Wolf, Joan (3 page)

"England," Van said. She raised an eyebrow at her mother. "And Father agrees?"

"Your father agrees."

Van's rare smiled dawned. "That must have taken some doing."

Frances smiled back serenely. "Your father in his youth spent several years in Paris. It was in Paris that we met, as you know. He thinks you need a little polish as much as I do."

Van sat down on the harpsichord stool. "What if there is a French landing?"

"If there is a French landing, of course you will come home."

"Your cousin, Lady Linton, is a Jacobite?"

Frances scarcely hesitated. "She was brought up to be as good a Jacobite as I. Our fathers were brothers, you know, and both Papa and Uncle James were dedicated Tories." What Frances did not mention was that the family into which Katherine had married, the Romneys of Linton, were among the most prominent Whigs in England.

Van drew a deep, uneven breath. "I feel as if someone has just hit me over the head," she said frankly. Frances looked at her daughter tenderly. "You will enjoy yourself, Van. I would not send you were I not convinced of that."

Van frowned. "When am I to go?"

"In March. You will stay until September. That is the period of the London social season. Which reminds me,"—Frances looked purposeful—"you will need a whole new wardrobe."

"I have my gold satin dress," Van said.

"You have had it for two years at least," Frances agreed cordially. "We will have Marie make you one or two dresses, and I'll let Katherine supply the rest of your wardrobe in England."

Van's finely drawn black brows came together. "It sounds very expensive, Mother."

It would indeed be expensive, but Frances had some money of her own put by. Alasdair, she knew, was not likely to finance the sort of wardrobe she planned for Van. The MacIans were rich in land and Creag an Fhithich was filled with priceless things brought back from Europe by previous MacIan travelers, but cash was always short in Morar.

"Don't worry, darling," she said now to her daughter. "I have been saving your grandfather's money for you."

Van stared at her mother in amazement. Frances rose to her feet. "If the MacDonalds are coming, I had better go to the kitchen and order the food," she said.

Van stretched her shoulders. "Hmmm," she said. "Wait until Alan hears I'm going to England."

Frances looked sharply at her daughter's face but could find nothing in its expression beyond a faint amusement.

The MacDonalds arrived early in the afternoon and were greeted warmly by all the MacIans, including Van. The sun set at three in the afternoon in the winter and company in the long Highland evenings was always welcome.

The following morning all the men except Alan went out hunting. The mountains of Morar were filled with stag, wolf, cat, and deer, and hunting was one of a chief's main pleasures. When Alan begged off, however, no one protested. And Niall looked smugly at Van.

After the men had departed, Frances and Lady MacDonald settled in front of the fire for a long gossip. Alan asked Van to go for a walk with him. They both wrapped themselves in plaids and took the path that led from the castle down to the loch. When they reached the shore, Van turned to look back at her home.

Creag an Fhithich had one of the most spectacular locations in all the Highlands. It jutted up from the rock that had given it its name, its turrets, spires, and towers standing out against the magnificent mountains that backed it. At its front stood Loch Morar, a saltwater inlet of the Sound of Arisaig. The loch was surrounded by mountains, which on clear days one could sec mirrored, purple and blue, in its depths. The sands of Loch Morar were almost purely white. Van thought that her home was, beyond qualification, the most beautiful place in the world.

"I wonder if Murray will have news of the prince," Alan said beside her.

Van looked at him. Alan MacDonald was taller than Niall, but he had the same narrow-boned look of the Celt. His hair was brown with a distinct tinge of red in it and the eyes that were looking back at her were a clear hazel. Van smiled. "The prince, the prince," she said teasingly. "That is all you and Niall think about. Charles Edward certainly made an impression on you two."

"He must make an impression on everyone he meets," Alan said. His hazel eyes began to sparkle. "If only the French king would give him an army! Then we could chase the elector back to Hanover and set King James on his rightful throne. A Stuart king come into his own again."

Van smiled at Alan's ringing tone and ardent face. "That, of course, is what we all desire," she said. She frowned thoughtfully. "Do you think it will happen soon, Alan?" If it did, Van knew, her trip to England would be canceled. To her profound surprise, she felt a pang of disappointment at the thought.

"I don't know," Alan returned. "Niall and I met the prince in Paris last July. The French are so involved in this war with England that they have little extra manpower." Alan gave an impatient snort. "Or so they tell the prince." Alan's face set. "Niall and I told him to come anyway," he added defiantly. "We don't need the French. The clans alone can put King James back on his throne."

Van's long lashes lifted in surprise. "Are you serious, Alan? I know Father and Lochiel have said they will support the prince only if he comes with an army."

"So has my father," Alan said disgustedly. It was obvious what he thought of such caution.

Van changed the subject. "In March I am going to England on a visit."

Alan's head snapped around. "What!"

"Yes. Mother arranged it. I am to spend six months with a cousin of hers."

"Are you serious, Van?" he demanded.

"Perfectly serious. Mother says Niall went to Paris and now it is my turn for a little... polishing."

"London!" Alan sounded horrified. "But what if there is a French landing?"

"If there is a French landing I shall come home."

He was looking very upset. "Van," he said, "you can't go away now. You know how I feel about you."

Van looked up into his troubled face. It was an honest face, she thought, and handsome too. "We've known each other since we were children," she began, but he interrupted her.

"I'm not talking about that! You were a child when I went away to Paris, yes, but you're not a child now. When I first saw you when I came back..." He broke off and then, very determinedly, he took her hands ii his. "I love you, Van. I want you to marry me."

Van gazed into Alan's dear, familiar face. He had so many good qualities, she thought. She liked him very much. Why, then, did she not want to marry him? For she didn't—there was no disguising that fact from herself. She was suddenly very grateful she wa: going to England. If she stayed at home, she thought, she would probably find herself married to Alan MacDonald simply because she could think of no good reason to refuse him.

She smiled at him now and said softly, "Let's talk about that, Alan, when I return from England." And she disengaged her hands.

He frowned, frustrated, but no matter how much he argued, she would not change her mind.

CHAPTER 3

Van sat on a gilt chair in the middle of the drawing room. The only sounds in the huge room were the crackling of the fire and the snip-snip of Frances' scissors as she cut her daughter's hair. The old sheet that had been spread under the chair was covered with locks of hair, strands of black and black-and-gray. There was no resident hairdresser at Creag an Fhithich and Frances always cut her family's hair. Van was the last in line today; Alasdair and Niall had already preceded her.

"There," Frances said at last. "I think all the ends are even." She stepped back, scissors in one hand, comb in the other, to regard her handiwork critically. Van's long hair streamed down her back and over her shoulders, a mantle of heavy black silk. Frances nodded decisively and Van immediately reached up to push her hair back away from her face. She stood up and stretched her back.

Frances was putting down her scissors when Van said abruptly, "I suppose I shall have to powder my hair when I go to England."

Frances looked at her daughter thoughtfully. "It's certainly the fashion," she said after a moment, "but I don't think it would suit you, darling. You're not a fair-skinned English girl. Powdering would only make your skin look sallow."

Van grinned. "It would make me look dark as a Gypsy, you mean."

"I mean that it would not enhance your beauty," Frances replied temperately. "Wear your hair
au naturel.
It will be more becoming."

"That will suit me fine," Van said instantly. "And as to my beauty..." She gave her mother a swift, ironic look that was the duplicate of one of her father's expressions.

Frances' blue eyes were steady on her daughter's face. "Don't you think you are beautiful, Van?"

"I? Beautiful? Of course not." Then, as Frances continued to look at her, she put a brief, reassuring hand on her mother's arm. "Don't worry, Mother. I realized long ago that I would never be a beauty like you. It doesn't distress me at all, I assure you."

"Don't you think Niall is handsome?" Frances asked slowly.'

"Of course."

"You look very like Niall."

"But Niall is a boy, Mother. It's handsome to be dark. Girls are supposed to be fair."

"Must one be tail in order to be pretty?"

"Well, yes," Van answered in surprise. Then, "You are."

Frances stared at her daughter. "I have been thinking that I ought to tell you this, Van, so you will be prepared. It's true you aren't pretty. You're a great deal more than pretty, darling. You're beautiful. It's in your bones."

Van looked at her mother with affectionate amusement. "Mother, it isn't necessary to flatter me, I promise you. I don't at all mind not being pretty. I
like
looking like a MacIan." Frances sighed. "Do you?"

"Yes." Van turned to look out the window. It had been raining all morning but now there was a distinct brightening over the mountains. "The weather's turning fine," she said. "I'm going out."

Frances gave her daughter a rueful look. "All right, darling. Just don't be late for tea."

As she watched her daughter's slender back disappear around the doorway screen Frances thought fervently: Thank God she is going to England.

She walked away from the hair-strewn sheet on the floor and went herself to the window where a few minutes ago Van had stood. She stared out at the loch. It was beautiful, yes, but—especially in winter— lonely. She was glad Van was going, true, but she would miss her daughter badly. She remembered, with a sudden ache, the years of her children's babyhoods... the feel of the little dark heads under her hands, the bliss of holding a sucking baby to her breast... she missed it sometimes so sharply it was like a physical stab of pain.

Frances drew a deep, unsteady breath. It was so hard to let go of one's children, she thought, but it had to be done. And she had Alasdair. She turned from the window and her eyes fell on a lock of gray-streaked hair. She smiled.

Alasdair was also thinking about Van's coming visit, but his mind was not running along the same lines as his wife's. The day before Van was due to leave, he called her into the room that served as his office for a talk. In this room Alasdair kept all the paperwork pertaining to his vast estate. Most of his land was rented out to tacksmen for cattle raising and farming, but the chief was the one who sold whatever they had managed to raise beyond what was needed for their own subsistence, and Alasdair kept meticulous records of all his dealings with French and Flemish merchants.

He was a devoted chief, Alasdair MacIan, Mac mhic Iain, and one who understood perfectly his position in life. He was of the same blood and name and descent as his people, and in the hierarchy of authority on earth he stood somewhere between them and God. The law of the central government had never penetrated beyond the Highland Line. In the glens of the Scottish Highlands, it was the chief who was the king.

Van admired her father more than anyone else she knew. Her mother and brother had her deepest love, but it was Alasdair's approval that she most desired.

He looked up now from his accounts as she entered, and gestured her to a chair. Alasdair was dressed in his usual daytime clothes of tartan trews and jacket. On the walls of the office hung a collection of broadswords and pistols. The Highlands had technically been disarmed after the last Jacobite rebellion, but the castle walls had defiantly retained their extensive armory of weapons and no government agent had objected. The rest of the clan had disarmed by pragmatically burying their weapons in convenient places so they would be ready when called for again.

"Your mother has set her heart on this visit of yours, Van," Alasdair said now, and there was a thin line between his well-marked black brows, "which is why I agreed to it. But I tell you frankly, I don't like it. Especially not now."

"Is there going to be a rising, Father?"

Two more lines bracketed Alasdair's mouth. "I don't know. The prince is eager to come but both Lochiel and I sent word that there will be little chance of success unless he can bring a French army with him. I don't know what is going to happen, Van, and I don't like the idea of you being so far away."

Van swallowed. "Do you want me to stay home, Father?"

"No." Van relaxed and Alasdair went on, "No, I promised your mother you should go, and go you will. But I want you to understand clearly that if there should be a French landing, you are to come home."

"Of course, Father," Van replied quickly.

"I will give you a letter to your mother's cousin to that effect."

Van nodded.

Alasdair's hard gray eyes scanned his daughter's face appraisingly. "Left to myself, I would not choose to send you," he repeated. "However, since you
are
going, it has occurred to me you might be useful to the cause."

Van's oddly light eyes widened in surprise. "How, Father?"

"If there is to be a successful rising, we need English help. There are many powerful Tory families in England but I fear that since the battle at Sheriffmuir in 1715, their Jacobitism has been steadily decaying. It is vitally important to the cause that their attachment to the Stuart family be reawakened." Van nodded. "This cousin of your mother's, for example," Alasdair went on slowly. "She comes from a family of steady Cavalier faith, as did your Mother, but I doubt the flame is burning so brightly as it once did. Perhaps you can be the means of rekindling it, my daughter."