Legacy of the Highlands

by Harriet Schultz

  Diego saw her confusion and jumped in. “I think you should show Alex to her room, Luisa, and perhaps send a tray up. I’ll find something to eat in the kitchen.”

  The woman nodded. “Of course, Señor Diego, as you wish. Come with me, Señora.” She wrapped her forearm around Alex’s in the European fashion, patted her hand maternally, and opened a pair of French doors that led to a large inner courtyard which they crossed to reach the opposite wing of the house. Diego didn’t take his eyes off Alex and only turned away when he could no longer see her.

  Alex paused to admire her surroundings. Trickling fountains, a profusion of flowering plants, shade trees and columned loggia formed the sheltered heart of the villa. She could hear chirping birds and the thrum of insects. “This is beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Yes, it is lovely, Señora. This way.” Luisa led them through another set of French doors, past a casual sitting room to a grand staircase, which they climbed to the second floor.

  Luisa opened one of the doors along the wide corridor. The elegant simplicity of the room’s butter yellow walls, soft lighting and delicate four-poster bed draped in a gauzy fabric suited Alex’s need for calm. She crossed the room to step onto its balcony, drawn by the sound of the ocean. The air was still warm, but with a cooling night breeze. She inhaled the salty scent of the sea and began to unwind.

  “Shall I close the doors and draw the drapes so the light doesn’t awaken you in the morning?” Luisa inquired, then waited patiently as Alex explored her surroundings.

  “Yes...please. I love the sound of the ocean, but I need to sleep. I haven’t had much rest in the last week,” she explained, but the dark circles under her reddened eyes made that statement unnecessary.

  Luisa nodded. “I understand. Señor Navarro told me about your loss. Lo siento,” she said and squeezed Alex’s hands in sympathy before she closed the balcony doors and drew the drapes. Silence filled the large space except for the subtle hum of central air conditioning. “The television and sound system are in that cabinet and you’ll find an assortment of novels and magazines near the bed. There is nightwear in the closet and also some swimsuits for tomorrow. They’re all new, so choose whichever you like. Toiletries are in your bathroom and the tub is filling,” she said and paused for breath. “If you need anything else, Señora, you only have to ask. The Navarros believe mi casa es su casa, so please consider the Villa Recoleta your home,” Luisa concluded as she stood in the doorway. Alex sensed that the woman was reluctant to leave her alone.

  “Thank you, Luisa, I’ll be fine after I get some sleep,” Alex said, comforted by the woman’s sincere concern. “You’ve been very kind. Thank you. And please call me Alex.”

  “It would be my pleasure. I will have your supper brought up. Buenas noches, sleep well.”

  Alex peeled off her clothes and pulled her hair into a ponytail. She sighed with pleasure as she lowered herself into the bath’s scented water and silently blessed the Navarros for choosing a tub large enough to accommodate her long legs. Luisa had lit a few candles and their subtle perfume filled the air. “Bliss,” Alex murmured, and allowed the water to soothe her.

  Clean, dry and wrapped in a powder blue silk robe, Alex put her hand to her stomach as it growled and realized she was hungry for the first time since she’d forced down a piece of dry toast along with a mug of strong coffee early that morning. One of the household staff had left a tray in the bedroom’s sitting area while she’d bathed and she hungrily dug into a salad dotted with goat cheese. There were slices of juicy pineapple and papaya, assorted cheeses, crusty bread, a glass of wine, sparkling water and chocolate chip cookies, still warm and fragrant from the oven. Luisa would quickly learn that chocolate was her houseguest’s favorite comfort food. Alex reached for a second cookie as she leaned back and sighed. Maybe leaving Boston with Diego hadn’t been so crazy after all. It might make perfect sense to avoid reality in his family’s luxurious oasis for as long as possible.

  Whoever delivered supper had also turned down the bed and whisked away the clothes she’d carelessly dropped on the floor. She dragged her body across the room, tossed off the robe, and sank into the kind of dreamless sleep that had eluded her without Will next to her, his warm, naked body spooned against hers, the two of them slumbering as one. She’d always felt safe in his arms, as if nothing bad could happen so long as he held her.

  When she finally woke the following afternoon, she tried to shake off the residual grogginess of too much sleep. She shielded her eyes as she opened the drapes to let light fill the room. One glimpse of the sun glinting off the ocean’s sparkling blue water turned the decision of what to do for the rest of the day into a no brainer. She considered each of the swimsuits in the closet and finally pulled on a dark blue bikini that exposed more flesh than she liked, especially with Diego around, but it would have to do.

  She found the kitchen, introduced herself to Isabel, the Navarros’ cook, and helped herself to coffee and a sweet roll. “The house is so quiet. Is Diego still asleep?”

  “No, Señora. Señor Navarro left the house early this morning. When I asked if he would return for lunch, he said he had business to attend to and wasn’t sure when he would be back.”

  For some reason Isabel’s news upset her, until she realized that it would be easier without Diego around to hover over her like some guard dog. She brushed a few crumbs from her lap, thanked Isabel for breakfast and headed to the beach.

  Alex felt her body gradually unwind as she lay on the warm sand, her tense muscles relaxing under the sun’s relentless heat. Her creamy, freckled skin burned easily, so she only allowed herself an hour in the sun before reluctantly trudging away from the ocean toward the sheltering palms that formed a natural border between the house and the beach.

  Alex felt a little better in this tropical environment, far from Boston and all that happened there. But that fragile peace shattered with the sudden ringing of her cell phone. It was Detective O’Shea with yet another routine question about her vacation in Scotland with Will.

  She ended the call as quickly as she could, but it had rattled her. Despair, that was as difficult to control as a riptide, pulled her under, gasping for breath, no matter how hard she fought against it.

  She recognized the start of an anxiety attack and reached into her bag for a small pillbox. Sometimes the little orange pills prescribed after Will’s death smoothed out the bumps, other times not. She popped one into her mouth and as she waited for the drug to kick in, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of the sand as it trickled through her fingers and the sound of palm fronds rattling gently in the breeze.

  She put her hand on her chest, relieved that her heart’s anxious racing had resumed its normal rhythm. Relaxed, she was able to capture an image of a happier time. As she drifted into a drugged sleep, her last conscious thought was of her trip to Scotland with Will.

  Chapter 6

  “They were Highlanders!” Will had exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm when he’d come across an impressive display on Clan Cameron at a museum in Inverness. “Now I know why I like single malt whiskey so much. It’s hereditary!” He burst out laughing at the absurdity of this statement.

  His hazel eyes twinkled as he’d wrapped his arms around Alex and pressed his lips to her temple. She loved the ebullience and joy with which Will had always approached life. His good-natured, boyish charm was a big part of his attraction, but it was his unselfconscious masculinity that had sealed the deal for her.

  They’d decided to visit Scotland on a whim after spending a couple of weeks in London with a former partner of Will and Diego’s. The three men had become wealthy enough to never have to work again when they sold their interest in a Venezuelan oil exploration company after Diego’s father got wind of President Chavez’s plan to nationalize the industry. Will had never wanted to coast on his family’s money, and the timely buyout gave him the independence to return to architecture, his first love.

  While in London, a
Scotsman at their friend’s local pub heard them talk about their planned trip and urged them to visit an Inverness gift shop owned by his uncle. “Mr. Mackinnon’s gruff, aye, but he will treat ye fairly, especially if you give him regards from Ewen. That’s me,” he’d grinned. “He’s a Scot through to the bone. You won’t find any tartans made in China in his shop!”

  They’d taken Ewen’s advice and found that Mackinnons’ carried the usual Highland paraphernalia — kilts, plaid scarves, broadswords, dirks, sweaters and even bagpipes. Since discovering his Cameron roots, Will had enthusiastically embraced his clan’s tartan. Alex wasn’t surprised, therefore, when he’d zeroed in on a treasure chest covered in his family’s red, green and yellow plaid. It was trimmed in dark brown leather and closed with an ornate brass hasp. Will had insisted that it would make the perfect place for a boy to keep his toy soldiers. His words had made Alex’s heart clench in a flash of pain and guilt. He’d love to have a son, she thought. She’d been able to become pregnant easily enough, but it seemed as if her body didn’t want to carry a baby to term. They’d already lost two and they were unsure if they would try a third time or eventually adopt. But there, in a small Scottish shop, as she’d watched her husband’s face glow with unsuppressed glee, she’d realized the boy Will had been referring to was himself, and not some longed-for offspring.

  He’d placed the box on the counter along with a book on Highland history, a volume about Clan Cameron, and a set of coasters adorned with a sheaf of five arrows pointed toward the Gaelic words Aonaibh Ri Cheile — the Cameron family crest and motto.

  The shop’s aged proprietor hadn’t seemed surprised by his choices. Many Scots had dispersed — some willingly, others not — to America during the centuries of hardship that followed Bonnie Prince Charlie’s failed 1745 rising against the English. Many of those émigrés’ descendents visited the Highlands in search of their roots.

  The shopkeeper had raised his bushy gray eyebrows inquisitively as he’d examined Will’s selections, rang them up and placed them in a bag. “So you’re Scots, aye? And a Cameron too I would guess.”

  “That’s right, I am. Can you tell me what the words on these coasters mean?”

  “Ah, to be sure. Well, it’s the Gaelic, you see, and they translate into but one word in English — ‘unite’,” said the shopkeeper as he’d glanced toward Alex. “And is your lady Scottish too?”

  “Well, yes. My father was a MacBain,” Alex had replied. She bristled that the shopkeeper had directed a question about her to Will as if she couldn’t speak for herself.

  “Ah. MacBain and Cameron. A good match,” the old man nodded.

  “Why?” Will and Alex had asked in unison. He had their full attention.

  “Well, now,” the proprietor spoke with the musical lilt and slow cadence of a Celtic storyteller. “It would not do for a Cameron to be marrying a Macintosh for instance. There was bad blood between those clans for hundreds of years. Nor would it be seemly for a Cameron to wed an English lass, for the Camerons were Jacobites, ye ken, and bravely fought for the Bonnie Prince in the ‘45.” He’d leaned closer to Will. “In fact your ancestor, Archie Cameron, was the last of the Jacobites to be hanged in London — at Tyburn Prison in 1753, I think it was.”

  “Hanged? I’m related to someone who was hanged?” Will had responded with incredulity, his voice tinged with excitement.

  “Aye lad, he was and without a trial. But ye’ve chosen well, Mr. Cameron. Yer woman is descended from Jacobites too. Gillies Mor MacBain’s sword brought down fourteen of the English at Culloden before he himself was killed. So yer missus is not simply a Scottish beauty with those lovely green eyes and reddish hair — ach, yer a lucky lad — she’s the blood kin of bonnie fighters.”

  Alex had had enough of history and told Will, “I think I’ll browse a bit more and leave the family history lesson to you,” but Will was so engrossed in the man’s tales that he’d scarcely noticed that she’d walked away.

  The shopkeeper finally introduced himself as James Mackinnon, which reminded Will to mention that a Scottish acquaintance named Ewen had recommended the shop and sent regards. “Ah, so ye’ve met Ewen? He’s a good lad and I’ll have to thank him for sending you and your beautiful wife my way.” Then he’d leaned his elbows on the counter and studied Will intently as he resumed the lesson on Scottish history as it applied to Clan Cameron.

  “Ye should know that another of yer clansmen — John Cameron it was — signed our Declaration of Arbroath back in 1320.”

  “That’s my father’s name!” Will had no idea what Arbroath was, but acted suitably impressed. The proprietor’s interest in Will seemed to escalate with the mention of John’s name.

  “It’s very likely that you and your Da are descended from that very John Cameron. Do ye recall your grandda’s name?”

  “Of course. My grandfather was John Cameron too. What’s the Declaration of Arbroath?” Will had asked. The hook was firmly planted in his mouth and now all this walking encyclopedia of Scottish history had to do was reel him in.

  Alex couldn’t help but overhear the men’s conversation in the small, deserted shop and groaned, sure that Will’s question would set Mackinnon off on yet another tangent. It was already late afternoon. She was cold, her feet were wet from a sudden downpour, and she wanted to get back to the cozy bed and breakfast that was their temporary home. Will, however, showed no sign of impatience and continued to listen attentively. She sighed and began to paw through a pile of cashmere sweaters.

  “Our Arbroath document is similar to America’s Declaration of Independence. In fact, it’s said that your Thomas Jefferson drew inspiration from it for the one he helped draw up for the colonies.” The jowly man seemed to enjoy instructing an obviously fascinated American about Scottish history. “Basically, this letter, signed by clan chieftains at Arbroath — your John Cameron was one as I said — asked His Holiness Pope John XXII to persuade the English to leave Scotland in peace. We dinna like the English here, lad, but no matter how many of them we killed, they kept coming back.” He’d winked conspiratorially at Will as he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “We still doona like them, but we canna kill them any more.” He’d shrugged and sighed, then continued his story. “The vicious devils didn’t want peace. They only wanted to conquer us, rape our women, steal our lands and banish our culture and they succeeded. They have our land, our culture is fast disappearing and they still rape us, only now in a more civilized, economic way by taking the lion’s share of Scotland’s North Sea oil revenue and taxing our blessed whiskey to death. Ah, but you’re not interested in an old man’s rants,” he’d finally mumbled.

  “Look here lad,” he’d said, directing a gnarled, arthritic finger at a portion of the document. “See what they asked the Pope?”

  “May it please you to admonish and exhort the King of the English, who ought to be satisfied with what belongs to him…to leave us Scots in peace, to live in this poor little Scotland…and covet nothing but our own.”

  “What happened then?” was all Mackinnon’s normally articulate audience of one had been able to say.

  “Unfortunately, Pope John took eight years to finally act. Many of us still believe that the English have no right to Scotland. We should be a free and independent nation. Why it’s unnatural to be united with your sworn enemy!” His face reddened with fury as his voice rose. “D’ye ken that I must carry a passport that says I’m British? I’m a citizen of Scotland, by Christ!” Mackinnon shook his head in disgust. “I spit on them for stealing my country!”

  “Jeez, what a story,” Will had said.

  “Sadly, ‘tis not a tale, lad, and I apologize for going off like that and taking up so much of your time, but ye seemed interested.” He’d reached below the counter then and tucked a rolled-up paper in the bag with the rest of Will’s purchases.

  “You’re a good lad and because ye’ve indulged a lonely old man, I’ve given you a wee gift. Take this copy of the Declaration of Arbr
oath home and read it. You must show it to your Da, too. It’s shameful that he didn’t share your clan’s glorious history with you so you wouldn’t need to be instructed by a stranger. Tell him what you’ve learned here today and show this paper to him. And let him know it’s sent with the compliments of James Mackinnon for raising a fine, braw son. Do ye promise lad? Do I have your word?”

  “I’ll do it. Of course I will. Thank you Mr. Mackinnon.” Will extended his hand to the old man who grasped it tightly in both of his.

  “No need for thanks lad. The pleasure’s all mine. It’s always good to welcome home a fellow Scot. If you’ll be so kind as to leave your address in the States, I can post a catalog to you from time to time.”

  “Why not?” Will had obligingly provided the information Mackinnon requested.

  Alex placed two cashmere sweaters — one in a heathery blue for Will and another for her in a shade of amber that reminded her of whiskey — on the counter. The wily shopkeeper added them to their tab.

  As he did so, Alex eyed a couple of weathered, wooden plaques on the wall behind him: “Twelve Highlanders and a bagpipe make a rebellion,” read one; “If ye canna bite, dinna show your teeth,” the other. Interesting philosophy, she’d mused. Package in hand, they’d thanked him, he’d thanked them, and they’d left.

  “That was — gosh, interesting is an understatement Alex. It was awesome. It was almost like that guy was expecting us so he could teach me about my family’s connection to Scotland. Or do you think he pulls that same act on everyone to get them to buy more stuff?”

  “Could be.” Alex had assumed the man’s friendly patter and exaggerated Scottish brogue had as much to do with entertaining himself on an off-season, rainy afternoon in his empty shop as it did with any real curiosity about their ancestry.