Clandara (16 page)

When Katharine entered her step-mother's room and saw the figure lying in the big four-poster bed, she did not recognize her for a moment. And then as she came closer her colour went and she was as pale as the woman who turned her head and started with a cry of fear, clutching the sheets to her for protection.

She had not seen Margaret Clandara since Robert's death. And now her face was hollow-cheeked and sallow, and a half-healed cut surrounded by a livid bruise showed on the side of her mouth. Her eyes were wild as they stared up at her step-daughter, and suddenly overcome with shame and horror Katharine ran to the bed and caught one of the shaking hands in hers.

“Oh, madam, madam, forgive me; I had no idea … Jean, this mark is terrible; it needs attention.”

“There are other marks, milady,” Jean said slowly. “Your father did that with his fist. More often he uses a whip on her.”

“What are you doing here? … Jean, did you bring her? Oh, you wicked creature, you fool, don't you know she'll tell him and he'll come up here tonight and punish me!” Margaret sat upright and began to cry, the tears pouring uncontrolled down her face.

“I had to, madam, or you would have died here after one of his lordship's visits. There's naught
I
could do to protect ye, God knows.”

“You did well, Jean,” Katharine said. “God in heaven, you look so thin, Margaret … Margaret, why didn't you send word to me before? I could have stopped him. I had no idea!”

“I thought you knew,” her step-mother said slowly. “I thought everyone knew that he was starving me and beating me to death because of what happened to his son.”

“I knew at first,” Katharine admitted; she was so ashamed and so sickened that she could hardly speak. “But I too was mad with grief … I didn't interfere. May God forgive me. Margaret, what can I do to help you?”

“Get me away,” the Countess whispered. “Get me back to my own people.”

“There's no one there to take you in,” Katharine said slowly. “All your clan have joined the war with Prince Charles Edward. My father would send men to take you back again.”

“Oh, Mother of God.” The Countess began to weep, her hurt mouth twisting with pain. “Then there's no hope for me. Give me a knife to kill myself! That's all I ask of you. God will reward you, it wouldn't be sinful. Don't leave me to suffer like this for something I know nothing of … You loved my cousin once; you did, didn't you?”

“I did,” Katharine answered her, and the watchful Jean saw her colour change and her hands clench until her rings made marks upon her fingers. “But if you want help from me, don't mention him. Don't speak his name!”

“I won't, I won't,” the Countess promised. “But only let me die! It will be kinder … kinder than this vengeance of your father's!”

Katharine got up from her knees. She turned to the maid. “Go down to the kitchens and get some meat broth for the Countess,” she said. “Say those are my orders. I will send for a doctor from Inverness; he should be here by nightfall and he can treat the Countess. But you must say you had a fall.” She turned to her step-mother. “No, I will not give you a knife or connive at anything like that. I will speak to my father. You have my word of honour that he will not ill-treat you again. Rest easy now, madam. I shall do my best for you and you won't have anything more to fear.”

She walked out through the door which Jean held open for her.

“God bless you, milady,” the girl said and curtsied to the ground. She closed the door after her and then she opened her lips and spat. “And may Christ curse you and all yours,” she added.

She came to the Countess and helped her up on the pillows. For a moment the two women held on to each other without speaking. Jean said at last: “I did the right thing, madam. Misbegotten though she is, she'll stop her father and get the physician for ye. That's all that matters.”

“You're a brave child, Jean,” the Countess murmured. “What do you think that fiend would have done to you if she'd reported you to him?”

“Little worse than he's done to you,” she answered. “May God blight him – it was as much as I could do to look her in the face when I was pleading – ”

“Shush, Jean,” her mistress said. “She's going to help me, didn't you hear?” Her pale eyes glittered into the girl's face above her. “We'll take her help, Jean, my child. I asked for a knife to kill myself, and she refused. If God gives me strength I'll see the day when she'll regret not having done it.”

Jean's round face softened in a smile and she squeezed her mistress's thin hand.

“Thank God to hear ye say that,” she whispered. “For a moment then I thought you'd been taken in by all those gentle words of hers. I thought ye'd lost your mind and forgiven her for being what she is.”

“She is his daughter,” the older woman muttered, and her red-rimmed eyes flickered and half closed. “Nothing can redeem that to me. I have as much forgiven her as I've forgiven
him
. Rest easy, Jean. I'm a Macdonald yet, in spite of what's been done to me.”

“I know,” the girl whispered. “And so am I, madam. Rest easy you too, for we'll have our vengeance when the time comes. As it will,” she added. “I know it. Just be patient.”

The light was fading and Katharine had ordered the candles in the Library to be lit. The long, deep autumn dusk was the part of the day which depressed her most; she spent many mornings riding, galloping until her horse was exhausted and the unwilling Angus caught up with her, complaining of her carelessness of the poor beast. But she no longer went to the Loch or rode through the purple moorland where she and James had met so often, and when she returned to the Castle it was only to occupy herself with details of its management which were the steward's concern and did not really need her. She sewed and she read and she went every day to Robert's grave, but as evening came she was alone, and the hour or two before her father returned were only one degree less wretched than the nights when she lay without sleeping.

The Earl spent as much time as possible out visiting his tenants and talking to his grieve; there was some escape for him in the management of his estate now that Robert was dead. In the evenings he and Katharine dined together and talked, and soon he would excuse himself and shut himself up in the writing-room with his whisky, sometimes sending for the grieve who remained with him late into the night.

When he came in that evening, Katharine did not come forward and kiss him. She was still haunted by the results of his cruelty and his vengeance; Margaret Clandara's disfigured face had never left her mind, nor had the hysterical cry for a knife with which to end her suffering. It was incredible to Katharine that the father she had respected and loved could be capable of such brutality.

“You are very quiet, my child,” he said. “Why do you sew at this hour? Candlelight is very trying for the eyes. I used to tell your mother so. Well, haven't you a word to say to me?”

“Yes.” Katharine put down the cloth and looked at him. “Yes, Father, I have something to say to you. I saw Margaret today.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who gave you permission to go in there?”

“No one, I just went to see her. And I've sent for a doctor from Inverness; he should be here some time tonight.” She faced him calmly and her voice was steady. “We will tell him that she had a fall.”

“We will tell him nothing,” the Earl said. “Because I'll have him turned back at the door. How dare you take it on yourself to interfere! How dare you go to that woman and defy my orders? No one but her maid is allowed near her!”

“What do you want to do, Father?” she asked him. “Torture her to death … ill-treat her until one night she falls dead at your feet?”

“Yes,” he shouted. “Yes, that's why I didn't make an end of her the day I brought Robert's body home! I want her to live as long as possible and suffer as much as I can make her … They should have remembered her before they murdered my son. I can't make them pay until this war is over, but I can punish her for being one of them.”

“If I were to beg you, would you stop ill-using her? I
am
begging you, Father. Killing her by inches won't bring Robert back; if he could see what you are doing it would only shame him. She had no part in it. You can't blame Margaret. And if she dies there'll be a charge of murder laid against you.”

He leant back in his chair and laughed. “Oh, will there? And by whom?”

“By Jean Macdonald,” she said quietly. “Don't you see that any hope of accusing the Macdonalds will be lost if you are known to have killed their kinswoman, your own wife? I know you want vengeance on those who murdered Robert – don't you think I want it too? But this is not the way to get it. Which would you rather see: that poor helpless woman hounded to death and used in evidence against your claim, or the Macdonalds standing trial for murder?”

“
I
may want vengeance,” the Earl said, “but are you sure
you
do? I've watched you, Katharine, and I've doubted. You brought Robert to his death by your betrothal to the man who killed him. I've never reproached you with it save once, when I held my son's body in my arms. But it hardly befits you to plead for anyone who bears that name.”

“But I do plead,” she said. “And not just for her but for you. I love you, Father; you are all I have left in the world now. Do not destroy that love by proving yourself as cruel as any Macdonald of Dundrenan. Nothing excuses what I saw today, neither Robert's death nor my betrayal nor your own grief. She begged me to give her a knife so she might kill herself. Please, my dear Father, don't do this terrible thing.”

She got up and knelt beside his chair, and in spite of his anger he put his arm around her. He looked suddenly very old.

“I always hated her,” he muttered. “I put her in your mother's place and gave her our name to save my people from starvation and ruin. But I hated her even then. How can you ask me to relent and keep my hatred in my heart until it poisons what's left of my life? Now that Robert is gone I have only you to live for; that creature doesn't matter to me, I feel only fury and contempt for her. If she had defended herself even once I might have stopped. But she just cringes, like an animal, trembling with fear.”

“Leave her alone,” Katharine begged. “She's suffered enough. Let her stay in her rooms, but don't hurt her again. Send her away if you like, but don't degrade yourself and Robert's memory.”

“I'll not send her away,” he said. “You were right when you said she'd be good evidence for the Macdonalds. She'll stay here, where no one can listen to her tales.”

“But you won't harm her,” Katharine whispered. “Promise me that whatever happens you won't go up to that room again.”

“Ah, God, what does it matter?” he said wearily. “You kneel there begging for her after what her kin did to your brother … even my own child turns against me … So be it, I'll give that maid of hers a key and she can lock the door. But no doctor will come into this house. One of the crofters' wives can tend her; there's a woman over at Glen Urquhart who knows about healing. She can't read or write and she'll know better than to spread any tales if she wants to keep the roof over her head. But the doctor returns to Inverness. That's my last word on the subject, and I won't have you mention it again. Besides, I've some news for you. I received a letter from Henry Ogilvie today. He's on his way to Inverness and he wants to spend a few nights with us.”

Henry Ogilvie. The friend of her childhood who had come back as a young man and fallen in love with her. Gentle, kindly Henry Ogilvie whom she had refused and sent away on her return from France because she had lost her heart and soul to James.

“I wonder he comes,” she said slowly, “after what happened.”

“I think he comes because of it,” her father said. “He comes to comfort both of us, my child. You should have married him long ago. It was always my wish.”

“I know,” Katharine answered. “But I didn't love him, Father. If I had never known love I would have been content with him, but it was not to be. God didn't mean me to be happy. But I'll be glad to see him for your sake.”

“It will be good for both of us,” the Earl said. “He was always close to Robert, too.”

They dined and Clandara excused himself, leaving Katharine alone in the silent room, her sewing in her lap, staring into the big log fire until Annie looked round the door and asked if she were ready to retire or if she wished for anything.

“No thank you, Annie. I'm tired, I'll come up now. I thought I heard voices in the hall outside a few moments ago.”

“You did, milady,” Annie said. “'Twas a doctor come all the way from Inverness and he was turned away by your father's orders. He was mightily aggrieved too, I can tell ye, after coming all that way for an urgent call. Who sent for him?”

“I did,” Katharine said. “I wanted him to attend the Countess, but my father wouldn't allow it.”

“That's a pity,” Annie murmured. “I've heard much talk in the house that she's no' likely to last long. They've been giving food to that maid of hers today, and it's the first time she's been sent up anything decent to eat for weeks. What's going to become of her? Can't you speak to your father?”

“I have spoken to him.” Katharine got up and Annie gathered her sewing bag and frame and put them away for her. “There'll be no more visits at night; he promised me.”

“Thank God for that.” Annie opened the door for her and they went out across the Great Hall, their steps echoing on the stone floor, and up the staircase to her rooms. “I've been afraid to sleep at nights sometimes for fear that she'd be found dead and word would get out of what was happening. Not that I care,” she added hastily, “but I was thinking of you and the lord himself. He might send her away, maybe?”