Summer of Love

by Gian Bordin

  "Yes, I did," exclaimed one of the maids who seemed to be in her late thirties. "I won’t have another babe."

  "What do you want me to do then? Tie a knot?" John mumbled with a full mouth.

  "Nothing that drastic. Just pull your sweet little thing out before it spurts!" was her caustic response, met by whistles, catcalls, and laughter. She simply shrugged her shoulders and continued eating.

  "You’ve heard it," shouted John. "You’ve heard it all. My own wife’s offending my virility, calling it a sweet little thing. I bet a shilling that I’m bigger than any one of you buggers."

  Andrew did not quite know whether the man was really angry over his wife’s remark or simply play-acting for fun, but he couldn’t help blushing. The maid, sitting across, watched bemused and then said: "We’d better curb our tongues a bit. We’re embarrassing our wee laird here."

  Andrew went crimson all over. Everybody laughed in good nature.

  John winked at him and asked: "And how many of these lovely young ladies have succumbed to your good-looks, master Andrew?"

  Before Andrew could find an answer, one of the young maids came to his rescue: "He’s very respectful of us. He treats us like a gentleman, like all of you should."

  "Admit Martha, you really want us to woo you."

  "Yes, but also showing proper respect, like master Andrew does."

  "Oh, I think the reason he isn’t after you is that he has a lass somewhere else," Michael burst out, a twinkle in his eyes. "Isn’t that so, master Andrew? That’s why you order such big lunches and go out riding so early in the morning two or three times each week."

  Andrew nodded, finding that agreeing was most likely to get the talk away from him. In fact, during most of the dinner, he had not said a word, nor had he understood all of the allusions made. Only later on, lying in bed, and thinking about the remarks, did several of them fall into place.

  * * *

  On their next two meetings, both Andrew and Helen made an effort to control their passion. They kissed and cuddled, sheltered behind the goat hut, rather than playing, running, and lying in the heath. The constant danger of being discovered by Helen’s mother or father bound them even more closely and added fuel to their passion. So their tacit restraint faltered the time after. Before they knew it, they lay intertwined in the soft grass, teasingly shedding each other’s clothing, discovering each other’s bodies.

  "Helen, I want to make love to you."

  "Andrew, I want it too, but we can’t. I don’t want to be with child. Please, don’t press me."

  "There’s a way. I can withdraw before I come."

  Her own urges unleashed, she needed little convincing. "But will you? Promise!"

  "Yes, Helen, I promise," he replied huskily, kissing her again, renewing his fumbling love play. When he sucked her nipples too strongly, she begged him to be more gentle. When he rubbed her crotch too hard, she took his hand, touching herself lightly. In a flash of understanding, more of the cooks’ banter fell into place. He explored her inner thighs gently, encouraged by her quickened breathing, his own excitement rising. When he pressed his swollen member into her thighs, she parted her legs, raising them, and guided him to her opening. He pushed timidly, but the blockage held.

  "You’ve to help me, Helen."

  She strained against him and suddenly it gave. A gasp of surprise and pain escaped her. Then she smiled and raised her lips to his. When he began to move slowly in and out, she responded, meeting his thrusts ever more vigorously, her arousal heightening with each. And then suddenly, he withdrew with a groan and almost collapsed next to her. In a desperate frenzy, she reached for her opening, clasping it with both hands, pressing her thighs together, as a wave of unbearable pleasure remained suspended, on the verge of breaking, but not quite, and then suddenly burst, crashing through her body, making her cry out softly. For a few seconds she lay still, letting her excitement slowly ebb away. Then she turned to face him. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. Their eyes shone brightly, exuding their love shared.

  After a while, propping his head up, he leaned against her, his right hand resting lightly on her breast. She folded her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  "I love you, I love you, I love you," he murmured into her ear and she responded, a glow in her eyes: "I love you too."

  The tip of his index traced the curves of her body, the shape of her breasts, her stomach, around her belly button, over her flat belly to the copper fuzz on her mound, down the inside of her thighs, up over her protruding hip bones, finding her left breast, making narrowing circles around the pink areola, his soft palm cupping the nipple when it hardened, gathering the softness.

  "That feels good. Don’t stop," she whispered.

  He smiled happily, kissed her, and let his finger take up its journey again.

  "I want us to get married, Helen!"

  "Yes, I want that to, Andrew."

  "I’ll send a letter to your father, asking him to let me talk to him."

  "No, Andrew. Let me talk to them first. Prepare them."

  "Will you do it soon?"

  "Yes, I promise."

  They bathed in each other’s eyes, in the love shining in them, remaining locked together for a long time, a smile occasionally deepening their fire.

  8

  The following day—it was late August by then, Mary told Helen to bring the goats back, that they would move down into their cottages in the glen. Helen blanched and uttered a distressed "Not yet, mother. Can’t we stay another few days?"

  "Why? What’s there to keep us up here? It’s more comfortable down there and warmer at night. There’s enough pasture for our goats."

  Helen was at a loss of what to answer. If they left the next day, she would miss Andrew and couldn’t tell him of their return to the clachan. But she couldn’t admit that to her mother, nor could she muster the courage to tell her that Andrew had proposed, despite her promise to him. She sensed that her mother’s mood was rather dark. So she simply repeated her plea: "Just two more days, mother, please!"

  "What’s the matter? What difference will two days make?" Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and she said accusingly: "You are meeting somebody at the lochan, aren’t you? … I’ve suspected this for a long time. Who is it?" She stared at her sternly and then raised her voice sharply. "I ask you to tell me who it is, lass."

  Helen did not answer, just matched her stare stubbornly.

  "Oh, I can guess. It’s the factor’s apprentice, isn’t it?"

  Helen felt the blood rush into her face, but replied, defiantly: "Who else could it be? You knew that the food I brought home didn’t grow under planks in a goat house."

  Her mother shook her shoulders violently, and almost hissed in an effort to keep the voice down: "Lass, I told you two years ago not to get involved with that lad. It can only lead to trouble. You hear me?"

  As her mother’s agitation increased, Helen’s decreased, and she became suddenly icily calm. "What kind of trouble?"

  "He is gentry! He’s just out to take advantage of you—has anything untoward happened already? Is that why he brought you food? Tell me, child, I must know."

  Helen chose to ignore her mother’s questions and answered: "He’s different. He wants to marry me."

  "They all say that until they get you pregnant, and then they drop you like a hot coal."

  "He loves me. I know. I love him."

  "He’s a Campbell. You cannot marry him. Father would never agree, not after what he did to us."

  "What did he do to us, except help? Was it not he who helped Betty and me getting away that day? If all he wanted was to have me, he could have done it right then and there. Was it not he who revenged you? Father, with all his big words hasn’t raised a finger yet. And he helped us survive, when we had no food. He said he admired you. He said that he would have liked to have a mother like you."

  For two or three seconds, Mary seemed lost for words, then she shouted: "What do you know of men? You fool
ish girl! I forbid you to see him again, ever! You hear me?"

  "I love him. We want to get married."

  "You stay away from him, or I’ll send you to my cousins in Balquhidder. They’ll keep you safe."

  "You do that and I’ll run away with him. We’ll go to America. He has enough money."

  Mary’s agitation bordered on the hysterical. She again grabbed Helen and shook her wildly, shouting, her voice almost snapping over: "You can’t! You can’t!"

  "Why not?"

  "Because … because he is your brother!" groaned Mary and broke into hysterical sobbing.

  For a long moment, Helen looked at her without comprehension. "What are you saying?"

  Now that she had told her daughter the secret she had kept hidden from everybody for those twenty years, Mary looked completely drained. In an flat voice she repeated: "He is your half-brother. He is my son."

  The ground was slipping away from under Helen. Everything around her began to spin. She stumbled and tried to hold herself up against the wall. And then she wailed plaintively: "Mother, tell me it’s not true. Mother, please! Tell me that this is all a bad dream! Mother!"

  Helen’s heart-rendering distress released the tears blurring Mary’s eyes. She took her into her arms, rocking her gently from side to side, like a little child. Helen just sank into her mother’s arms, weeping, whispering time and again: "I love him."

  After a while she fell silent, listening to Mary’s confession: "When I lived at the castle in Inveraray, I fancied Lord Archibald, the brother of the duke. Stupid, gullible girl I was, I believed him when he said that he loved me. But he just saw me as his plaything. He had no intention of marrying me. I got pregnant. His mother kept me secluded in the castle until after the birth of the boy, and then sent me home. Nobody ever knew about it. That was twenty years ago. Much later I learned that the boy had been named Andrew. Helen, he is your brother… And now you have to promise me that you will never reveal to anybody what I just told you. You’re the only living soul who knows it besides Lord Archibald."

  Helen disengaged herself and leaned against the wall, hunched over.

  "Helen, look at me!" Her mother was pleading. "You understand now why you cannot see him again."

  Helen nodded slowly. It was a major effort. Then she murmured: "I’ve to tell him. I owe it to him."

  "No, you’ll never see or speak to him again. I’ll tell him myself… Where do you meet?"

  "At the lochan… He’ll come down to the goat hut when you call." Helen’s voice was completely resigned. There was almost no sound to it.

  "When will he be there again?"

  "In two days … In the early morning."

  * * *

  As Helen had told Mary, Andrew came down from the boulders and rocks at the back of the glen when she called him. His face betrayed his apprehension of seeing her, rather than Helen. In turn, Mary’s face was stern, but her eyes were fearful.

  "Master Andrew, I want to thank you for all the food you gave Helen."

  He only nodded in acknowledgment.

  "But this isn’t the reason I came to see you." Her voice faltered.

  "Did Helen tell you that I want to marry her? … I love your daughter, Mrs. MacGregor." It was said firmly, with utter conviction.

  Mary did not answer his question. "You must never see her again, master Andrew… Never again."

  Andrew’s stubborn expression revealed his defiance. "I want to marry her… We will marry. You can’t prevent us."

  "You must not… You cannot… She is your sister… You are my son." She painfully wrenched each sentence from her throat with rising vehemence.

  Andrew stared at her in disbelief. "You’re my mother," he whispered hoarsely, and then he croaked: "No, no!"

  Suddenly he turned and ran to his mare at the back of the glen. He jumped on her on the run, instantly slamming his boots hard into her sides. The horse reared frightened and then shot off. He galloped toward the crest and then sharply tore the steed around, heading straight back to her. She saw him coming, saw the cold hatred in his eyes, braced herself to be run over. But he didn’t. He reined the mare brutally in front of her that she reared again, screaming in terror.

  "I curse you, woman. You abandoned me. I never had your love, and now you take away the only love I have! You brought me nought but misery!" he cried, his words echoing back from the crag above, and then he galloped off.

  Each word cut deeper into her. How she had mourned for her baby son herself! And now that son was cursing her. His harsh words kept ringing in her ears. Her legs trembled from the delayed fright of seeing the horse aim straight for her. She sank to the ground, weeping bitterly. Finally, the tears dried up. Her pride of a MacGregor, her resolve to protect her family at all costs, returned. She got up and washed her face in the water, feeling suddenly years older. She would never tell her daughter of Andrew’s curse.

  * * *

  Helen did not see Andrew again. Deep in her heart, she hoped that he would come by and see her once more, dreading it at the same time. She searched her heart. Did knowing that he was her brother change her love for him, make her love him like a brother? But she knew, it didn’t.

  Her heart constantly ached for him. She craved for the gentle touch of his soft palms, his loving green eyes in whose depth she had lost herself so many times. She found solace in daydreams, only to become even more morose when the present reasserted itself again. Many a night she cried herself to sleep silently, often holding on to Betty, desperately. The first time, her sister asked: "Has mother found out about master Andrew?"

  Helen nodded.

  "Did she forbid you to see him again?"

  Again, Helen just nodded. She didn’t trust her voice. Betty stroked her back.

  Almost overnight, she lost her color. The sparkle in her eyes was gone. Often she did not hear when somebody spoke to her, and when she did, she seemed to be coming from far away. She showed no interest in anything, not even reading.

  Mary watched her, worrying. Several times she spoke to her, tried to talk sense into her, but the girl always closed up, unwilling to listen, her eyes, red from crying, an accusing reminder of her deep hurt. One time, she lost her patience and shouted at her. Without uttering a word, Helen ostensibly took the tool for making fir candles and left the cottage.

  Helen’s spirits sank deeper and deeper. Added to her loss was her remorse of having given in to Andrew, of having sinned with her own brother. She prayed for God’s forgiveness, but it did not help. She felt betrayed even by God.

  Some weeks later, she learnt that Andrew had left the castle and that the earl had appointed a new factor in place of the bedridden Dougan Graham. For a while, she clung to the hope that Andrew would write to her. After all he was her brother. But no letter ever came, no message, nothing. At first, she became resentful even toward him. If he did love her so much, why didn’t he give her a sign that he still thought of her? But then she understood that for him the discovery that they were born from the same womb had been twice the blow. She finally gave up hope of ever hearing from him again.

  And then came the news from Glengyle that her father’s brother, his wife and her oldest daughter—Helen’s favorite cousin—and several other distant relatives had been slain in a skirmish with Argyle cavalry. They had been lured into a trap and when the MacGregor men refused to lay down their arms, the cavalrymen charged them, killing all those who could not get into the safety of the forest—men, women, and children. Her contempt of the Campbells, held in abeyance and suppressed by her love for Andrew, burst out with even greater vehemence, turning into hatred. At times it even included him. She asked herself whether her love for him had been doomed in the first place, even if he were not her brother. It brought her MacGregor pride and fighting spirit to the fore again, and as autumn gave way to winter, and the world cocooned itself into a mantle of snow for the long sleep to a new spring, she shook off her depression. With renewed fervor, she began to read. It took her mind away f
rom the ever more confused love that could not be. She even braved the heavy snow and went into Killin to borrow books from the minister of the church. Often, she and Betty read together and talked about it. Her reading ventured into anything she could lay her hands on—history, politics, and travel in foreign countries. Yet at times she yearned to discuss things with Andrew and a dull hurt reasserted itself.

  Her relationship with her mother never regained the warmth it had felt before she met Andrew. Where there had been filial love, there was sad bitterness, and it made her feel guilty.

  When they moved up to the shielings the following June, the memories of their short summer of bliss hit her with renewed hurt, but tinged now with the MacGregor blood spilled by the Campbells, and she felt empty for days, until she willed herself to lock them away, never to be opened again.

  9

  Early June 1750, Andrew dismounted from his horse at the Bear in Killin after almost four years of restless traveling. First, he had been simply running away from himself, paying scant heed to where he went and what he did—the more dangerous, the better. He was playing a game with death. It started with smuggling French brandy from small Scottish ports into England, cheating the excise tax collectors. On his last run they were jumped by English customs guards. The leader of their gang got shot in the fray, and Andrew made off with his purse—over four hundred pound sterling in gold coins.

  With money to burn, he went to London, then Paris. At that point he was not running away from himself any longer, but trying to forget Helen. Young, good-looking, an attentive listener, women in the Paris salons flocked around the soft-spoken Scott who spoke French fluently with a quaint accent. There was something mysteriously sad about him that attracted the more mature ones, particularly those married to older husbands, women in their late twenties and thirties. He went from lady to lady, always coming away dissatisfied, empty, but at the same time hungry for more.

  Restlessness finally drove him out of Paris. He traveled on horseback through the Swiss Alps into northern Italy, on to Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, and finally Greece, only to go back to Paris in the end. But after a few months there, an empty boredom caught hold of him again, and he had outstayed his welcome in the Paris salons. He ended up as the go-between for a group of French brandy smugglers. Working out of St. Malo, they dumped their wares on the Cornwall and Devon coast. It offered a welcome diversion, something with an occasional taste of danger and a quickening of the pulse.