Prologue #2
“That is extreme,” his father said. “After your university education and these years with your mother, you deliver the same babble she sings. Tiresome righteous save-the-people nonsense. I am saving these people. I am allowing them to escape a dull existence.”
“Justifying what you do does not change the damage it does. When Mother left and took Jeanie and me with her, Mother prayed that you would realize what is important in life. Realize that all we have is family and land and love.”
His father scoffed. “Land has value. Do not lecture me on love!”
“Do not destroy something precious and call it good,” Evan retorted.
“Babble like a charity matron, and your inheritance goes to Jeanie and her husband.”
“My sister babbles just like me, sir. You will leave a legacy of what? Sheep, and hillsides chewed down to stubble, a ledger full of debt, and land sold off with little left.”
“I leave profit!” Kildonan barked.
Evan blew out a frustrated breath. He glanced at the surrounding hills, the wide sky, the lines of people who had strength and pride as great as the very mountains.
He valued this glen, valued his childhood memories of Glen Shee.
He loved this place and wanted to protect it and its people.
This was his true home, here in Glen Shee and Kildonan.
His father’s attitude, growing more sour and grasping over the years, was incomprehensible.
Yet he did not have the power to stop Kildonan from doing this.
The clearings had been practiced widely in the Highlands for economic, if heartless, reasons.
Evan knew that, but did not give a damn about financial gain or improvements if it meant destroying the dignity of the location and the people.
Years ago, he had been torn away from Glen Shee when his mother left his father and took her children with her. Watching the people walk away now, he knew in his heart what it felt like to leave this place.
“Profit,” his father repeated. “I am paying off debts with these clearings and land sales, so you will have a decent inheritance! Thousands of sheep on these hills will make a fortune for you and your sister. You will be happy about that.”
“I can find no happiness in this.”
“Eviction seems cruel, but these folks will benefit and so will we. Now this glen will produce wool enough to clothe the very Continent. It only needs efficient management by a few men who can bring their families here.”
“The Highlanders can do that work.”
“They are not reliable. They wander the hills and drink and tell stories. My men will count and mark sheep, move them, gather and shear them, prepare the wool for market, and make us a fortune. Fifteen Lowland men will do the work of two hundred lazy Highlanders.”
“Sir, you do not understand the Highland character.”
“I have had enough of the Highland character. What is that caterwauling?”
“A song of mourning.” Evan still understood a little Gaelic from boyhood. Regardless of the words, he knew grief when he heard it.
“I’ll be leaving this place too, off for Glasgow soon. Mr. Grant will run the estate. I will come back for hunting and fishing in season, but I never liked living here. These mountains haunt me. I do not sleep well here.”
“Then you do have a conscience,” Evan said.
“Heel, pup! Go back to Edinburgh and build bridges or whatever the devil it is you do with that expensive education. Engineering is no occupation for a peer of the realm once you become earl here. But suit yourself. You should have chosen the ministry, considering all the pontificating you do to me.”
“If I had read for the law, perhaps I could have stopped this,” Evan said.
“Leave, pup, before I banish you from this estate,” his father thundered. “If I had another son who could inherit, I swear I would choose him and leave you just a laird!”
Evan’s nostrils flared. There had always been rumors about his father’s interest in women; it was part of the reason Mother had left him. “I would choose being a laird or just building bridges over treating glen folk like this.”
“I see there is no convincing you that profits must be made from the estate. Go!”
Fuming, Evan rounded his horse and rode off. His grief was as terrible as that of the glen folk. Riding past the line of Highlanders, the women’s wailing song cut into his soul.
He could not look at them. He wanted to apologize, but his integrity would not allow him to insult his father that way. And he knew the people likely blamed him too. Powerless to change it, he was ashamed to be heir to a man who brought catastrophe to the people he should protect.
He had returned to Kildonan Castle and Glen Shee in hopes of reasoning with his father. But the old earl was interested only in wealth, however much his wealth cost others.
As he cantered away, another woman raised her voice in song. The clear, sweet sound sent chills up his spine. Slowing, he looked up at the hill beside the road.
A young woman stood in the heather high on the slope.
She was slender, bright, and beautiful, wrapped in a tartan shawl, her red-gold hair rippling down.
With her stood a young man. The handsome pair seemed like a vision, a pair of proud ancient Celts standing like guardians over the glen, witnessing the sadness of that day.
The girl sang the lament so poignantly that Evan paused to listen, hands on the reins. The afternoon sun turned the mountains pink and gold, and the singer glowed with an inner fire, a proud, brave, beautiful spirit. Others were now listening. Even the old earl looked around.
Her voice was clear and haunting, imprinting itself in Evan’s heart. The last note faded like the clear strike of a bell.
Then he took up the reins and rode away, taking his grief and leaving his lost happiness in the glen he loved. He could never return to Kildonan and Glen Shee and hold his head high again.
The Highland girl’s song felt like a little balm of healing. He took that with him, too.