Kissing the Countess (21 page)

"Catriona," he said, "come back. You, too, Mrs. MacLeod. Carefully." He held out his hand, beckoned.

"Your new husband is a worrier," Morag told Catriona.

Without a backward glance, they said the charm in singsong voices and then cleared the breach lightly and rapidly, helping each other with outstretched hands. Standing on the other side of the span of rock and the hole in the bridge, Catriona turned.

"There, see," she said. "Good day, husband. I will return by suppertime." She turned and took Morag's arm, and the two women walked down the opposite half of the bridge.

Evan stood staring after them as they struck out on a steep upward ascent on the forested hillside. Far above, the mountain and more distant peaks soared into a cloudless blue sky.

He stared downward to where the water rushed fast and deep over boulders far below. In coming to Kildonan, he had never expected that he would have to confront a collapsed bridge. Though the structure was small, its very existence reminded him too sharply of a magnificent thing of iron and steel, its red-painted girders gleaming in the sunlight as it crashed downward into a harbor in Fife.

Difficult as those memories were, he could not turn away from the comparatively minor challenge of a simple stone bridge in need of repair. The sight of Catriona on the ruined structure had made his heart plummet with fear—but he would face this, and make certain that nothing happened to her, or to anyone else.

He walked toward the center and tested his weight here and there, holding on to the parapet. He felt a dangerous shimmy underfoot, where the ragged edge jutted like teeth into open air. The keystone and crowning stones were missing. Glancing down, he saw a pile of rubble, impossibly old and worn by water, lying in the midst of the deep, fast stream.

He moved back, frowning. If anyone stepped fast and hard along that edge, sooner or later the stones would give way.

And when that happened, all the fairy charms in the world would not prevent the old bridge from coming down.

* * *

A little stone house with a thick thatched roof sat at the top of a steep slope. Looming over it was a massive wall of dark rock with patches of green moss and rusty-colored bracken. A few wild goats clung to its heights, Catriona saw, as she and Morag walked closer.

Tendrils of smoke rose from a hole in the center of the roof, and two goats nibbled on a block of turf beside the closed door. She saw no other signs of life about the place.

"Is Mother Flora at home?" Catriona asked Morag.

"She's always here, except when she walks the hills for her exercise. She refuses to come away from her home otherwise. But I warn you, she usually sends me away when I come up here—after she takes whatever food or gifts I have brought."

"I hope she will agree to sing her songs for me. I brought paper and pencil in case she does, so that I can take notes."

"I would not be too quick to take out your paper," Morag said. "She knows we're coming—I came up here the other day with my daughter-in-law and got her promise that she would see you. Look, her door is not open. She's going to make us knock and beg to come in, the old witch."

As they walked, Catriona looked around. This remote slope was part of the foothills of Beinn Sitheach, although the angle prevented her from seeing its uppermost peak. The wind cut brisk and cold, and Catriona drew a deep breath of the air, a nearly intoxicating essence that combined pines, grass, water, and the strength, somehow, of the mountain.

She could feel the magic in these hills—if there really were such creatures as fairies, surely they existed here, on the powerful and mysterious mountain slopes named for their kind.

The climb was a straight path worn in the grass, but so steep that Catriona felt the burn of effort in her legs—and she was used to walking inclines. She reached out to take Morag's arm to assist the older woman, only to be waved away.

When they reached the kailyard of the cottage, both goats blinked at the visitors. A cat slipped around the corner and climbed from the turf block to the thatched roof, tail curling.

Morag knocked on the worn wooden door. No answer came. "I know you're in there, Flora MacLeod!" she called.

Finally the door creaked open, and a tiny old woman peered out at them. She was bent and fragile, her face a delicate mesh of lines, her eyes a bright aqua blue, young eyes in an ancient face. Her hair was snowy and thin under a pleated mutch, and her brown dress was nearly a rag, its hem shredding about her feet, which were covered in patched leather shoes. She clutched a faded plaid around her shoulders.

"Ach, it's you, Morag MacLeod. What do you want?"

"I've brought you fresh vegetables," Morag said, lifting the basket she carried. "And a visitor. Let us in out of the wind, Mother Flora. We've had a hard climb up here to see you."

"It's a fine day and the climb will do you good, Morag MacLeod. You're fat as a pig." Flora looked up at Catriona. "How tall are you, girl?"

Catriona blinked. "A little less than six feet, I think."

"Huh. Higher than that, I'd say." She studied her. "Red hair, too. My husband was a tall red-haired man. Would he be your grandfather?"

"I—I don't think so," Catriona said.

"He was a lusty man with many by-blows before I met him. After that he only wanted to be lusty with me." Flora grinned, showing a scattering of teeth.

"Mother," Morag said, but Catriona saw her smile. Morag and Flora had blunt, wicked honesty in common.

"What's your name, tall girl?" Flora asked.

"Catriona MacConn. My father is the reverend of Glenachan. You knew my mother, Sarah."

"Ach, so I did! She was not so tall as you, but with the same red hair." Flora smiled. "Mine was blond, once."

"Are you going to let us in or not?" Morag asked.

"I like turnips," Flora said, peering at the vegetables in the basket Morag gave her. "What else do you have for me?"

"Do you need some socks?" Catriona asked impulsively. Reaching into the large basket she held, which contained the knitted things she and Morag had collected from a few croft wives elsewhere in the area, she drew out a pair of knee stockings in a bright pattern of red, black, and white.

Snatching them with arthritic fingers, Flora looked up. "What are you waiting for? Come in. Watch your head, tall girl."

Ducking her head under the lintel to step inside, Catriona expected to find little more than a hovel. Instead, the interior was dimmed by smoke and scant light but cozy, with a few good pieces of furniture and a bed neatly made with a thick blanket and a flat pillow. The floor, though, was littered with peelings of food that crunched underfoot, and the house smelled suspiciously like a byre.

"She lives like a goat," Morag muttered.

"Sit down," Flora instructed, and Catriona and Morag took seats on a bench beside the fire, while Flora sat on a wooden chair with a threadbare cushion behind her back.

"Have you got anything else in that basket?" Flora asked, reaching over curiously to poke her fingers inside. She pulled out a scarf. "I need one of these."

Morag snatched it back. "Teach the girl your fairy songs first, and we will give this to you."

Scowling at Morag, Flora then turned to Catriona. "Why do you want to learn my fairy songs?"

"I've been collecting the old Gaelic songs for years and writing down the verses and melodies." Catriona reached into the basket again and pulled out some folded pages. "I have learned over a hundred and thirty so far. They are listed here—"

Flora waved her hand. "I do not need to see that. Bah. Why do you want to turn the old songs into scratchings on a page?"

"She is saving them so people generations from now can sing them," Morag said. "People who do not know the old Gaelic songs."

"If they do not know the old songs, then why would they want to sing them?" Flora asked. "Are you married, girl?"

Catriona blinked at the sudden question and glanced at Morag, who frowned. "I am," she said carefully.

"And what husband lets his pretty young wife collect songs like butterflies when he should be putting babies in her belly? You'll have many healthy babies, with those fine hips and such a good bosom," Flora observed. Catriona blushed, speechless.

"She was married only yesterday," Morag said. "Give her time to see what will happen."

Flora grinned. "Is your groom a MacLeod? There are not many handsome young men left in Glen Shee. I hope it is not that sour doctor from Kilmallie who Morag brought here once or twice. I do not like him. He does not know nearly as much as I do. So, who is it?"

"Mackenzie of Kildonan," Catriona said. Silence filled the little room.

Then Flora narrowed her eyes. "You're the Countess of Kildonan now?"

Catriona nodded. "I am."

"I will not share my songs with the wife of Kildonan," Flora announced. She pointed toward the door. "Get out!"

"But, Mother—" Morag began.

"Hush, Morag." Catriona picked up the basket and stood, summoning her dignity, though tears stung her eyes. She had feared this would happen, had known from the moment she became Countess of Kildonan that her new status could drive a wedge between her and the people and culture she loved. "I am sorry—"

"Just go!" Flora stabbed her finger toward the door. "Leave me to my memories and my grieving, and do not take my old songs from me, too. They are the only solace I have now. Go!"

"But Catriona is deserving of your songs," Morag said.

"She is countess of these lands, and her husband took part in the clearances on that day of sadness, years ago. I saw him with his father, watching as the people were sent from the glen!"

"That's so," Morag murmured. "He was there too."

"I will not let the son take my songs away, as his father took my kin," Flora said.

Catriona bowed her head. She, too, had seen Evan that day, riding with the despised earl. Yet she was Evan's wife now, no matter the true state of her marriage.

"The old earl sent away fourteen of my children and ten of my grandchildren. They were all grown then, with their families," Flora said, ushering them to the door. "They left me alone here, with few of my own left to take care of me. And not the best ones either," she added, darting a glance at Morag.

"Now, you listen to me—" Morag said.

Catriona stepped through the doorway, ducking her head, and turned. "Flora MacLeod, I am sorry for the past," she said. "I, too, grieved that day for kinfolk and friends who left Glen Shee. But neither my husband nor I caused that tragedy. We share your suffering, and we share your hope that one day those who left will return to Glen Shee, where they are loved and remembered. Come, Morag."

She walked away, her skirt and plaid blown by the wind, her senses filled with the mountain air, but tears blurred her vision. Morag, grumbling, followed.

As they crossed the yard, she heard Flora begin a song of mourning in raspy, quavering tones, although the quality of the voice she had once possessed was still evident. Hearing the song, Catriona turned.

Where shall we go to make our plea

When we are hungry in the hills?

Hiri uam, hiri uam

The old woman sang a lament, the same
tuireadh
that Catriona had sung herself, years before, the day the people left Glen Shee. Standing on a hillside overlooking the road, she had honored their leave-taking in the only way she knew.

Now, raising her head and drawing a breath, Catriona added her voice to the melody. Her notes were higher and more pure than the old woman's, but the harmony was strong and haunting.

Where shall we go to warm ourselves

When we are chilled with cold?

Where shall we go for shelter

Since my love's hearth is dark?

Hiri uam, hiri uam....

As the song ended on a soul-wrenching note, the echo of its passing rang out over the mountains.

Flora emerged from her hut and walked toward Catriona, looking up at her with an intense blue gaze. "You," she said. "You were the one who sang a
tuireadh
for the people that day."

Catriona nodded in silence.

Flora looked at Morag. "Did you hear her that long-ago day?"

"I did," Morag said. "I knew it was her all this time."

"Why did you not tell me? Come here, tall girl." Flora grabbed Catriona's arm and dragged her back toward the house while Morag followed. "Come back inside."

Chapter 15