Treasured Page 8

  “No,” Jack replied with some irritation. “Sadly, I do not. I am, as you said, an ‘ootlander.’ ”

  Jack’s words seemed to delight the man even further, for McKay let out another hoot. “Aye, weel, maybe ye should na’ be here, grabbin’ other folks’ land, then.”

  “Baillannan is my land now. We are standing on Baillannan land, are we not?”

  “It’s Rose land, aye. And ma’ croft.” McKay glared at him belligerently, then sighed and lowered the musket. “Och . . . Just gae back up the brae and gae richt.” He gestured up the hillside.

  “Thank you.” Jack turned Pharaoh’s head and started up the path.

  Behind him, the old man called, “Best if ye stay on the road, I say, and gae a’ the way back to England.”

  “Exactly my thought,” Jack said under his breath as he nudged his horse forward.

  Isobel was almost to the shore when she saw Coll tying up the dinghy at the small dock. He looked up and saw her, and surprise touched his features. He glanced toward the small island in the loch before turning back to her.

  “Isobel. Where are you off to, then?”

  “I might ask where you are coming from.” She looked past him across the loch. “Have you been to the island?”

  “Aye.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I went to look about, make sure nothing needed doing there.”

  Isobel’s eyes narrowed as she studied his innocent expression. “You’re a terrible liar, Coll.”

  “I’m an excellent liar,” he protested. “Dinna I always talk us out of trouble with your aunt?”

  “Hah. You open your eyes too wide and suddenly you sound more Scottish,” she retorted. “And it was Meg who talked us out of trouble, not you.”

  “Och, well, that’s only right, as she was the one who talked us into trouble.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you did not answer my question.” Isobel crossed her arms and regarded him sternly.

  “I know.” He grinned. “Where are you off to, then?”

  “To Meg’s. To get Aunt Elizabeth’s medicine.”

  “I’ll take you,” he offered, turning and walking with her toward the boat.

  “I can row across the loch myself.”

  “Can you now? When you did not even remember to wear your coat? Or your gloves? You’ll have blisters on your hands for certain.”

  “I was in a hurry.” She sent him a dark look and he chuckled, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over her shoulders.

  “Here. Meg will have my hide if I let you show up without a wrap. I need to go to Meg’s myself. She’ll be running low on firewood.”

  Coll lived in the gamekeeper’s cottage on Baillannan land now, rather than in his mother’s cottage across the loch, where he had grown up and which now belonged to his sister, but he visited Meg frequently to take care of various tasks around the house—though both Meg and Isobel suspected that he did so more to make sure Meg was all right than because she needed his assistance.

  “You’ll get cold without your jacket,” Isobel warned him, though she slid her arms inside the sleeves.

  “Rowing will keep me warm.” He handed her into the dinghy and climbed in behind her, taking up the oars. They did not talk as they crossed the narrow loch. A wind was coming down from the ocean beyond the narrow mouth of the loch, and it took Isobel’s breath from her mouth. Coll seemed not to feel it, even though his sleeves were rolled up. Isobel watched the muscles bunch and relax in his arms as he rowed, and she wondered why the sight did not do the odd things to her stomach that looking at Jack Kensington had done.

  When they’d tied up on the other side, they hiked into the trees, coming after a time to the small clearing where Meg’s cottage lay. The trees curled around the small house, concealing it from three directions. Made from light brown stone, with ivy growing up one side onto the thatched roof and stretching around the corner to the front as well, the dwelling seemed to melt into its surroundings. In front was a small garden where Meg grew her herbs, with a larger strip to the side for vegetables.

  Isobel thought of the many times she had climbed this slope to see Janet. It was a bittersweet memory, and when she glanced over at Coll, she saw on his face the same mixture of emotions.

  “Sometimes when I come up this path, I almost expect to see Ma standing in the doorway,” he said. “Laughing and shading her eyes against the sun, you know.”

  “I know. I still miss her.”

  “Aye.” Coll looked away, and after a moment he said, “Tell Meg I’ll be in later for tea. I’ll cut the wood first.” Coll left the path, going around the side of the house.

  Isobel knocked on the door and went in without waiting for an answer. As soon as she stepped inside, the tumult inside her eased. The small cottage was just as Meg’s mother had kept it, familiar and cozy and smelling of herbs. A peat fire burned in the fireplace, dispelling the chill. In one corner of the cabin, the sleeping area was separated from the rest of the room by two carved wooden screens. The remaining walls were lined with cabinets and open shelves containing bags, boxes, and jars, each filled with herbs or roots or one of Meg’s curatives, all combining to create the familiar spicy aroma of the cottage.

  Smiling in greeting, Meg emerged from the stillroom and kitchen that jutted off from one side of the house. Her flame-red curls were pulled back from her face and tied at her neck, and she was dressed in a plain gray wool skirt and bodice. She wore no ornamentation save for a carved pendant on a simple leather thong around her neck and small gold rings in her ears. Others would have looked ordinary, even subdued, dressed as she was, but Meg, with her large, vivid golden eyes and untamed red hair, would draw the eye of anyone.

  “Isobel! I’m so happy to see you.” Meg came forward, reaching out to take the jacket Isobel was wearing, then looking down at it. “Is Coll with you, then?”

  “Yes, he said he needed to chop wood for you. Though I think he came more because he thought I should not row over alone.”

  “No doubt. He is quite certain that neither of us could manage without his help.”

  “I probably could not. He helps me with a great deal more than just providing the kitchen with game and keeping out the poachers. Everyone knows he will treat them fairly, and now and then he will turn a blind eye when he finds a snare, but never with any sort of favoritism. I fear that he takes more time than he should from his cabinetry in order to help me.”

  “Coll is a good man, but he will do as he likes. No need to worry about that. Come into the kitchen while I make tea. Coll will expect to be fed, I imagine.”

  “He did mention tea.” Isobel followed her. Some, Isobel knew, including Cousin Robert, disapproved of her friendship with Meg Munro. In their estimation, the mistress of Baillannan did not exchange confidences with the local midwife and healer. But she and Meg had grown up together, and when they were children, they had shared every thought, every feeling. They did not see each other often anymore, for Meg had stepped into her mother’s shoes when Janet succumbed to pneumonia and Isobel had gradually assumed the running of the estate over the years. Still, Meg knew her best, and she turned to Meg when she needed help or advice or just a friendly ear. “But I do worry about him.”

  “Coll?” Meg cast a surprised look over her shoulder. “Whatever for?”

  “I cannot help but think that he may be connected to the men who are fighting the Clearances.”

  “Oh.” Meg turned away and busied herself with the teakettle.

  “I understand why they do it, and I cannot say I disagree with their putting Mardoun’s steward to a bit of trouble.”

  “Donald MacRae is a villain,” Meg said darkly. “Did you know he set fire to the Grants’ house because they couldna move out when he said? He did not even give them a day to get their belongings together.”

  “I know. I dislike the man as well, and I hate what the earl is doing. And if a shipment of the earl’s money or supplies disappears, well, I only hope it slows down the
Clearances. But Mardoun is a powerful man, and his steward is as well because he has the earl’s authority. Sooner or later the men harassing MacRae are bound to get caught, and it will go badly with them. They will be jailed. Transported. Maybe even worse—I fear Mardoun’s men would shoot anyone they caught.”

  Meg turned back to her, her eyes dark with worry. “You know Coll will follow his heart. He won’t hold back for fear of what might happen.”

  “Then you are concerned, too.”

  “Aye.” Meg lightened her tone. “Or I would be if I thought Coll was involved with that band of reivers, which he is not.”

  “Well, if, hypothetically speaking, Coll was with them, would you speak with him?”

  “Hypothetically or any other way, you know he would not listen to my worries. Or yours, either.”

  “But, Meg, it could affect you as well. What if they thought you were also involved? Tell me you are not.”

  “No. I’m not.” Meg looked at her so straightforwardly that Isobel relaxed. “But I canna ask Coll to go against his beliefs.”

  “You are as stubborn as he is.” Isobel grimaced.

  “Nae.” Meg laughed as she poured the boiling water over the tea leaves. “No one’s that stubborn.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “But you must not worry about me,” Meg went on seriously. “I’ve nothing to do with it and know nothing about it, and that is the truth. This cottage is mine, granted long ago to a Munro healer by the Baillannan himself. They won’t toss me out. And MacRae is a pest, but I don’t worry about him any more than any other weasel running about the woods.”

  “ ‘MacRae is a pest’?” Isobel repeated, her brow drawing into a frown. “Are you saying that Mardoun’s steward has been bothering you?”

  “Nothing I cannot handle.” Meg shook her head. “Now, don’t go worrying about me, as well. Truth is, I think MacRae’s a wee bit frightened of me.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “With good reason.” Isobel grinned at her friend. “You haven’t told Coll he’s bothered you, have you?”

  “Och, don’t be daft. Of course I haven’t. Enough of your worrying about Coll and me.” She gestured toward the table. “Come. We’ll drink a cup, and you can tell me what brought you here. You didna come for your aunt’s tonic. Coll could have brought you that.” Meg poured the tea and slid a cup over to Isobel.

  “No. I wanted to talk.”

  “Coll told me about the Englishman.” Meg’s face was warm with sympathy.

  Isobel took a sip of tea, letting its heat glide through her. No one else’s tea tasted as good as Meg’s. Isobel had long suspected that Meg must add some delicious herb to it, a mixture handed down to her from her mother (and her mother before that), for it tasted just like Janet’s brew, and it never failed to revive one’s spirits. “Witch’s tea,” she remembered her father calling it, his eyes twinkling.

  “What will you do?” As usual, Meg went right to the heart of the matter.

  “I don’t know. And it is driving me mad. Mr. Kensington is letting us stay there while I get everything in order. Packing Auntie’s possessions and mine are the least of it. There’s the schoolroom with all our old toys and books—I hate to throw them away, but I cannot take those things with me. There is my grandmother’s room, which Elizabeth has always left just as it was. And that barely scratches the surface. The attic is stuffed with old clothes and furniture and who knows what all. No one else would want them, least of all Jack Kensington.”

  “There’s your answer. Just spend the next few years clearing it away,” Meg said, a dimple appearing in her cheek as she grinned at Isobel.

  “I do not think Mr. Kensington’s patience will last long enough for that.” Isobel sighed and sat down again. “He plans to sell Baillannan.”

  “Ah, Izzy . . . I’m sorry.”

  “I suppose it makes no difference whether he leaves it in the hands of an estate agent or someone else buys it and leaves it in the hands of an estate agent. But I feel so . . . I know it will stand empty like the MacKenzie place, and they will bring in more and more sheep and send all the people off. And it won’t be mine anymore.” Tears brimmed in Isobel’s eyes.

  “I know.”

  Isobel knew that Meg did; if anyone understood how she loved every bit of her home—not just the house, but the rocks and the trees, the heather that blanketed the hillsides, the burns and braes, the very earth itself—it would be Meg. The land lived in Meg just as it did in Isobel, perhaps even more so; the Munro women had always been the wise women of the woods, attuned to the earth and its plants and creatures, as far back as anyone could remember.

  “Is there any way I can help you?” Meg asked.

  “Well, Hamish pointed out that the loch could hide a body for a long time.” Isobel gave her a wry look.

  “It is a time-honored Highland tradition.” Meg smiled faintly. “Though I’d suggest something more subtle myself.”

  “I tried to take him to meet some of the crofters, hoping he’d take an interest in the farms and families. But he would not do even that. I had the mad thought that he might return to London and let me manage the estate for him, but when I broached the subject, he assumed I was suggesting that he hire a man to be the estate agent. He would not try even that, so I can imagine how well he’d receive the idea of a woman running the place.”

  “You have managed the estate far better than Andrew ever would have. I’d like to see any man do better! No one loves it as much as you or knows it as well.”

  “Yes. But he is too distrustful . . . and too little interested in Baillannan. His decisions are based on nothing but logic and self-interest.” Isobel sighed. “I should do the same, no doubt. I must decide where Aunt Elizabeth and I will go.”

  “You are welcome to come here, though I fear it would be a trifle small for three people.”

  “Yes, I think so.” Isobel smiled at Meg. “But you are kind to offer.”

  “Go live with Andrew. ’Tis he who put you in this situation.”

  “The three of us in his bachelor apartment in London? I think not. He could not support us all in any case. He has lost the thing that provided the bulk of his income. I cannot imagine him living on what he has in the Funds—if he even has it still. Lord only knows, he may have gambled that away as well. Aunt Elizabeth and I could make do on a small income, but neither of us has that. I have dreamed up wild plans to take her to Edinburgh and open a millinery or a school for young ladies. But either of them would require an investment of money, and neither of us has that. Besides, I haven’t any idea of hats—or how to turn out young ladies, either, if it comes to that. I could perhaps earn my keep as a governess, but I could not take Aunt Elizabeth with me there, and I cannot abandon her. It makes me quite despair; I fear we shall have to throw ourselves on the mercy of our family.”

  “Your cousins? Gregory and his father?”

  “It’s either them or my mother’s sister in Edinburgh. Aunt Adelaide is . . .” Isobel sighed. “She is generous, really; she would welcome us, and her house is very pleasant. It’s only— I know I must sound the most ungrateful person, but she chatters so, and her conversation is always of the most trivial things you can imagine. I could not impose on her and then ignore her, so I should have to spend all my time listening to her talk about parties and clothes and gossip. Accompanying her on calls and running errands and all the things a poor relative must do because they have nowhere else to go. ’Tis horridly selfish of me, but I cannot but dread the thought.”

  “It isn’t only you who would hate it. Aunt Elizabeth would be miserable, as well. Everyone has trouble with things changing as they get older.”

  “Not just older people.” Isobel gave Meg a wry smile. “I do as well.”

  “Of course you do. We all do. But it is worse for your aunt. You have seen how a sudden change upsets her. It rattles her, and she gets even more vague, which only makes her lose her certainty in her own thinking even more.”

&n
bsp; “I know.” Tears welled in Isobel’s throat. “I don’t know what she would do if we moved to Aunt Adelaide’s. It will be hard enough for Auntie to leave Baillannan, but to stay in a city the size of Edinburgh, so far from everything she knows, in a house that is completely unfamiliar to her—well, it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

  “I can give her a tincture of oats to help her nerves, and hops tea would help as well, but I cannot if you are so far away. Or her tonic, either. I have added periwinkle to it this time, and I think you will see some improvement. But if the tonic does help her, it makes taking your aunt to Edinburgh a poor choice.”

  “I know. Which leaves only Cousin Robert.” Isobel grimaced.

  “At least your aunt would be able to remain in Kinclannoch, and she knows Mr. Rose and Gregory. Mr. Rose is somewhat, well . . .” Meg hesitated.

  “You needn’t search for a polite way to term it. Cousin Robert is overbearing and priggish and an utter martinet. I sometimes wonder how Gregory could be his son. They came to call on us this afternoon, and I realized how horrid it would be to have to depend on his charity. Everything he says raises my hackles—I even found myself defending Mr. Kensington to him!—but I could not disagree or do aught but obey him if he is being so generous as to support us. It would be even worse for Aunt Elizabeth. The two of them cannot be around each other without bickering; Cousin Robert finds her frivolous and impractical.”

  “Mm. I can imagine how he feels about her love of legends and heroic tales.”

  “Indeed, he hates that. Now that she has become . . . confused sometimes, he is impatient and out of sorts with her. He acts as if she does it simply to annoy him, and he has no sympathy at all. A few weeks ago, he caused her to burst into tears, and that irritated him even more.”

  “It does not sound like a good solution, either.” Meg frowned. “There must be something else you could do.”

  “I am quite willing to take any suggestions.”

  “You could marry.”

  “Marry!” Isobel let out a bark of laughter. “I like that—the woman who told me she would never marry is advising me to do so?”