strong tea to sober him up. McKenzie o’ the Glen has won this round by the look o’ things.’
Todd beamed in complete understanding and stood back to watch his gleaming Rolls disappearing off into the night, only too happy to help Mac nan Èilean in this, his hour of need.
As soon as Otto was safely settled on the sitting-room sofa, Rachel took Megan’s hand and led her up to the bedroom. She couldn’t keep this terrible thing to herself any longer, her heart was leaping in her breast with the dreadful strain of the last few minutes, and she didn’t pause once when they reached the bedroom but went straight to the little bedside cabinet to pull open the drawer and reveal its contents.
Megan stared, one by one she picked up the brown bottles to look at the labels, and her hazel eyes were serious and sad when she said with a strange little catch in her throat, ‘Rachel, how long has he been taking these? There are dozens of them, he certainly must have brought a good supply with him but most of them are now empty. Can you tell me, please, just how ill is he?’
‘He is dying.’ Rachel’s lips formed the words, gently Megan took her arm and made her sit on the bed.
‘You’ve known this for a long time, haven’t you, Rachel?’
The girl nodded, the miserable dull ache in her heart forcing her head down to her breast so that the other woman wouldn’t see her eyes. But she couldn’t stop the tears from springing; she had locked away her pain for too long, and once the flow started it wouldn’t be stemmed, and with a cry of sympathy, Megan folded her arms round the slender body and held on tightly till the trembling gradually ceased.
Only then did Rachel raise her swollen face. She had never felt more frustrated by her lack of speech, she wanted to pour it all out, so much to say and no voice to say it with, her head pounded with unspoken emotions, her silent screams of heartache reverberated inside her skull, her swimming eyes were blinded by weepings and wantings, and all she could do, all she could ever do, was wave her hands about in wordless speech that might or might not, be understood.
She clenched her hands into fists, her turbulent black eyes looked at Megan, once more her lips formed words. ‘Help Otto.’
Megan squeezed the girl’s hand. ‘Of course I’ll help him, he’s going to need a lot of medication, I’ll send for some stuff right away but for now I must get over to the Manse to see what I have there.’
At the door she turned. ‘Magnus should be told,’ she said softly. ‘He has a right to know: Otto is his grandson. Can I ask Mark to tell him?’
Rachel hesitated, wondering if she had the right to take on that kind of responsibility. Otto should be consulted first – she thought of her beloved stranger – he was strong, stubborn, wilful – the last thing he would want was for people to make a fuss and tell him what he should and shouldn’t do.
But he was so alone, so vulnerable; he needed love and comfort at a time like this and Magnus of Croy was the last man on earth to make an issue of anything – even death.
She nodded, Megan inclined her head in acknowledgement and went quickly downstairs to seek out Mark. She was remembering that night of the ceilidh in the shorehouse – Otto’s eyes, something about them that she couldn’t quite fathom. She of all people should have known, Mark had said it was the drink but she had felt there was more to it than that and tonight she had found out what it was. Drugs! The black pupils had been glazed with them and all the time only Rachel had known the lonely secret of a dying man . . . and had carried the burden of that knowledge as only a young woman of her discipline and devotion could.
Magnus sat alone in the armchair by the fire. Otto was in bed, helped there by Mark and Megan after she had given him something to ease his pain. They had gone home, leaving Rachel up there with him. She would stay till he fell asleep and maybe longer, Rachel was a good person to have at a sick bed, something about those hands of hers: she had the
touch, the power to help the ill, soothe the dying.
But Otto wasn’t dying yet; someone, Magnus couldn’t remember who, had said he still had some time left, weeks, months, it was difficult to know for certain in cases like these.
Magnus gazed into the fire. A few months. That powerful, vibrant man, that musical genius, a few months. Magnus felt as if his heart had turned to stone within him, he felt nothing, only the homely things, like Vienna warm and purring on his knee, the heat of the fire burning his legs, the safe, tranquil cosiness of the chintzy room, the clock, tick-tocking the minutes away.
Minutes, hours, days . . . months. The last few months; summer; sweetness; sun; wind; rain; a big, black-bearded bear of a man coming to him out of the blue to relay the news that he came as one who had sprung from Rhanna soil, grandson of Sheena and Magnus of Croy . . .
Sheena . . . A mist blurred the old man’s vision. Sheena of the summer shielings, Sheena whose feet had trod light and sure over the heather braes, whose laughter had rung in the corries, soared among the bens. He could still hear the echoes of it, for him it would always live in his heart . . . and her lips, soft and sweet as a wild rose, tasting of nectar and dewdrops, driving him crazy, so crazy with his love for her . . .
And then she had gone, and there had been nothing, no one, only the emptiness of spaces. Gone were the shielings from the hills, wild grew the heather, cold blew the wind, untouched sprung the sweet briar on the hedge; no one to share the quiet joys of lonely places; lonely; lonely; only the memories, the sad echoes of love, reaching far over the sea, seeking but never finding, mortal joys, gone forever . . .
Until Otto, a man who came as a stranger but who had soon become a beloved friend, a man who had known and loved Sheena, who had heard the ring of her voice, who had listened and had listened well. Through her font of memories he had known the call of the islands, he had breasted the ocean . . . that same ocean that had taken her away all those years ago . . .
Otto, his and Sheena’s grandson.
The old man’s hands tightened in his lap . . . his snowy head sunk to his breast, the cat purred, the clock ticked . . . a few months . . . The stone in his breast melted . . . he put his head into his hands – and he wept.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘It isn’t mine!’
The statement was brutally terse and Rachel stared at her husband in horror, hardly able to believe the evidence of her own ears. She had buoyed herself up for this moment, she had felt the time was now ripe to share her wonderful news with her husband, an excitement had mounted in her as she had visualized his face, anticipated his reactions – in her blackest of nightmares she could never have imagined that he would turn on her like this, say the things he was saying.
Everything in her, all the love, the joy, the life, drained out of her body, dispersing like dust in the wind, leaving her feeling fatigued and miserable beyond measure. This should have been the happiest moment of their lives, they had waited so long to have a child and over the years they had discussed with one another how it would be when the longed-for day actually came.
He couldn’t mean what he had just said. Frantically she spoke to him with her hands but he wouldn’t look at her and a sob of sheer frustration bubbled in her throat.
‘It isn’t mine!’ he repeated forcibly. ‘And you’re not going to deceive me again, Rachel, we both know who the father is! I’ve watched you with Otto, you can hardly keep your eyes off him – just like you couldn’t keep your eyes off Lorn McKenzie not so many years ago. I tried very hard to forgive you that time, I knew I was no match for that particular young McKenzie. I told myself that it wouldn’t happen again and fooled myself into believing it. But I was never a match for those other men in your life. I’m too tame, too serious, too easily taken in!’
She had never heard him speak like this before, his voice throbbing with emotion, filled with such terrible deep conviction that when he at last turned to face her, it seemed as if a wild beast looked out of his eyes, those eyes that had always before regarded her with gentleness and love.
Jon! Her fingers were a blur, forming words, trying to make him see how wrong he was, but it was no use.
‘It’s the last straw, Rachel,’ he told her angrily, and something cold and hard replaced the feverish expression in his eyes. ‘After all this time you tell me you are expecting a baby and try to make me believe it is mine. You’re so obsessed with Otto you can’t even bear to have other people see his faults or his human weaknesses. I was watching you last night trying to cover up the fact that he was so drunk he couldn’t even make it outside on his own. You went home with him, didn’t you? And you came creeping back here at some godforsaken hour of the morning. Was he as good in bed drunk as he is when he’s sober? Why don’t you tell me about it, I might be able to pick up a few hints. As for trying to pass this child off as mine, you can forget it, I’m leaving Rhanna, I’ve had enough, tell your wonderful Austrian lover that you’re expecting his child, or are you afraid that he’ll want nothing more to do with you when he’s faced with that kind of a burden?’
She felt as if icy fingers were clutching her heart, Jon, her wonderful, kindly Jon, speaking to her as if he hated the very sight of her, looking at her as if she was some sort of fearsome stranger instead of the wife he had always cherished with such selfless love.
He would have to know about Otto, she should have told him long ago but it wasn’t too late, it wasn’t . . . But even now something held her back, anger flooded her being, she told herself she shouldn’t have to use Otto’s illness as a lever to make things right between herself and her husband. Her head went back, her chin tilted, wilful pride, black resolution filled her breast. Let Jon think what he would, she wasn’t going to beg or bargain for any favours. He could leave Rhanna if he wanted, he could go to hell for all she cared, but one thing was certain, wherever he went she wasn’t going with him, she was staying here on Rhanna till her baby was born – and no one – nothing – was going to change her mind on that score.
There was nothing more to be said, Jon had said it all in just a few short minutes, and turning on her heel she ran out of the house, down to Mara Òran Bay where the sea sighed over the pebbles and the wind rustled the seed pods on the whins. She could hardly see where she was going for tears, her head ached with weariness after a night spent at Otto’s sickbed, her heart was heavy and sore in her breast. Everything that she had ever hoped and dreamed of was crumbling about her ears, and she was too unhappy in mind, body and spirit to see how unfair she was being to her husband in not letting him know the reasons for her unswerving allegiance to Otto, not only last night, but all the other nights and days she had spent away from the one man who had devoted himself to her, every minute of every day of all of their years together.
Jon watched her go, she who had been his whole life, who had made his world a wonderland of music and light, laughter and love, excitement and adventure. Ever since the day he had met her on the road with Ruth, Lorn and Lewis, he had been fascinated and bewitched by her. He had come as a tourist that warm spring of 1950, complete with rucksack and maps, looking for Croft na Ard, the home of his former commander, and once the children had gotten over their initial shyness, they had been only too willing to help, especially Lewis, who, with his brown limbs, black hair, and mischievous smile, was the epitome of health and youthful beauty.
He had been the leader, there was never any doubt about that, an aura of great authority emanated from every gesture, every laughing glance – and he had only been nine years old, approximately the same age as the others who had all been born in the same month of the same year.
Of them all, Lewis had seemed the strongest, the most robust . . . the most passionate. He had been Rachel’s first great love. They had been wild together – untamed – each of them a free spirit that had laughed at life and had taken everything it had to offer. And then Lewis had died, his magnetism, his greedy delight of life, all gone in just one swift burst of tragic ill
ness. In the end he had died on the beach after falling off his horse, his dying eyes had seen the skies and the seas that he had so loved, before they had closed forever on the wonder and the beauty of his world.
But by then Rachel belonged to Jon . . . or had she? Had that golden-skinned gypsy ever really belonged to anyone? No, he decided as he stood there at the window, the visions of the past floating through his mind, Rachel was an entity unto herself and always would be. Sometimes he was lulled into believing that she was really his and then something, or someone, would enter their lives to shatter his illusions and make him aware of how fragile his hold was on her.
Lorn had been the next of her tempestuous affairs. It had been a brief infatuation, lasting only a summer, but inflamed desires and intoxicating passions had consumed them both till the fires had been quenched and they had returned to the reality of how much hurt and harm they had caused. Ruth and Lorn had nearly split up because of it but Jon had forgiven and had tried to forget, though he couldn’t help feeling threatened by the presence of the many men who surrounded her in the course of her existence.
Now there was Otto, out of nowhere it seemed, a man of great charm and mystique, one with similar talents and interests as her own, one furthermore who had the same alluring qualities as herself: power, personality, a passion and a thirst for life that made everyone else look impassive in comparison. She was obviously bedazzled by him, she had spent every minute she could with him. Without consideration of what her actions were doing to her husband she had openly, and for all the world to see, paid court to a man who had pretended friendship with her husband when all the while . . .
Stranger on Rhanna Page 29