Elusive

by Linda Rae Blair

  The youngest son—the fair-haired and gentle-featured, sweet-tempered dreamer and poet, Sòlas (SOH lus)—was her love. He had been her love since he first kissed her cheek. She would not forget that kiss to the end of her days. It had been so sweet, so tender. She heard herself sigh.

  He had kissed her as they sat in the shade of the huge, old gnarled tree that they considered theirs. The aged tree had tenaciously dug its roots deep into the rocky soil at the rear of the forest opening, high on the cliff above the loch. Smiling, she remembered the moment. She had been all of six—but then so had Sòlas.

  The reality was that Caena loathed Macrath with a passion as deep and lasting as her love for Sòlas. Macrath had a heart as black as the hair that, held back by a leather strip, fell down his back to his waist. Macrath would never miss an opportunity to cause harm, shame, or sadness to any person in his path. She had even witnessed his cruel treatment of his own mother.

  Her Sòlas’s love was as strong and sweet as the man himself. He was kind, generous and loving. Another sigh escaped her lips.

  “Yes. Yes, that has always been the path ahead since your mother died,” Ròs said quietly.

  Of course, if anything happened to Finnean, the estate would be entailed to his brother, Mordag first. Then in turn, the estate would go to Mordag’s sons—his heirs—in their birth order. Unless Sòlas outlived them all, he would never inherit. The only way that all her father had built would remain with his own bloodline would be for her to marry Macrath. It was a fact that burned inside her and, she knew, inside her father.

  “Oh, Ròs, I know how fortunate I am. I owe my father a great deal. The women of Scotland have no rights, and so many of us receive no education whatsoever. Men want to impose their opinions on us instead of permitting us to learn and establish our own!” She scowled and her hands made fists at her sides. “Our men selfishly keep women from learning to read or write. Unless they have been fortunate enough to spend time in France or elsewhere where women are encouraged to learn, the only education they receive is from the oral stories passed on by others from generation to generation.”

  “Aye,” Ròs looked down at the floor. “Had it not been for you, lass, I would not be able to read or write what little I can. You have been very kind to me.”

  In secret, Caena had spent some of the small amount of time they had alone together teaching a very rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing to Ròs. Anytime the other women were present, she and Ròs concentrated on their sewing, embroidery, telling tales, or singing the women’s poems of their history—keeping any unwomanly abilities between themselves.

  Yes, Caena was well aware that, had she not dared to help Ròs learn to read and write, she would be just another of the number of women of Scotland dependant on the oral tales. Caena went to this woman who had raised her from birth. She loved her and would willingly give her anything a daughter would give a mother. “No, Ròs. Although he does not know it, ’tis father to whom we should be thankful.” They could never dare make Ròs’s lessons known to others. “Despite these opinions, he insisted that I be tutored right along with Macrath and Sòlas.”

  They both remembered that it had caused a great scandal in the beginning. Even the easy-going tutor had resented her, until he realized what a bright student Caena was. And then, in fear of reprisal, he had avoided letting anyone outside the castle know he was teaching a girl. He’d admitted this to her when he’d had too much whiskey at the Yule celebration at the castle last winter solstice.

  She had heard her father explain his attitude in this matter to his brother, and others when the matter arose. Despite his brother’s ranting, in Finnean’s mind—frugal Scot he was—it only made sense. The teacher was there, so why not make full use of the man? Caena was, after all, no trouble to him. She took up little room and, once instruction began, she had picked things up so quickly that the tutor spent all his time working with the laddies. Finnean paid the man to teach. He was not paid by the number of students. Therefore, using Finnean’s logic, having the man teaching the laddies, but not the lassie, was just wasteful. Finnean was not a wasteful man!

  Thus Finnean had justified her education to others. In his heart, and privately to Caena, his true reasons lay elsewhere. The child was bright, and he wanted her to learn everything she could so that she could protect herself in the future. Knowing their family, she would need all the skills she could get.

  But, no matter how logical his justifications, this was greatly frowned upon by other members of the family. Sometimes a member of court tried to use this against him, but his many friends in court supported his quirks. As long as none of their women were affected by his views, they saw to it that no action was taken to interfere with his running of his own household. So the daughter of the popular, powerful Laird of Donnach had learned to read, write, think, and reason as had few other women in the country.

  “I suppose,” Caena continued, “that I should think myself fortunate that any Scotsman would have me to wife.” She giggled, “While other women spent their entire days in wasteful, womanly pursuits, I was given a rare gift—instruction in Scots, and of course English, mathematics, and sciences.”

  Learning the languages had been confusing she thought. But she stubbornly studied both, since English was rapidly pushing the Scots’ own language aside. She feared that someday, her own language would disappear completely. While many still spoke the old Gaelic, it was rapidly being replaced. How much longer Scots could hang onto their own language was a question that upset her greatly. How much more could her people lose?

  “The English hornies take every opportunity to degrade us. They even use our language as an example of their English superiority,” she sneered. “They dare to think that our Scottish language is a lower form of their English—that English is being degraded by us Scots!” She laughed scornfully. Any self-respecting Scot, she thought, disagreed with this point of view. It was just one more proof of Scots being thought of as a lower society than that of their southern neighbors—just one more matter of contention between the two societies.

  Caena smiled, the humor now reaching her eyes. “But Ròs, even with all I learned, I still had to learn the sewing and the embroidery,” she said, as she reached over and patted Ròs’s knee gently as they both laughed.

  “Aye, I remember how you fought it for weeks until you were given the choice of doing both or getting no more tutoring.” Ròs reminded her with a broad smile on her handsome face.

  Caena laughed as she too recalled it, “Yes, I can read and write better in both languages than either of my cousins, my sums are more accurate, as is my aim with a bow and arrow,” she said. Then, as she leaned close to Ròs in a posture of conspiracy, she whispered, “Much to Mordag’s chagrin!” They laughed together. Then Caena’s expression changed to a scowl as she added, “But, of course, the important thing is that I can sew!”

  “Ah, Ròs,” Caena sighed, “I have never felt so trapped. All my life our society will hold me down at every opportunity. Now comes the biggest chance I may ever have to determine my own future, and it is a decision that could end any chance I have to be happy.”

  Once again the tears started to flow. Ròs just held her and let her cry.

  **************************

  Chapter 3: Meet Blair

  Paris, France - March 1912

  Blair woke up pulling herself from the dream that had plagued her for as long as she could remember. While the nightmare hit her perhaps once a month as a child, now that she was full grown it had come upon her more frequently—now appearing more often than not. She never knew what it was about—it just hovered there, dark and unsettling as she awoke. It was as if it held a secret message of dark foreboding.

  Refusing to give in to the mood in which the dream unvaryingly left her, she rose from her bed. She was a determined young woman. She simply made up her mind that she would not let the dream ruin her day. She threw off the coverlet that entangled her body using the same d
etermination with which she had fought off the dream.

  Reaching for her robe, she yawned and stretched her petite body, pulling out the kinks from her battle with her covers. As she donned the robe and tied it at her waist, she walked to the window of her small, cozy and—to her mind and great satisfaction—beautiful apartment.

  She pulled open the dark green, wooden shutters to the window. The morning light of Paris immediately streamed into the large room that served as parlor, bedroom, and dining room. Its yellow walls brightened with the rosy sunlight of the Paris morning. The splashes of bright blue and lavender she had tossed about the room in the form of a glass-shaded lamp, pillows, vases, and the little painting she had bought from a local artist always raised her spirits.

  The breeze immediately lifted the scents from the little garden below the window. It had just started coming to life the week before. She inhaled deeply, letting the wonderful scents of the morning air fill her, lifting her mood. Basking in the morning, she wondered if there was anywhere any more glorious in the spring—or any other time, for that matter—than Paris.

  Behind her landlord’s quarters was a small courtyard where he had permitted her to plant a small garden that she thought of as her own. The rose bushes were just coming into leaf. It would be a few weeks before their first spring blooms would scent the air. The hyacinths and other wonderful spring bulbs she had planted were already putting their perfume into the air. Someday, she sighed to herself, someday she would have a home of her own with gardens galore. And water, she thought. Yes, she must have water—blue and peaceful water. Her sigh was one of utter peace.

  Smiling, she thought of her landlord, the tiny, fragile-looking eighty-six-year-old Mssr. LeGard. So aptly named, he thought of himself as her guardian, her protector from the dangers that he felt awaited her out on the surrounding streets of Paris. He might look frail, slightly bent, and small in stature. But, she giggled to herself, the man had the heart of a feisty, young lion.

  Her uncle would never have permitted her to get her own apartment if she had not found such a protective, caring landlord. Mssr. LeGard constantly urged her to eat more, get out more, and find another handsome young man. She felt her heart clutch, then put the thoughts of the past away again.

  Oh well. Yawning and stretching one last time, she spoke aloud to herself. “It’s time to stop your daydreaming, Blair. Your day has begun, and…” looking at the clock on her desk, she jolted, “you are already late!” Except for the smudges of color under her eyes, the nightmare was forgotten for now.

  Opting for a quick shower instead of the long hot soak she longed for, she ran to the bathroom removing her robe and nightgown as she ran. Once she was finished bathing, she wrapped a towel around her hair and went to her closet. She selected her favorite blue dress with its large buttons down the front and its collar that closed just a few inches below her chin. Taking little time for make-up, she piled her long, quickly-braided blond hair on top of her head and pinned it securely.

  Once she had dressed for work, she grabbed an apple that would serve as her breakfast. Ready to start her day, she ran out her apartment door, then down the steep, narrow stairway. She quietly passed Mssr. LeGard’s door and ran out the front door of the building. She had always thought it was a sweet little building. It sat on one of Paris’s cobbled streets in a neighborhood that was centuries old. The building in which she lived had been there for at least one of those centuries. It had been Mssr. LeGard’s home for most of that century. He had married, raised a family, and—sadly, she thought—outlived them all.

  As she rounded the corner of the building, she saw Mssr. LeGard returning to the house with his arms loaded down with packages from the marketplace. She would have loved to help him with his packages, but knew that he would be hurt to have her offer. He was a very proud man, and a very large part of that pride was wrapped up in his independence.

  “Bon jour, Chéri,” he said in his gravelly voice, as he stood still long enough for her to kiss both his cheeks. “You are going to be late getting home tonight, Chéri?”

  There was the care she had been thinking of just moments before. He would check on when she would be home—he would then wait up for her, she knew. “Oui, Monsieur, but not so very late—speaking of late,” she said, as she glanced at the little lapel watch she wore on her jacket, “I must get to the shop! Madame will be worried about me. Adieu!” she said, as she quickly turned and continued her fast-paced walk to work.

  She turned around just long enough to wave to him and see him smile in return and head for home. He was such a dear man, she thought. Mssr. LeGard had spent a generous amount of time and money having the interior of his house modernized. There was a private bath for his quarters downstairs, as well as one in his tenant’s quarters upstairs. Blair almost moaned out loud when she thought of that little claw-footed tub that held enough hot water and bubbles to relax her to the bone. And then there was the little shower head that sprouted from the wall at the far end of the tub. That certainly came in handy for days like today when she was running late.

  A small kitchen area was installed in the rented apartment as well. She was learning to cook but was still not very good at it. At least the little kitchen gave her the opportunity to practice. She was so thankful that she had found the wonderful apartment and so close to where she worked. It was a short four blocks to the shop.

  As she passed the street-side flower stall, she smiled and waved at Claude, the vender. She made a mental note that she wanted to pick out something nice for her dinner companion. Since she was running late, she would have to do so on her way to his apartment after her day’s work. She passed the other vendor stalls, walking quickly, waving and shouting a greeting to those who knew her.

  Still thinking of her dinner companion, she smiled as she scurried to the shop where she worked. Uncle Roddy was the happiest, most important part of her life. How she had missed him while he had been away. It was unlike him to go away without telling her where he was going, but she would do her best to pry information out of him tonight. He never could keep things from her for very long. She would just stubbornly and unceasingly—with love and a smile—keep working on him until he gave in and told all. How she adored him!

  She continued rushing along, trying to regain some of the time she had lost daydreaming at her window. Rushing was not something she was prone to do unless running late. She much preferred soaking up the atmosphere of Paris while leisurely strolling to and from work, but there just wasn’t time for it this morning.

  Then, the results of letting her mind wander became all too real. The screeching of a horn and frantic screams reminded her that the streets of Paris were not a safe place to daydream. Bicycles and taxis—horse-drawn as well as the newer motorized ones—sped through the neighborhood with little care to lanes or people. She knew better than to walk without watching where she was going. She managed to jump to the side just as the driver of the taxi sped past her on the narrow street. Shaking his fist from his open perch, he swore in a stream of gutter French that, despite the vulgarities, still sounded like music to her ears.

  Instead of being upset at the cabby’s rough language, she just smiled. Laughing to herself, she thought that the women cabbies, with their horse-drawn taxis or motorized versions, had usually been more civil to passersby. She shook her head as she continued down the road towards the shop. Ah, is this progress, she wondered?

  Blair had been raised with English as her primary language, although, it was not really her native language. She used French for business and social events. Therefore, her English was spoken using few idioms and no contractions. Since she spoke fluent French the majority of her day, her English flowed with a melodic French accent.

  She loved Paris, loved the language, and thought sadly…she had loved. Straightening her back with determination, no, she wasn’t going to let that memory ruin her morning. She had allowed Paris to pull her out of the mood that had struck her so early in her day, and s
he staunchly refused to let that black mood come back.

  She entered the little shop where she worked and—panting slightly due to her rush—smiled brightly when she saw her best friend, Esmée, and the shop owner, Madame Adrienne. This bright little shop had been her way to live on her own for the past three years, and she loved it almost as much as her sunny little apartment. She also loved the two women who stood there looking very relieved to see her.

  Madame, a widow for many years, owned the little shop more as a hobby than a source of revenue. Her late husband had been well off, and left her able to indulge her love of “all things French”. The shop stocked a variety of merchandise from local sources. One could find French lace, the work of local artists, soaps, perfumes, and other French products.

  All the merchandise was prettily displayed on antique tables, desks, armoires or shelves, their wooden surfaces gleaming. Madame used her merchandise to sell itself. She put a great deal of time into setting up her displays. She carefully selected items to show in little grouping—reflecting how they could look in a home of distinction.

  Laces and ribbons spilled from drawers in a soft flow. The drawers were left open to permit such items to escape in a flow that appeared to be a random manner—although she spent much time each morning assuring they were very carefully arranged.

  Soaps sat in dainty bowls atop lacey doilies. Next to them would be a lovely antique pitcher and bowl set. Perhaps a soft robe would be draped across a ladder-back chair nearby, and a book would be found sitting on the chair’s cane seat as if the reader had just stepped away.

  Art work hung in tasteful arrangements on the walls. It was rearranged often to keep the shop’s appearance a surprise for frequent patrons.

  Draperies at the tall windows gave the shop the appearance of a lovely—if somewhat eclectic—parlor.

  The shop was a haven for many tourists, as well as the locals looking for a lovely place to spend a little indulgent time in the morning or afternoon. Madame was known to serve tea and cookies during the day and, oddly enough, locals seemed to find themselves gravitating to the shop just as tea was being served. It was a sunny little shop, loaded with color, texture, and good smells—and lovely people. Blair adored every moment she spent working there.