A Heart In The Highlands

3-2

She stood on the summit of a hill, and the road wound downwards to a great loch bounded by mountains, their steep sides reflected in the still water. The rays of the setting sun pointed across the centre of the loch like a finger of light, turning to sparkling gold the turrets and towers and massive keep of a castle. Built on an island and joined only to the mainland by a narrow bridge, it appeared to Iona at that moment to be a fairy palace of almost ethereal loveliness.

It stood there proudly, not overawed or dwarfed by the height and majesty of the surrounding mountains, its massive stone bastions seeming a part of the landscape.

How long Iona stood staring at the castle she had no idea. She was conscious only of some strange emotion within herself, something she did not understand, but which stirred her to the very depths of her soul.

The wild beauty of the whole scene, the dark bareness of the mountains, the depth, length and breadth of the loch and the golden glory of the castle itself seemed to impress themselves into her consciousness so that she could forget everything but her sense of kinship. It was the coachman who recalled her to the urgencies ahead.

“Whit aboot gettin’ along, mistress?” he asked, and Iona climbed back into the coach.

Slowly, the horses holding back the heavy vehicle with difficulty, they descended. The road wound backwards and forwards across the heather-covered hillside. As they dropped lower, the mountains seemed to get higher. They were no longer in the sunshine. It was dark, and one had to look upwards towards the sky for light.

They drew nearer and nearer still to the bridge connecting the island with the mainland, and when at last Iona heard the horses’ hoofs clatter over it and looked out to see the castle towering above her, she felt the blood drain from her face and almost a paralysis sweep over her.

It was bigger, far bigger and far more frightening than it had appeared from the top of the mountain. They passed under a watchtower and into a great courtyard, and now the castle was no longer golden and ethereal. The walls were grey and foreboding, the windows were narrow, some of them mere arrow slits in the massive towers.

The coach stopped. At the top of a flight of stone steps was a huge oak door studded with iron nails. It was closed and Iona had a sense of panic. She must go back! She could not go through with this! It had been easy enough in France to agree to arrive unannounced and present her credentials. Colonel Brett had thought she was more likely to gain an entrance this way than if she wrote to the Duke and waited at some adjacent town or inn for his reply.

It had seemed easy to be daring when they had talked about it at a comfortable distance, but it was hard to do what they had agreed now that the moment had come to put their plans into action.

Iona sat very still in the coach, her fingers pressed together as if she must take courage from herself. The coachman descended and pulled at the bell-chain hanging on one side of the door. Minutes passed, then at last the door swung open and the coachman let down the steps for Iona to alight. Iona opened her lips to speak, but when her voice came it sounded strange even to her own ears.

“Leave my trunk on the coach,” she said. “I may wish to return.”

The man looked surprised, but Iona gave him no time to answer. She stepped in through the front door and the flunkey closed it behind her.

“Your pleasure, ma’am?” he inquired.

“I have called to see – the Duchess,” Iona replied.

She meant to ask, for the Duke, but at the last moment her heart failed her. It would be easier to talk with a woman – especially a woman who might still be grieving for a child she had lost many years ago.

The servant preceded Iona through a great hall and up a magnificent staircase then opened a door off a wide landing hung with tapestries.

“Your name, ma’am?”

Iona had been anticipating this question.

“Will you tell Her Grace that I have come from France especially to wait on her? My name would convey nothing.”

The servant bowed and Iona was alone. She was in a huge room, and even though its size and magnificence awed her, she could not help responding to the beauty of its furnishings. Never in her whole life had she seen anything to equal the heavy velvet hangings of crimson and gold or the high backed needlework chairs, the polished furniture, the great gilt mirrors and fine portraits in carved and decorated frames. Four big windows reaching almost from ceiling to floor opened out on a balcony, and beyond Iona could see the loch, misty now in the evening twilight, the mountains black against the sable sky.

She stood waiting, too tense to sit and too frightened even to move from the position she had first taken up on entering the room. Then the door opened. She gave a little gasp and turned towards it, only to see not a woman, as she expected, but two footmen resplendent in claret-covered livery with silver buttons, bearing lighted tapers.

There was a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the centre of the room. At the footmen’s touch each candle sprang into life. There were also candles in glittering crystal sconces on either side of the mantelpiece and on the other walls.

The footmen moved quickly and silently. When the candles were lit, they drew the curtains, shook up the cushions and one man placed a log on the fire before they withdrew. Iona felt as if she must be invisible for they did not even glance at her, intent only on arranging the room as if they were setting a stage for a drama that had not yet begun.

Now that the curtains were drawn, she felt enclosed, a prisoner. Yet it was impossible not to appreciate the beauty of the prison. For the first time she thought of her own appearance. A few steps brought her to a gilt table above which hung a mirror. It was carved with cupids supporting a crown and the glass was slightly iridescent with age, but Iona could see herself clearly.

Her face was small and white beneath her dark hood, yet the curling riotousness of her hair, which would never lie smooth, caught the light of the candles and gleamed vivid as a flame against her forehead. Her eyes were very wide, the pupils dilated. Her lips were red – a vivid contrast to the pallor of her face.

Iona gave a little sigh. She wished she dare open the small packet, which contained the miniature, and compare it with her own reflection here in the castle. Had they been mistaken in thinking there was some resemblance? Was it just imagination and the wish for an excuse to bring her over here? A thousand fears seemed to whisper themselves in her ears. The whole scheme seemed at this moment ridiculous and crazy. Perhaps this very night she would be unmasked and taken to the prison at Fort Augustus. Then she stilled her imaginings. She was afraid of prison, but even more afraid of failing the Prince and those who trusted her.

She moved from the mirror across the room to where she had first stood. At any moment now the Duchess might be coming to her. At least she had not refused to see her! Now for the first time Iona thought of the Duchess as a person. Until now she had been so intent on thinking of the Duke because of his importance to the Cause that she had given little thought to this woman whose daughter she must pretend to be.

Quite suddenly she was ashamed. Supposing the Duchess believed her story, supposing she welcomed her with joy as the child she had mourned. Could anything be more cruel, more bestial than to deceive a mother? Iona was in that instant horrified at what she was about to do. It was wrong, wrong, because her pretence might hurt and deceive another woman!

Wildly Iona looked round her as if for some way of escape. It was then that two footmen, who bowed as a woman passed between them, opened the double doors at the far end of the room.

For a second Iona could not look up. Her hands were clenched together tightly and not felt as if her heart lay heavy as a stone in the centre of her body. At last she forced herself to raise her eyes.

She had a quick impression of a slight figure with powdered hair dressed high in the latest fashion, of a thin face with a down-turned, petulant mouth, of glittering jewels, of rustling silks and velvet bows, and of long white fingers holding a lace handkerchief, then confused she swept the ground in a deep curtsey.

Only as she rose was she aware that she was looking into a face which bore no resemblance whatsoever to the miniature. The Duchess scrutinised her with narrowed eyes.

“They told me you had come from France,” she said, “I was expecting someone else. Who are you?”

There was a sharp note in her voice, which better than anything else seemed to bring Iona to her senses. Her heart-searching and fears were swept away. Here was no bereaved mother to be deceived and hoaxed. There had been a mistake somewhere, what it was she did not know, but of one thing she was certain – the sharp, metallic note of the Duchess’s voice hid no aching, anxious heart.

Resolutely Iona spoke up.

“I hope you will forgive my troubling you, ma’am, but I have come to Skaig Castle with – a strange story and one to which I believe in justice you will grant a hearing.”

“They said you came from France,” the Duchess repeated. “You have a special message for me? An introduction?”

There was something insistent about her questions. Iona shook her head.

“No, ma’am, I have no introduction. I know no one in France who has the honour of your acquaintance.”

The Duchess made an impatient gesture as she turned and walked across the room to sit herself in a high-backed chair.

“It is intolerable that I should be deceived by such messages,” she said. “Strangers are not admitted to my presence without good reason.”

“Please believe me, ma’am, when I say that I have good reason,” Iona answered. “Here is a letter which I would beg Your Grace to read. I have also two articles to show you.”

“A letter? Then you have been sent to me?” the Duchess said eagerly. “Who is it from?”

“A priest, ma’am. Father Quintin by name.”

The Duchess sank back in her chair and the eagerness faded from her face.

“I never heard of him,” she said petulantly. “Well, since you are here, you had best explain your presence and be quick about it for we dine at six o’clock.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Iona was calm now. Her mind was clear. Perhaps the Duchess had once been good-looking, but any beauty she possessed had faded and her whole face contained only a querulous expression of nervous irritation. Her eyes were sunk into her head and there were deep lines running from her pinched nose to the comers of her thin lips. Unattractive, despite the elaborate coiffure and expensive gown, it was obvious that the Duchess was a middle-aged woman.

Iona knew now that there had been some mistake. It was impossible for this to be the mother of the child who had been drowned, and she remembered Hector’s warning that Colonel Brett was not always accurate about details.

“Well, hurry, girl,” the Duchess commanded, “and explain your business.”

“Seventeen years ago,” Iona said quietly, “the Duke of Arkrae’s yacht was sunk in the English Channel.”

“That is true enough,” the Duchess interrupted. “What of it?”

“Aboard that yacht,” Iona went on, “there was the Duke’s little daughter, Lady Elspeth MacCraggan. She was, I think, aged three at the time.”

“That is correct,” the Duchess agreed.

“The Duke believed that his daughter was drowned that night at sea,” Iona continued, “but in actual fact the child’s nurse – Jeannie MacLeod – and the Duke’s valet escaped in a boat to the French shore. The child went with them. I have evidence here in this letter which gives me to think that I am that child.”