Elusive

by Linda Rae Blair

  As she finished with her customer, she walked toward him. He was a shaggy sort, she thought. Disreputable would have best described him. “May I help you?” she asked in French.

  “What?” Didn’t anyone here speak English, he wondered?

  “Sorry, you would prefer English?” Madame asked switching easily.

  “Ah, yes,” he responded with a thick Scottish accent and looked most relieved. “I’m looking for Blair Delamare. I was told she worked here.” His eyes kept flitting around the shop nervously keeping an eye out for her.

  “Oh, yes, she did work here. However, I am sorry to say she left our employment a few days ago. We have not seen or heard from her since,” Madame told him.

  Esmée had overheard the conversation as she walked her final customer to the door. She kept a very close eye on the man talking to Madame until he left the shop looking fit to be tied.

  “Madame, he was looking for Blair?”

  “Yes, Esmée, if this is the kind of person asking for her, she is indeed in trouble, I fear.” Madame felt a shiver down her back.

  ***

  Cursing at the fates that had kept him tied up in Edinburgh until now, he managed to break into the apartment and found that the girl was not there—probably hadn’t been for several days. Her tiny refrigerator was empty. Most of her dresser drawers were empty. He moved quickly into the bathroom and saw that all her personal items were gone. She had left. “Damn it all,” he cursed as he slammed his fist on the edge of the sink. Then he froze when he heard a sound coming from the main room. Slipping behind the bathroom door, he waited.

  “Blair? Is that you?” LeGard had heard the sounds of footsteps coming from the apartment. He hoped she was back. He had missed her and worried about her constantly since she left. He had not expected her to be away so long. “Blair?” he called once more as he rounded the corner to the bathroom. He knew he was old, but he had yet to start imagining things. Someone was up here.

  As he turned to go back to the main living area, the blow hit him from behind. Pierre LeGard would never see another day. His head struck the table in the hallway as he fell, and he died instantly.

  In a panic, the man checked the girl’s desk to see if there was anything that might lead him to her. He emptied all the drawers and tossed the fragile lamp onto the floor. He tore apart everything in the apartment, cushions, pillows, and the mattress. He dumped flower pots—just for spite. He cut the backing from the painting on the wall and slashed the painting itself when he found nothing. All was destroyed in an effort to find out where she had gone and in frustration for not finding anything to help. Not wanting to get caught with a dead man, he carefully left the house.

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  Chapter 14: Blair Discovers The Past

  Edinburgh, Scotland - June 1912

  She had looked up the lawyer’s office as soon as she got to Edinburgh. Unfortunately, he had gone to Paris on vacation and would be gone for a month. The irony of them crossing paths was not lost on her. Since she did not dare go back to Paris, she decided to stay in Edinburgh and put the time to good use.

  She found a sweet little boarding house where she had a room with a big bed so high off the floor she had to use little steps to climb up to the top of the feather mattress. She did have to go down the hall where there was a tiny bath, but she would not be inconvenienced for very long, and the rent was cheap.

  She spent her days in museums, the library, visiting the cafés, some of the drinking establishments—pubs they called them here—walking the streets of Edinburgh, looking in shop windows, visiting the churches, talking to the clerks in the shops. She listened carefully to those speaking in Scots and Scots English. Once she heard a man speaking in Gaelic to a woman who must have been his wife. It was a rare gift to hear it, since Gaelic was seldom used anymore. What wonderful languages they were, and how different from the flowing French to which she was so accustomed. She was determined to learn them as soon as possible.

  Scotland was not what she had imagined—it was better! She found herself steeped in history, myths, tales of heroism, kings and queens, lairds and ladies. Then there was the clothing she read about. Men in skirts—kilts—something she had never thought she would see. She giggled thinking some had much better legs than others. To be fair about it, she supposed men often felt the same way about women.

  Strangely, she found them quite handsome with their hosiery and the shoes they called ghillie brogues, with ghillie laces that fastened the shoes and then criss-crossed up the hosiery to mid-calf.

  The tartan scarves were attached to the left shoulder of their shirts with elaborate pins. She went to shops and asked questions about the symbols on the antique kilt pins and scarf pins and learned that they were often fashioned in their ancient clans’ emblems.

  She learned about the tartans of the clans, the heraldic symbols and the differences between a claymore and a dirk.

  She enjoyed the variety of hats they wore—the tams and the jaunty Balmorals, her personal favorite—some with little feathered pins on one side, some without.

  The women she saw in Edinburgh tended to be more English or European in dress.

  She saw the variety of sporrans worn in front of the kilt just below the waist. Some were made of leather; others were fashioned from horse hair or fur.

  She loved reading about the myths of the fierce dragons that were supposed to symbolize the cosmic forces from a parallel world that would bring fertility, especially to the fields of those who believed.

  Then there were the funny little gargoyles with their grimacing faces. She found she was very fond of them. They were found peering down from the buildings, sneering from their carvings in furniture, sitting menacingly atop jewelry boxes, and plopped down on all sorts of items in the shops. Perhaps when she had a permanent place, she would buy something with the creatures on it for her own home.

  At the library, she found that Scottish history had not—until the last few years—been as much a written history as that of song and oral tales told, especially by the women. Only because more modern poets had begun to get the tales written down was she able to piece together her family’s tragic history. She heard the oral history available in poems and songs in the pubs where the Scots gathered after a hard day’s work. She stayed away from the English establishments, knowing the tales would not be heard there.

  It was all so fascinating and Blair spent every spare minute studying it, especially anything to do with the McDonnough family. Now there was an ugly story, she frowned as she thought about it.

  So—the stories told—Macrath had been a black-hearted monster. His wife, Caena, had died of a fall from the tower walk—childless at age twenty. Sadly, Blair realized, Caena had only lived for four years after she lost her beloved Sòlas.

  As she read it, she seriously doubted that Caena fell. It was more likely that she left the walk with Macrath pushing at her back. Or perhaps the poor girl could not stand living with a monster anymore and had simply jumped!

  The very idea of living with someone as obviously evil as Macrath made her skin crawl. Blair was beginning to really see just how protected and loved she herself had been. She could also understand how hard it would have been for someone as loved as Caena had been—by Sòlas and by Finnean—to find herself under the power of a man like Macrath.

  Macrath had had a reputation for taking what he wanted, no matter who owned it. He exercised no concern over whose lives were ruined by his greed, nor his careless use of those on his estate. He had been a man of great jealousies, constantly suspecting those around him of intrigue. As hateful as he was, he certainly had reason to be suspicious. She thought sadly, what a miserable man he must have been—twisted and sad.

  So had begun the reign of terror and evil that had swept into the McDonnough lands, and it hovered there raining down destruction for over a hundred years. Their affairs had taken a more secretive turn in more recent history. If what she had heard was correct, it wa
s only under the latest two lairds that the people living on the McDonnough estate were better off than they had been in the late 1700s. She wondered if that was just a white-wash of what was truly going on in Donnach. Well, she’d see soon enough and, if there was anything she could do to help the people of Donnach, she would do it!

  The more she learned the sadder she became. Then she’d think of Roddy. Her spine would straighten and her determination would take hold again. The most recent lairds had perhaps appeared to be a better sort, but someone had killed Roddy and tried to kill her. Someone somewhere was not so very innocent!

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  Chapter 15: Patience Repaid

  Edinburgh – July 1912

  Finally, as summer was reaching its peak, Blair returned to the lawyer’s office. Walking into the quiet offices of one Angus Ferguson, her greatest hope was that she would find the man there. She walked up to the very tidy wooden desk that sat in front of a closed door.

  The man seated at the desk was thin, his face rather pinched, his appearance in general was very neat, but somehow unwelcoming. “Excuse me.” She brought his attention away from the document he was reading. “Has Mssr. Ferguson returned from his trip?” she asked.

  “Mademoiselle Delamare, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Oui, Monsieur. Is there word from Mssr. Ferguson?

  “He will return to the office sometime in the morning. Would you care to leave a message?” he asked without any warmth whatsoever.

  “Oui, please. Would you tell him that I am at this boarding house?” she said, as she handed him a card provided by her landlady. “I would like to see him as soon as possible upon his return. It is a matter of extreme importance.” She felt her nerves starting to jump. The journey into her future was about to begin, and she recognized that she was afraid. The lawyer’s assistant, Taog (TOOK), placed the card on his desk and promised to advise Mr. Ferguson upon his return.

  The next morning, there was a knock at her bedroom door. Her landlady advised her that there was a gentleman waiting in the parlor, and Blair immediately went downstairs. As she entered the parlor, she recognized Taog. “Mssr. Taog, good morning,” she said, smiling pleasantly but standing far enough away that it was not necessary to offer her hand.

  “Miss,” he said, without smiling. “Mr. Ferguson asked me to stop by and let you know he is back from Paris. He would like to see you as soon as you are able to come to the office.”

  “Oh, oui! Please tell him that I will be there just as soon as I have had breakfast. Thank you, Mssr. Taog.” Deciding not to be rude, she started to offer her hand.

  “It’s just Taog,” he said, as he turned and just left her standing there.

  “Well, that man is just…” she struggled for the right word, “…unlikeable!” she said to herself, as she wondered if he was this standoffish with everyone or just her. She was not going to let the man get to her. She straightened her shoulders, held her head up high and headed for the stairs.

  ***

  As she walked into his office an hour later, Angus thought how accurately his old friend had described her. She truly was a beauty—so tiny with such big gray eyes…and the pale blonde hair. He thought he would have known her anywhere.

  “My dear lassie, how glad I am that you are here, and safe and sound,” he hugged her, much to her surprise. “Ah, lassie, you look just as your dear uncle described you! Please have a seat.” The Scottish accented English rolled off his tongue.

  “Taog! Taog!” Angus shouted for his assistant. “Bring this lassie some tea. Quickly fellow!” Looking back at Blair, “Lemon? Sugar? Perhaps some cream?”

  “No, please. Just a cup of tea would be lovely,” she replied.

  “Now my dear, please tell me the events that have brought you to me.” His face saddened, “I hear that my dear old friend, Rodaidh, is no longer living.” He watched her as the pain crossed her face and then faded as she sat straightened in her chair. Aye, the lassie has had a bad time of it, he thought to himself.

  “I had planned to see him while I was in Paris but…well, my trip did not happen soon enough.” Shaking his head in disbelief, “I was shocked, my dear. He was a very special man, your uncle.” He sighed heavily and dropped his slightly portly body into the well-worn leather chair behind his desk. It squeaked and groaned under his weight. “I tried to locate you, but now I know why I could not hae found you!”

  “Yes, Monsieur, Uncle Roddy was murdered—shot to death—in Paris last May. He warned me in a letter that my safety might be…that I might be in danger from other family members. Then, when someone tried to kill me in Paris…”

  “What?” he shouted rising from his chair. “The black-hearted beast! Do the police know who it was?” he asked, regaining control and sitting back down.

  “No, Monsieur, I did not report it. I did not know who to trust,” she explained. “I decided I should come here to speak with you, as instructed by my uncle. You know of the letters?” she asked him.

  “Yes. I read them once—years ago. Yes, he told me everything. The three of us—Roddy, your father, and I—had known each other for many, many years.” He sighed heavily and then continued. “I attended university in France, and we shared a lot of history from those days. Before your parents’ deaths…” He cleared his throat as the memories of his old friends hit him. “There were only the three of us who knew the whole story from Sòlas’s point of view. I was extremely honored that they trusted me with such an important secret—trusted me with their lives really.”

  “Monsieur, it is not that I doubt anything you are saying, but why is it I have never heard of you or met you? As my uncle’s good friend…well, shouldn’t he have mentioned you to me before now?” There had been so many secrets, she thought.

  The assistant came in and served tea. Somehow he seemed as gray as his suit. When he passed her the cup of tea, he smiled thinly, and then he backed out of the office and closed the door.

  Angus noticed the expression on the girl’s face. Some people had this reaction to Taog. “Taog is a good man, a hard worker.” He leaned toward Blair and whispered, “A tad dull for my liking but a good man.”

  Then sitting back, he continued in a normal tone. “He has been with me for fifteen years. I trust him explicitly. He knows only that you are a dear friend’s daughter, and that he should assist you anytime I am unavailable. While he knows nothing of the family intrigue in which you find yourself, he does know that he is to provide you anything you need. You may rely on him, as you can on me, my dear.”

  “Now, back to your question,” he continued. “Your dear uncle felt it best to keep any connection with Scotland, with the estate…all of it…” he said, as he waved his hand in the air dismissively, “…well, away from you, my dear. He did not want his ties to me—what I knew—to be a part of your life until it became necessary. We always met in a nearby town whenever I traveled to Paris, and we spent many good hours together during those visits.”

  He patted her slim hand with his own rather plump fingers. “He took every precaution he possibly could with your safety in mind.” He looked her straight in the eye. “There is absolutely nothing your uncle would not have done for you, my dear. Now that responsibility is mine, and I accept it gladly.”

  “Thank you, Mssr. Ferguson,” she said in her heavily French-accented English.

  “Ah, lassie, you must call me Angus. In my eyes, you are now the daughter I have never had. I will do everything I can to protect you and to help you obtain what is rightfully yours,” he told her.

  She really liked this man. He was slightly round and, aside from being upset at the news of losing his old friend, a jovial man. His pale blue eyes shone with good humor. The wrinkles that deepened at the edges of those eyes when he smiled reinforced that opinion. He wore tiny square-lensed glasses that sat on the end of his prominent nose. She was beginning to understand that this feature was not unusual in Scotsmen. Once again she was struck with the memory of Roddy,
and had to push down the grief.

  Angus’s hair, what there was of it, was thin and sandy in color. His pink scalp parted his hair by about five inches, and the hair stuck out over his ears in wispy curls that led down toward mutton-chops that ended at his jaw line. She liked the man instantly. “Thank you, Angus. Where should I begin?” she asked.

  His face grew serious. “When your uncle was here last April…”

  “What?” she blurted out. “Uncle Roddy was here in April?”

  “Yes, my dear. He came to see me because he was afraid he had been discovered. He wanted to know everything I had found out on his behalf. He was trying to decide whether to bring you here or take you elsewhere for safety.” Angus stood and started pacing his office.

  “That explains why he would not tell me where he was going,” she said quietly, almost to herself more than to Angus.

  “We talked of his predicament for hours over good Scotch whiskey.” He smiled as he thought of his old friend. Then still pacing, he continued. “He had hoped that by leaving France for a few days, they would lose the trail to you.” He stopped his pacing and looked at Blair. “Otherwise he would have just called me as he had done in the past. He felt that, by coming here, he could keep his dear little lassie safe—even if it was for just a little longer.”

  Suddenly feeling very tired, Angus sank back down in his chair. “Obviously, he was incorrect. They had tracked him…and you…down. I believe that what I told him would have resulted in him bringing you back here, had they not caught up with him. The time was right for you to be brought here.”

  “What do you mean, the time was right?” she asked.

  “The old Laird died in March, Blair—just before Roddy’s death. There is a son who will be arriving in Scotland any time now. My understanding is that he had business to finalize before coming here to assume his duties as heir to the estate. He is almost the last of his line. There are some cousins—distant,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “They are not in direct line for the inheritance as long as the two of you live, or if either of you have children who would inherit.”