Love Joins the Clans

by Barbara Cartland

  It was only as the years passed and Clova grew older and more mature that Lottie would make excuses to keep her in the background.

  “I am lunching with a delightful gentleman, who asked me to bring you with me,” she would say, “but I know, darling, you would find it boring, listening to us talking about ourselves or rather him talking about me. So I am sure that you would rather have luncheon in our sitting room.”

  “Yes, of course, Mama,” Clova would agree at once.

  She was now no longer the little girl with golden curls who was an asset to Lottie’s beauty and her sparkling gaiety.

  She had become another woman and Lottie had no wish, although Clova liked to think that she had not expressed it even to herself to find a rival in her own daughter.

  But it had not been necessary for the last six months to keep out of sight of Lottie’s admirers for there had not been any and she had none of her own.

  ‘I have to do something,’ she told herself desperately and knew that it was the Bank Manager who she must turn to for help.

  She looked at the hard, uncomfortable iron bedstead where she had been sleeping, at the wallpaper that was peeling from the walls and the curtains that would not pull completely across the window and decided that, when there was no necessity for it, she could not bear to stay here any longer.

  She was also vividly conscious of the empty room across the passage where her mother had died.

  She knew that crying would not bring her back. She had to start a new life on her own and the sooner she got down to business the better.

  She thought that Monsieur Beauvais would be back in his office at about three o’clock, having like most Frenchmen doubtless enjoyed a long luncheon with perhaps a number of other business associates or with a pretty woman.

  ‘I will go to the Bank now,’ Clova resolved.

  She put on the plain black hat that she had worn for the funeral and started to walk down the uncarpeted stairs.

  As she reached the bottom, she saw a man standing at the desk speaking to the concierge.

  “I am calling on Miss Clova McBlane,” he said in English.

  He had a strange accent and the concierge, heaving himself out of his armchair with some difficulty, replied,

  “Pardon, monsieur, qu’est-ce qu’il vous faut?”

  “Miss McBlane,” the man replied in a slightly louder tone.

  Clova walked towards him.

  “I am Clova McBlane,” she said in English.

  The man turned from the desk.

  He was elderly with hair and side-whiskers that were turning white and dressed, she thought, in a somewhat severe fashion that made her think that he was perhaps a Minister of some sort.

  “You are Clova McBlane?” he asked as if he must make sure of her identity.

  Clova nodded and smiled.

  “I was told that I would find you here,” he said, “but I thought I must be mistaken.”

  Clova knew without his saying so that he was appalled by the sordidness of the entrance, the worn and none too clean linoleum on the stairs and walls that had not been painted for at least a dozen years.

  For a moment she felt that she must apologise for being found in such unpleasant surroundings.

  Then pride made her lift her chin a little before she asked him,

  “May I enquire, sir, why you are here?”

  “Yes, of course,” her visitor answered. “Is there somewhere where we can talk?”

  Clova realised that she could not ask him upstairs either to her mother’s empty bedroom or her own.

  So she looked through the open door at the sunshine outside.

  “I was just going for a walk. It is not far to the Champs-Élysées, where we can find a seat under the trees. ”

  She thought that the strange man was about to argue with her and then asked him quickly, feeling that she should have done so before,

  “Perhaps, sir, you should tell me your name?”

  “It is the same as yours. I am Torbot McBlane.”

  Clova stared at him in astonishment.

  It flashed through her mind that he must be a relation and, almost as if he could read her thoughts, he said quickly,

  “I am, my Lady, one of the Elders of your Clan.”

  Clova was bewildered. She had hardly thought about her father or of the Clan since she and her mother had left Scotland.

  There had been so much that was new to fascinate her when she had first come to Paris that she had hardly spared a thought for her grandfather’s Castle looming over the Strath, the moors stretching out behind it or of their own small rather ugly house, the gloom of it that had only seemed enlivened by her mother.

  Now she wondered why Torbot McBlane was here and then she knew the answer without his telling her.

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that you have come to tell me that my father is dead.”

  “Yes indeed, that is the truth. The Marquis died over a month ago.”

  “The Marquis?” Clova exclaimed. “Do you mean my grandfather?”

  Torbot McBlane shook his head.

  “No, the old Marquis died six years ago. You did not hear of it, my Lady?”

  “I am afraid not.”

  “It was your father who succeeded him.”

  “But ­– Uncle Rory?”

  “He was drowned at sea soon after you and your mother left.”

  Clova knew now why Torbot McBlane had addressed her as ‘my Lady’.

  If on her grandfather’s death her father had succeeded to the Marquisate, she would have become Lady Clova McBlane, while her mother, because she and her father had never been divorced, would have been the Marchioness of Strathblane.

  She wondered if it would have made any difference to Lottie’s last years when they had had so little money and their friends had gradually deserted them.

  But it was too late to worry about that now.

  She realised that the concierge, although unable to understand what they were saying, was staring at them with curiosity.

  She then said firmly to Torbot McBlane,

  “Let’s find somewhere where we can sit down.”

  He obviously thought it strange, but there was nothing he could do but agree with her.

  They walked quickly and in silence down the narrow street and, crossing the Boulevard at the end of it, came in a short time to the chestnut trees that bordered the Champs-Élysées.

  As Clova expected, there were children bowling their hoops and running over the grass, and nurses gossiping together while their charges slept in their expensive prams.

  There was also an old man selling red and white balloons, which furnished a brilliant patch of colour against the greenery and the silver fountains playing in the Place de la Concorde.

  Clova saw a seat that was unoccupied and sitting down on it looked up at Torbot McBlane, who lifted his coattails and sat beside her.

  “Now, Mr. McBlane,” she started. “Tell me why you are here.”

  “I thought that you would have known before now, my Lady, of your grandfather’s death.”

  “I am afraid that there is little written about Scotland in the French newspapers,” Clova replied.

  “You have lived in France ever since you left us?” Torbot McBlane enquired.

  “Yes, either in Paris or in other parts of France.”

  She did not mention Monte Carlo, knowing that to the Scots it would seem a den of iniquity.

  She was well aware that some French newspapers, like the English ones, denounced the Casino as ‘a Hell on earth’.

  She and her mother had often laughed at the letters that had been written against the evils of gambling and the suicides that resulted from it.

  “It may be a stupid way of dying,” Lottie had said once, “but at least the poor devils have some fun for their money, which is more than one can say for those who never swerve from the path of righteousness!”

  It was the sort of remark that made the men who escorted Lottie roar w
ith laughter and compliment her on her wit.

  But Clova had thought, when Lottie sold or pawned her jewels because she insisted on going on gambling without a man to pay for her losses, that it was a fool’s way of spending money.

  Torbot McBlane continued talking slowly and ponderously.

  “When your grandfather died, your father became the Chieftain of the Clan. A fine man he was, a born leader, and we miss him sorely.”

  There was just a touch of emotion in his voice that made Clova say softly,

  “I am sorry that I did not know him – better.”

  There was silence and then she asked,

  “Did he ever – speak of me?”

  “He was not a man to express his feelings aloud,” Torbot McBlane replied, “but we knew that he was thinking of you when he sat alone in The Castle and there was no family to cheer him or to talk to him when his day’s work was done.”

  There was a pause as he finished speaking and Clova could only say,

  “I-I am so sorry.”

  “All the Clan will miss him,” he went on, “and without his guidance we will be like sheep without a shepherd until the new Chieftain takes his place.”

  “I can understand that,” Clova said, “and who is your new Chieftain?”

  Torbot McBlane turned to look at her and there was something very solemn in his expression and his voice was like the voice of doom as he replied,

  “It is you, my Lady!”

  Clova stared at him wide-eyed.

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  “Your father had no son and in Scotland a female can inherit. You are therefore now the Marchioness of Strathblane and Chieftain of our Clan!”

  For a moment Clova could not breathe and then she stammered,

  “I-I don’t – believe it.”

  “It’s true and that is why I have come to Paris to beg you to come back because our people need you.”

  Clova could only stare at him speechless.

  Then she turned away to look at the children playing under the trees with the sunshine percolating through the branches and leaves to cast a yellow pattern on the grass.

  She felt that what she was seeing was burnt in her mind and she would always remember it.

  In a voice that did not seem like her own she asked,

  “Is it possible for me to – go back after – after I have been – away for so long?”

  Torbot McBlane was obviously aware of what she had been about to say and he replied,

  “The past is past, my Lady. It is the future that matters and the future of the Clan is in your keeping.”

  “What can – I do?”

  “You can come back to your home where you belong and to the people who are waiting for you.”

  His answer seemed to decide everything and Clova felt that there would be no argument about it.

  *

  Looking out of the window of the train that was carrying her to Glasgow, Clova was aware that Torbot McBlane had taken charge of her as if it was he who was the Chieftain of the Clan rather than herself.

  He had at first found a quiet respectable hotel in Paris where they could stay.

  After Clova had collected the few things that had belonged to her mother and herself that she wished to keep, she had told him that she could not leave for Scotland until she had some decent clothes to wear.

  There was no need to explain to him that she had been desperately poor until a few days ago when she had learned of her mother’s windfall from South Africa.

  Torbot McBlane had already learnt in detail exactly what had happened from the Bank Manager.

  It was the Chief of Police whom he had contacted in the first place who had informed him that Lottie was dead and everything appertaining to her funeral had been arranged by Monsieur Beauvais.

  Clova could understand that the funeral had attracted some attention and she was to find the following morning that there was a description of it in two of the French newspapers, which included the information that, although Lottie had been known as ‘Madame McBlane’ she was in actual fact ‘the Marchioness of Strathblane’.

  The Press had found out who she was, while neither she nor her mother had the slightest idea that her father had inherited the title some years earlier.

  “I had expected it would take a long time to find you, my Lady,” Torbot McBlane explained, “and it was by the hand of Providence that I was able to do so quickly.”

  Although he had never been abroad before, he had travelled widely in Scotland and was, Clova found, extremely well-read.

  He was a farmer in quite a large way on her father’s estate and a respected Elder of the Clan and he had been deputed by the others to undertake the somewhat formidable task of finding Clova after her father’s death.

  She had the feeling, although Torbot McBlane never said so, that it was a merciful relief to him to learn that her mother was dead.

  Although they never spoke about it, Clova felt sure that the Clan would never forgive Lottie for running away and for taking her child with her.

  She thought now that it must have been hard on her father, dour and dull though he might have been, to be left alone.

  He could never marry again without obtaining a divorce, which was a difficult procedure and in his position unthinkable. He therefore had no hope of having the male heir he must have longed for.

  ‘I suppose it was very wrong of Mama to leave him,’ Clova told herself.

  But she knew, thinking back which was difficult to do, that Lottie was like a butterfly in a cage and it had been impossible to stop her from spreading her wings and escaping.

  After she had bought the clothes that she hoped would be suitable for Scotland, Clova told Torbot McBlane that she was now ready for the journey ahead of them.

  She had hurried as quickly as she could to buy herself what was a complete wardrobe, knowing that nothing she had before was worth keeping for otherwise she would have undoubtedly sold or pawned it.

  Anyway what was suitable for Paris would certainly look outrageous on a Scottish moor.

  She was not quite certain what would be suitable, but she had taken the advice of the best shops in Paris.

  Although, of course, even their plainest gowns had a chic and an elegance about them that was different from anything that she was likely to find in Scotland, Clova knew with satisfaction that they made her look not only beautiful but without question a lady.

  She had the feeling, as she spent the money that the Bank Manager was only too willing to lend her, that she was perhaps indulging herself for the last time.

  Torbot McBlane was already telling her of the difficulties that she would find in Scotland, the unemployment amongst many of the Clan and the complexities of successfully breeding sheep that had little to feed on.

  And then there were the Highland cattle that never appeared to grow fat and Clova listened carefully to everything he had to say.

  She felt woefully ignorant and more and more afraid of failing those who she understood expected so much from her.

  “Surely,” she said as they journeyed North, “there must be somebody else, a man and a near relative, who would be more suitable as your Chieftain – than a woman?”

  “To us you are rightful heir for the position,” Torbot McBlane responded firmly, “even though there are some who would push themselves forward.”

  This is what Clova expected to hear and she asked,

  “So there are other aspirants – for the Chieftainship. Who are they?”

  She thought for a moment that Torbot McBlane was not going to reply.

  Then he said,

  “There is one in particular and we do not want him.”

  “By we do you mean the Elders or the Clan?”

  “Both!”

  “Then who is he?”

  Torbot McBlane’s lips tightened for a moment and there was an expression in his eyes which Clova thought was quite intimidating.

  “He is a distant cousin of your
s.”

  “And what is the name of – this distant cousin?”

  “He is called Euan McBlane.”

  “And you say that he wishes to be – Chieftain?”

  “It is what he wishes, but, when he offered himself, the Elders told him firmly that he was not eligible while your father had a daughter alive.”

  Clova was silent.

  The tone of Torbot McBlane’s voice told her that there was something more behind all this and after a moment she asked,

  “Why do you dislike my cousin – so much?”

  There was a long silence and she felt that she would not receive a reply until finally Torbot McBlane said,

  “He was educated in the South and came back to Scotland despising the land of his birth and praising our enemies, the English, who have done nothing for us, and whose cruelties, when we fought against them, will never be forgotten!”

  The way he spoke was like a call to arms and Clova could only ask a little nervously,

  “Are the old feelings and feuds – still as prevalent as they were – in the past?”

  “The Scots never forget or forgive,” Torbot McBlane answered.

  “Surely you realise that I am half-English?” Clova said. “My mother, as you know, came from Yorkshire.”

  “It is your father who counts. He was a McBlane, he lived and he died as one. That is what we remember and it is his blood that will guide you and show you the way. ”

  He might have been the Prophet Isaiah speaking to his people, Clova thought to herself.

  Because she was curious, she quizzed him,

  “Tell me more about my Cousin Euan. Surely you cannot condemn him completely because he was educated in England?”

  “He would rather live there, which he cannot afford to do, than with us.”

  The explanation was sharp, almost curt, and Clova had the feeling that it hurt Torbot McBlane even to speak of her cousin.

  After a moment she said,

  “I hope I will not start off a war – against anyone, least of all against those who are relatives.”

  She thought as she spoke that it would be pleasant to have relatives and to be with the people she belonged to.

  Perhaps as time went by they would learn to love her and she would not feel so alone and helpless as she did at the moment.

  As if Torbot McBlane could again sense what she was feeling, he began to talk to her about the history of the McBlanes.