Stumbling over her skirts and trying to hold her bodice together to maintain what little modesty she had left, she fled up the narrow steps—up, up, up to the turret over her rooms, then to the walk. He was getting closer, and she was running out of breath and energy. She’d had little to eat over the last months, had lost weight to the point of being emaciated. Her health combined with the weight and bulk of the English gown he forced her to wear had her once again tripping, and she fell to the stone of the walk.
Macrath reached her and casually stood over her, barely showing the signs of exertion that showed on Caena. He could have overrun her at any time, but preferred to watch her try to get away. Now he had her, and he would take her. As he reached out, she gained purchase, shot to her feet, and backed away from him. As he moved toward her slowly, like a spider enjoying his nasty little game, she climbed onto one of the stone benches and then to the ledge of the walk.
When he reached out again, Caena jumped.
***
The oral history of the clan would report that Macrath had been a cruel master, and a man whose first wife had died in a tragic fall. His mother suspected otherwise, although no one who had seen her fall would provide any information. His brother, when word reached France, knew for certain. Macrath had won for now, but eventually Sòlas intended for Caena’s own to win—to win it all!
The remaining McDonnoughs—those that would have inherited after Sòlas—tried in vain to locate him. If he had lived, if he had heirs, they would lose it all–the title, the castle, the fortune, the status. They could not—would not—permit it to be so.
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Chapter 11: Blair Reads On
Paris, France - April 1912
Having moved to the comfort of the soft settee in the parlor, Blair read the letters, one after the other sending the message of what was to be preserved. Her heart broke for them, but she came to understand that the tie that held them together was the family estate in Scotland. She saw the secret they had kept from the world, the knowledge they only shared with one another for two-hundred years. It had all been done to keep that estate in Caena’s family line. Such love and devotion to family could be difficult to understand. Of course, she had such love and devotion for dear Roddy, so she had some feel for it.
The injustice toward women in Scotland had continued and was, even now, just beginning to be corrected. Their plan was that only when females were permitted to inherit would they consider trying to obtain their rights to all of it—only when it could be done safely without harm to Caena’s descendents.
Then she found the letter that brought her to her knees. Her grandmother wrote to her young daughter who was preparing for her marriage to the handsome young Mssr. Delamare—her father and Roddy’s brother. The family lines were coming together again, although after several generations—Caena and Sòlas’s family line through her grandmother and mother; Sòlas’s family line through his French wife and only son.
She rummaged through the stack again, looking for a letter from her mother, but found none. Sad beyond belief, at last, she came to the letter from Roddy. Her hands shook as she unfolded the letter with the care and tenderness she had felt for the man himself. He had written it years ago.
June 17, 1907
My dearest Blair,
As I write this, I am aware that you will be feeling sadness when you finally read it, for I am surely dead, and you are feeling alone. Please know that the years we have shared have been the happiest in this old man’s life. I could not have loved you more if you had been my own daughter.
It is my duty to write this letter to you, Blair, as your mother did not live long enough to write it herself. She thought she had a long life ahead of her with you and your dear father. But it was not to be.
What I am about to tell you may destroy the trust you have given me for all these years. I can only hope you will forgive me for hiding the truth, and know that my only thought was to keep you safe and to preserve what our family has been dedicated to for two centuries. Such a long time, and yet, for you, it is just the beginning…
As the tears flowed, Blair continued to read on. How could he possibly think she would love him less, no matter what he had kept from her? Laughing at her own ignorance, she remembered thinking that he could not keep a secret from her. He had been her rock.
Needing to gather her strength before continuing, she took the letter with her into the kitchen. Putting the box and letter down on the table, she put on the teakettle. Then she pulled down the biscuit tin, placed two of the crispy little cookies it held onto a plate, and waited for the water to boil.
Once she had allowed the tea to soothe her frazzled nerves, she reopened the letter and continued to read.
I will relate the story once again, since some of the letters are very old, and may be too faded and difficult to read by the time you receive this. I have also related information that has been gathered by me and others over the years.
When your great-great- great…I’ve lost track of how many greats there would be now…grandmother, Caena, found she was carrying the child of her lover, Sòlas, she told him …
“My great-grandmother?” she gasped as the reality really hit home at last. She read once again the story of Caena’s love and sacrifice.
Eventually, Sòlas, then known as Henri Delamare, married a young French woman who, ironically, bore him a son, Eduard. She raised Kenna as her own without ever knowing the child’s story. When Sòlas was near death, he gave Caena’s letter to Eduard and told him the story. Eduard swore to him that he would protect his half-sister and the letters with his life, and the journey to today began.
Your father and I were the last of Sòlas’s descendants through Eduard. The family here has always remained extremely close, with their single goal in mind; a female of Caena’s line reclaiming the estate.
From time to time as the lines became diluted, sons and daughters of the two lines have married. Your mother was the last direct descendent of Caena and your father’s very distant cousin. Thus you are truly from both their lines, and everything that would have belonged to Sòlas and Caena should now be yours.
The letters came to me as your guardian after your mother’s death. They are your story, dear Blair, your history. Now they are yours. Generation after generation, giving away to a time when you would be able to reclaim what is rightfully yours, as Caena’s and Sòlas’s sole direct descendant.
Blair, the time is now. The heirs of Macrath’s father, Mordag, still reside in the Castle. The estate is worth a fortune, and it should be yours.
I remember when you were just a little girl, you asked me why you had to learn to speak, read, and write in English and French when all your friends were doing so only in French. This is why, my dear. You had to be prepared to take on the responsibility for your people.
The fact that you are reading this letter tells me that it is possible that Mordag’s side of the family has finally tracked us down. If my death was from other than natural causes, this is most certainly the case.
The pressure to keep your identity hidden has been great over the last few years. It seems that, despite my efforts to keep you safe, they have caught up with us.
Social issues in our homeland are changing. The time is right for you to take possession of what is yours. I wish I had been able to see you have it all. It saddens me that you will have to fight them alone.
Go to Edinburgh and seek out the lawyer that has kept the family records on our behalf, Angus Ferguson. His address in Edinburgh is enclosed. He will help you in any way you need.
But, beware, my dear. You must keep your identity hidden from the rest of the family until the time is right. Your life may very well depend upon it.
Keep yourself safe, my dearest Blair. Know that I loved you with all my heart and did my best to keep you and what should be yours safe!
Rodaidh McDonnough
Uncle Roddy
She thought it strange that he had
never used his Scottish name, Rodaidh (RO dee), as long as she’d known him. He had always been proud of his Gaelic heritage. Although he never talked about it in great detail, the pride when he did was obvious. And McDonnough? He had been Roddy Delamare to her throughout their time together. That meant that she too was a McDonnough—twice over, since she was descended from both Caena and Sòlas. The family lines were coming together again, although after several generations—Caena and Sòlas’s family line through her grandmother and mother; Sòlas’s family line through his wife and only son.
She was finally able to put most of the pieces together. What was it the lawyer had said? The French had been persecuting the Scots, taking their property.
So, logically, Sòlas brought his daughter here to safety. Knowing the French could take everything from them, and that the McDonnough clan might be searching for him, he changed their names. Only now in more modern times, with the persecution of Scots long in the past, could Roddy, Sòlas’s descendent, admit to his Scottish heritage. But since the McDonnoughs were still searching for Sòlas’s heirs, he still could not claim the name that was rightfully his. So many secrets—kept for so very long, she sighed.
Putting the letter down, she realized that her head was pounding. Rubbing her fingers in circles at her temples, she tried to release some of the pressure that had been growing there since she had started reading his letter.
She should be angry with him for lying to her, she thought, but how could she be when all he had ever done was protect her by maintaining the lies? Now he expected her to carry on with the lies? And to what end? To take possession of some dark, damp Scottish castle? Did she even want it? It had probably crumbled to dust in the last two-hundred years. What had he gotten her into?
Then she realized that dear Roddy had very probably given his life to give her this gift. If it was that important to Roddy, she would damned well do her part to follow through. She would be damned if she would let him die in vain! And so, the dedication to family survived.
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Chapter 12: Escape to Scotland
Paris, France - May 1912
Roddy had been gone for two weeks. His apartment had been emptied out, his belongings, other than the things she prized most highly, the family photos, his favorite vase, his pipe, cuttings from his plants—everything else was gone.
She had wept until she thought she had no more tears to shed. She was small to begin with, now she was ten pounds lighter, her cheeks had hollowed out, her eyes were heavy-lidded from all the weeping. She had always hated crying, especially in front of others. She was usually a strong, young woman, usually patient, and unfailingly slow to lose her temper—though fiery when she did. Once her temper was riled, she could battle with the best.
She loved the scents of Paris, the smell of rain in the air just before it started falling, the damp air afterward, and had always enjoyed slow, quiet journeys during which she could soak it all in. She loved the breezes that swept through off the Seine, the colors used by the artists on the streets, the scents of the cafés. Everything had brought her such joy.
Now she felt shaky, unsure, weak, and alone. Her temper flared at the slightest provocation. Only her determination to avenge Roddy’s death and go after what he had given his life to protect stiffened her spine these days. Enjoyment was something she simply did not have the time for any longer.
Madame had told her to take as much time as she needed to deal with her grief. She had avoided the shop, Madame and Esmée, since reading the letters. She had been afraid she would not be able to hide her secret from them. It could not be avoided any longer.
As she walked into the shop, Madame and Esmée watched her silently before approaching with arms open to embrace her. The merchandise, which had always brought her so much pleasure, now held no interest at all. This was going to be difficult, but it had to be done. She would go to Edinburgh and find this lawyer who knew the rest of the story. Perhaps he held the key to what she would have to do next.
Madame was shocked to see the change in her. She was so thin, she looked so very tired. There was a heaviness—a weight about her spirit that had not been there before. She nearly wept, but mustered her best smile and gave her their usual greeting.
“I need to talk to you,” Blair told the women who had been the closest females to her for the last three years.
“Esmée, Chéri, please put the closed sign on the door. Then we will go out back and talk,” Madame responded. While Esmée closed the shop, Blair and Madame joined hands and walked to the back of the shop, and then they stepped outside to the patio.
Once they were seated at the table and Madame had assured they each had a glass of white wine, Blair began. “I’m leaving Paris for an extended time. I do not know when,” she added softly, “or if I will be back.”
The women both started to interrupt her, but once again quieted when she raised her hand. “Please, Madame, Esmée, let me get this out. This is very difficult for me. I love both of you so very much, and I know this hurts you, but I have to go.” Once they agreed to remain silent, she continued.
“I have business to tend to that I cannot do here. I cannot tell you where I am going. I only ask that you not tell anyone that I have gone. Just tell them I left your employment, Madame—that you have no idea where I am. Once I am able, I will write to you. But, even then, if I ask you to keep my whereabouts unknown, I must have your promise to do so.”
Madame was incredulous. “Can we not help you, Blair? There must be something we can do! Oui?”
“No, Madame,” she hadn’t wanted to frighten them, but she saw now that they would not let her go easily. “There is danger, Madame—danger for you, for Esmée, and for me if certain parties find out where I have gone, so I cannot tell you.”
“Why can we not…” Madame stopped herself, suddenly realizing that she should not be arguing with the girl’s request. “No, I am sorry, Chéri. If this is what you must do, then you must. You are a good girl, Blair. You would not leave without a very good reason.” Gripping Blair by the shoulders, “But I fear for you, little one. Is there no other way, no help we can get for you? Perhaps the police should be told?”
“No, Madame. This is a matter I cannot discuss with anyone. Please grant me this one last favor. You have always been so very kind to me. I would not do this if it was not absolutely necessary. Please know that,” she said, pleading with the woman whose eyes were now filled with tears.
“Oui, mon chéri, we will do this for you. Esmée?”
“Yes, Madame. Yes, Blair. I promise to say nothing,” Esmée promised with tears running down her flushed cheeks.
It had been every bit as difficult to say goodbye to them as she had known it would be. She had, once again, promised to write but told them that it might be awhile before she could do so. She could not tell them that her life could be in danger if her letters to them were found. It was better that they hear the whole story after-the-fact. She hoped, no—she knew—they would forgive her.
As she walked toward her apartment she saw it coming. Her mind almost did not allow it to register in time but the taxi was coming straight at her. The cabbie had his hat pulled down enough that she could not see his face. He was certainly close enough to identify when she finally snapped out of the shock and barely managed to jump to safety. But his was not a face she had ever seen before.
Other pedestrians came to her rescue, shocked at the near hit-and-run she had managed to avoid. The amazed discussion of what the others had seen confirmed her opinion. The taxi had been headed straight for her, intent on running her down. It had not been in her imagination. Someone had tried to kill her.
Her heart was racing. She would have to leave for Edinburgh immediately. After assuring the crowd that she was fine, she ran the rest of the way to her apartment. First she packed her bag, and then she braced herself for another goodbye.
She knocked on Mssr. LeGard’s door. He answered in the old silk robe he loun
ged in so many mornings. His face lit up when he saw her. “Chéri, please come in.”
She kissed his wrinkled cheeks and followed him to the little bench in their garden. “Monsieur, I have decided to take your advice and go on a little vacation. I may be gone for some time, and I did not want you to worry about me.”
“Oh, bien, Chéri. It will be very good for you! Where do you go?” he asked, as he patted her hands which were gently gripped in his own.
“I thought I would spend some time on the coast in Bretagne. It is lovely there in the spring,” she put her best smile on her face. If he thought she was doing something nice for herself, he would not argue with her.
“I am delighted for you, Chéri. Would you like for me to water the plants for you while you are away?”
“Oui! That would be lovely, Mssr. LeGard. Thank you!” she said, with earnest appreciation. She hated the idea of Roddy’s plants dying.
Once she had had cookies and tea, which she had always had to accept from the dear Mssr. LeGard, she made her exit and went up to her apartment. She looked around the place she loved so much. The colorful pillows tossed upon the little bed she also used for a sofa, the reading lamp with the beautiful shade of brightly colored pieces of glass, the brightly colored painting she had bought from one of the artists along the Seine last summer.
With a heavy sigh, she picked up her bags and left for what she feared might be the last time. She was able to catch the next train to the coast.
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Chapter 13: The Search for Blair
Paris, France – One Week Later
Madame and Esmée were busy with customers when the man came in. He slowly walked around the shop, taking in all the details in case he had to come back later. Madame noticed the stranger as soon as he came into the shop. There was something about him she didn’t like but, a customer is a customer, she thought.
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