by Jane Peart
It wasn't enough to look like Cara. For that kind of kiss she had to he Cara. Kitty knew that she loved Kip, would go on loving him for the rest of her life. She couldn't help it.
Part VI
Birchfields, England
Spring, 1914
chapter 21
GARNET'S FIRST pleasure in receiving a letter from Jonathan soon faded. It was clear by its tone that he was seriously depressed.
"This house is like a mausoleum, Aunt 'Net," he had written. "I wander around like some kind of ghost myself, going from room to room, trying to remember what it was like when there was life here . . . like it used to be. I find myself wishing back the very things that used to bother Davida—the noise of children and dogs. I think sometimes I'm losing my mind— No, don't worry, it's not that bad. It's just that I think about the old days too much.
Suddenly that summer—remember the summer o f ' 9 7 when we all came over to England to celebrate the Jubilee?—seems to have been the happiest time of my life. I know I shouldn't live in the past, but I can't believe that part of my life is over, that Kendall and Meredith are grown and gone, and that I'm sliding into middle age . . . alone."
Garnet's immediate reaction was to write him at once, insisting that he come to Birchfields on the next available ship and spend some time with her. Then, perhaps, she could persuade him to go up to Scotland for a vacation, a little hiking and fishing. She recalled how that sort of thing had always refreshed and renewed Jeremy.
To her relief, Jonathan responded by return mail, agreeing to come for a visit. But when he arrived at Birchfields, Garnet was gravely concerned, not only for his state of mind, but his appearance. He had lost a great deal of weight, looked tired, and his eyes had a haunted expression.
It was his emotional condition, however, that concerned her most. Jonathan had always had a buoyant spirit, an ability to weather the many storms life had dealt him from the start—losing his mother at an early age, not ever getting to know his father, being transplanted to an alien part of the country, where he grew up with his northern cousins. Throughout it all, Jonathan had maintained an optimistic outlook. If he had not been happy, at least he had remained cheerful and never burdened anyone else with his problems.
Now that positive view seemed sadly missing, and it frightened Garnet. She had to use all her persuasive powers to get him to follow her suggestion about the trip to Scotland. Although finally he agreed to go, even his apathy while complying disturbed her, for it was so unlike the Jonathan she had known and loved all these years.
From London, Jonathan was to take the overnight train to Edinburgh. As he left his hack and entered the station, a stop at an information booth warned him that the "Highlander" was already being boarded. Juggling his suitcases as well as a "tea basket" that Garnet's cook had prepared for him for the journey, Jonathan hurried through the doors out into the departure area.
A porter approached him right away, tipping his hat, and shouting above the din, "Your baggage, sir?" At Jonathan's nod, he made a grab for the two valises Jonathan was carrying. Then with a look around, he frowned. "No fishing gear or golf clubs?"
"None," Jonathan replied as he surrendered the leather cases.
"None?" echoed the porter in disbelief, as if going to Scotland without at least one was a kind of sacrilege.
Jonathan shook his head, knowing from the look on the fellow's face that no explanation would satisfy.
"First Class, sir?" was the next question. To this, Jonathan gave an affirmative nod.
Leading the way down the platform, the porter hurried to one of the few compartments whose door remained open even as the guard was moving quickly down the length of the train, slamming and securing the doors to the other compartments in the carriage.
The porter shoved the two suitcases onto the floor of the compartment, then turned. "There you are, sir, and 'ave a pleasant journey." To Jonathan's amusement, there was a note of doubt in his voice as to whether a trip to Scotland that did not include fishing or playing golf could be either enjoyable or worthwhile.
The train started up, gathering speed as it moved out from under the gloom of the station, while Jonathan settled himself comfortably. He was the only occupant, for which he was grateful. He would not be under any obligation to engage in conversation with some traveler craving companionship. It was not his nature to shun company, but over the past year and a half, he had been a stranger, even to himself.
It was probably a good thing that Aunt 'Net had persuaded him to take this trip to Scotland, the land of his Montrose ancestors. Perhaps he could do a little exploring, some sightseeing, maybe even take a ferry over to the Island of Skye. Yes, he'd have to do that. He was already beginning to feel a stirring of interest, a small sense of adventure at taking off on this serendipitous journey.
He had bought a guidebook, Historic Scotland, The Land and Its People, and planned to base his tour on the various suggestions to travelers. Mainly he intended to visit points of historic importance. He would arrive in Edinburgh the next morning and from there would map out the rest of his trip.
He recalled having debated the wisdom of accepting Aunt Garnet's invitation to Birchfields, precisely because it still held memories of his last visit there with Davida. That had been a bittersweet time when happiness, which had seemed to elude them for so long, again seemed a possibility. But his aunt had insisted, and finally Jonathan, unable to bear another spring at Montclair, had on impulse cabled her that he was coming. Before he changed his mind, he had gone to Richmond, then to New York, and booked passage on the first boat leaving for England.
His good sense told him that for the rest of his life everything would remind him in some ways of the past. He should try to apply all the good advice he had received since Davida's tragic death and build a new life for himself. It was easy to make the resolution, harder to put it into practice, he had discovered, but he was determined to try. This journey would be a good test of his resolve.
In Edinburgh, he boarded another train for Glasgow, and as the train left the city behind and rumbled out into the countryside, Jonathan got his first real glimpse of Scotland, the land of myth and legend.
The train rattled on its way, and Jonathan leaned forward, eagerly taking in the scenery. They passed through green stretches of land flanked by lavender hills, pulled to a screeching stop in picturesque towns full of whitewashed houses, window boxes trailing pink and purple petunias, then clattered into a valley cut deep into a pine-clustered hillside.
Jonathan thought it might be interesting to look up the places from which his Scottish ancestors had come. So, very soon after he had found lodging, he studied the map and, noticing a small town called Arbroath on the east coast, with the name Montrose appearing some six miles north, he decided to go there first.
He spent a pleasant day, rambling among the ruins. In the old church that was still standing, Jonathan learned that at ten each evening, the huge bell of St. Peter, cast in Rotterdam in 1676, was still rung to signal curfew. The castle, dating back to the tenth century, was the residence of King Edward I in 1296, though one year later it was razed to the ground by Scottish nationalists under William Wallace.
Amused, Jonathan scribbled on a postcard to Garnet: "Everything here is so very old that it makes America, even our historic Virginia, seem quite young by comparison!"
His interest in Scottish history taking its impetus from this first foray, Jonathan became quite excited at what he was learning. He began to love the countryside in which he was traveling. These stony cliffs, bulwarks against invading hordes, had given Scotland the independence born of solitude, while golden broom kindled a fiery glow on the hillsides under gray, cloud-laden skies.
He roamed the hills, the rough fern called bracken rustling in a chill breeze, the rising mist dampening his hair and cheeks. The peaty soil was soft under his boots, and he walked for a while under the tarnished sky, deep in thought.
He visited Glencoe, the site of the Massacre o
f February 13, 1692, remembered in infamy by most Scotsmen. The slaughter of the Clan Macdonald by the Clan Campbell, after they had been guests, was a horrifying betrayal of traditional Scottish hospitality. The ostensible reason for the attack was that old Maclan, Chief of the Clencoe Clan Macdonald, had not signed the oath of allegiance to William of Orange, the Dutch King of England. Jonathan was reminded of his grandfather Montrose, who had also refused to sign a loyalty oath after the War Between the States.
What a confirmation that human history repeats itself century after century, Jonathan could not help thinking, probably because human nature, if unchanged by God, continues in its violence, its savagery, its bloodletting. This haunted glen was a stark reminder of man's inhumanity to man.
Next, Jonathan visited Culloden, the ancient moorland on which the legendary Bonnie Prince Charlie fought for independence from the English. They stood no chance against a stronger foe, although the battle would go down in history as the gallant attempt of brave men to maintain their freedom.
Only a stone cairn stood as a modest memorial to their valor, if not the wisdom of their command. Mounds still marked the graves, the Highlanders lying with their clansmen in death, the English in a field nearby.
As Jonathan was contemplating this disaster, not unlike some of the Confederate battles fought in a hopeless cause, he saw the slim figure of a girl on a bicycle coming down the hill on the opposite side, watched her bend quickly over a grave, then remount her vehicle and pedal away.
Curious, he walked over to the headstone and saw a single golden daffodil, placed carefully on the rough marker over the name, Clan Stewart McPherson. McPherson. He repeated the name to himself, and the image of the pert young woman who had been employed as nanny to the children that enchanted summer at Birchfields, came briefly to mind. Phoebe McPherson. Wasn't that her name?
With some daylight left, he consulted his brochure once more, deciding to follow the road to Argyll into the land of Badenoch, and after several stops, found himself in Kingaren. It was a pleasant little town, hardly more than a village, with a cluster of houses built of gray stone and sturdy slate, hills all around and a river mumbling along nearby.
Lodgings, he was informed, were to be found at the local inn, where Jonathan found the most pleasant surprise of his trip.
Entering the large lounge, comfortably furnished with big easy chairs arranged around the stone fireplace where a splendid fire was burning, Jonathan saw that it was nearly empty, with only one or two people dozing or reading.
A tall man behind the registration desk looked up as Jonathan approached. He looked to be a typical Highlander, Jonathan mused, with his craggy features and ruddy complexion, and when he greeted Jonathan, his burr was pronounced. He introduced himself as Gordon McPherson, innkeeper, adding proudly that "Badenoch is McPherson country."
Jonathan's ears pricked up. Recently he had begun to think of Miss McPherson again, the young governess he had met that long-ago summer of the family reunion. Perhaps being in her native country had brought her to mind. To find that he had landed in the middle of her clan's territory seemed a strange coincidence.
"I have rooms, to be sure," said the innkeeper, rolling his r's delightfully. "But I'm very much afraid (sounding, to Jonathan's ear, like verra mooch afred) that ye've arrived past the dinner hour. Still—" he went on with a sly twinkle in intensely blue eyes, "no Highlander would iver send a guest to his bed hungry!"
Shown to a low-ceilinged room, its shiny brass bed piled high with pillows and quilts, Jonathan stowed his suitcases and washed up. Then he descended the staircase and returned to the now empty dining room, where a supper of poached salmon, potatoes, and hot tea awaited him as promised, served by the innkeeper himself.
Mr. McPherson then proceeded to keep Jonathan company while he ate his delicious meal. After learning that he was an American and that his ancestors were Highlanders, his host became loquacious and proved to be a great raconteur.
Pointing to an oil portrait hanging over the massive sideboard, he declared, "That's one of me illustrious ancestresses," he said and launched into a recital of her story. The Lady Jean was a supporter of Prince Charles and the Stuart cause. Her husband, a regular army officer who was expected to serve the king, whoever he might be, was on the other side.
As he listened to the tale of a family split over an issue that divided their country, Jonathan was sharply reminded of his own mother, Rose Meredith, and his father, Malcolm Montrose, who were bitterly estranged over the issue of slavery in the final years of their marriage before her premature death in a fire at Montclair.
Mr. McPherson spoke on about his little country's stormy history, with deep wounds not yet healed. Relics of their indomitable spirit filled the room—the shattered fiddle of one Jamie McPherson who was hanged for cattle theft, yet broke his instrument over his knee before he swung, saying, "No ither shall play my fiddle"; the McPhersons' green war banner, draped over the chimney place; and the set of bagpipes said to have survived the clan battles of the fourteenth century.
The more Gordon told him of the glorious and tragic history of his people, the more fascinated Jonathan became.
"Tis too bad, though, that Christianity, comin' to us from Scotia," said Gordon, "has not done much to lift our spirits, lad. I fear 'tis the pride in us that makes it hard to bend to God or man!"
There was a companionable silence as Jonathan sipped the last of his tea and Gordon took a long draw on his pipe before continuing. "And we've lost some of our young to ither countries. Some of our brightest and best are searchin' for a better life elsewhere . . . in America, Australia. Even some of me own folk have left Scotland. One can't blame them, I guess." He shook his head sadly. "Well here now, lad, I've rambled on and kept ye up long after ye should hae been abed, gettin' a good night's sleep."
"Not at all, Mr. McPherson. I've enjoyed it immensely," Jonathan assured him. "You remind me in some ways of my Virginia relatives who are knowledgeable about their history. I appreciate hearing all this . . . makes me feel a part of my kin here."
"Well, then, maybe I should hae been tellin' ye the best places to fish—" Gordon chuckled.
"No, not really. You see, I'm not here to fish."
"Not here to fish?" Gordon seemed astounded. "Ye should at least drop a line while ye're here. The stream yon is alive with salmon." He walked with Jonathan to the foot of the staircase leading to the second floor. "I won't be here tomorrow. Tis my weekend off. My niece will be takin' over for me at the desk the next two days," he explained, then asked, "Would you want me to leave ye an extra rod and a creel, if ye've a mind to give it a go?"
Jonathan hadn't the heart to refuse. Mr. McPherson was so obviously proud of the abundance in the stream so near his inn. So, before bidding his host good night, Jonathan agreed to "give it a go" sometime over the weekend.
chapter 22
MUCH TO HIS surprise, Jonathan slept soundly and long. When he awakened and consulted his watch, he was amazed to see the time. Dressing quickly in the tweeds he had purchased in Edinburgh before setting out on his trip to the Highlands, he went downstairs, wondering if he had missed breakfast.
The wide hall was empty and so was the lounge when Jonathan looked in. Probably all the guests had already set off on their day's hike or a fishing expedition. Standing in the middle of the hallway, Jonathan heard the low murmur of voices coming from the dining room area, along with the click of china, the tinkle of glassware. The staff was probably setting up for the midday meal. Perhaps he should just venture out into the village and look for a small café—
While he hesitated uncertainly, he heard a door open behind him, and turning, he saw a young woman at the reception desk, her back turned to him, her head bent over a ledger. There was something vaguely familiar about the slim, graceful figure in a crisp shirtwaist and plaid skirt cinched with a wide leather belt. Then, as he stood making his assessment, she turned around.
"Miss McPherson!" he exclaimed in amazement.
She looked up, startled. Her face mirrored surprise, then gradual recognition as Jonathan approached her desk. "Miss McPherson! How extraordinary! I can hardly believe it!" He extended his hand. "Jonathan Montrose, here—Mrs. Devlin's nephew. We met the summer of the Queen's Jubilee . . . at Birchfields. You were governess to the Cameron children—"
He watched as two changes took place in the attractive face. The wide, dark-lashed eyes he now remembered so well widened, and a rosy color flooded her face.
Smiling, Jonathan persisted. "Do you remember me now?"
"Yes, of course—" she said, stumbling a little over the words. "Of course, Mr. Montrose. How nice to see you. How do you happen to be in Kilgaren?"
He explained quickly, then asked, "And you, Miss McPherson. I never expected to find you here . . . or even see you again. I thought you had planned to go to America or Australia."
"I was in America for a short while, did some traveling. But then my father became ill, and I came home to see him through a long, lingering illness. Both my brothers had emigrated, so there was no one else—" She paused, then continued. "After his death . . . well, there was a great deal to see to, and I stayed on. I've been helping my uncle here at the hotel—"
"Your uncle is Gordon McPherson? Of course! I've met him. A capital fellow!" Jonathan said heartily, adding with a chuckle, "He's been giving me a crash course in Scottish history."
Phoebe laughed and, hearing it, Jonathan recalled how delighted he had been when he had heard it for the first time.
"Oh, Uncle Gordie is a great storyteller. He'll keep you up half the night with his tales."
Jonathan agreed laughingly. "That's exactly what he did do! And I've slept most the morning away as a result."
Phoebe looked shocked. "Then you've had no breakfast, have you? Well, come along, and we'll see what we can do about that."
"I don't want to put you to any trouble. Perhaps I can just go down the street—"