The Inheritance

by Irina Shapiro

  I looked up at Danny. Why was he so excited about this find? We already knew that Angus believed himself to be my grandfather. I felt a little deflated, as I’d been expecting some great revelation. Danny saw my face and laughed.

  “You are so transparent. Look at the top.”

  I looked at the top of the chart. The names under the crest were Simon and Katherine McBride and the names of their three children. There was Grace, who married and had two children: Simon, who died in infancy, and Dougal, who married Anna in 1745. I caught my breath. So there they were, the Anna and Dougal of the letters.

  “Keep looking,” Danny prompted. “Check out the names of their children.”

  I looked down at the illegible scrawl beneath their names. Anna and Dougal had four children, three girls and a boy. The eldest girl was called Isobel, followed by Katherine, Maria, and Rory. I looked up at Danny. This was a find indeed. Not only did I now know that I was a direct descendant of the couple, but that they named their children after Isobel and Rory. A melancholy thought struck me as I looked at the names.

  “I guess they died then, if they named the children after them. I don’t think they would name after the living.” I knew that by now they would have been long dead anyway, but for some reason, the thought left me very sad. Did they ever see each other again? Was Rory one of the thousands slaughtered at Culloden, or taken prisoner and transported to the Colonies if he managed to survive life in prison?

  “You’re probably right. Anna and Dougal must have named their children after them to keep their memory alive.” He went back to his briefcase and pulled out something else.

  “Don’t despair, fair Katie, I have another present for you.” With that, he presented me with another rolled-up paper. “Be careful, it’s old.”

  I took the yellowed paper out of his hand and unrolled it on top of the family tree. This paper was much older and thicker than the one beneath. The ink was faded and smudged in some places, but still legible. It was a blueprint of the castle, hand-drawn, and labeled. It was nice to see how it must have looked once, and the names of the rooms inked in each square. I could have a better idea of what each room’s original purpose was and who might have occupied it.

  “Look closer,” Danny whispered. “Think Hogwarts, my little Harry Potter fan.”

  “Hogwarts??? Have you been drinking?”

  I looked closer at the lines on the paper. I still couldn’t understand what Danny was talking about. Danny took my finger and moved it to the line showing a narrow corridor snaking below the castle.

  “This blueprint shows all the secret passages and hiding places. Whoever drew this map was very familiar with the castle and all its secrets. Look here.” Danny pointed a finger at the square labeled library. Inside was a much smaller square that read “P.H.”

  “What does that mean?” I was baffled. Did someone with the initials P.H. live inside the library?

  “P.H. stands for priest hole. A lot of the great houses of the period boasted a priest hole. It was a small hiding place where a priest was often hidden. In the days when Catholicism wasn’t popular, priests were in danger of their lives, and often had to hide in order not to be discovered performing mass or other ceremonies. Some families had their own priests residing with them year round, and there was always a place to hide them and keep them safe in case someone came to the castle searching for them. See, the little hole shows two doors, one from the library and one into the adjoining room. It was a secret passage as well as a hiding place.”

  “Are there any others?” I was getting excited. Maybe we could go back to the castle and find these passages.

  “I don’t see anything, except there seems to be a door drawn into the wall of the garden leading onto the cliff — probably another way out of the castle that didn’t lead to the main road. It would have been a way to get a messenger out if necessary, or maybe just a quicker way to the village.”

  “Fascinating. Where do you think Angus got this?” I was tracing my finger over the narrow passage leading down under the castle to the beach below.

  “Angus was obsessed with the history of the castle. He didn’t find this in a library or an archive because they would never let him have the original. He must have found it inside the castle. Maybe it was among the books in the library, although I don’t think there were any left by the time he was born. All the books would have perished over the years or been donated to libraries. He spent his last years researching family history. If you look at the family tree, some of the ink is darker and some is more faded. He kept adding information whenever he found it, and you had been added last. Your name is the darkest.”

  “What an odd man he must have been,” I sighed. I wished that I had met my reclusive, possibly mad, grandfather before he died. We rolled the two documents up, and put them in a safe place before going to the kitchen for dinner. I should have been happy with Danny’s serendipitous finds, but I felt a little hollow. The family tree didn’t prove anything, other than the fact that I had descended from Anna and Dougal, but it pointed to the fact that our lovers didn’t survive, and I felt a wave of disappointment roll over me. I’d always been a sap for a happy ending.

  April 1746

  Chapter 53

  Isobel was sitting in front of the mirror, looking at her reflection in wonder. She’d been brushing out her hair when she felt it. It was like wings of a butterfly fluttering inside her belly. She put her hand on her stomach willing it to do it again. There it was. She knew the babe would start moving soon, but she didn’t expect it to feel like that. It was miraculous. She put down the brush, and was about to blow out the candle when a noise drew her attention.

  She looked out the window toward the darkened road, and saw a black shadow approaching. It looked like a carriage or a wagon of some sort, so she hastily threw on her gown and cap and went downstairs to investigate. The gate was locked for the night, and she peered into the darkness to see who was coming. As the wagon drew closer, she recognized Dougal and opened the gate to let him in. She drew back in disgust as the smell of putrefaction hit her, making her eyes water and her stomach heave.

  Dougal jumped off the bench and came toward her. He was much changed. His once bulky body was much leaner, his blond hair and beard matted and covered with dirt. Isobel took a cautious peek at the back of the wagon and recoiled in horror. The wagon was full of decaying corpses. She looked at Dougal in mute inquiry.

  “Help me,” was all he said, as he began to move the top corpses to the side. Isobel stared at the mutilated bodies of the men, unable to tear her gaze away from the gory remains. The last body Dougal pushed aside was one of a young boy whose leg must have been blown away by a cannonball. Isobel stared at the bloodied stump crawling with maggots and his charred face, and vomited beside the wagon. She wiped her mouth, crossed herself, and said a prayer for the poor boy and the rest of the men in the wagon. The boy was no more than sixteen, and she wondered if his poor mother would ever find out what happened to her son. Dougal rolled the boy toward the side of the cart and started to gently pull out the body underneath. Isobel’s hand flew to her mouth as she recognized Rory.

  “Is he…?” she whispered.

  “Nae yet.”

  He picked up Rory like a child, and carried him to the living quarters behind the forge. Isobel ran ahead of him, opening the door and bolting it behind them. Dougal laid Rory on the dirt floor and started to kindle the fire. Isobel knelt by him searching for a pulse. Rory was barely recognizable. He was wearing only a shirt that had been white at some point, but was now covered with everything from dried blood to excrement. His hair was matted and covered with dried mud, his beard crawling with lice. Rory’s skin was very hot to the touch, his lips cracked and colorless. A racking cough shook his body, his lungs making a rattling sound.

  Isobel sprang into action. She put some water to heat over the fire, then asked Dougal to get some more water from the well. She pushed the old copper tub in front of the fireplace, a
nd went to search for a pair of shears. Having found some inside the forge, she cut away Rory’s shirt where she could, then soaked the bloodied fabric to make it easier to pull away from his skin. She nearly gagged when she saw the jagged wound. It ran from his left shoulder down his arm, and she could see the white gleam of bone as she looked at the torn flesh. She nearly vomited again as she saw the maggots crawling inside the wound, but she saw no signs of festering, and took that as a good omen.

  Isobel used the shears to cut off as much hair as she could to get rid of the lice, and threw it on the fire. Dougal had come back with buckets of water and emptied them into the tub, mixing it with hot water. He lifted Rory off the floor and lowered him into the tub.

  “I’ll go to the kitchen and get some food. Ye clean him up and then we’ll try to feed him. He hasn’t eaten in days,” and with that he walked off. Isobel wanted to know what happened, but there would be plenty of time for talk. She could see that Dougal was barely standing up, and Rory needed her undivided attention. She washed him tenderly and cleaned his wound as best she could. She found a razor, and shaved his face while waiting for Dougal to return. Rory’s face was so gaunt, he barely looked like himself, and his ribs stuck out alarmingly as she ran her hand over his chest. His body was covered with cuts and bruises, some of them an ugly purple, and some turning shades of yellow as they began to heal. His eyes were closed, but she could feel his pulse and prayed that he would hold on.

  Dougal returned shortly with some bread and milk, then helped Isobel take Rory out of the tub and lay him on a pallet by the fire. Rory’s skin was still blazing and looked clammy and greenish, but at least he was clean and breathing evenly. Dougal sat behind him, and pulled him up as Isobel put a cup of milk to his cracked lips. He seemed to be swallowing it, so she soaked tiny pieces of bread in the milk, and pushed them into his mouth. He opened his eyes slightly, but they were glazed with fever, and he didn’t seem to see her.

  “The wound needs to be stitched,” said Dougal. “It will fester if it’s nae.”

  “I canna do it,” protested Isobel. “I dinna ken how.”

  “There is nay one else, Isobel. We have to keep him hidden. There is a price on his head and someone could benefit greatly by turning him in to the British patrol. Nay one must ken he is here. We need to stitch up the wound and then move him from here. By tomorrow, everyone will ken I am back and he won’t be safe here any longer. Get yer sewing basket. I’ll help ye.”

  Isobel ran back to the sewing room to get her basket. Her heart was hammering in her chest. The thought of sewing Rory’s flesh was terrifying, and she hoped she wouldn’t be sick. By the time she came back, Dougal had found a strip of leather for Rory to bite down on, and was pacing the small room. He took the needle from Isobel and put it over the candle for a moment, before bending it with his fingers to form a semi-circle.

  “I’ve seen the army surgeons use these. It’s easier to pull through the skin.” Dougal pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured some over Rory’s wound. “Maybe it will numb it a little,” he said hopefully, taking a large swig. He held the bottle out to Isobel to fortify her spirits, but she refused. She needed her wits about her.

  “Good thing he passed out. It will be easier,” Dougal remarked.

  “I’m awake,” Rory whispered, taking Isobel’s hand. “Do what ye must. Dinna worry about me. I’ll do.”

  Dougal inserted the leather strip between Rory’s teeth and sat behind him. “I’ll try to hold him as best I can. Keep sewing nay matter what he does.”

  Isobel took a deep breath and stuck the needle into the torn flesh of his forearm. Rory’s whole body tensed as he sucked in his breath. She kept her eyes on the needle and continued to sew. She had to stop every time a cough racked his emaciated body and wait for him to lie still again.

  Isobel could feel his agony with every stitch, and he lost consciousness halfway through. She supposed it was a blessing. The needle became slick with blood, so Isobel had to keep cleaning it on her shift to keep it from sliding from her fingers. It took about a quarter of an hour, but she felt as if she had been doing it for hours. Her whole body was stiff with tension, her hands shaking. Isobel finished sewing, tied off the silk thread and looked at her handiwork. The scar was jagged and not very neat, but at least the wound was now closed and would have a better chance of healing cleanly.

  “Where should we hide him?” she asked. Dougal shrugged. He was exhausted and needed to rest.

  Isobel suggested taking Rory to John’s bedroom in the tower. “Nay one goes in there since he left, and I keep the door locked anyway. If I close the shutters, nay one will see the light from the candle or the hearth. I’ll nurse him in there.”

  Isobel went outside to make sure the coast was clear, then motioned to Dougal, who carried Rory wrapped in a blanket as he would a sleeping child. Isobel lit a candle, and they made their way up the darkened staircase. She unlocked the door to the Laird’s room, and went in to close the shutters before lighting more candles and turning down the bed. Dougal put Rory down, then turned to leave.

  “I have to deal with the poor devils in the cart. They’ve served their purpose, now they deserve a proper burial. After I do that, I’ll sleep for a week,” he said. He saw the question in Isobel’s eyes, and took something out of his sporran.

  “This is Rory’s last letter. I will explain the rest later. I have to go.” With that, he walked out of the room leaving them alone. Isobel curled up next to Rory. His skin was hot to the touch, but he was breathing evenly, and she fell asleep holding his hand.

  Chapter 54

  Isobel woke up next morning to a soft knocking on the door. It was Anna.

  “Hurry, go back to yer room or Bess will come looking for ye.”

  She helped Isobel lock the door, then pushed her toward the stairs while running down to stall Bess who was coming up with hot water. Isobel dove into bed and feigned sleep when Bess finally shuffled in. She told the girl that she was unwell and would stay abed, then sent her away, saying that Anna would take care of her.

  Anna returned with some food and they went down to see Rory. Dougal had spent half the night burying the dead by the little church, and had finally collapsed into bed at Anna’s family’s cottage at dawn. He told her to go help Isobel, and Anna was only too eager to help now that she knew Dougal was safely at home.

  Rory was still asleep. He felt a little cooler, but still fevered and his breathing was shallow. Isobel touched his face trying to wake him up. He needed nourishment, and she would feed him before letting him go back to sleep. Anna had brought some bread and ale and promised to ask Cook for some beef tea. That would help. Isobel helped Rory use the chamber pot, then forced some bread and ale past his lips between fits of coughing, before letting him fall back asleep.

  “Do you ken what happened, Anna?”

  “Nay. Dougal was too tired to tell me anything this morning. He just washed up and fell into bed. He’ll tell us when he wakes, sometime next week.” She seemed happier than she did in months, and Isobel gave her a hug. “Thank God they’re alive.” She briefly wondered about John, but she would deal with that if the need arose.

  Chapter 55

  Isobel spent most of the day sitting with Rory, who was going in and out of consciousness. She checked the wound, wrapped it in clean linen, and tried to get him to eat something every few hours. He was either shivering violently or sweating through his shirt. The wound was constantly oozing blood, and Isobel ripped one of John’s shirts to use for clean bandages. She kept an eye out for pus, but there didn’t seem to be any.

  Anna and Dougal came after supper. Dougal had washed and shaved, and looked much improved since the night before. There were still circles under his eyes, and he had lost a lot of weight, but he looked relieved to be home.

  Isobel locked the door to John’s room, and the three of them went up to her chamber. The girls sat on the bed, while Dougal took the only chair. He seemed reluctant to tell them what happened, bu
t eventually he began.

  “We were marching back to Inverness, but the Hessians had blocked our retreat, leaving us nay choice but to stand and face the British. The army was ill-prepared to fight having had nae enough food or rest. The men were frightened knowing that the British had much greater numbers and artillery. His Majesty tried to rally the troops, and even promised to lead the charge, but spirits were very low.

  The day of the battle dawned rainy and cold, and we charged; running across the marshy moor barefoot, tripping and sinking into the wet earth. It was all over in less than an hour. Cumberland’s men fired the cannon and hundreds of men were killed within minutes. It was hard to see anything amid the mist and smoke, but eventually I spotted Rory. He was fighting a British soldier and there were two more coming at him.

  I tried to get to him, but I was too late. One of the soldiers had driven his bayonet into Rory’s shoulder. I saw him drop his sword and sink to his knees in the dirt. Blood was gushing out of the wound and he fell to the side, unconscious. The Redcoat kicked him in the stomach with his boot, and would have finished him off if another Highlander dinna charge him from behind, cleanly severing his head.

  I crawled over to Rory. The acrid smoke from the cannon made my eyes burn, so I could barely see where I was going. I finally reached him, relived to see that he was still alive. There were bodies everywhere in various stages of mutilation, men screaming in agony. I knew the battle was lost. The only thing to do now was to try and save ourselves.