Jackie turned the pages, keeping her back turned to the librarian. “Here it is, oh yeah. Oh my. . .” she said quietly to herself. She started reading and turned a page, completely engrossed. “Oh. Uh oh. . . .” She kept reading and turned a few more pages. After she finished, she looked up at William. Her smile was gone. “You better read this. Nine, September . . .”
William put on his reading glasses. He glanced over at his wife. “Read!” she admonished.
“9, September, 1745
My suspicions have all been confirmed.
As I made final preparations to join the Duke of Cumberland in the Highlands, I was infuriated with news that the rapacious knave from Perth, the traitor James Drummond, had returned seeking council with George and Katharine.
I have delayed attempts to secure my succession to the Earldom of Southesk, the peerage debarred from my cousin through Attainder some thirty years hence. Besides his title, he lost Kinnard, all of which should have rightly passed to me as the eldest surviving Carnegie. upon his death in France. His traitorous support for the Jacobites in the ’15 cost him everything, and casts a long shadow over this family still.
And now my own brother plots with Drummond to repeat the same misfortune and continue the plague on the Carnegie’s.
Worse, the overseer at Kinnaird claims he saw Katharine at mid-day, by the stables, in conspiracy with Drummond. The overseer watched the two for some time, and proposed to me that Katharine has developed affections for the traitor. If Drummond be a suitor for Katharine, I will be ruthless in my resolution against her.
An officer from my regiment saw Drummond on the estate as well, at about the same time and alerted me, but we were unable to capture him, even though we fired musket and gave chase. I fear Drummond is trying to enlist both my brother and sister in support of his loathsome Pretender prince.
I warned Katharine not to associate with Drummond, lest she bring more ruin to our family. Insolent as ever, she refused to obey my rule and threatened to do ‘whatever with whomever’ she pleases.
Katharine will know my wrath if she dares associate with Drummond. He is headed for the gallows as surely as my cousin was attainted and died in shame.
My sister seems poison’d lately by a spirit of brazen indecency. She admonished me to chill? Her strange manner of late is troubling indeed.
I have stationed two men from my regiment to keep watch over her, lest the traitor from Perth return. My hope is Katharine will become sensible. If not, she will be detained here at Kinnaird, or in the castle at Edinburgh, until Drummond is captured, hung and dismembered.”
William closed the journal, deep in thought. He said nothing as he removed his reading glasses, folded them into his pocket and slowly laid the journal back on the table.
He whispered to Jackie. “Chill?”
“Yeah, I saw that,” she responded quietly.
The librarian, who had been working off in the corner approached them. “I think I’ve found something that might be of help to you.”
She held a dark burgundy leather-bound volume. The cover was trimmed with a gold embossed border. The centre was adorned with family coat-of-arms, also embossed in gold. She handed the volume to William. He put his glasses back on and read the inscription inside the coat of arms:
DRED GOD
William turned to the librarian, who had indeed found a volume of interest.
“I think you may find what ye seek in this history,” she said. The grey-haired librarian reached over and opened the book to the title page. Jackie standing close by, looked over William’s shoulder so they could both read the page:
HISTORY
of
THE CARNEGIES
EARLS of SOUTHESK
and of
THEIR KINDRED
By William Fraser
“Thank-you,” William said excitedly. “This is exactly what we need. Can I borrow it?”
“No, laddie. That volume and a couple of others you might want to check, are almost one-hundred-and-fifty-years-old. It’s for reference only, and cannot leave the archives,” she replied firmly. “But you can use it here, as much as you wish.”
Jackie nodded her head and William turned to her as the librarian walked away. “You should probably get comfortable, dear,” she said pointing to the desk and chair. “But first, you need to do something for me.”
“Something for you?” William repeated.
“Yes. Book me a flight to Ottawa. It’s time I went home. I think my daughter needs her mother.”
14
ADEENA TURNED HER father’s Volvo toward Richmond, a sleepy rural village deep in Ottawa’s southwest corner. As she accelerated down the long country road, tunnelling through tall September cornfields on both sides, she took a quick peek behind her at the precious cargo nestled in the back of the station wagon.
The Duncan Cello, inside her old leather cello case, and then stuffed into the Bam travel case, fit snugly in the car with the seats folded down. Sitting beside the cello was an overnight bag and a few groceries she’d picked up at the ByWard Market.
Adeena noticed a light on the car’s dashboard; LOW FUEL. As she reached the intersection and signalled right toward Richmond, she noticed the name of the road she was turning onto – ‘Perth Street’ and the name of the gas station on the corner – ‘Drummond’s.
She smiled as she pulled into the station and stopped at the first pump. A young man wearing an Ottawa Senators cap popped out from the tiny shoebox of a store attached to the station. She rolled the window down.
“Regular or Premium?” he mumbled.
Adeena looked at the boy, a teenager, maybe eighteen. How much did he know of clan Drummond and their roots in Perthshire, Scotland? An image of Balgair flashed in her head, grazing in the long grass all muscle and power. And free as the wind.
“Miss?” the boy asked again, jolting her back to the present.
“Oh, uh . . . premium. Fill it up, please.”
“Sure.”
As he started to fill the tank, she plugged her iPhone into the USB jack in the car. She searched for a good playlist and thought about how good it was going to be to escape the city for a while.
As she pulled out of the gas station and headed west on Perth Street for the hour drive to her parent’s cottage, she clicked on a playlist she called Falling. Each piece in it held special significance for her. And they all shared one thing in common – the ability to touch her emotions.
First up was Brahms, her favourite of the German Three B’s, (Bach and Beethoven were tied for second). Her father first told her about Brahms when she was about nine. At the time, she was learning her first really complex cello composition. She was fascinated by the story of young Brahms who, like her, began learning the cello at a young age.
Adeena found it hard to believe he composed a piano sonata when he was only eleven. Though more curious, he burned his own music because he thought it had too many bad notes. He was a performer and a composer, a soloist and basically a musical superstar. While other girls swooned over The Backstreet Boys, Adeena preferred her poster of a young, moody Johannes Brahms - teen sensation circa 1821.
She cranked up the car’s rich Bose sound system as his ‘Piano Quartet No.1, Opus 25–1’ began. She’d always loved this piece, but it had taken on new relevance since she discovered Johannes composed it when he was about her age, in his late twenties. And at first apparently, no one liked it. That made her enjoy it even more.
She could feel the music lifting her. The Volvo left the road, floating as she glided on a wave of musical perfection. She was one with the players and the composer. Her head swayed as she played the cello part with her fingers forming notes on the steering wheel.
Fifty minutes later she approached Wolfe Lake, where her parents’ post-and-beam cottage was located. The moody cello suites and haunting Celtic-inspired compositions that she listened to as she drove, seemed tuned to her surroundings. Fall colours were just starting to paint the
sugar maples with dabs of bright orange, while the birch, elm and oak trees added their own contributions of butter and amber. The crown of a stately autumn blaze maple had turned a brilliant red and the rest of the leaves were well on their way.
As the car gracefully climbed the highway overlooking the lake, Adeena turned up the volume on violinist Nigel Kennedy’s recording of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons that featured Charles Tunnell on cello. The virtuoso violinist’s frenetic, crazed performance was countered with the measured, earthy tones of Tunnell’s cello, providing a deep foundation that filled the car with a sombre contrast to the bittersweet melody.
Adeena turned off the highway towards the cottage, and as if on cue, the next movement in the Four Seasons suite, L’autumno: Adagio molto began to play. She started down the long lane that led directly to her parent’s place, with Vivaldi’s understated composition providing a delicious sense of anticipation. This music seemed to vocalize the quiet serenity of the autumn woodlands. Le quattro stagioni, was a concerto Antonio Vivaldi composed nearly three-hundred years ago, yet The Four Seasons, felt as fresh to Adeena as the day Vivaldi’s quill inked the notes to parchment.
It doesn’t age, she thought.
Adeena pulled the car up in front of the cottage and sat looking at the lake. It was late afternoon, and the loons were feeding, diving under the dark water to fish. She turned the engine off, rolled the windows down, but left the music playing. The Allegro from L’autumno was just finishing.
How appropriate she thought, watching the loons feed. This movement was referred to by Vivaldi as La caccia, (The Hunt) and although the sonnet the Red Priest wrote to accompany it talked of ‘horns and dogs’ it seemed to work equally well for the loons of Wolfe Lake.
ADEENA GOT A roaring fire going in the stone fireplace that dominated an entire wall in her parent’s cottage. She poured herself some wine and got busy making dinner for one.
Her parents had enough food in the basement freezer to survive any catastrophe. Besides individually-wrapped steaks, there was a hefty prime rib, half-dozen lamb shanks, two grain-fed chickens and a selection of frozen beans, berries and rhubarb. There were also homemade pies and maple-glazed shortbread cookies. And if that wasn’t enough, a selection of one-dish meals like her mom’s mini-tourtières, along with a variety of soups and stews were neatly stacked up on the top shelf of the freezer.
Adeena selected a glass container filled with her dad’s butternut squash soup. After gently warming it on the stove, she savoured the aroma rising from the velvety soup infused with nutmeg and cinnamon. She accompanied it with a couple of slices of fresh baguette, a small round of soft Brie, a tangy arugula salad and a glass of cold Pinot Grigio.
As she ate, Adeena browsed the web on her laptop. She had always had a fascination with history, but her recent adventures as Katharine Carnegie gave her added incentive to dig into the past.
She Googled ‘Sir James Carnegie’ as she had done a few times in the past week. She clicked on the second search result that came up: ‘Sir James Carnegie, 3rd Baronet.’ The short article gave no indication of the ruthless character she had twice encountered face-to-face. She noted the reference to the Battle of Culloden and that his younger brother was on the opposing side, supporting the losing Jacobites on the field of battle.
She sat back in her chair, finishing her wine and gazing out at the lake. The sky was painted blood-orange from the setting sun, and the loons were calling to each other. She thought about George, the ‘younger brother’ in the Wikipedia article. He was as intense as the Captain, but completely opposite in his manner toward Katharine.
She put her wine down and typed ‘James Drummond, Duke of Perth’ in the search box of her browser. It returned a list of references including the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Dukes of Perth. She noticed that the first link on the list of search results was for ‘James Drummond, 3rd Duke of Perth’. She clicked on the link, but the progress bar on her browser began to spin like a circus wheel, unable to call up the requested page.
She checked the Wifi indicator on her laptop:
LOOKING FOR NETWORKS…
Damn!
The unpredictable satellite service was on strike again. Adeena closed the laptop still seeing the names and dates from the screen.
These people didn’t seem real with their names and titles listed so neatly on the screen. How could an entire lifetime be reduced to a couple of lines of text? People weren’t just what they did. They were all their emotions and their passions, all of their hopes and dreams. Every tear of pain and each moment of laughter.
Adeena got up from the table and poked at the fire a bit. She placed a heavy log into the fireplace and pulled the black grate closed.
The Duncan Cello leaned close by, waiting patiently.
At last they were alone together.
ADEENA SAT IN the middle of the great room of her parents’ cottage. It was getting dark, but she could still make out the outline of the shore through the cathedral windows that made up the entire wall of the room, a wooden prow reaching outward towards the lake. The view it commanded was something of which she never tired, regardless of time of year or time of day.
She sat on a stool from the dining room, drawing the Duncan Cello toward her. This was her cello after all, she rationalized. She knew everyone would say what she had done was wrong. Only her grandmother would have understood. Margaret Rose would want her to do this, for Katharine.
Adeena began to play the music from the score. Again, almost instantly, clouds filled her mind. She floated among waves of raw feelings and jagged emotions. She felt the ecstasy of creation surging within her. Light and energy pulled her towards a path she could not resist.
This is my music. This is my cello.
Her head was spinning and she felt herself losing control, even as she somehow kept playing. There was a moment of complete blackness, and then she heard a familiar voice. It was close beside her.
“What did you say?” the man asked, pulling her out of the fog.
It was George. They were sitting side-by-side in an enclosed environment. They seemed to be in motion, bumping up and down. Her hand gripped an invisible bow as if she had been playing a phantom cello. She looked around. There was a faint light coming from a small window on the other side of George’s head.
“What?” she asked.
“You spoke something, Katharine, just this moment,” George replied. “I thought I heard you say, ‘This is my cello.’ I take it that you refer to your violoncello, the one fashioned for you by Maestro Duncan of Aberdeen?”
Adeena was still trying to orient herself. There was a hard bump, and she was thrown forward, but George intervened and prevented her from falling into the black wooden slats in front of her.
“Oh, yes. Of course,” Adeena responded. Now it was clear. They were in a moving carriage, and she could hear the driver urging the horses forward, with a snapping crack of his whip and loud admonishments to “Gie oan!”
She looked outside through a tiny window. The light was dim, it was early morning or dusk. She sat on a wooden bench inside the carriage beside George.
“It is your music Katharine, and ’tis the reason for our journey this morn,” George said. “But I fear the Captain will not be pleased, when he learns we have left without his ‘royal’ blessing.”
“Oh yeah, the Captain,” she mumbled, not sure what he was talking about.
George groaned. He glared at her as if she had hurled an insult toward him. “The Captain. Our brother. Your jailer. The turncoat,” he growled. “If not for my deception of the soldiers he had stationed to keep watch o’r you, you would be his prisoner still.”
She considered this wondering what had happened. “How, how did you do it?”
“I dispatched them to Montrose to fetch brandy and swords, arriving on a vessel that I fear will nae make port this fortnight,” he laughed. “They left me to watch you, a role I performed with woeful ineptitude!”
Adeena smiled
as she studied George. He really cared about Katharine. As an only child, Adeena had always wondered what it would be like to have a brother. She liked it, very much. “Thank you, George,” she said, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. “It was sweet of you to look after me.”
“Sweet?” he chuckled. “You never fail to surprise me with your creativity.” He looked away a moment, and then turned to her. “It’s a shame. If not for our brother’s polluted love for London, and his lust for Kinnaird, you would be free to pursue your music. You have a fire inside you that burns to compose, to perform. He is afraid of your gift. He seeks to douse your spirit with his own cowardice.”
Adeena basked in his analysis. Perhaps she and Katharine were the same person, one spirit connected through time by the same creative struggle. Is that why she had never felt complete? Why she was always searching for something more?
They sat in a silence for a while, until the carriage hit a sharp bump and they both bounced high in their seats. George slapped his leg. “I still find it hard to fathom how our brother can turn his back on our family,” he said. “He rebukes even the Countess Dowager of Southesk, Lady Margaret, even though her husband, our cousin the Earl, fought for our cause so long ago.”
Adeena realized that Katharine should know who the Countess and the Earl were. Her cousin? Her cousin’s wife? She was trying to put the pieces together.
“Remind me George, what year was that, when the Earl, er, that is when he fought?” she said, trying to sound innocently forgetful.
“Katharine Carnegie!” George admonished her. “You have heard me talk about the Fifteen so often, and how Earl Carnegie, our cousin, rightful laird of Kinnaird, fought so valiantly.”
Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I Page 16