Heir to Glengyle

by Miriam Macgregor

  Baird’s shoulders lifted slightly. ‘It was the story of a crusty old man not getting his own way. He expected my father to take over his interests and to be ready to step into his shoes. But Father had other ideas. He wanted to build something for himself—which was exactly what Grandfather had done when he’d been young.’

  Amy put in, ‘Naturally, at that time Baird’s grandmother was alive, you understand.’

  Baird went on, ‘To make matters worse, my father and his fiancée decided to emigrate to New Zealand. It was during a period when our immigration laws made this quite easy to do, but because they were not yet married the old man was sure they’d be living in what he called sin. My grandmother became very upset about it, and he declared it brought on her long illness. He never forgave my father, and before his death he made out his will in favour of me instead of his son.’

  The silence which followed his words was broken by Cathie. ‘You are obviously very like your grandfather,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’ he demanded abruptly, his eyes glinting with suspicion.

  She forced a smile. ‘It’s easy to see you’ve inherited more than Glengyle. You’ve also been endowed with his unforgiving streak, and even now you’re well on the way to becoming a crusty old man.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he rasped, his jaw tightening.

  Amy heaved a deep sigh. ‘Well—I suppose there’s no more to be said. I’ll ask Elspeth to put my two suitcases back under the stairs. I can see it’s quite useless.’

  His dark brows shot up. ‘You’d actually reached the suitcase stage? This I can scarcely believe—’

  ‘Yes—but unless Cathie is with me I’ll not budge an inch.’

  Eagerly, he turned to Cathie. ‘You’ll come with us, of course.’

  She returned his gaze steadily. ‘I’m not so sure. I’m not amused by being with a man who resents my presence—and as for staying in his house, that’s the last thing I wish to do.’

  ‘But you’ll do it for Amy’s sake,’ he declared smugly.

  ‘If I refuse to do it, my grandmother will kill me,’ she said.

  Unexpectedly, he reached across the table to take her hand, and, his face unsmiling, he said in a serious tone of voice, ‘Miss Campbell—I hereby invite you to be a guest in this, and in my New Zealand home.’

  She snatched her hand away. ‘I accept, Mr MacGregor—but only on sufferance.’

  Amy became exasperated. ‘Really, you two—if I hear any more of this Mr and Miss business I’ll bang your heads together.’

  Baird laughed. ‘You and who else, Amy?’

  ‘Elspeth will be delighted to help me,’ she snapped at him.

  He laughed again. ‘Before you start I’ll remove myself in the direction of the travel agent. There are arrangements to be made. You don’t mind how soon we leave?’

  She hesitated, then admitted, ‘There’s just one place I’d like to visit before going so far away—if you wouldn’t mind driving me there.’

  His expression and voice softened. ‘You know I’ll take you anywhere, Amy. Where is this place?’ he asked gently.

  She took a deep breath then said, ‘I’ll like to take a last look at the Braes of Balquhidder. There’s a church there—as well as Rob Roy’s grave. Your grandparents often attended church services there, and sometimes, after your grandmother’s death, he would go there to sit alone with his thoughts. Later, after we were married, he occasionally took me to attend a service.’

  ‘I’ll take you tomorrow,’ Baird promised. ‘Today you must rest and makeup for the sleep you lost last night.’ He then turned to Cathie, his face still unsmiling. ‘If you’ll give me your flight ticket I’ll make the necessary arrangements for you to be with us.’

  ‘Thank you—I’ll fetch it,’ Cathie said, and as she went upstairs she felt overwhelmed by Baird’s kindness towards her great-aunt. Unexpectedly, she found herself wishing that the affection he gave to Amy included herself—but it didn’t. He was merely tolerating her presence in his house for Amy’s sake.

  As soon as he’d left Amy was persuaded to return to bed for a short sleep while Elspeth began sorting through clothes she considered should be taken to New Zealand. Cathie found herself unable to get Baird out of her mind, and was conscious of his absence. She felt at a slight loss, so she made her way to the small library where she discovered that one of the shelves held a row of books, each giving a history of the various Scottish clans.

  Here was her chance to learn of her own Clan Campbell, but for some reason she was unable to define she passed over it in favour of the book entitled Clan MacGregor. She carried it to an easy-chair, then settled down to read.

  During the next two hours she became lost in the fighting days of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when most of the clans had been at each other’s throats. The MacGregors had merely done what everyone else was doing, except that they’d done it so much better, until eventually they’d brought sufficient trouble upon their own heads to have the entire clan outlawed and exiled.

  She learnt that this state of affairs had come about in 1602 after a fight at Glenfruin when Clan Colquhoun planned to trap the MacGregors. It had resulted in more than two hundred Colquhoun widows taking their husbands’ blood-stained shirts to lay before James VI at Stirling Castle. Each shirt had been carried on a spear.

  Cathie shuddered at the thought, then continued reading to learn how the MacGregors had then had their lands taken from them, and had been hunted down by bloodhounds and beagles. Nobody who killed a MacGregor could be punished, and Government rewards had been paid for any MacGregor heads brought in. By Act of Parliament they had not been permitted to use the name of MacGregor.

  Years later, because of the clan’s support, the Act was repealed by Charles II. The words gave Cathie a feeling of relief until she read on to discover that it had been renewed by William of Orange when the clan had ranged itself on the side of the Jacobites, and Bonny Prince Charlie. Not until 1775, she learnt, had the penal statutes against the MacGregors finally been repealed.

  She had become so engrossed that she failed to hear Baird’s return until a sound caused her to look up and discover him watching her from the doorway. The expression on his face made her feel as if she’d been caught spying, but she met his gaze defiantly.

  ‘You’re taking the opportunity to read about your clan history?’ he queried, coming further into the room.

  ‘No—I’ve been delving into your clan history,’ she admitted with satisfaction. ‘Most interesting, I must say—especially the story of the Glenfruin fight and its results.’ She left the chair and replaced the book on the shelf, then swept past him to leave the room, but paused in the doorway to fling at him vehemently, ‘Don’t you dare throw Campbell atrocities at me. Your own clan has a long list that will match any you can produce.’ And, feeling she had won that particular round, she ran upstairs.

  A short time later he handed her flight ticket across the lunch table. She saw that its Economy class had been altered to Singapore Raffles class, which was more expensive and gave greater comfort. ‘I shall pay the difference,’ she declared with dignity.

  ‘You can argue about it with Amy,’ he retorted coldly.

  But when Amy vowed she knew nothing about it Cathie realised that Baird had paid the extra money and that she’d have little hope of forcing him to accept repayment. She then regretted her words to him in the library.

  * * *

  The next afternoon Cathie found herself in the back seat of Amy’s car while Baird drove them to Balquhidder. The road left Crieff to twist and wind through hilly tree-studded valleys, passing solidly built country homesteads with their equally solidly built barns. At times the roadside was colourful with a tall pink or white feathery weed, but it was the purple of the hillside heather that really caused her to catch her breath in sheer delight.

  There were times when Baird caught and held her gaze in the rear-view mirror, his frowning reflection causing he
r to wonder if he resented her presence as much as she suspected. In an effort to brush away the feeling of discomfort she dragged her attention away towards the black-faced sheep and brown shaggy-coated Highland cattle grazing peacefully in the fields.

  The long narrow waters of Loch Earn were seen through the trees, and at its head Amy gave directions to turn left, and a couple of miles further on to turn right. ‘This road leads to the Braes of Balquhidder and Loch Voil,’ she informed them.

  ‘What are braes?’ Cathie felt compelled to ask.

  ‘They’re slopes at the sides of a river valley,’ Amy explained. ‘And a narrow valley is what we call a glen.’

  The tree-lined road followed the contour of the hills through the glen, eventually reaching a small hillside church with its cluster of graves. Beside it were the stone-walled ruins of an earlier church, while only a short distance away the still waters of Lock Voil lay glistening at the base of encircling heather-clad hills.

  Baird drove up the short rise and stopped the car in the church parking area. He opened the door for Amy, who got out a little stiffly with one hand gripping her walking stick, and he then led her towards the headstones.

  Cathie lingered behind, hesitating to intrude into these moments of nostalgia, but Amy’s voice called to her.

  ‘Come over here, dear. I’ll show you the grave of the most famous MacGregor of them all. You’ve heard of Rob Roy, of course. He has become a Robin Hood type of legend and was the finest guerilla fighter of his day.’

  Cathie joined them to stand at the grave which contained the remains of not only Rob Roy, but also of his wife Mary, and two of his sons. On the simple dark stone above them were three words. ‘MACGREGOR DESPITE THEM.’

  Amy went on to explain, ‘Those words come from the old song, “The MacGregors’ Gathering”, which state, “MacGregor despite them shall flourish forever.” They’re easily understood when you know of the clan’s trials and tribulations, and how they were outlawed.’

  Her words were followed by a silence broken only by the singing of a thrush. It was perched directly behind them on the stone gable of the ruined church with its date of 1631, and as they turned to look up at it Amy said casually, ‘No doubt you know that Rob Roy’s mother was a Campbell, therefore when his own name was forbidden to be used he took the name of Campbell.’

  Cathie began to giggle. ‘Yes—I read about it yesterday in the library.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry—one shouldn’t laugh in a cemetery.’

  The thrush sang even louder. It was almost as though it understood the situation, and was also having a hearty laugh.

  Baird took Amy’s arm again and they made their way towards the more recent church that stood on higher ground. It appeared to be built of stone similar to the ruined church, and as she entered its cool interior Cathie became conscious of its peaceful atmosphere.

  Strangely, the frustrations that Baird seemed to stir within her were wiped away, and she felt an inner happiness while standing beside him to run her hand over the font which had been gouged out of a large hunk of local stone at some unknown earlier date.

  The feeling of peace was still with her as they stood close together to examine the bell of the old church which bore the date of 1684. But suddenly her spirits plummeted as she learnt that the Session Chest upon which it rested had belonged to ‘Black Duncan’ Campbell of Glenorchy who had died in 1631, and who had been a ruthless persecutor of Clan MacGregor.

  The knowledge made her feel sick, and she moved from Baird’s side to where Amy was putting money in the donation box. Baird followed her, and as she opened her handbag to follow Amy’s example he spoke in a dry tone.

  ‘I trust the spirits in this place won’t look upon that as tainted money.’

  Amy caught his words. She looked at him in a reproving manner then said, ‘Come—I’ll show you where your grandparents used to sit.’ She then led the way towards the front pews, the firm tapping of her walking stick indicating that she was displeased.

  Baird and Cathie followed meekly until they were four pews from the front, where Amy had paused.

  ‘Cathie, sit in there,’ the older woman commanded while pointing at the pew seat with her stick. ‘Baird, you will sit beside her. You will hold her hand.’

  A faint smile played about his lips as he sat beside Cathie and took her hand. ‘What is this, Amy? What are you driving at?’ he queried as though humouring her.

  ‘You are now sitting where your grandfather always sat when he came to this church. Think about it,’ she ordered with an impatient tap on the floor with her stick.

  There was silence for a few moments before he said, ‘OK—I’ve thought. So what?’

  ‘You mentioned the spirits in this place,’ Amy reminded him. ‘Ask them to remove the antagonism that lies between yourself and Cathie—who is sitting where your grandmother always sat.’

  He grinned. ‘Are you sure they could do that?’

  ‘If you could contact your grandfather he’d soon tell you what to do,’ Amy declared with conviction.

  Baird’s brows rose. ‘You reckon? So what would that be?’

  ‘He’d tell you to take that girl in your arms and kiss her—now.’ The stick positively banged on the floor.

  Baird turned to look at Cathie, whose cheeks had become pink. ‘I’ve just had a message from above,’ he told her gravely, then took her in his arms and kissed her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CATHIE felt shaken by the pressure of Baird’s lips on her own. She had not expected him to take Amy seriously—nor had she expected the tingling sensations that shot through her own body as his arms went about her. Also—a casual caress to satisfy Amy she could have understood, but this was something more than a mere butterfly kiss. It held a hint of suppressed passion.

  As it ended she looked at him in a startled, wide-eyed manner while searching for signs that he had experienced at least a little of her own blood-racing reaction; but his inscrutable face betrayed no emotion, and his arms dropped to his sides as quickly as they’d clasped her to him.

  He stood up and stepped away from the pew. ‘Does that satisfy you, Amy?’ he asked, sounding faintly amused.

  ‘It does for the moment,’ she conceded, a gleam of interest appearing in her bright blue eyes as they darted from Cathie to Baird. ‘Some day you’ll both learn that life is too short for quarrels.’

  Cathie heard her words only dimly. She was making an effort to pull herself together, and, while she was still conscious of the turbulence within her own mind, she suspected that Baird was completely unmoved. He was as cool as a breeze off the loch, she decided.

  And then Amy complained that she was missing her afternoon tea. ‘Couldn’t we buy a few sweeties?’ she pleaded. ‘There’s a shop further along the road.’

  They went back to the car and Baird drove the short distance to where a small stone building offered various commodities. Cathie remained with Amy while he went in, and when he returned he carried a bag of liquorice allsorts, a red and green tartan tin of clear golden Scotch barley sugar, and a postcard, which he handed to Cathie.

  ‘That’s for you,’ he said abruptly as he slid into his seat behind the wheel. ‘It will help you remember.’

  She took it from him wonderingly, then realised it was of the present Balquhidder church, its nearby ruin and graves, while beyond them the blue waters of Loch Voil lapped the base of the tree- and heather-clad hills.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said at last, and while still gazing at the postcard she began to wonder if it was meant to help her remember this place—or the kiss in the church. ‘Did you buy one for yourself?’ she queried casually.

  ‘There was no need. I’ll not forget this place.’ The reply came in an offhand manner, and the subject was then brushed aside as he turned to Amy with a question. ‘Is there any other area you’d like to visit?’

  She thought for a moment then said, ‘Yes—I’d like to go to the Trossachs Wool Shop near Callander. It’s not ma
ny miles from here. The Trossachs are woodland glens, you understand.’

  ‘You have a special purchase in mind?’ Baird asked.

  She nodded. ‘A brushed shoulder cape to take to my sister, and a tartan poncho for my niece. And I’d like to see Cathie in a nice kilt skirt.’

  Cathie sat forward to protest. ‘Amy, there’s no need—’

  ‘You have one already?’ Amy demanded over her shoulder.

  ‘No—but—’

  ‘Then don’t argue about it. This gives me pleasure. How much pleasure do you think I get these days?’ She waited for an answer but when none came she went on, ‘I’ll buy you one in Campbell tartan with plenty of green in it.’

  ‘Thank you, Amy,’ Cathie said in a small voice, then, watching Baird’s reflection in the rear-view mirror, she noticed his lips become compressed. He’s annoyed about it, she thought, then decided it must be her imagination. Surely he couldn’t care less about what she wore. No—of course he couldn’t, therefore she relaxed and looked forward to visiting the wool shop.

  They found it to be full of tourists, all appearing to be anxious to spend money, and as Cathie gazed at the colourful tartan garments she seemed to be wafted into a hazy dream. The pleated kilt that Amy insisted upon buying for her was dark blue and green with a narrow yellow stripe. It buckled on either side of her waist, and when Amy became determined to purchase a matching green pullover Cathie knew it would be useless to argue.

  ‘Keep them on,’ Amy requested when Cathie made a move to change back into the clothes she’d been wearing. ‘The day has turned much cooler, and besides, you look so nice.’

  Cathie obeyed, not only because she wished to please Amy, but also because she felt so comfortable in the garments.

  They went to find Baird, whose attention had been caught by the piles of tartan rugs stacked on shelves, but instead of affording Cathie’s new outfit so much as a second glance he appeared to be intent upon giving them minute examination by checking their size, scrutinising the weave and running his fingers over the nap.