An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  At the first halting place Iona left the stuffy confining atmosphere inside the coach and climbed on to the roof, glorying in the sharp air as it whipped the colour into her cheeks, and quite unmindful of the stares of the other travellers. She was indeed oblivious of everything save the beauty of the scenery. She did not even notice how hard her seat was, or miss the warmth of a rug that sheltered the legs of the more experienced voyagers.

  She felt as if a psalm of thanksgiving were rising within her. This was Scotland, and thank God it was as beautiful and as wonderful as she had imagined it, no, more than that, for her imagination had fallen far short of the truth.

  The heavy morning mist had risen and in an hour or so the sun came out. How often Iona had heard her guardian talk of the lights on the hills! Now she understood what he meant as the sun and clouds cast a pageant of light and shadow over the landscape, while the waters of Loch Ness, beside which the roadway ran, varied from a blue, vivid as the Madonna’s robe, to the cool depths of a great emerald.

  The road surface was bad and the stagecoach was slow. There were frequent halts to set passengers down or take more aboard. Halfway through the morning they changed horses and the travellers took the opportunity to buy food at a wayside inn. Iona found that after such a light breakfast she was both hungry and thirsty and she ate with relish a big scone made of oatmeal and drank a small glass of ale.

  It was while they were waiting to go aboard the coach again that Iona noticed something strange. Two men were approaching along the road. Big men, gaunt faced and bearded, they were strangely dressed. Their coats, ragged and dirty, were ordinary enough, but round their waists, dropping to their knees, they each wore a piece of coarse camlet. Iona wondered for a moment if these were the kilts of which she had heard so much, then to her astonishment she saw that each man carried suspended from a stick a pair of breeches. She was so surprised that she turned to a man standing next to her and said,

  “Forgive my asking you, sir, but why are those men carrying their nether garments over their shoulder?”

  The man gave her a sharp glance of suspicion. Then as if reassured by the innocent inquiry on her face, he replied gravely,

  “Dinna ye ken that the kilt has been forbidden and the English law says that a mon just tak’ tae breeches?”

  “No, I have not heard that,” Iona replied. “I have but just arrived in this country. I thought all Scotsmen wore the kilt.”

  “Aye, we did that,” was the answer. “There’s nae doot but that it was the sensible dress for a mon who has to live in this climate an’ who has to climb hills an’ ford rivers. But the English hae decreed that every man must hae a pair o’ breeches. Only the law dinna specify on what part o’ the body the breeches are to be worn. So there ye see my gallant countrymen obeying the law.”

  The two men passed by at that moment and went on down the long dusty road, their breeches dangling from off their shoulders like scarecrows in the wind.

  Quite unexpectedly Iona felt the tears come into her eyes. Despite the dire punishment, cruelty and tyranny of their English masters the spirit of independence was still alive in Scottish breasts.

  She spoke to no one else until at three o’clock in the afternoon the coach arrived at Fort Augustus. It was but a small place. A few stone crofts were clustered round the pompous authority of the stone fort built after the Rising in ’15. Outside this lounged several English soldiers in their red coats and white breeches, uncomfortably conscious of the dark looks and sidelong glances of enmity which every countryman gave them in passing.

  *

  The coach drew up at the inn, which was low built and had a drear, unwelcoming appearance. It was here that Iona had been told in Inverness that she must hire a private carriage to take her to Skaig Castle.

  She made inquiries of a dour innkeeper who appeared to think her request a peculiar one, but grudgingly promised that a conveyance of some sort would be ready in half an hour. To pass the time Iona seated herself in the parlour, a dismal, sparsely furnished apartment without a fire and with only the comfort of an embroidered text to cheer the wayfarer.

  Iona had not waited there more than a few minutes when she heard a loud-voiced altercation going on in the next room.

  “I tell ye, dolt,” said a woman, “that it is taemorrow His Grace sent word that her Ladyship was a-comin’, not taeday.”

  “Weel, please yersel’, but either His Grace or yer ain hearin’ was at fault, wooman, for the lady is here.”

  “It canna be the same,” was the reply, “for why would her Ladyship be arrivin’ on the stagecoach? Do ladies o’ quality travel on the stagecoach, I ask ye?”

  “I ken naething of their doings,” a man’s voice replied, “but there canna be twa ladies a-goin’ tae the castle.”

  “Why not?” the woman asked sharply. “Dinna blether, I’ll go an’ see for mysel’.”

  As Iona expected, there was the sound of footsteps and a moment later the door of the parlour was opened. An elderly woman stood there, her greying hair drawn back sharply with almost undue severity from her lined forehead and wrinkled face, giving, her a look of age in strange contrast to the bright, alert shrewdness of her blue eyes. She wore a white apron and her arms, which were bare to the elbow, showed signs of flour as if she had been busy baking. She looked at Iona and dropped a curtsey.

  “Yer pardon, my Lady, but ye required o’ m’ husband that a conveyance should be made ready tae tak’ yer Ladyship tae the castle. His Grace wasna expectin’ ye until taemorrow when a carriage was to hae been sent frae the castle tae carry yer Ladyship the last part o’ the journey.”

  “I think you have made a mistake,” Iona replied, “I have indeed asked for a conveyance to carry me to Skaig Castle, but I am not expected.”

  The woman’s expression seemed to alter.

  “Then ye are not Lady Wrexham?”

  “Indeed not!”

  The woman came further into the room.

  “Ye must pardon me for the mistake, ma’am,” she said. “We hae but few visitors o’ quality save guests for the castle, an’ His Grace is kind enough tae notify us when they are expected.”

  “As I have said, His Grace is not expecting me,” Iona answered, “but I would be grateful indeed for your assistance in reaching the castle.”

  The woman kept looking at her and Iona was well aware that her curiosity was growing.

  “’Tis strange,” she said at length, “an ye must pardon ma presumption, ma’am, but I canna help thinkin’ that I hae seen ye somewhere afore. ’Tis nae the first time ye hae come tae Skaig?”

  “Indeed it is,” Iona answered, “and my first visit to Scotland, though I am a Scot myself.”

  “There’s nae doot about that when I looks at yer bonny face an’ the colour o’ yer hair,” the woman replied. “Yer parents must hae had guid Scottish blood in them.”

  But Iona was not to be drawn into discussing her ancestry.

  “I have come from France,” she said. “The ship in which I travelled only reached Inverness last night.”

  “Frae France!” the woman said strangely. She crossed the room and shut the door. Then she turned and asked in a low voice,

  “Hae ye heard aught o’ him in France?”

  There was no need to ask who “him” was, and Iona’s heart warmed instantly towards the woman to whom the very mention of France meant news of the Prince. At the same time she knew she must be cautious. This might be a trap. Whatever she did, she must not jeopardise her position by unwary speech.

  The woman saw the hesitation in her face, and as if she understood what Iona was feeling, she crossed the room to stand near her.

  “Ye needna fash aboot me, ma’am,” she said. “I was a Mackenzie afore I were wed. Ma brother was killed at Preston pans, an’ after Culloden the English set fire tae his hoose an’ farm an’ turned his wifie an’ the bairns oot tae starve. Ma husband took nae part in the Risin’, but once a Mackenzie always a Mackenzie, an’ it’s a Jacob
ite I’ll be tae ma death.”

  There was no mistaking the woman’s sincerity. She spoke with a passion that seemed strangely at variance with her austere, Puritan-like appearance. Impulsively Iona put out her hand and laid it on the older woman’s arm.

  “The Prince is well and in good heart,” she said softly.

  “God be praised!” the woman answered. “Maybe afore I die I’ll see him come tae his ain agin.”

  She picked up the corner of her apron and wiped her eyes with it. Iona considered a moment and then, daring the question, she asked,

  “Are there many that are still loyal to him round here?” The woman glanced over her shoulder as if she suspected someone might be listening in the comer of the room.

  “Aye,” she answered, “‘but many are fear’t an’ the English hae spies everywhere.”

  “As bad as that?” Iona asked.

  “An’ worse,” the woman said sharply. “Be careful wi’ whom ye speak, ma’am, especially in the castle.”

  “In the castle?”

  Iona repeated the words almost in a whisper. The woman nodded.

  “You mean – with the Duke?” Iona questioned.

  “I’m saying naething, for indeed I ken naething,” the woman answered. “I’m only warnin’ ye, keep guard on yer tongue, ma’am, when ye reach Skaig.”

  She turned briskly away and Iona thought that perhaps she was offended, but a second later she realized that the woman’s quick ears had heard her husband approaching. When she opened the door, he entered the room.

  “There’s a vehicle ootside,” he said gruffly. “If it’s nae what yer Ladyship’s accustomed tae, dinna blame me. His Grace was expectin’ ye taemorrow.”

  “This is nae Lady Wrexham, ye fule,” his wife said sharply, “it’s – ” She turned toward Iona. “Indeed, ma’am, I hae forgotten. What were ye sayin’ was yer name?”

  Iona smiled.

  “I did not mention my name,” she replied, “but I am not Lady Wrexham.”

  She gave both the innkeeper and his wife a sweet smile before moving with dignity from the parlour across the hall to the open door.

  The coach they had produced for her was old and creaky, the upholstery stained and torn, the glass in the windows cracked and patched with paper. Indeed the whole conveyance was badly in need of a coat of paint and the handle was off one of the doors. But it had four wheels and as the two horses that drew it were sturdy, well-fed creatures, Iona was able to thank the innkeeper with a note of real sincerity in her voice.

  She stepped into the coach, which smelt of musty hay. The coachman whipped up the horses and they were off. They turned north and were soon climbing uphill over a narrow track flanked by purple moors which rose higher and higher until they merged into rocky, barren mountains.

  Soon after they started there was a sharp shower of rain that proved the roof of the coach to be anything but rainproof as the wet trickled through the ill fitting, cracked window panes and ran in little streams on the floor. But when it was over, the sun came out again and the countryside seemed even lovelier than it had been before. There was a glistening radiance over sky and moor, and when Iona saw a golden eagle hovering against the translucent heavens. She felt as if her whole heart leapt out towards it to be at one with the brilliance and beauty of this new world.

  After an hour’s pull uphill the coachman drew his horses to a standstill. Iona put her head out of the window.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  In answer the man pointed with a whip.

  “Yon’s the castle,” he answered.

  Iona stared in the direction in which he pointed and turning the handle of the door, got out.

  For a moment the wind took her by surprise. It seemed as if it would carry her off her feet. It swept her cloak around her, the sharp sting in its violence making Iona feel as if she were dressed in paper, and then what she saw below made her catch her breath and forget everything else.

  She stood on the summit of a hill, and the road wound downwards to a great loch bounded by mountains, their steep sides reflected in the still water. The rays of the setting sun pointed across the centre of the loch like a finger of light, turning to sparkling gold the turrets and towers and massive keep of a castle. Built on an island and joined only to the mainland by a narrow bridge, it appeared to Iona at that moment to be a fairy palace of almost ethereal loveliness.

  It stood there proudly, not overawed or dwarfed by the height and majesty of the surrounding mountains, its massive stone bastions seeming a part of the landscape.

  How long Iona stood staring at the castle she had no idea. She was conscious only of some strange emotion within herself, something she did not understand, but which stirred her to the very depths of her soul.

  The wild beauty of the whole scene, the dark bareness of the mountains, the depth, length and breadth of the loch and the golden glory of the castle itself seemed to impress themselves into her consciousness so that she could forget everything but her sense of kinship. It was the coachman who recalled her to the urgencies ahead.

  “Whit aboot gettin’ along, mistress?” he asked, and Iona climbed back into the coach.

  Slowly, the horses holding back the heavy vehicle with difficulty, they descended. The road wound backwards and forwards across the heather-covered hillside. As they dropped lower, the mountains seemed to get higher. They were no longer in the sunshine. It was dark, and one had to look upwards towards the sky for light.

  They drew nearer and nearer still to the bridge connecting the island with the mainland, and when at last Iona heard the horses’ hoofs clatter over it and looked out to see the castle towering above her, she felt the blood drain from her face and almost a paralysis sweep over her.

  It was bigger, far bigger and far more frightening than it had appeared from the top of the mountain. They passed under a watchtower and into a great courtyard, and now the castle was no longer golden and ethereal. The walls were grey and foreboding, the windows were narrow, some of them mere arrow slits in the massive towers.

  The coach stopped. At the top of a flight of stone steps was a huge oak door studded with iron nails. It was closed and Iona had a sense of panic. She must go back! She could not go through with this! It had been easy enough in France to agree to arrive unannounced and present her credentials. Colonel Brett had thought she was more likely to gain an entrance this way than if she wrote to the Duke and waited at some adjacent town or inn for his reply.

  It had seemed easy to be daring when they had talked about it at a comfortable distance, but it was hard to do what they had agreed now that the moment had come to put their plans into action.

  Iona sat very still in the coach, her fingers pressed together as if she must take courage from herself. The coachman descended and pulled at the bell-chain hanging on one side of the door. Minutes passed, then at last the door swung open and the coachman let down the steps for Iona to alight. Iona opened her lips to speak, but when her voice came it sounded strange even to her own ears.

  “Leave my trunk on the coach,” she said. “I may wish to return.”

  The man looked surprised, but Iona gave him no time to answer. She stepped in through the front door and the flunkey closed it behind her.

  “Your pleasure, ma’am?” he inquired.

  “I have called to see – the Duchess,” Iona replied.

  She meant to ask, for the Duke, but at the last moment her heart failed her. It would be easier to talk with a woman – especially a woman who might still be grieving for a child she had lost many years ago.

  The servant preceded Iona through a great hall and up a magnificent staircase then opened a door off a wide landing hung with tapestries.

  “Your name, ma’am?”

  Iona had been anticipating this question.

  “Will you tell Her Grace that I have come from France especially to wait on her? My name would convey nothing.”

  The servant bowed and Iona was alone. She was in a huge r
oom, and even though its size and magnificence awed her, she could not help responding to the beauty of its furnishings. Never in her whole life had she seen anything to equal the heavy velvet hangings of crimson and gold or the high backed needlework chairs, the polished furniture, the great gilt mirrors and fine portraits in carved and decorated frames. Four big windows reaching almost from ceiling to floor opened out on a balcony, and beyond Iona could see the loch, misty now in the evening twilight, the mountains black against the sable sky.

  She stood waiting, too tense to sit and too frightened even to move from the position she had first taken up on entering the room. Then the door opened. She gave a little gasp and turned towards it, only to see not a woman, as she expected, but two footmen resplendent in claret-covered livery with silver buttons, bearing lighted tapers.

  There was a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the centre of the room. At the footmen’s touch each candle sprang into life. There were also candles in glittering crystal sconces on either side of the mantelpiece and on the other walls.

  The footmen moved quickly and silently. When the candles were lit, they drew the curtains, shook up the cushions and one man placed a log on the fire before they withdrew. Iona felt as if she must be invisible for they did not even glance at her, intent only on arranging the room as if they were setting a stage for a drama that had not yet begun.

  Now that the curtains were drawn, she felt enclosed, a prisoner. Yet it was impossible not to appreciate the beauty of the prison. For the first time she thought of her own appearance. A few steps brought her to a gilt table above which hung a mirror. It was carved with cupids supporting a crown and the glass was slightly iridescent with age, but Iona could see herself clearly.

  Her face was small and white beneath her dark hood, yet the curling riotousness of her hair, which would never lie smooth, caught the light of the candles and gleamed vivid as a flame against her forehead. Her eyes were very wide, the pupils dilated. Her lips were red – a vivid contrast to the pallor of her face.