Katherine's Marriage (The Marriage of Katherine Book 2) Read online

  “Your sister iss here, Mister Maclaren?” inquired Dugal, looking up the hill as if he expected the lady to appear from behind a boulder.

  “Goodness, no! This sort of thing wouldn’t appeal to her at all. She’s touring in France with some friends, staying at the very best hotels and eating quantities of unsuitable food which will probably give her indigestion. That’s what she enjoys.”

  Dugal’s brow was wrinkled in perplexity. “Are you saying that your sister enjoys having the indigestion, Mister Maclaren?”

  “I suppose I did—but it wasn’t what I meant,” replied Alec Maclaren smiling.

  Dugal was silent. It was bad enough trying to understand what Mister Maclaren was saying—he spoke so quickly and said such extraordinary things—but if he did not say what he meant it was hopeless.

  By this time all the suitcases had been taken out of the car. Their owner chose two and put them aside; he packed the others back where they had come from. He was now opening the boot.

  Dugal approached nearer. “You have a canvas shelter for sleeping?” he inquired.

  “A tent? No. The cave will be more comfortable.”

  “The cave!” exclaimed Dugal in dismay.

  “There’s a cave up there amongst the rocks. Didn’t you know about it? I should have thought——”

  “Och, I am knowing about it. I wass chust wondering how you would be knowing.”

  “I fell into it one day when I was out shooting.”

  “You were shooting on the Ardfalloch moors? But the moors are belonging to MacAslan. Maybe you are a syndicate chentleman?” asked Dugal anxiously.

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “You are not a syndicate chentleman?”

  Alec Maclaren paused in his labours and smiled. It was a shame to tease the little man. “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “It happened like this: I was staying at my sister’s cottage on the shore of Loch Ron—it’s about thirty miles from here.”

  “It iss twenty miles from here.”

  “Twenty as the crow flies perhaps.”

  “It iss twenty walking over the hills,” said Dugal firmly. “I have walked there often, Mister Maclaren.”

  “All right—you know best. Anyway I was staying there with my sister. A friend of mine happened to be staying with MacAslan for the shooting and they wanted another gun so I was asked to come over for the day. There were about six of us as far as I can remember. Have you got that, Donald?”

  Dugal nodded. He said, “But my name iss Dugal, Mister Maclaren. Brown Dugal iss what they are calling me.”

  “Brown Dugal is a good name—couldn’t be better. Now listen, Dugal. It wasn’t a grouse drive; we walked miles over the hills and we had good sport, but I wasn’t in good training, so by lunch-time I had had enough. I explained this to MacAslan and he was very decent about it; he told me to walk back to the bothy where we had left the Land-Rover and go home. I thought I would be clever and take a short cut across the hill, but I was tired and didn’t look where I was going. I put my foot on a loose stone and took an almighty toss, rolling over and over down the hill. Finally I rolled over a small cliff and fell flat on my back on a nice soft piece of turf. I was shocked and winded, but that was all the damage—pretty lucky, really! When I recovered I found myself in a hollow. It was a beautiful place: a stretch of green turf sloping gently down to the burn, sheltered all round by rocks and tumbled boulders . . . and there, in the cliff, was a cave. I had never seen such a delightful place for camping. I sat there for a bit until I had recovered and then I got up and went on my way. I made up my mind that some day I would come back. That’s the story.”

  Alec Maclaren had told the story slowly, so Dugal had followed it fairly well. At any rate he had understood the most important part of it.

  “Och, if you are a friend of MacAslan it iss all right,” he declared with a sigh of relief.

  “Well, not a friend, exactly. I mean I never saw him before—or since. I was just one of the shooting-party.”

  “You are knowing MacAslan, so it iss all right. There iss no harm at all if you wish to sleep in the cave. I would sooner sleep in my bed.” Dugal looked round and added, “It will be a fine night and it iss not cold. The wind iss in the west, so the cave will be sheltered. Will you be after making a fire, Mister Maclaren?”

  “Yes, but I’ll be very careful. There’s a sort of stone fireplace, you know. People must have lived there at one time.”

  “In the bad times after Culloden there wass men sleeping in the cave.”

  “Prince Charles, perhaps?”

  “I would not be knowing that,” said Dugal cautiously. “If Prince Charlie wass sleeping in all the caves where they are saying he wass sleeping it would be a queer thing . . . but they were Prince Charlie’s men—that iss certain. They were men, broken in the battle and fleeing from their enemies. It was my granda that told me—and his granda told him—so it iss true, Mister Maclaren. Some of the soldiers were sorely wounded, but in those times the women-folk were skilled in healing and they gathered mosses from the bogs to dress the wounds.”

  “Sphagnum?” suggested his interested listener.

  Dugal nodded. “There iss great healing in sphagnum. I am wondering why they would not be using it to-day in the hospitals.”

  “Yes, it seems silly not to.”

  “There iss a great many silly things in the world. Things that I cannot be understanding at all,” declared Dugal emphatically.

  “Tell me more about the cave. Did the wounded men stay there safely until they had recovered?”

  “They were safe till they could be taken away in boats. It was MacAslan that arranged it. He wass our MacAslan’s great-great-granda, you understand, and at that time he wass living in the castle on the island. It wass before the new house wass built. There wass other people too that helped with the boats—big people and small people.”

  “Go on, Dugal.”

  “The cave wass a good place,” continued Dugal obediently. “It iss near the loch and the men could lie there in safety till it wass all arranged. The cave wass known to few people and they did not speak of it. The cave iss a ferry secret place, Mister Maclaren, and not easy to find. It wass my father showed it to me when I wass a laddie and it wass his father showed it to him. I wass thinking it wass forgotten and nobody wass knowing about it at all—except me.”

  “I’ll keep your secret,” said Alec Maclaren. He said it in a solemn tone but his eyes were twinkling.

  “I would be sorry if a lot of people wass knowing about it,” admitted Dugal.

  By this time there was a pile of things on the ground beside the car: two suitcases, a large wooden box, a bulging kit-bag and a very large roll of fleecy brown blankets . . . not to speak of a pair of field-glasses and a stable-lantern.

  Alec looked at them ruefully. “I shall have to make two journeys,” he said.

  Dugal said nothing but, seizing the wooden box, the lantern, the roll of blankets and one of the suitcases, he made off up the hill.

  “Decent little brute—and as strong as an ox!” murmured Alec under his breath. He stayed to lock up the car, and then followed with the remainder of the gear.

  *

  3

  They had not far to go, but it was a stiff climb and Alec was hot and breathless when he reached the outcrop of black rocks. It was then that he realised how fortunate he was in having the shepherd’s help, not only as a porter but also as a guide. Alec had been sure that he knew the exact position of the cave, but the entrance was so well hidden that he might have searched the hillside for hours without finding it. He saw the shepherd ahead of him—and the next moment the man had vanished! When Alec reached the stunted rowan-tree where Dugal had disappeared he poked about amongst the rocks, but it was not until he had pushed aside the gnarled branches that he discovered the secret. The piece of cliff behind the rowan, which appeared solid and continuous, was composed of two large slabs of rock overlapping each other; between them was a sideways slit—a sort of narrow passage. It was difficult to get through, laden with the suitcase and other impedimenta, but Alec managed it somehow and found himself in the hollow by the burn. It was just as he remembered it, beautiful and peaceful, sheltered by the cliff and the piled-up boulders. The cave was even more delightful than his remembrance of it, with an arched entrance and a floor of yellow gravel.

  “Lovely!” exclaimed Alec, taking out his handkerchief and mopping his heated brow. “And, my goodness, you were right about it being difficult to find! Of course I didn’t come in by the passage when I came here before: I rolled over the cliff. I’d never have found the way in through the rocks.”

  “It iss ferry secret,” agreed Dugal. “Many people have searched for it. At the time I wass speaking of there wass soldiers searching the hillside for two whole days and neffer finding the way in.”

  “I must have gone out that way,” said Alec in perplexity. “There’s no other way out—but I suppose I was a bit muzzy in the head after the fall. Well, never mind; here we are and it’s perfectly splendid. Nothing could be better.”

  While he was talking he had been looking round, and now he saw that the arched doorway of the cave had been built up on either side with large stones to make the place more comfortable.

  “It wass done long ago,” explained Dugal. “It wass done by the men I wass telling you about.”

  Alec was interested. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be one of those men, “broken in the battle.” They had been here, hiding in the cave while their enemies were searching for them on the hill. Perhaps they had heard the sounds of the hunt, soldiers scrambling over the rocks and shouting to each other. He went into the cave and found that by stretching up he could touch the roof with his hand; he paced the flo
or, measuring it, and trying to decide how many could sleep here in comfort . . . perhaps six.

  Dugal, watching him, was pleased that Mister Maclaren appreciated the cave and was so interested in it.

  When Alec had finished his measurements they came out together and stood looking at the pile of camping equipment. It seemed to Dugal that it was a lot of stuff for the requirements of one man.

  “You will not be feeling the cold with so many fine blankets,” remarked Dugal pointing to the bundle which he had carried up the hill. He added a trifle wistfully, “There iss nothing so warm as a good brown blanket.”

  “I’m afraid they’re very heavy—it was good of you to help me, Dugal.”

  “It wass nothing at all, Mister Maclaren. I am used to carrying sheep over the hills. A dead sheep iss a ferry heavy burden.”

  Alec could well believe it. “All the same I’m very grateful,” he said, and taking a five-pound note out of his pocket he bestowed it upon his new friend.

  Dugal looked at it incredulously, “Mister Maclaren!” he exclaimed. “Mister Maclaren, it iss too much altogether.”

  “Not a bit,” declared the donor cheerfully. “You see, this is my lucky day. As a matter of fact, between you and me and the gatepost, this is the luckiest day of my life. Take it, Dugal, and buy yourself a big brown fleecy blanket to keep you warm and cosy when the snow comes.”

  “Well, if you can be sparing it. . . . But I wass not looking for anything. No, indeed, it was a pleasure to be helping! Och, it iss wonderful!” declared Dugal examining his treasure in delight. “Carstiona will be opening her eyes when I am showing her thiss—indeed she will! We will be thinking kindly of Mister Maclaren when the snow iss on the hills.”

  “That’s the stuff,” said Alec.

  “Cordal math duibh.”

  “What does that mean, Dugal?”

  “I am saying have a good sleep,” explained Dugal, and calling to Fawn, who had been an interested spectator of these unusual proceedings, he disappeared through the hole in the rocks.

  Chapter Two

  No sooner had Dugal gone than Alec seized one of the suitcases and rummaging through the contents found an old kilt and a flannel shirt with an open collar. He changed hastily and, leaving the rest of the stuff to be dealt with later, started off down the hill at a pace more suited to a lad of nineteen than a staid Edinburgh lawyer.

  She had been asleep when he left her but he had been away longer than he had intended—half an hour at least—and, although he had left a note (torn from his diary) to say he had gone to fetch something from the car, she might be worried. She might be frightened if she had awakened to find herself alone.

  Anything might have happened, thought Alec remorsefully. He had wasted time talking to the shepherd . . . well, perhaps not wasted, because if he had not chatted to the man and made friends with him the man would not have carried all that heavy stuff up the hill. It would have taken Alec much longer if he had had to carry it up himself—and he would never have found the entrance to the cave—so the time had not been wasted. All the same he should not have left her for so long. Supposing a stray tinker had found Katherine lying asleep on the bank—and frightened her!

  I’d kill him, that’s all, thought Alec as he crashed on down the hill.

  Fortunately, however, nothing untoward had happened, and as Alec approached he saw her sitting on the grass at the side of the loch looking about her. When she heard the noise of his scrambling feet she turned and waved cheerfully.

  “You weren’t frightened, were you?” gasped Alec as he leapt over the bank and flung himself down beside her on the green turf.

  “Frightened? Of course not! Why should I be frightened? I found your note so I knew you’d be back soon. You’ve changed!”

  “More comfortable like this—but it took longer than I expected.”

  “You’re frightfully hot!”

  “I know,” he agreed, wiping his face. “I’m in poor training for careering about the hills. Did you have a nice sleep?”

  “It was awful of me to go to sleep.”

  “It was sensible. You were very tired—and no wonder.”

  “Yes, I was tired. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

  “The most wonderful day of my life.”

  Katherine held out her hand and he took it in a firm warm clasp.

  For a few minutes there was silence.

  Alec lay back on the soft turf and looked at Katherine. She was gazing across the loch and he could see her head outlined against the blue sky: her charming profile and the mass of brown curls, her graceful neck and one little ear (like a shell, he thought) delicately tinted.

  It had been March when he first saw her and now it was September; not very long, really, but he knew quite a lot about her because all that time he had been thinking about her and loving her and every little bit of information had been treasured up in his mind. She had been married before—happily married for four years. She had told him about Gerald the second time he saw her. She had told him of the misery she had suffered when Gerald died and how she had floundered for weeks in the Slough of Despond . . . and how she had climbed out of the slough because she realised that she was making Gerald’s children unhappy. He had loved her for her courage; he had loved her for the fortitude she had shown in facing life alone and bringing up the children on a very inadequate income. It had been a struggle—he knew that—but the anxiety and the daily grind had not dimmed her gaiety of heart. He loved her for a hundred reasons . . . but chiefly because she was herself.

  Alec had learnt about Katherine not only from his own observations but also from her children. Simon, her stepson, had been an especially valuable source of information. Simon (a schoolboy at an English public school) was devoted to Katherine and needed very little encouragement to talk about her. Alec had seen in Simon a way to Katherine’s heart; he had made friends with the boy with that in mind, but very soon he had come to love Simon for his own sake. Yes, Simon was exactly the boy that Alec would have liked as his son—and you couldn’t say more than that. Now, Simon was his son—his step-stepson, to be exact—and also his friend, which was even better. The twins, Daisy and Denis, were Katherine’s own children and in Alec’s eyes they were almost perfect. In fact they were perfect in his eyes for, even if he could have done so, he would not have altered a hair of their heads. In marrying Katherine he had acquired a ready-made family. He had been a lonely man, so the ready-made family delighted him.

  Alec had seen Katherine with her children, he had visited her in her tiny flat in Edinburgh—a cramped and uncomfortable abode, in Alec’s opinion, but in spite of that, a real home. Indeed the little flat had often reminded Alec of a nest, full of cheerful nestlings.

  All these things put together had helped to make a picture of Katherine. The picture was not complete—perhaps it never would be—there would also be more to discover: fresh beauties of mind and spirit. He would go on making these discoveries as long as he lived. He hoped he would live for a very long time so that he could go on enjoying Katherine. She was his; his very own. Only a few hours ago they had stood before the altar in the little church at Inverquill and he had sworn to cherish her (it was a lovely word and described his feelings exactly). He had sworn to cherish Katherine until death parted them. Death! No, he would not think of that. Why should he? Think of Life instead. Life was Katherine.

  Suddenly she turned her head and looked at him and he saw with dismay that her eyes were full of tears. She said, “Alec, promise me something.”

  “Darling! Of course—anything——”

  “Promise not to die—or at least not until we’re both very old. It’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it?” she added in a shaky voice.

  It was silly, of course, but he understood. “I’m terribly strong and healthy,” he said seriously.

  “You are so good to me,” she declared, smiling at him through the tears. “You’re good to me even when I’m silly. What were you thinking about when I interrupted you with my silliness?”

  “Hoping we would both live to be very old.”

  “The same thing! How queer!”