“Thank you.”
Ranulf watched as the doctor departed, and then stood for some moments in the hall, a thoughtful expression on his face. Returning to the library, he picked up his glass of whiskey and the bottle next to it, and then walked up the wide stone staircase. He strolled leisurely through the halls until he reached the door to his father’s room, where he hesitated a moment before pushing it open. The laird lay in the enormous oaken bed, looking to his son’s eyes very small against the huge expanse of the burgundy silk coverlet. A huge fire burned in the fireplace, and a nurse sat by the bed, reading by the light of a single candle. She looked up.
“I’ll sit with him for a bit,” said Ranulf softly. “Get some rest.”
She stood and, dropping a curtsey, left the room silently. Ranulf sat down in her place, putting the bottle down on the table next to the bed and taking a sip out of the glass he held. The laird seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his chest softly rising and falling with his breath. Ranulf gaze into the fire, his thoughts wandering.
“It’s you, then, is it?”
Ranulf turned to see that his father had opened his eyes and was watching him intently, his dark eyes glittering with fever. He nodded.
“It’s me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“The doctor said that you might need me.”
The laird’s hand tightened on the sheet that he clutched by his chin. “Keir’s an old woman,” he snapped. “Did he tell you I was going to die?”
Ranulf inclined his head. “He said you might. I doubted him.”
“I’ve a mind to live, if only to spite him,” said he old man. His eyes closed, and Ranulf watched, wondering if he’d fallen asleep again. But, after some time, they opened again.
“I don’t suppose you’ll miss me,” he snapped.
Ranulf smiled. “I will—a bit.”
“Don’t be maudlin. I was never much of a father to you.”
“Still, you are my father. I owe you some loyalty.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” the old man said peevishly. “Nothing bothers me more than you young people today and your sentimentality. Do you suppose I missed my father when he died?”
“I have no doubt you wished him to hell when he went,” said Ranulf cheerfully.
“That I did,” agreed the laird. “He was an old bastard.”
“Perhaps we have not been the closest of friends, but I do not wish you ill.”
His father glared at him. “What happened to that girl?”
“What girl?”
“The pretty little one with the brown hair,” said his father. “What was her name? Sarah? Sally?”
“Sophy,” said Ranulf reluctantly.
“That’s it! Sophy. Why didn’t you marry her?”
“She wouldn’t have me.”
“Wouldn’t have you! A pretty thing, a Learmouth refusing to a Stirling! Who does she think she is?”
Ranulf paused. “I think it is less who she thinks she is than who she thinks I am,” he ventured.
The laird snorted. “Don’t talk at cross purposes, boy. Do you want the girl?”
Ranulf contemplated the question. “I do.”
“Then go get her. You’re a man, aren’t you? She’s a mere slip of a thing. Make her marry you.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Aye, you men today don’t know how to make a woman bend to your will,” said his father.
“Like you made Mother bend to yours?” asked Ranulf with a raised eyebrow.
The laird glowered at him. “We’ll not speak of her on my deathbed. I’ve no wish to think about her even now.” He gazed steadily at Ranulf. “Do you love that silly girl?”
Ranulf refilled his glass. He glanced at his father, and then, taking another glass from the table, filled it and put it in his hand. “It can’t matter now if you have this.”
The old man raised it to his lips with a shaking hand and took a sip. “Aye, that’s the very thing,” he said. “But you think I’m feeble and will forget what I asked. Do you love the girl?”
Ranulf shook his head. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as love.”
The laird cackled. “I was in love once,” he said abruptly.
Ranulf put his glass down, astounded. “You were?”
His father seemed pleased to have startled him. “I was indeed. Do you think I have no heart?”
“I do indeed.”
“She was the daughter of the Laird of Ardfern.” He laughed at Ranulf’s surprised countenance. “Yes, the sister of the current fellow’s father. She was a beauty.” His eyes grew distant as he summoned up his past. “Blue eyes, titian hair, long legs, creamy white skin, huge—” he broke off. “She was lovely.”
“Why didn’t you marry her?”
“Our parents were opposed to the match, and I was young and stupid. I thought I could find another like her, that they were all the same.” He glared at Ranulf. “They aren’t, you know. She was sent off to the south, to marry some damn fool baron in Dumfries. I never saw her again, not for years, and then she was the mother of a brood of children. Still lovely, but she would not speak to me. I did what my father wished, and married your mother.”
“You astound me,” said Ranulf.
“You thought I had no feelings, hey?”
“Something of that nature.”
“Well, since I’m dying, I’ll tell you that you’ll end up like me if you aren’t careful, my boy. Brooding and sniffing after the wives of others will get you nowhere but an empty house and a deathbed with no one at it but one ungrateful son.”
Ranulf swirled the liquid in his glass. “I’ll think on it.”
“Do so.” His father closed his eyes, and in a few minutes Ranulf could tell he dozed. He eased the glass of whiskey out his father’s thin hand and placed it on the table, and then sat quietly, looking into the fire, as the old man slept.
Ranulf dozed off as well, waking in the wee hours of Christmas morning. The fire was down to embers, and as he looked towards the bed in the dim light, he realized that his father had died in his sleep. He rang the bell, and when Gibbs arrived, he nodded at the bed.
“My father is gone,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Gibbs replied. “The old Laird was a hard man, but fair. You knew where things stood with him,” he continued as he went across the room, to open the two window casements that looked out over the loch for a few seconds before closing them.
“I suppose you’ll be covering the mirrors and stopping the clocks too,” Ranulf said.
“Of course, sir. We wouldn’t want the Laird’s spirit to be unable to leave, now. There are enough ghosties in this old place. We don’t need any more.”
Ranulf nodded in acknowledgement and stood, leaning over the bed to cross his father’s hands over his chest. He felt only a vague sense of loss; the old man had gone easily, and Ranulf had done his duty to him. The years in Spain and India had changed him, but somehow, as he looked at his father, an unaccustomed affection for the land and the ways of the local people filled him, and he felt a certain pride steal through him at the knowledge that he would carry that forward. An image of Sophy filled his mind’s eye as he considered the future, and a fierce determination that she would be the mother of the laird that followed him took hold. For a few seconds, thoughts of going to Glencairn immediately took hold, but he shook his head to dispel them; his obligation to his father’s memory had to come first.
A few hours later, Ranulf sat in the library, listening to the distant sound of the death bell tolling at the local church. The housekeeper entered, and he looked at her inquiringly.
“I came to ask how many days you want the wake for the old Laird to be, and when I should plan for the feast and funeral, sir,” she said.
Ranulf frowned. “I hadn’t thought much about it, Mrs. Ross. I’m afraid that we didn’t have any time to spend worrying about such things in Spain and India.”
“Heathen pla
ces, sir,” she replied severely. “Folk around Spaethness will expect you to honor your father with at least a two or three day wake, and the next day, a seven course feast before the burial.”
“Very well, Mrs. Ross, see that everything is done just as it should be. Let me know what I need to do.”
The housekeeper nodded and left him to his thoughts. He seemed to find them uncomfortable, for he stood and poured himself a dram of whiskey, then walked to the window and looked out on the grey, winter day. The sun was dim in the lowering sky, but as yet a only thin layer of snow served to cover the brown, withered grass and the gardens that would not come back to life until spring. He could do nothing about Sophy until after his father’s funeral. It was Christmas morning. A three-day wake, and another day for the funeral, meant that he could not leave for Glencairn until December 29th. He frowned at the thought, but his expression lightened as he realized that he would arrive on Hogmanay. Surely, at a time when Sophy was celebrating the start of a new year, he might be able to convince her of his love.
Chapter 32
Sophy awoke on Christmas morning to the sound of the wind howling past the walls of Glencairn. She snuggled down into the covers for a moment, reluctant to arise and face the chill of her room. She yawned. She had slept very little the night before, as she had lain awake for hours, pondering her experience of the previous evening. Had she truly spoken to her mother, or had it been mere wishful thinking? Now, in the cold morning light, it seemed very unlikely.
Wallis bustled into the room and came to stand by the bed. “You must get up, Lady Sophia, if you are to join your parents in church this morning,” she said.
“I know.” Sophy reluctantly crawled out of bed and slipped her arms into the wrapper Wallis held for her. She followed the maid to the dressing table and seated herself on the little stool in front of it. Wallis unplaited Sophy’s hair, then picked up a brush and began to try to stroke her unruly locks into some semblance of order.
“Wallis, do you believe that there are ghosts and that they can speak to the living?”
The maid’s eyes grew very big as she stared at Sophy in the mirror. “Of course, Lady Sophia. Why, they’re everywhere here at Glencairn.”
“Everywhere?” Sophy looked around the room.
“Aye. You need to have the sight to see them, of course. I don’t have it myself, but my mother does. She’s told me many a tale. They say the fifth earl—that would be your great-grandfather—walks the grounds at night, keeping the castle safe.”
“They do?”
Wallis nodded, warming to her story. “Indeed. They say he carries a giant claymore but you can see right through him, and he moans something dreadful. He’s given many a gardener a start, I can tell you.”
“Oh.” Sophy pondered this. “Has anyone—have you heard any tales of my mother’s ghost?”
“Your mother, Lady Sophia?” Wallis shook her head. “I’ve not heard of that, though she did die in the castle, so you can never know for sure. She was much loved, and people who loved and were loved in turn rest easier, they do say. You and your brother are happy and cared for, so I doubt she has any reason to return.”
“So ghosts return to help people?” asked Sophy.
Wallis shrugged. “Sometimes. If someone they loved is in great trouble, they try to reach across and help. But others—like your great-grandfather—just seem to want to scare people!”
“I see.”
Wallis put the brush down, having gotten the tangles out of Sophy’s hair. “There you go,” she said. “I’ve put some warm water in the basin. Go and wash up and we’ll have you dressed in a trice.”
Fifteen minutes later Sophy left her bedroom, dressed warmly in a dress of dark blue wool, with a gray, fur-trimmed pelisse over it. She hurried down the hall, knowing that the sleigh would soon be at the front door, piled high with furs to keep them warm on their trip to church. As she hastened along, her eye fell on the door to the Long Gallery. She touched the knob, hesitating a moment, but then turned it firmly, throwing the door open and staring into the room. It looked as it always did, the portraits marching down the wall, the velvet curtains framing the windows. There was nothing of the mystery she had felt the night before—the cold daylight had chased away the intimacy of the night.
She stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind her, and walked slowly down the polished oak floor. When she came to her mother’s portrait she looked up hesitantly, not quite sure what she hoped to see. Whatever she might have wished for, she was disappointed. Her mother gazed down at her as she always had, warm and vibrant, but made of paint and canvas, not flesh and blood. Sophy sighed.
“I must have fallen asleep and dreamed it all,” she murmured, crestfallen. She had let her thoughts of Ranulf carry her away, and had tried to turn her wishes into reality. It was silly of her to think that he might still want her. He doubtless rarely thought of her at all.
She began to turn away, but as she did so, she caught a movement with the corner of her eye. She spun back to face the portrait, and watched in amazement as the cat stretched out one lazy paw and looked directly at her. It yawned, showing little pointed teeth, and then mewed once, before settling back into the silken lap in which it lay.
Sophy turned on her heel and ran from the gallery. She hurried away, and emerged into the Great Hall, feeling flustered and bewildered. Harriet and her father were there, smiling at each other as though they had just shared a secret, and she halted abruptly.
“Oh, there you are, dear,” said Harriet. “I was wondering if you were still abed. You’ve not had breakfast, and we must leave for church soon.”
“I—I’m not hungry,” Sophy assured her. She wondered what would happen if she told her parents about what had just happened. She had no doubt they would think she had taken leave of her senses.
“You can eat afterwards,” said Harriet blithely. “How pretty you look. I think back on the little girl you were when I first met you, and it seems so long ago. I sometimes feel as though I’ve always lived at Glencairn, though it has been only a few years.”
Sophy blinked and tried to pull herself back to the moment. “We are lucky to have you here,” she replied honestly, affection for Harriet welling up in her. “Especially Papa, for I have no idea what he would do without you to order his life.”
“Nonsense!” But Glencairn was smiling, and took Harriet’s hand in his. “I consider myself a very lucky man that you married me seven years ago today. I will never forget what I almost lost with my thoughtlessness.”
Harriet smiled up at him mistily, and Sophy looked away, not wanting to intrude. The sight of them together both filled her with joy and made her heart ache, thinking of the man whose love she had spurned.
She did not have long to ponder her predicament, for Douglas entered the hall, and, in the fuss of putting on cloaks and bonnets and going outside to the sleigh, she managed to pull her thoughts together. The snow that had fallen the night before made everything fresh and white, and the wind whipped along briskly, bringing roses to her cheeks. Glencairn assisted Sophy and Harriet into the sleigh, where they nestled down into the furs, and then climbed up on the seat with Douglas. With a crack of the whip they were on their way, the horse’s harnesses jingling slightly in the frozen silence.
Sophy sat for a moment, looking about at the beautiful scene, and then slowly turned to Harriet. “Mama—“ she began, but then stopped.
“Yes, dear, what is it?”
Sophy screwed up her courage. “Mama, I may have made a terrible mistake.”
“What? Oh no, dear, I think the dress you are wearing is lovely. You need have no concerns about that.”
Sophy laughed. “No, it is not that. It is—how long do you think it would take to get to Spaethness?”
Harriet blinked. “To Spaethness? Why dear, it is a two-day journey in the summer. I cannot imagine trying to reach it at this time of year—with this snow, the carriage would be in the ditch for certain, and you would
freeze to death. Why are you asking? Surely, Spaethness is the last place you would wish to go.”
Sophy squirmed slightly. “I might have not known my own heart, Mama,” she said softly. “I think I am in love with Ranulf.”
Harriet’s eyes opened wide, and then turned sympathetic. “Oh dear, I was afraid this might happen. You Learmouths are all so hardheaded and stubborn. You will not admit the truth though it stares you in the face and then, one day, out it all tumbles!”
“You are thinking of my father,” said Sophy.
“I am. You are far more like him than you know.” Harriet took her gloved hand in hers and patted it gently. “Child, you cannot go haring off to Spaethness. Your father would not allow me to accompany you, and even were the weather less inclement, you could not go alone. Perhaps you can write him a letter, telling him of your change of heart, or he may visit Isobel and Francis again next summer. You will see him again sometime, my dear.”
“But I wish to see him now!”
“If wishes were horses—“ murmured Harriet. “Your father and I will do all that we can to help you, but you cannot travel to Spaethness in the dead of winter. There is another storm brewing, and his land not only lies north of Glencairn, it is up in the hills! No one will get in or out of the Trossachs until spring!”
“I was very rude to him, and I’m sure he no longer wants me, but I need to tell him how I feel,” said Sophy, tears coming to her eyes.
“Of course you do,” soothed Harriet. “Oh, what a bind you are in, my love. But you certainly cannot go off to Spaethness and ask the man to marry you. I do wish you were not so hotheaded. If only—well, there is no point in fretting over what cannot be undone. I will talk to your father, and we will see what we can do to help you.”
“Thank you,” murmured Sophy. She curled up against Harriet, resting her head on the other woman’s shoulder. It felt good to tell someone of her heartache, though she realized that it was very unlikely she would have the happy ending that she wished for.
They had arrived at the church, and Sophy dashed the tears out of her eyes as Douglas and her father assisted them out of the sleigh. They entered the parish church, a small Gothic gem in grey stone, with ancient stained glass in the high arched windows along the nave and apse. There was no sun that day, but hundreds of candles had been lit, illuminating the medieval altar with its Madonna and child, and casting light as high as the delicate stone tracery in the vaulted ceiling. All eyes turned to them as they walked down the aisle to the family pew, Harriet and Glencairn greeting friends and tenants as they went. The organ began to play as they seated themselves, and the vicar entered, his white vestments shining in the light. Sophy let out a quavering sigh as she gave herself up to the familiar words of the service, and whispered a small prayer, asking that she might be given a second chance at happiness.
The Highlander's Yuletide Love Page 22