Sarah Gabriel (23 page)

“I remember that Grandmother called it a pretty picture of Ben Venue,” Fiona said. “She told me that one summer. I thought it was the artist’s name, but could that be of help?”

“Ben Venue!” Elspeth gasped. “That is the mountain southwest of Loch Katrine. Your aunt’s party will go past there tomorrow.”

“Then you must come with us, Miss MacArthur,” Patrick said. “Elspeth.”

“Ben Venue it is, then,” James said. “We will go with them. If your grandfather would come, too, he could help us in the search. Though how we could cover a mountain in a day, looking for hidden treasure—” He stopped, smiled. “We will do our best.”

Elspeth frowned. “If I go, Charlotte will not like it.”

“Charlotte,” James said, “is not my concern.” He
drew her into his arms and held her, and she sighed, knowing how she would flourish in his keeping. If only they could meet the condition she had set for him—and that the fairies had set for Donal MacArthur.

She drew back and looked up at him. “It may not be right for me to involve you in this. What I am asking seems impossible.”

“Now who is the skeptic?” He leaned down to talk quietly to her. “I met my grandmother’s conditions, Miss MacArthur. And I will meet any that you ask of me.”

He echoed her own thoughts. Tears stung her eyes, and she smiled. But she alone, of the four of them in the room, knew how dire the risk. If they failed, they would never again meet on this earth.

A rapping sounded on the door, and Patrick opened it to Mrs. MacKimmie. “Begging pardon, but Mr. MacArthur is here.”

Slipping her hand loose from James’s hold, Elspeth smiled at all of them, having no adequate words of farewell—or gratitude. She led them from the room to greet Donal.

Late that night, James turned the blue agate in his hands, watching the lamplight glow in its prisms. He had fetched the key from Mrs. MacKimmie to remove the stone from the display case, planning to present it to Elspeth the next morning. Her promise to marry him had affected him deeply, and even the condition she had set upon her acceptance had not dampened the hope, and the love, he felt.

He was not sure what sort of treasure they could find in the space of a day, but he would certainly try. What was the harm, he thought. If it was not found,
he hoped to set her mind at ease over its existence. Perhaps some clue would come up if they got a chance to stroll the slopes of the hills depicted in Niall MacArthur’s painting.

And he could only hope Elspeth would marry him no matter the outcome. Perhaps she set this Herculean task to test his sincerity and respect for her wild fairy beliefs. His respect and love for Elspeth was sure and intact, and needed no questioning, but he would go along with this. No doubt he could find stones and the odd crystal or two, perhaps a bit of fool’s gold, in the hills tomorrow to suffice as “fairy treasure.”

The MacArthurs had agreed to return to Struan House early in the morning to join the group setting off for the hills. Lady Rankin had persuaded Donal to act as a guide into the territory described in Sir Walter’s poetry, and the weaver had been pleased to hear that his granddaughter would accompany them.

James did not know if Elspeth would tell her grandfather about their engagement now or later. Sooner or later, of course, everyone would learn of it. Perhaps Elspeth wanted to find some fairy gold first—or what might pass for it—for Donal’s sake.

James still had not absorbed this fairy business, but he was willing to accept a certain amount of eccentricity in his future grandfather-in-law. As for Elspeth, he was puzzled by what she had called truth—a fairy for a mother?—but he would trust that sooner or later, the matter would sort itself out to the satisfaction of all concerned.

Leaning back in the leather chair, he lifted the agate again and held it to the light, studying the pattern formed by its wavy concentric rings of color.
Moonlight to midnight
, Elspeth had called the color range.
At the heart of the stone was a cluster of clear crystals so delicate and complex that the toothy formations looked like a miniature landscape of peaked hills and castle turrets.

He reached down beside the desk, where he had set the leather bag containing his tools, geological notebooks, and rock samples, and dug until he found the loupe. Switching the two lenses for magnification, he held it to the agate, tilting it to the light.

The blue striations were translucent hues of good clarity, and the lenses showed better detail in the central crystals. He hefted the agate in his hand, its outer casing of granite like a thick husk. When he turned it, the angle changed and the crystal-lined cavity now looked like a cavern—one he had seen recently.

“What the devil,” he murmured to himself.

Frowning, he stood and took the lamp. Walking into the library, he went to the painting over the mantel, and held the agate perched on the palm of his hand to compare it with the painting.

The cavernlike crystal center seemed almost identical in shape and depth to the hillside cave rendered in the painting, where the spilling treasure was depicted. Even the turf of the hillside, painted in green tones, had a swirl pattern similar to agate rings.

Thoughtful, James returned to the study, uncertain how to interpret that odd coincidence. But he told himself, as he sat down again, that the blue agate had belonged to Donal MacArthur. The man’s son might easily have seen it, and used its design in his painting.

Reminded of Niall MacArthur, he reached toward
the manuscript that he had meant to work on this evening, and had set aside. He remembered a few pages that mentioned Niall, but he had not had time to go through them. Flipping sheaves until he found that section, he settled back to read them.

James stared at the page, covered in his grandmother’s minute handwriting. He had read this chapter at least a week before he had met Elspeth, but he had not given it much thought. Now he was stunned. Had Lady Struan based this tale on the disappearance of Elspeth’s father? Perplexed and intrigued, James turned the page over.

Gripping the page, James’s hand trembled. Either his grandmother had a wildly vivid imagination…or she knew the secrets of Kilcrennan. The hand script continued along the edge of the page, and James turned it to read the rest.

He sat up slowly, tilting the page toward the light.

Carefully, he folded the page and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“L
ook! Highland natives!” Lady Rankin pointed as the open carriage rumbled toward Loch Katrine, having left Struan House an hour earlier. Elspeth looked where the woman indicated, and saw two Highland men and a young boy walking along the foot of a hill. They were dressed in tartan kilts, loose shirts, worn jackets, and flat bonnets, and as the coach passed, they paused to wave and doff their caps.

“Please do not call them natives, Aunt,” Fiona said, seated beside her, across from Elspeth and James. Elspeth glanced toward Mr. MacKimmie, driving the open coach, dressed in his usual kilt and jacket, like many Highlanders; though he appeared not to hear them as he concentrated on his task, the vehicle swayed and lumbered up a slope along the rough road. Elspeth grabbed hold of the edge of the leather bench seat.

“Well, they look like Hottentots,” Lady Rankin said. “Nice that they greeted us. Highland manners can be very fine, I hear. My gracious, your coachman drives fast,” she panted, grabbing a strap beside the half door, her bonnet ribbons fluttering.

“The Highlanders are used to tourists in the area,” Elspeth said. “Grandfather says that the coaches fly so fast through here on their way to Loch Katrine, or southwest to Loch Lomond, that you could set a tea table on their coattails.” As the others laughed, she relished the velvet rumble of James’s chuckle.

“What Sir Walter Scott calls the Brig o’ Turk in his poem is the bridge at the end of your glen, James?” Lady Rankin asked, looking back at a stone bridge in the distance.

“Not the one that washed out and was recently repaired, but another,” James answered. “I did not realize its association with
The Lady of the Lake
until you treated us to so many readings from it this morning, Aunt.” He glanced at Elspeth.

She smiled, tucking her head down, view obscured by her bonnet’s gray brim. She wished she could reach for his hand, but she kept her hands folded, demure and gloved in pale kid leather, resting in her lap over her gown of pale gray wool under her bottle-green spencer. A tartan shawl in the MacArthur pattern of blue and green with touches of yellow draped her shoulders, and her leather half boots were suited to hill walking. She was confident that her outfit was attractive yet practical for the cool autumn weather, until Charlotte Sinclair had appeared, fetching in a walking dress and pelisse of pale blue accented in black, with matching bonnet and black slippers. Though Elspeth had considered comfort over appearance, she was glad that Charlotte rode in the second coach with Patrick, Sir Philip, and Donal MacArthur.

Now she leaned forward to look over the countryside. The open coach was Struan’s large landau, with a single driver and two horses, but had elicited a
complaint from Lady Rankin, until Angus MacKimmie explained that a coach and four was out of the question for the terrain. “We will be lucky even to reach the loch in this carriage,” he had said. “Ye will be walking soon after that, with no good roads over rocky ground.”

“That’s fascinating, and perhaps useful for James’s geological studies.” Fiona smiled, seated across from Elspeth and beside Lady Rankin. Elspeth felt she had found a friend in James’s intelligent, delightful twin sister. The engagement was still their secret—Elspeth had kept the news from her grandfather and Peggy, uncertain what the next few days would bring. But Fiona, knowing, smiled often, though Elspeth herself could not relax enough to enjoy, and trust, her own romantic future.

“There is Loch Achray,” Elspeth said, pointing as the coach rolled past.

Lady Rankin consulted a small guidebook. “But it is scarcely more than a pool. How disappointing. That is a Highland loch?”

“A lochan, a small one,” Elspeth said. “And very beautiful this time of year.” Autumn gold and russet in the oak and birch trees covered the hillsides all around.

Fiona unfolded the page that Sir Walter Scott had provided for them. “Sir Walter reminds us here that ‘the impressive Trossach Mountains are not the whole of the Highlands, but merely the fringe of the great Highland fastnesses, wildish and remote, further north. The Trossachs are the great massive slopes west of Loch Achray, between that and Loch Katrine, in a dell of woodland and cliff.’” Fiona looked up. “It is noble and picturesque scenery. No wonder it is so pop
ular, not only due to Sir Walter’s poem, from which you have liberally quoted, Aunt, but for its own spectacular beauty.”

“You must make some sketches, dear,” Lady Rankin said. “I want a record of the magnificence we are seeing today.”

“I will, providing my little skill is adequate to the subject, madam.”

“It is,” James said. He looked out the other side of the coach. “Lord Eldin is opening a hotel somewhere near here. I believe he said it was called Auchnashee.”

“Oh, I know that place,” Elspeth said. “It’s an old castle ruin at the middle of the western shore of Loch Katrine. Lord Eldin has a good deal of work ahead of him if he thinks to open an establishment there.”

“He has the funds for it,” Fiona murmured.

“Does this road go all around the loch?” Lady Rankin asked.

“It ends near the loch,” Elspeth said, “once we go through the pass of Achray, and reach a curving strand at the nearest end of the loch. Carriages can go no further without difficulty and danger to horses and passengers. There is a mountain horse track along the sides of the loch, and a trackless heath, but no roads.”

“I had no idea the area was quite so rustic. I thought it was prepared for tourists.” Sighing indignantly, Lady Rankin thrust her considerable bosom outward, and fanned herself with the little book of poetry.

“We can hire ponies or walk,” James suggested. “And there should be boats.”

“Boats are available to tour the loch,” Elspeth said. “Many choose to do that. A ferryman, Mr. MacDuff, has a cottage by the lochside, and hires boats to tour
ists. He will take us round for a fee. His neighbor rents ponies as well, and the ferryman’s wife will provide luncheon in their parlor, or luncheon baskets if we care to do that. Mrs. Graeme sent baskets of food for us, so we can choose to have luncheon at the inn, or explore on our own.” She saw James nod soberly.

“I prefer to explore on foot,” he said. Elspeth nodded.

“‘Indeed, the Trossachs area of Loch Katrine has a striking majesty,’” Fiona read from Sir Walter’s letter. “‘Ben Venue towers on its southwestern shore with true grandeur, massive shoulders crafted of the most ancient of rock, from the Goblin’s Cave at its foot to the great crystals in its crown.”

“Goblin’s Cave?” James shifted in his seat. “I would very much like to explore that. For geological studies,” he added.

“I have heard of that.” Lady Rankin thumbed through her well-worn copy of Scott’s
The Lady of the Lake
. “Here it is.”

“A grotto, as at Struan House,” Elspeth said. “I wonder if there is some relation.”

“My sister, Lady Struan, thought herself an expert on fairies,” Lady Rankin said, “and as I recall, she said her own grotto at Struan was modeled after a natural one in the Highlands. Perhaps it is this one.”

Elspeth and James exchanged glances. “Could be,” James murmured.

“Well, you may go ahead and explore for rocks or little savage hill goblins,” Lady Rankin said, “but I have no taste for mountaineering or hill walking, or even a pony ride. A sail on the loch sounds excellent. Fiona, come with me to sketch whatever I would like for a keepsake. I think we can persuade some of the others. Miss MacArthur?”

“I would like to see the mountain,” Elspeth said. “Especially the grotto cave.”

“Come with me, Miss MacArthur,” James said. “I think we can easily persuade your grandfather to act as our guide. Mr. MacKimmie can go with the others.” She nodded vigorously, as if none of it was planned, while Fiona smiled.

“Charlotte will be disappointed if she is not invited, too,” Lady Rankin said.

“She is not dressed for hill walking,” Fiona pointed out. “I will ask her to sail with us. It looks like rain later.” She glanced at the sky, where pale gray clouds rolled overhead, swirling around the mountaintops at either side of the pass of Achray. The wind was brisk and cool, the view so wide, enormous, and awe-inspiring that Elspeth sensed the elemental power of it, and drew one deep breath after another, sitting straighter, as if to absorb that strength into her being.

Fiona began to read from the folded page again. “‘Ben Venue will appeal to ardent admirers of great landscape beauty. Its black and towering sides have a certain rich glossiness, and its craggy dignity houses many mysterious caves replete with legends.’ Glossy?” she wondered. “Why would that be, James?”

He glanced toward the black mountain whose multiple peaks were visible beyond the low hills that edged the pass. “Deposits of mica would be my first guess.
Beds of mica-schist, perhaps, with granite and crystal. I am most interested to find out.” At his feet was the leather bag with his geological tools.

“Here, this is interesting,” Fiona continued. “‘One of Venue’s Gaelic names means “mountain of caves.” The one most easily found is
Uamn nan Uruiskin
, or the Goblin Cave, along its lower eastern slope near the
Coire nan Uruiskin
, or Goblin Corrie.’ How intriguing. Too spooky for me,” she added. “I will leave that to you two brave souls.”

“You’re not the least bit of a coward,” James told his twin, “but I can understand if you prefer the lazy luxury of a ship while you sketch.”

“You may not find a steamer at this end of the loch today, though there is one further up at Glengyle, I believe,” Elspeth said. “The ferryman keeps a pair of rowing boats for use by tourists who wish to go out on the loch. If the wind stays down, the loch will be smooth, and in any case, exceedingly beautiful. The scenery alone is worth it.”

“A rowing boat?” Lady Rankin frowned. “I did not come all this way to sit in an inn sipping tea and gazing through window glass, so I will take even a small boat.”

“Well done, Aunt,” James said.

“I shall read more about Ellen’s Isle, named for the heroine of Sir Walter’s poem,” Lady Rankin said, and flipping pages in her book, began to read aloud.

Elspeth closed her eyes and listened, and tried to quell her fears. She did not know what the day would bring, and she could not use her Highland Sight to guess at her own future. She would turn twenty-one in a few days, a birthday she dreaded celebrating, for what it might bring. She sighed.

After a moment, she felt James’s fingers, strong and sure, slide under the cover of her plaid. She savored the quick, warm interlacing of their fingers, and the silent message there—
love, strength, passion, hope—
until the coach drew to a stop, and the secret knotting of their fingers slipped free.

At the ferryman’s cottage along a strand that rounded the loch on its lower end, both coaches drew to a stop. Mr. MacDuff and his wife came to greet them, and then the group was treated to tea in the parlor. They drank hot, fragrant, sweetened tea and warm oatcakes with rowan jelly, while seated in a small room that had little to recommend it beyond the furnishings and two large, clean windows that boasted views of the mountain masses of Ben Venue to one side, and Ben A’an to the east, their lower slopes bordering the pass of Achray, through which the coaches had come.

Sipping his tea, James gratefully accepted some whiskey from Mr. MacDuff’s silver flask. “The best in the Highlands,” the man said. “Made locally. You will not find finer.” He winked, and then went to pour some for Mr. MacArthur and the other men. None of the women were offered, though none of them seemed to notice.

“Is this fairy whiskey?” James asked Elspeth quietly, while Donal stood near.

“Oh no,” she said, “that’s rare stuff. This is a very good local brew, though. Our cousin is not the only one who makes whiskey in these mountains.” She smiled.

“Who will sail over the water with us?” Mr. MacDuff asked then, and negotiations began as to how many would sail and who would go hill walking.

“James, will you come in the boat?” Charlotte asked.

He shook his head. “I want to explore the mountain slopes for rock samples,” he explained, giving his leather bag a little kick to demonstrate his intention to work.

She scowled. “What about your leg? Can you walk that far without trouble?”

James shrugged. “I do not mind the exercise,” he said easily, aware that Elspeth and his siblings glanced toward him. None of them would have made so blatant a reference to his lame leg, he knew.

Philip came toward them. “I would be happy to accompany you, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “I’m interested in seeing Ellen’s Isle with Lady Rankin and the others, and I hope you are, too. Struan can see the isle from the mountaintop, but he will miss its sublime effect from the water.”

“I will see it another time,” James said. “I am more interested in the geology than the scenery on this trip.” He was anxious to go, and thought Elspeth and Donal were, too; they had their heads together in earnest conversation.

Patrick came toward them. “We’ve hired two boats, as most of us want to see the views from the loch, and Aunt Rankin is keen to see Ellen’s Isle. James, you and Mr. MacArthur are for the mountain, is that so?”

“Aye,” James said.

“My granddaughter will accompany us,” Donal said, having overheard.

Charlotte whirled. “Miss MacArthur is going hill walking with you?”

“My dear,” Fiona said gently, leaning toward them from her chair nearby. “Miss MacArthur is used to
rugged Highland terrain and is dressed for it today. And naturally she may want to accompany her grandfather. You will be more comfortable on a boat outing, where you may relax at leisure. I plan only to sketch, and be lazy, and take in the beauties that surround this loch.”

“I did think today would be a coach tour,” Charlotte complained.

“We will make it a Sir Philip tour. Allow me to escort you around the shores of Ellen’s Isle,” Philip said, offering her his arm. He bowed. She laughed.