Elusive

by Linda Rae Blair

  “Mon chéri, we were beginning to worry about you,” Madame sighed when she saw Blair enter. She looked at Blair closely, her dark eyes scrutinizing the girl of whom she was very fond. The signs of a fitful night’s sleep were still showing on Blair’s face, despite her smile. It did not escape her notice that this had been happening more and more often of late. Madame decided she would probe more deeply later, but not now. Now was the time to soothe and allow healing—not to intrude or stir painful memories.

  “I am so sorry, Madame, I seem to have overslept this morning, and my mind kept wandering…I promise to make it up to you,” Blair kissed Madame’s lightly-rouged cheeks. as was their custom each morning. “I did not mean to worry you.”

  “Ah, my dear, if we did not care so much for you, Esmée and I would not worry, no?” Madame gave her a little squeeze and then turned her loose. She recognized the weariness in the girl, and it pained her. Perhaps she would rest better now that her dear uncle was back in Paris.

  Esmée moved in for her kisses and hug, also noticing the smudge of color under Blair’s big gray eyes. “Blair, you did not sleep well again?” she asked her quietly as they moved to the back room where Madame’s office and storage for the extra stock was kept.

  Blair had known Esmée for several years. Esmée had been dating a friend of Julien’s when he and Blair first started dating. A sweet girl, Esmée was polite, soft-spoken, kind-hearted, and beautiful. Her physical appearance was a contrast to Blair’s. Esmée wore her long sable-colored hair tied back in a knot at the back of her long, slender neck. Her green eyes, shining out from beneath dark, thick lashes, had a slight upward slant that gave her an exotic look. Her eyes always reminded Blair of the sea—a peaceful day at sea. No storms there! The girl was steady and loving. Blair loved her like a sister—Esmée felt the same about Blair.

  “Now, tell me, Chéri. What is going on? You are pale, and you look as if you have not slept in days,” probed Esmée.

  “It was the dream again, Esmée. I am sure some great psychologist like Doctor Freud is somewhere teaching classes on dreams to wide-eyed students who are never actually bothered by them. I, on the other hand, do not have benefit of his wisdom and opinions. I just stand here bleary-eyed wondering why I cannot just figure it out. It doesn’t feel like the good Doctor’s ‘road to the unconscious’—it just feels dark and foreboding!” Blair sighed heavily. She shrugged her shoulder and stubbornly pasted a smile on her face. “Oh well, enough of me for one day. Even I get bored with my bad dreams and moods!”

  “Perhaps you read too much of Dr. Freud’s enlightening literature, Blair,” Esmée teased. Recognizing the set of Blair’s jaw, she dropped the subject of her dreams. Blair would not allow the intrusion of the dark dream upon her day. Knowing her as she did, Esmée would not argue with her on the subject.

  They settled into their daily routine, setting up the displays of hand-crafted jewelry that had been put away for safekeeping overnight. Madame unlocked the front door to welcome the day’s business, while Esmée wondered why a wonderful girl like Blair would have such unsettling dreams.

  The little bell, hanging on the front door of the shop, signaled the entry of the day’s first customer. So, their work day began.

  ***

  Entering the unlocked front door of her uncle’s apartment that evening, she called out for him and headed for the kitchen in the back of the building. She knew she would find him there, humming a tune while preparing the evening meal.

  She stopped at the entry to the kitchen to take in the sight of him. He was dressed casually with his little white chef’s apron wrapped around his just slightly generous waistline. His cheeks were rosy from standing over the steaming pot on the stove. His glasses had, as always, steamed up and gotten pushed up on top of his head. There they would sit until he searched for them later, and she would remind him of their location. As he became aware of her presence, he turned and smiled broadly.

  “My dear girl, how I have missed you!” he said, as he dropped the large wooden spoon onto the counter and turned to hug the girl he loved like a daughter. He had gladly accepted responsibility for her years ago when he lost his dear brother and sister-in-law. They had died together, as he supposed it should be for two people who loved each other so desperately. An avalanche took them while they were on what they had called their second honeymoon.

  Blair had come to live with him and she was a blessing that made all his sacrifices over the years well worthwhile. He hoped she might never know the lengths he had had to go to on her behalf. Of course, eventually, she would have to know much he had not shared with her so far. He prayed that he could continue to protect her, especially now. Oui, eventually he would have to tell her, but for now he thought it best to permit her this time of happiness and freedom. She had already suffered so much loss and pain in such a young life. With regret, he was terribly afraid that the peace she was enjoying now was likely to end all too soon. He would prevent it as long as he was able.

  “Oh,” she squeezed him tightly in a hug, “I missed you too! Here, these are for you,” she said, offering him the bouquet of tulips ranging in color from bright and pastel pinks, pale and vivid yellows, and creamy whites. For scent, she had added pungent lilies of white and purple.

  “Beautiful,” he smiled at her. “Ah,” he held them to his nose and inhaled with his eyes closed. “They are almost as beautiful as my precious girl! Let’s put these beauties into some water.” He reached over to the long shelf that spread over the length of his kitchen, broken only by the window that let in the Paris light. He brought down the vase that had been used on his table for more than twenty years. It had been his wife’s favorite and, in the sixteen years since she died, it had been in daily use. He loved flowers, he loved beauty, he loved to cook, and he loved this girl!

  She wandered around the small, tidy kitchen enjoying the aromas she always found in his apartment. A pot of something wonderful was almost always simmering away on the stove. In season, fresh flowers sat posed beautifully in vases in every room. Out of season, they were always found in his parlor.

  Then there was the scent of him—the faint but male scent of his aftershave, the cherry of his pipe tobacco, the wool of his sweaters in the winter, and his favorite linen shirts during the summer. These would forever bring him to her mind.

  He had been her anchor for all the years since her parents had died when she was a small child. While she no longer could remember either of them, he told her stories, and showed her the few photos so that she never lost her parents entirely. But, when she thought of family, it was Uncle Roddy who immediately came to mind.

  When Julien had died two years ago, dear Roddy had held her until her tears ran dry. Julien had gotten ill and died of pneumonia so suddenly—just weeks after he had asked her to marry him. She felt the tightening in her throat, and tried to move beyond the pain of his loss one more time.

  At twenty-three, she could not imagine her life without Roddy. The fact that someday she would have to do so was something she hid from her consciousness with her usual determination.

  “How was your trip?” She noticed the slight stiffening of his shoulders, then the almost immediate relaxing of them which only she, who knew him best, would have recognized. He was keeping something from her, and she had a feeling that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

  **************************

  Chapter 4: Caena Must Decide

  Donnach Castle, Scotland – 1725

  It had been a week since Finnean asked the girl to make a decision that would change her life forever. Ròs, who had raised Caena from birth, came into her mistress’s room, and saw that she had, once again, retreated into thoughts of her upcoming marriage. “Lass, have you made a decision yet?”

  “No,” Caena sighed deeply. “I know my father’s heart, but he is a practical man. Despite his wishes for my future, he has always made my options known to me, such as they are.” She knew her father loved her more than life itsel
f, and so he always told her. But she was, after all, a girl.

  “It angers me, Ròs, that despite all else I must resign myself to a woman’s fate.” She would have to live with the constraints of the society of her time. “There is only so much father can do. He was kind to honor me by permitting me to make the choice. I am determined that he will not be sorry for his effort.”

  But there was so little time. She would be expected to make her decision by the time of the dreaded sixteenth anniversary of her birth—two weeks from today. If she was to remain at the castle, and have it all pass to her father’s future generations, she would have to marry one of the sons of her uncle. One would bring her joy, the other damnation. She was afraid she knew which would be her fate. All her sleepless nights, tears, pacing—there was no getting past it.

  Caena began pacing around the room like a woman possessed of some devil. As Ròs prepared Caena’s wardrobe for the day, she watched the girl pace around the room time and time again.

  “Macrath is the obvious choice,” she shuddered. “As Mordag’s eldest son, he will inherit before Sòlas. The estate will then pass to Macrath’s sons, unless Macrath dies childless. And even then,” she added sadly, “Sòlas can only inherit if he lives long enough to do so.” She had feared for his safety since Macrath had become old enough to understand the advantages he held over his younger brother.

  “And Mordag is still able to produce more sons to inherit. My greatest fear is that Macrath would create some dark intrigue and have Sòlas killed. Perhaps,” she added almost gleefully, “something will happen to Macrath before he can act against Sòlas!”

  “Quiet, lass,” Ròs whispered. “You must not let anyone hear you say such things. Macrath is as likely to have you done in as he would Sòlas.” Ròs feared for Caena. Every day she went into the chapel that sat behind Caena’s bed chamber, and she prayed for the girl’s safety. Jacobites were still practicing their Catholic faith despite the protestant demands of the English.

  Caena had a moment of regret that her thoughts had taken that path. “Ah, Ròs, as much as Macrath is the old hornie himself, he is—after all—family!”

  She could not really wish murder on Macrath, even knowing he was likely to eliminate Sòlas—in a fit of jealousy or fear—to prevent Sòlas from plotting against him. This, she knew in her heart, Sòlas would never do. Sòlas was not the type to join in the political plots as she knew Macrath did. To Sòlas, family was a sacred responsibility. Macrath, on the other hand, would always be wary, suspicious, looking for deceit in every corner. This, in Caena’s opinion, was as much a reflection of Macrath’s own character as that of those around him.

  As long as Macrath survived his father, he was the only choice she had that would keep all that was dear to her in the possession of her father’s line. She just didn’t know if her heart was strong enough for her to do what must be done.

  Her Sòlas, on the other hand, was fair of face, heart, and soul. He had been her Sòlas since their twelfth year. Their secret oath had been given and taken, as they sat together on the cliff overlooking the loch, on the warm spring day of their mutual birthday. To break that oath…once again the dreaded tears streamed down her face.

  Sòlas and Finnean were the only people who understood that she hated to celebrate the anniversary of their birth, and why. The anniversary of her birth was also the anniversary of her mother’s death. Sòlas’s mother, beautiful, sweet Meadhbh (MAEV), had survived what was a common cause of death for women. Meadhbh had been much loved by Morgana and, as Morgana had wished, had become Caena’s godmother. How could such a loving woman as Meadhbh have two such different sons, she wondered.

  She was so confused. One moment she was certain she could do what needed to be done. Then she would think of Sòlas, and her determination would falter. She settled again in front of the mirror, and Ròs began brushing Caena’s long, blonde hair.

  “As much as I regret allowing my dark thoughts about Macrath, Ròs, it has occurred to me that even their mother prefers her youngest son.” Caena had long thought that Sòlas was his mother’s favorite. Even his mother seemed to recognize the evil that emanated from her eldest son. Although Meadhbh never spoke it to anyone, Caena was certain that Macrath felt the favoritism as well. That would make him very dangerous to Sòlas. Very dangerous indeed!

  A single tear ran its course down her pale cheek. The closer she got to her sixteenth birthday, the more she struggled with the pain of making her decision. Should she marry the man she loved? That would doom them both for whatever life was left to them after going against Macrath. The other alternative was worse. To protect Sòlas’s life, it would require they banish themselves from the land they loved as they loved the air they breathed.

  If she married Macrath, she would doom herself to a life without her love, her Sòlas. But perhaps she would be able, in some small way, to keep Sòlas safe from harm. As a woman, she would never be permitted to reason with Macrath on Sòlas’s behalf. Not that it would matter to Macrath at any rate. He would as likely kill Sòlas just to spite her. She could, however, enlist Ròs and her family, all of whom served in the castle, to keep their eyes and ears open for any intrigues involving Sòlas’s safety.

  She’d never felt so trapped. She had no more than a fortnight to give her father her decision—a decision that would set the course for her entire future, and perhaps for her generations to come. It was a heavy weight for such a small, inexperienced girl. Once her decision was made, she would tell Sòlas first. She owed him that, no matter what else she did.

  As Caena’s pacing stopped in front of the mirror, Ròs watched her mistress in the glass. She saw the pain, the conflict on her face. Poor child, she thought. She turned to go down to the kitchen. At least she could get the girl some food to keep her going. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, she would not do for Caena.

  “At least I can be assured that something may change between now and the time when we wed. I can, at least, postpone that dreaded day as long as possible,” Caena said—more to herself than to Ròs—and relaxed slightly with that thought.

  **************************

  Chapter 5: The Old Laird is Dead

  Donnach, Scotland – March 1912

  The Laird was dead—long live the Laird, he snarled to himself as he took the three fingers of Scotch whiskey in one deep gulp. Oh, how he resented that the only way for him to become Laird was through his father’s death. He’d give up anything, hell everything, to have him back. His emotions were raw, his heart bruised, his very soul ached with the pain of loss. He could not imagine a more poignant loss than that of his father, unless it had been his mother. The thought sent a shiver down his long, muscular back.

  His mother had been so brave throughout the funeral. Now she slept, and his hope was that the purple smudges under her eyes would be gone when she awoke in the morning. He couldn’t bear to see her in such pain, marching forward as was expected of the good Lady McDonnough, Countess of Donnach. To him she was simply his dear, sweet mother—his mère.

  Sighing, he wandered across the Great Hall to the fireplace where the fire had blazed for hours to fight off the chilly evening. As it began to ebb, he stood leaning on one long, sinewy arm against the hearth and staring into the blaze below. He was lost in thought when his father’s elderly cousin, Iseabail (ISH uh bel)—Dizzy Izzy, as she was called behind doors—came into the room.

  She silently watched him to gauge his mood. Deciding this was as good a time as any, she moved into the room to gain his attention.

  “Alexandre, may I speak to you for a moment?” Her voice was gravelly with age, and syrupy with feigned sweetness.

  Damn, he thought. He wasn’t in the mood for any of his father’s cousin’s annoying conversation. She had always been a pain in his side, but she was family after all—distant, though not distant enough for his liking—but damn it, she was family, and he wouldn’t ignore her. Everyone had suffered a loss—not just he and his mother. He had to keep that i
n mind.

  “Yes, cousin, please come in,” he answered, as he gathered his composure, straightened and slowly turned to face her. Cousin Iseabail was elderly, and her years had not done her any favors. She was the opposite of his mother. This cousin’s face was etched with lines from frowns and scowls well-played over the years. Dressed in the stark black, she appeared even more harsh than usual. Her hair had not as much grayed with the years, but had more yellowed. It added nothing flattering to her sallow complexion, nor did the stark black of her mourning attire. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No, my dear. No. I just wanted to advise you of some rather disturbing news Aiden shared with me after the service this afternoon. I thought I should tell you, but I don’t wish to burden you if you need more time to yourself, dear boy.”

  She was laying it on thick, he thought. His jaws were beginning to ache from clenching them. “It’s fine. What did your son have to say?” He had to admit she had piqued his curiosity. He had had little contact with Aiden or his brother, Hugh, over the years. The gods had smiled! If they’d grown into the same bent as their mother…he shook his head to clear this murderous line of thought and waited for her to continue.

  As he waited for her to continue with whatever was the topic of gossip for today, he noticed Charlotte, his mother’s personal maid lurking near the entrance of the room. He wondered what the old dear was up to. What was she doing? Charlotte—dusting the items on a side table? He’d never known the wonderful old woman to dust anything in the twenty years she’d served his mother. What…? Then Iseabail regained his attention.