And then came Margaret’s first glimpse of Achnacarry, sitting low in the land just as Donald had described it, surrounded by a riot of oak trees which were green against the grey stone, the conifers on the steeply rising hill behind in hues of purple and teal. Donald’s home was not so much a castle as a country house with baronial aspirations, with a lower wing, obviously a late addition, spoiling the symmetry of the central block, and a balustraded roof adorned with an assortment of turrets. It was a solid house with a commanding view over some pretty fields full of contentedly grazing sheep to the front, and presumably the river to the rear, but it was neither imposing nor intimidating.
Margaret banished the thought that this could have been hers, reminding herself sternly of the purpose of the visit; but as the carriage came to a halt in front of a white portico and the coachman opened the door and pulled down the steps, a man appeared in the doorway to greet them and her legs turned to jelly.
“Your Grace,” she heard him say to her mother, “it is a great pleasure to welcome you to Achnacarry. I am very much obliged to you for making the effort at such short notice.”
To hear his voice was so very different from remembering it. To have him actually standing only a few feet away was unnerving. She wasn’t at all certain she could get herself out of the carriage, but she could not remain inside indefinitely. Taking herself in hand, reminding herself that it was dear Donald she was about to face, not some hostile tyrant, Margaret gathered up her skirts, pinned a smile to her face, and climbed out of the carriage.
“Margaret, you remember Lochiel, of course,” Mama said.
“Margaret!” He stared at her, utterly confounded.
“Didn’t you get my telegram? I am afraid the duke is in London,” Mama explained, “and so I brought my second daughter. Her Majesty will be pleased to meet her again. The last time was at Princess Helena’s wedding, which would be— Oh, goodness, how long ago was that?”
“Seven years,” Margaret said, holding out her hand, pleased to see it was not shaking. “How do you do, Lochiel?”
“Margaret.” He clasped his hands around hers, staring at her as if she was an apparition. “I thought you were in America.”
“I returned in March.”
“March? You are paying an extended visit, then?”
Gently she disentangled her hands from his. “I am home for good. I have taken a town house in Edinburgh.”
“A house? In Edinburgh? So you are married, then?”
“No. Oh no, I live alone,” she said, swallowing hard, for a lump had risen in her throat. That couldn’t possibly be anything other than surprise in his voice, and the way he’d clung to her fingers could only be attributable to shock. He was older. There were more lines at the corners of his eyes and just a hint of grey at his temples; but he was still clean-shaven, still handsome in that plain, unassuming way of his, and the smile which was dawning on him still reached his eyes.
“Your wife,” Margaret said, taking an unnecessary step back. “I am looking forward to meeting her.”
“My wife?”
“Lochiel is not married, Margaret. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Julia.” Margaret looked from Donald to Mama and then back to Donald. “Julia told me you were engaged. A Miss Helen Blair. She said . . .”
“In the end we agreed we did not suit.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” Margaret said, appalled and confused, staring at him helplessly. “I thought—I had no idea.”
“Why should you? It’s not as if—I mean—” Donald broke off, making a visible effort to smile at her mother. “You’ve had a long journey; you’ll be wanting to wash your hands. Your Grace, I have allotted you the state rooms. Margaret—Lady Margaret—you must have the Blue Room. When you are ready, perhaps you would like to join my cousins, Susan and Camilla, in the drawing-room for tea? Fortunately for me, they both live nearby. They arrived yesterday and have been working tirelessly with my housekeeper to prepare for every eventuality. I’m afraid I have no idea even of the time of day Her Majesty plans to arrive. She insists that the visit will be informal but . . .”
“I understand, but you should not worry. Your house is in a lovely setting, surrounded by exactly the kind of hills and lochs Her Majesty adores,” the duchess said. “And here is your good lady housekeeper come to show us to our rooms, if I am not mistaken. If you will excuse us.” She took Margaret’s arm again, saying softly, “I do hope that when you resolve whatever issue exists between you and Lochiel you will see fit to inform me what on earth is going on.”
Donald listened as Camilla and Susan explained the arrangements they had made for dinner that night and the many options they had prepared for tomorrow, though he didn’t actually hear a word of what they said.
Margaret was here.
Margaret was not in New York; she was here at Achnacarry.
He had never been able to convince himself that he didn’t love her, but he had long ago given up any hope of seeing her again. Yet what difference did it make? She wasn’t married, but didn’t he know better than anyone that was most likely because she never would? He would be a fool to imagine that the outcome would be different if he asked her a second time. Misguided to imagine that she was here for any other reason than to accompany her mother. An idiot to read anything into the look they had exchanged as he took her hand.
Yet there had been something in that look.
Abruptly informing his cousins that the duchess would be joining them for tea, Donald cut short the conversation, heading to the front terrace. Somehow he was not surprised to see Margaret leaning out the window of the Blue Chamber with her chin cupped in her hands. Whatever she had been doing in New York, it suited her. She had always been lovely, but now she wore her more mature beauty with a quiet, understated confidence that he found extremely attractive.
He beckoned her to join him, and in a few short moments she was with him, still in her travelling gown but without her hat and gloves.
“I thought we could take a walk along the path by the river.”
“I can think of nothing I’d like more,” she answered, hesitating only a moment before slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. “You don’t mind my being here? I’m sorry it was such a shock.”
“It was, but a very nice one. I thought it was perfectly obvious that I was pleased to see you.”
“I’m so sorry if I embarrassed you by mentioning Miss Blair. For the last three years, you see, I’ve laboured under the misapprehension that you were married. I was glad when Julia wrote of it—well, I was glad eventually, once I had recovered from the shock—for I wanted so much for you to be happy.”
“I tried to be. We had a great deal in common, Helen and I. I thought if I could make her happy, then I would be happy, too, but it doesn’t work that way. Fortunately we both realised it in time.” Donald grimaced, recalling that painful conversation. “The betrothal was never formalised, but it was wrong of me, very wrong, to have allowed matters to have progressed as far as they did.”
“Sometimes it’s much easier to go along with a situation than to call a halt,” Margaret said. “Especially when you think it’s what you want. In New York there was a gentleman, a good friend, and I wanted him to mean more to me, but as you said it doesn’t work that way.” She smiled wryly. “Randolph and I are still friends. He’s very happily married now and has a little girl.”
“Helen is married, too.”
They paused by the banks of the river, where the clear water tumbled over the pebbled bed. Donald picked up a flat stone and skimmed it down river.
“Five,” Margaret counted. “That’s impressive.” She picked up a stone, but her own attempt sank after one bounce.
“Here.” He picked up another stone and gave it to her. “Now hold it like this, and pull your arm back—let me show you.” He stood behind her, adjusting her arm. She still used the same perfume. Her hair tickled his chin.
She cast the stone, laughing as it sank
again, whirling around, and whatever she had been about to say died on her lips as their eyes met. The urge to take her in his arms and to kiss her was almost overwhelming. She wanted him to—he could see it in her eyes. But if he kissed her now, and it led him nowhere—no, he couldn’t go through that again.
Stooping, he picked up another stone and handed it to her. “Perseverance is the key.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The morning of Queen Victoria’s visit to Achnacarry was bright and sunny. Margaret, perched by the window staring out at the River Arkaig, was enjoying the luxury of a breakfast of tea and bread and butter in her bedchamber. Despite her reservations, yesterday had turned out to be most wonderful of days. Though there had been the occasional awkward moments between Donald and herself, the sympathy that had always existed between them had been rapidly re-established. They had sat up talking long into the night. Some of the conversation was expended on filling in the gaps in their respective histories, but they had also talked of other, inconsequential things, the sort they used to discuss in their letters. Only as dawn was fast approaching had the mood changed. Donald had turned to her to say good night, and the easiness between them became charged with a desire for a different kind of closeness.
Margaret had lain in bed wide awake watching the sun come up, disturbed and confused by the emotions swirling around in her head, and making no progress. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had arrived here, hoping to prove to herself that her feelings for Donald were a distant memory. Frowning deeply, she poured the last of her tea into the pretty cup painted with forget-me-nots. The moment she heard his voice, the moment their hands touched, their eyes met, she knew that her feelings were no figment of her imagination. There was no doubt in her mind: she still loved him, and not only as a friend. She wanted more from him than that.
Dear lord, M., what are you saying? More to the point, what are you imagining you might do about it?
Dumbfounded, she gazed into the dregs of her tea-cup, as if they would provide her with inspiration. She didn’t even know if Donald felt as she did. Was she too late? This was far too momentous a decision to do anything other than wait, consider things rationally. Yes, but if she did nothing, she might never get the chance again.
A soft tap at the door saved her from descending into complete panic.
“I came to tell you that Her Majesty has finally sent word of her plans,” Mama said, breezing into the room. “She is expected this afternoon, so there is no rush to dress, though if you are expecting to monopolise Lochiel for the rest of the morning, you are out of luck, for he has gone down to the pier to make sure his little boat is ship-shape for the royal party.”
Queen Victoria and her entourage arrived in the late afternoon, and drove straight to the pier Donald had built at the head of Loch Arkaig. Margaret and the duchess, Camilla and Susan were waiting to greet them, decked out in the various forms of tartan that the queen seemed to expect everyone in the Highlands to wear no matter the weather or the occasion. While the other three ladies wore cotton and silk, Margaret’s gown, borrowed from Mary, was wool, which in the unseasonable heat of the early-autumn sun, made for uncomfortable wearing.
If Donald was suffering from the heat in his full Highland regalia, he did not show it. As he made the final arrangements for the sail with his captain, Margaret guiltily availed herself of the opportunity to admire the picture he presented, the broad plaid draped over his body, the gleaming buckle of the belt that held his tightly pleated kilt in place, the shapely calves, and the tantalising glimpses above his knitted stockings which the gentle breeze granted her. Her cheeks grew hot as her thoughts turned shockingly carnal, and even hotter still when Donald glanced over his shoulder and caught her staring at him. Could he read her mind? She discovered that she was brazen enough to want him to, and had the satisfaction of seeing her desire momentarily reflected before a shout went up that the royal carriages were approaching.
The screw steamer Scarba was too small to accommodate everyone, and so the honour of accompanying Queen Victoria, Princess Beatrice, Baroness Churchill, and the two gentlemen escorts was confined to Donald and the duchess. The plan to sail the full fourteen miles of Loch Arkaig had to be curtailed, for the queen had arrived late and did not wish to endure the return trip back to Inverlochy Castle in the dark.
“But she very much enjoyed her tea on board and admired the scenery,” Mama said later, back at Achnacarry over dinner. “Though Lochiel was disappointed not to be able to show her the most rugged of views at the far end of the loch, Her Majesty was delighted to hear of his connection with Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
Donald rolled his eyes. “And equally delighted with the screeching of young Gordon’s bagpipes from the pier when we returned.”
Margaret giggled. “It’s a treasonable offence, Donald Cameron, not to love the skirl of the pipes.”
He grinned. “I loathe them every bit as much as you do, and you know that fine and well. I remember you saying in one of your letters—” He broke off, remembering too late that they were not alone.
“It’s getting very late,” Camilla said, breaking the pointed silence, though it was not much after nine.
“Aye, I’m very tired,” Susan said, smothering a theatrical yawn.
“All that fresh air out on the loch has made me long for an early night. If you’ll excuse me,” Mama said, getting to her feet and causing a minor stampede as the other two ladies followed her.
Donald heaved a sigh as the dining room door closed. “That’s our skeleton well and truly out of the cupboard.”
“My mother guessed straightaway that we were more than mere acquaintances, though I have told her nothing of our history.”
The mood had changed now that they were alone. Donald twisted his wine-glass, staring down at its almost untouched contents. “Do you ever regret refusing my hand in marriage?”
Would he prefer her to lie? But she’d never lied to him, and just as important, she had long since stopped deluding herself. “I don’t,” Margaret said. “I regret hurting you, but not turning you down. It was the right thing to do at the time.”
He looked up, smiling crookedly. “Do you know, that’s what I thought you’d say.” He pushed back his chair, getting to his feet.
“No, wait!”
“I thought we could go for a walk down to the loch side. It’s a beautiful evening—it would be a shame to waste it.”
“Oh. I thought you were—I thought . . .” To her horror, Margaret found herself on the brink of tears.
“You thought that I was about to storm off in a sulk?”
She laughed weakly. “I’m not sure you know how to sulk. I thought you still hadn’t forgiven me.”
“Oh, Margaret, don’t be daft. There was never anything to forgive. Come on, let’s take that walk, shall we?”
“Please.” She sniffed, dabbing her eyes with her linen napkin.
“Do you want to fetch a jacket or a shawl?”
“Oh no. This blasted tartan gown of Mary’s is wool, but there was no time to change for dinner. I was so hot earlier in the sunshine, I felt like a boiled lobster. How you managed to look so cool in all that regalia, I don’t know, though I must agree with the queen on this one point, Donald, you looked very handsome in it.”
“It was heavier than a suit of armour, but if it pleased you, then I’m sorry I discarded most of it the first chance I got.”
They had reached the terrace at the rear of the house, where a path led down to the river. Above them, the moon was bright in the dark-blue sky, making mere twinkling points of the stars. Donald was still wearing his jacket, kilt, and sporran, though he had lost the plaid and the various belts, buckles, and ceremonial swords and daggers. Margaret wondered at her younger self taking so long to see how attractive he was and to understand that he felt the same about her. “I am sorry,” she said gently, “for hurting you all those years ago.”
“You’d have hurt the pair of us a great deal more if
you’d accepted my proposal when you weren’t ready. I told you at the time, remember—I didn’t want a half-hearted bride. I still don’t.” He took one of her hands, kissing the fingertips. “Shall we let the past be?”
“Yes.” She caught his hand, lifting it to her cheek, and couldn’t resist pressing a kiss in return to his fingertips. “Please.”
They made their way down to the river in silence, both lost in their thoughts, turning to follow the tumbling water to the pier at the head of the loch, where the Scarba was berthed.
“We’ll take a seat on the deck, shall we?” Donald jumped on board, holding out a hand to help her. The boat rocked gently, then settled as they sat on one of the wooden benches. The air was still unseasonably warm, though there was a faint trace of autumn in the freshness of it, and the leaves on the trees which hugged the shores of the loch were just beginning to turn.
“In New York in the fall, the leaves hang on until the very first frost. One day the trees are golden, the next day they’re quite bare. I prefer the way they take their time to modestly undress here.”
“That’s a very literary turn of phrase.”
“I’ve been commissioned to write a journal-style series for the English Woman’s Domestic Magazine, comparing life here and in New York, I might use it for that.”
“What else are you writing, apart from the journal for—is it Demorest’s?”
“Mary Louise Booth, the editor of Harper’s Bazar, has some ideas she wants me to think about, and then there’s the Victoria, which I think I told you about last night. Oh, and I have been asked by another publication to serve as their dispenser of wise words and sage counsel—you know the kind of thing, never share an umbrella with a man unless you are betrothed.”
Her Heart for a Compass Page 41