The Highlander's Yuletide Love (24 page)

Sophy stood a
little apart from the crowd gathered in Glencairn’s drawing room, a wistful
look on her face. The carolers had come, as they did each year, making their
way through the snow to stand on the terrace and sing. It was one of her
favorite Christmas traditions; she could not remember a time when Christmas Eve
had not ended this way, with the sound of voices lifted in song, and then
refreshments in the Great Hall, with the villagers and the Learmouths talking
and laughing, remembering past days and looking to the next spring.

She watched as
Douglas talked with Mr. Starrett, his expression attentive, though she felt
quite sure he was once again telling her brother the story about his sheep dog.
A little farther away her father and stepmother spoke with one of the tenant
farmers and his wife. Huge wrought metal sconces containing torches lit the
vast space from high up the walls, while the Yule log, which had required three
cursing footmen to push into the hearth, burned brightly, sparks dancing as
they shot up the chimney. Voluminous ropes of pine boughs and holly branches
bright with berries were strung around the walls, and ran through the spandrels
of the hammer-beamed ceiling. Trestle tables had been set up in the hall with
sweetmeats laid out on the Glencairn sterling, and a huge punchbowl filled with
wassail at the center of the table. It was so familiar, and so loved, but she
felt somehow apart from it this year.

Sophy took a sip
of wassail from the cup she held in her hands and turned to look out the
window. The snow continued to fall, and she wondered at the determination that
had brought the villagers to Glencairn that night. Tradition was strong in many
hearts, she reflected. She found herself wondering what Christmas at Spaethness
might be like, and what Ranulf was doing. She could picture him standing in the
hall, greeting his tenants, or entertaining his neighbors. What would it be
like to be there with him, and then, when the company had left, to go
upstairs—she broke off the thought hastily.

With a
determined air, Sophy walked to the table, nodding at and greeting
acquaintances, tenants and servants on her way, before refilling her cup. She
paused a moment, feeling strangely uncomfortable in her own home and finally,
with a quick glance around, slipped out the door into the passageway. It was
quieter there, though she could still hear the chatter of the company, and she
paused for a moment, enjoying the peace. Then, feeling a touch of guilt, she
picked up a branch of candles from a nearby table and wandered away, sipping at
her wassail, with no particular destination in mind. She could hear the wind
blowing against the ancient strength of Glencairn’s walls, and felt a moment of
gratitude that she was inside, safe and warm.

Eventually she
found her way to the Long Gallery. She hesitated briefly when she realized
where she was, but pushed the door open and stepped in. It was not meant to be
used that night, so the curtains were drawn and the candles were snuffed, but a
small fire burned on the hearth to keep the room from growing too chilly. Sophy
walked to a nearby window, pushing the heavy velvet curtains open. A wavering
trickle of moonlight broke through the clouds and snowflakes before filtering
past the frosted panes, so she walked slowly from window to window, opening all
the drapes and letting in the light. A chill came off the frozen glass, and she
pulled her shawl more tightly around herself. Despite the cold, she felt no
wish to leave.

Sophy seated
herself in a velvet chair and placed the candelabra she carried on the table
next to her. The flames flickered gold in the silver moonlight, casting a
little pool of light around her. She looked up at the portraits, and, as so
often before, her eye was caught by her mother’s. She gazed up at it intently. Her
mother appeared to be looking back at her, and the longer Sophy stared, the
more sympathetic the painting’s gaze seemed to be.

“I wonder what
you would do, were you me,” she murmured.

Her eyes widened
for a moment as the portrait seemed to glow with a silvery light, and she
looked over her shoulder at the windows. She took another sip of her wassail,
and turned back to the painting.

“I love
Glencairn, and my work, truly I do,” she continued. “But—I miss Ranulf. I miss
not only the—the things he does to me, but also him. His voice, and his
obstinacy, and the way he laughs at me.”

Sophy gazed down
into her half empty wassail cup for a moment, contemplating what she had just
said, and there was another small flash of light. She looked up, and her mouth
dropped open. Her mother smiled at her, and then her delicate white hand lifted
and stroked the cat, which mewed gently.

Sophy hastily
put down her wassail cup, wondering just how much of it she had consumed in the
past hour. As she stared, her mother gave a gentle laugh.

“Don’t be
frightened, Sophy,” she said.

“M-Mother?”
stammered Sophy.

“Yes, Sophy.”

Sophy stood and
came closer to the portrait, looking at it suspiciously. “Douglas, if you are
doing something to tease me, I’ll strangle you.”

“Your brother is
in the Great Hall, where you left him. He has no need of me tonight.” The voice
was light and musical.

“Are you saying
I do?” asked Sophy.

“You’ve had need
of me since this summer. I heard you, you know, but I could not reach you. But
tonight is Christmas Eve, when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest. I
called to you, and you came.”

“Is that why I
felt so uncomfortable downstairs at the party?” Sophy whispered. She felt
ridiculous, speaking to a painting.

“No, you felt
uncomfortable because you no longer belong here at Glencairn. You’ve grown up,
and need to move on.” The blue eyes in the portrait, so much like her own,
smiled down at Sophy. “You are no longer my little girl, or anyone’s little
girl.”

“But I do not
wish to leave,” said Sophy argumentatively.

“Of course you
do. It is time, and you will not admit it. I had to admit it once, too.”

“Admit what?”

“That the time
had come to leave my family and make my own life. That I was in love.”

“With Papa?”

“With your
father.“ Sophy watched as the long fingers caressed the cat, who arched her
neck, seeking more of the gentle touch, and a curious smile appeared on her
mother’s lips. “He was very handsome, you know.”

Sophy was
astounded. “Papa?”

“Euan. He was
tall, and well built, and had fine legs—don’t think I did not notice, though I
was barely nineteen. He could charm the birds out of the trees, or so it seemed
to me. He certainly charmed me. I found him distractingly attractive.” The
voice grew dreamy.

“You—you wanted
Papa?” The notion astounded Sophy.

“Oh, indeed. I’ll
never forget the first time I was alone in a room with him.” She sighed. “I
thought I had contrived it, but I found out later he was under the impression
he had maneuvered me into it. It seems we both had the same thought.”

“But—but he was
so much older than you,” protested Sophy.

“We can’t
control these things.” There was a silvery laugh. “Poor Sophy, do you think
that you can?”

“I—I don’t wish
to be just a wife,” said Sophy.

“Would Ranulf
make you merely a wife?”

“I don’t know.” Sophy
looked perplexed.

“You must listen
to what your heart tells you. Mine told me to marry Euan, though he was twenty
years older than me, and knew far more than I did about the world. He was a
soldier, and an earl, and had had many lovers before me, you know.”

Sophy gaped. “Papa?
He had lovers?”

“Sophy, dear,
your father was a man of the world. I had to trust him when he asked me to
marry him. I never regretted it.”

“Never?”

“Oh, perhaps
once or twice, when we quarreled. But then we made up, and that was
delightful.” Her mother smiled warmly. “I was never angry with him for long,
and he loved me faithfully, though we had far too little time together.”

Sophy clapped
her hands over her ears. “I must be going mad.”

“No, you are
quite sane, child. Though turning down Ranulf was a bit of lunacy.”

Sophy sat down
again, staring up at the portrait. “Do you think so?”

“You need to
find your own answers, Sophy. I can only tell you what I know. You love Ranulf
Stirling. You must now decide if you can trust in that love or not.”

“But he doesn’t
love me,” said Sophy miserably.

“Nonsense. He is
a man, and cannot admit to himself that he loves. Your father spoke only of
honor, respect, and that, having compromised me, he must marry me. It was
remarkably foolish of him. I teased the truth out of him eventually. You may
have to teach your Ranulf the words, too.”

“You make me
feel very foolish,” said Sophy.

“You must admit
what you want, and then take it,” said her mother. “You wanted to paint, and
you made sure it happened. What is it you want now?”

Sophy grimaced. “Ranulf.”

“There, was that
so hard?”

“But I told him
I would not marry him!”

“Surely you can
win him back?” The portrait smiled. “I don’t think I need to tell you how.”

Sophy flushed. “Mama!”

“I needn’t mince
words with you, my dear.” The fingers trailed gently over the cat’s head once
more. “I must go, my dear. The hour is waning. Remember that I love you.”

“Don’t go—“
began Sophy, but as she watched, the light from the portrait faded, and the picture
returned to the familiar representation she had seen so many times before. Her
mother gazed out at her, the eyes now merely paint, the lips frozen in a gentle
smile.

Sophy picked up
her glass of wassail and drained it. She sat for a few more minutes in silence,
thinking of her odd experience as the chill of the room penetrated the shawl
she wore over her silk evening dress. She longed to go straight to bed, but
knew she should return to the Great Hall to make her excuses first. She looked
back up at the portrait as she rose from the chair, wondering if perhaps she
saw just a glimmer of the smile that her mother had worn during their
conversation, before turning to go.

When Sophy
re-emerged in the Great Hall, the noise level had risen, and it seemed that a
few of the villagers had brought fiddles and pipes, for a reel was underway at
one end of the hall, while older folk stood talking nearer the entrance. She
saw Douglas whirl a young lady into the dance as Harriet and Glencairn toasted
one another.

She walked
slowly over to them. “I have a bit of a headache. I think I will go to bed now,
so I am not too tired to go to church with you in the morning.”

“Don’t you wish
to dance?” her stepmother asked. “I see young Sparloch over there looking this
way.”

“No, no, I
really must go to bed,” Sophy replied. “I’m sorry, but my head aches so…” her
voice trailed off.

Harriet gave her
a hug. “Very well. We will see you in the morning.”

As Sophy walked
away from them Harriet turned back to Glencairn. “More an aching heart, than an
aching head, I fear,” she said.           

At Spaethness
Castle, Ranulf sat in the library, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. He
gazed into its amber depths, his face blank. Snow beat heavily against the
windows, driven by a strong north wind that made the panes in the window
rattle. A fire roared in the hearth, casting a rosy glow into the room, and
Ranulf stretched one booted foot out to it. He looked up as the door opened,
and the butler entered, carrying a branch of candles.

“I thought you
might like some light, sir,” he said. “It grows dark so early now.”

“Thank you,
Gibbs,” murmured Ranulf. He turned back to his contemplation of the fire.

The butler
cleared his throat and Ranulf looked up inquiringly.

“The doctor has
been here, visiting the laird,” said Gibbs. “He would like to speak to you.”

“Oh? Of course,
I will come right away.” Ranulf put down his glass and followed the butler out
into the hall. The doctor stood there in the gloom, wrapped in his coat, his
bag on a table next to him, his spectacles shining in the candlelight.

“Good evening,
Dr. Keir,” said Ranulf.

“Good evening,
Colonel.” The doctor inclined his head as the butler left them alone.

“You wished to
speak to me?”

“I did.” The
doctor pursed his lips. “I will not mince words with you. Your father is very
weak. I do not think he will last the night.”

Ranulf glanced
at him sharply. “What has happened since yesterday?”

The doctor
spread his hands out in front of him. “Very little, sir. He has been ill for
many months now, and might have gone at any time. But today is different. He
spoke very little, failed to demand a glass of whiskey from me, and did not
insult me even once.”

Ranulf smiled
wryly. “I see.”

“I’m sure you
do. I had no worries for him while he had an interest in his usual activities,
but today he is tired. Very tired. I do not think he will carry on much longer.
If you wish to spend time with him, I suggest you do so now. I doubt he will
outlive Christmas Day.”

Ranulf nodded. “Thank
you, Dr. Keir, for the care you have given him, and the patience you have
shown. It cannot have been easy for you.”

“As for that, I
do not care,” replied the doctor. “He was a good laird, and a good man in his
own way. He will be remembered fondly.”

“A man cannot
ask for more than that,” observed Ranulf.

“Good night,
Colonel Stirling,” said the doctor. “I wish you well.”

“Thank you.”

Ranulf watched
as the doctor departed, and then stood for some moments in the hall, a
thoughtful expression on his face. Returning to the library, he picked up his
glass of whiskey and the bottle next to it, and then walked up the wide stone
staircase. He strolled leisurely through the halls until he reached the door to
his father’s room, where he hesitated a moment before pushing it open. The laird
lay in the enormous oaken bed, looking to his son’s eyes very small against the
huge expanse of the burgundy silk coverlet. A huge fire burned in the
fireplace, and a nurse sat by the bed, reading by the light of a single candle.
She looked up.

“I’ll sit with
him for a bit,” said Ranulf softly. “Get some rest.”

She stood and,
dropping a curtsey, left the room silently. Ranulf sat down in her place,
putting the bottle down on the table next to the bed and taking a sip out of
the glass he held. The laird seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his chest softly
rising and falling with his breath. Ranulf gaze into the fire, his thoughts
wandering.

“It’s you, then,
is it?”

Ranulf turned to
see that his father had opened his eyes and was watching him intently, his dark
eyes glittering with fever. He nodded.

“It’s me.”

“What are you
doing here?”

“The doctor said
that you might need me.”

The laird’s hand
tightened on the sheet that he clutched by his chin. “Keir’s an old woman,” he
snapped. “Did he tell you I was going to die?”

Ranulf inclined
his head. “He said you might. I doubted him.”

“I’ve a mind to
live, if only to spite him,” said he old man. His eyes closed, and Ranulf
watched, wondering if he’d fallen asleep again. But, after some time, they
opened again.

“I don’t suppose
you’ll miss me,” he snapped.

Ranulf smiled. “I
will—a bit.”

“Don’t be
maudlin. I was never much of a father to you.”

“Still, you are
my father. I owe you some loyalty.”

“You don’t owe
me anything,” the old man said peevishly. “Nothing bothers me more than you
young people today and your sentimentality. Do you suppose I missed my father
when he died?”

“I have no doubt
you wished him to hell when he went,” said Ranulf cheerfully.

“That I did,”
agreed the laird. “He was an old bastard.”

“Perhaps we have
not been the closest of friends, but I do not wish you ill.”

His father
glared at him. “What happened to that girl?”

“What girl?”

“The pretty
little one with the brown hair,” said his father. “What was her name? Sarah? Sally?”

“Sophy,” said
Ranulf reluctantly.

“That’s it! Sophy.
Why didn’t you marry her?”

“She wouldn’t
have me.”

“Wouldn’t have
you! A pretty thing, a Learmouth refusing to a Stirling! Who does she think she
is?”

Ranulf paused. “I
think it is less who she thinks she is than who she thinks I am,” he ventured.

The laird
snorted. “Don’t talk at cross purposes, boy. Do you want the girl?”

Ranulf
contemplated the question. “I do.”

“Then go get
her. You’re a man, aren’t you? She’s a mere slip of a thing. Make her marry
you.”

“It’s not that
easy.”

“Aye, you men
today don’t know how to make a woman bend to your will,” said his father.

“Like you made
Mother bend to yours?” asked Ranulf with a raised eyebrow.

The laird
glowered at him. “We’ll not speak of her on my deathbed. I’ve no wish to think
about her even now.” He gazed steadily at Ranulf. “Do you love that silly
girl?”

Ranulf refilled
his glass. He glanced at his father, and then, taking another glass from the
table, filled it and put it in his hand. “It can’t matter now if you have
this.”

The old man
raised it to his lips with a shaking hand and took a sip. “Aye, that’s the very
thing,” he said. “But you think I’m feeble and will forget what I asked. Do you
love the girl?”

Ranulf shook his
head. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as love.”

The laird
cackled. “I was in love once,” he said abruptly.

Ranulf put his
glass down, astounded. “You were?”

His father
seemed pleased to have startled him. “I was indeed. Do you think I have no
heart?”

“I do indeed.”

“She was the
daughter of the Laird of Ardfern.” He laughed at Ranulf’s surprised
countenance. “Yes, the sister of the current fellow’s father. She was a
beauty.” His eyes grew distant as he summoned up his past. “Blue eyes, titian
hair, long legs, creamy white skin, huge—” he broke off. “She was lovely.”

“Why didn’t you
marry her?”

“Our parents
were opposed to the match, and I was young and stupid. I thought I could find
another like her, that they were all the same.” He glared at Ranulf. “They
aren’t, you know. She was sent off to the south, to marry some damn fool baron
in Dumfries. I never saw her again, not for years, and then she was the mother
of a brood of children. Still lovely, but she would not speak to me. I did what
my father wished, and married your mother.”

“You astound me,”
said Ranulf.

“You thought I
had no feelings, hey?”

“Something of
that nature.”

“Well, since I’m
dying, I’ll tell you that you’ll end up like me if you aren’t careful, my boy. Brooding
and sniffing after the wives of others will get you nowhere but an empty house
and a deathbed with no one at it but one ungrateful son.”

Ranulf swirled
the liquid in his glass. “I’ll think on it.”

“Do so.” His
father closed his eyes, and in a few minutes Ranulf could tell he dozed. He
eased the glass of whiskey out his father’s thin hand and placed it on the
table, and then sat quietly, looking into the fire, as the old man slept.

Ranulf dozed off
as well, waking in the wee hours of Christmas morning. The fire was down to
embers, and as he looked towards the bed in the dim light, he realized that his
father had died in his sleep. He rang the bell, and when Gibbs arrived, he
nodded at the bed.  

“My father is
gone,” he said.

“I’m sorry,
sir,” Gibbs replied. “The old Laird was a hard man, but fair. You knew where
things stood with him,” he continued as he went across the room, to open the
two window casements that looked out over the loch for a few seconds before
closing them.

“I suppose
you’ll be covering the mirrors and stopping the clocks too,” Ranulf said.

“Of course, sir.
We wouldn’t want the Laird’s spirit to be unable to leave, now. There are
enough ghosties in this old place. We don’t need any more.”

Ranulf nodded in
acknowledgement and stood, leaning over the bed to cross his father’s hands
over his chest. He felt only a vague sense of loss; the old man had gone
easily, and Ranulf had done his duty to him. The years in Spain and India had
changed him, but somehow, as he looked at his father, an unaccustomed affection
for the land and the ways of the local people filled him, and he felt a certain
pride steal through him at the knowledge that he would carry that forward. An
image of Sophy filled his mind’s eye as he considered the future, and a fierce
determination that she would be the mother of the laird that followed him took
hold. For a few seconds, thoughts of going to Glencairn immediately took hold,
but he shook his head to dispel them; his obligation to his father’s memory had
to come first.

A few hours
later, Ranulf sat in the library, listening to the distant sound of the death
bell tolling at the local church. The housekeeper entered, and he looked at her
inquiringly.

“I came to ask
how many days you want the wake for the old Laird to be, and when I should plan
for the feast and funeral, sir,” she said.

Ranulf frowned. “I
hadn’t thought much about it, Mrs. Ross. I’m afraid that we didn’t have any
time to spend worrying about such things in Spain and India.”

“Heathen places,
sir,” she replied severely. “Folk around Spaethness will expect you to honor
your father with at least a two or three day wake, and the next day, a seven
course feast before the burial.”

“Very well, Mrs.
Ross, see that everything is done just as it should be. Let me know what I need
to do.”

The housekeeper
nodded and left him to his thoughts. He seemed to find them uncomfortable, for
he stood and poured himself a dram of whiskey, then walked to the window and
looked out on the grey, winter day. The sun was dim in the lowering sky, but as
yet a only thin layer of snow served to cover the brown, withered grass and the
gardens that would not come back to life until spring. He could do nothing
about Sophy until after his father’s funeral. It was Christmas morning. A three-day
wake, and another day for the funeral, meant that he could not leave for
Glencairn until December 29
^th
. He frowned at the thought, but his
expression lightened as he realized that he would arrive on Hogmanay. Surely,
at a time when Sophy was celebrating the start of a new year, he might be able
to convince her of his love.