Chapter Eighteen
“What a grim occasion that must have been!” The half whisper was followed by a sniff. “A hasty wedding days ago—and what made that necessary, hmm?”
Hearing Lady Wetherstone’s voice, Catriona stopped short as she came down the hall toward the dining room for breakfast the next morning, standing just out of sight. The lady’s words stung.
“It was a lovely wee wedding, quite romantic,” Jean said in reply. “They knew each other as children, and when they met again, love blossomed quickly. They knew their hearts.” She sighed audibly.
Bless Lady Jean, Catriona thought, for stretching a slight childhood association into a truth.
All of them had been children together in the same glen, attending the same kirk, and so they knew one another somewhat.
Jean embellished the awkward marriage into something wonderfully romantic.
In that moment, Catriona loved her new sister-in-law even more.
“But Mr. Fitzgibbon told another story,” Lady Wetherstone protested. “I heard him tell Sir Aedan that Kildonan and the girl were obliged to marry after spending a night alone, stranded in a storm.”
“Well, they did find themselves in a dangerous situation. She saved my brother’s life that night. He was injured, you see, in a fall, and she brought him to a safe place to wait out the storm. And they—rekindled their friendship and early love for each other.”
“Puppy love, I suppose. So he married her out of gratitude?”
“His childhood sweetheart,” Jean said. “It is lovely, in my opinion.”
“Women in your condition are often overly sentimental, dear,” the lady replied. “A man can be sorely tempted in a situation like that. She is a fetching creature, I will admit, though that wild hair—and she is a tall as a man, and looks more like a farmer’s wife than a countess.”
Catriona sank against the wall, mortified.
“I think my sister-in-law is lovely, and a very charming Highland lady.”
“An unlikely countess, all the same! I am only being honest, Lady Jean.”
“She will be a credit to this house, and a credit to my brother. We should all be in awe of the love they have for each other.”
“You are young and full of silly romantic notions still. That will change. Now, tell me,” Lady Wetherstone went on, “on my way to breakfast, I got rather turned around. Which way is it?”
“Let me show you,” Jean said.
As their voices and footsteps faded, Catriona breathed a sigh of relief, and waited a length of time to be sure they would reach the dining room before her.
Shaking her wide skirt of blue-and-green plaid satin, she patted her red-gold hair, its wildness tamed in a prim black net.
Then she walked slowly to the dining room to join the others.
*
“Wilkie has written another book,” Arthur told the others gathered at the breakfast table. He looked around at Evan, Wilkie, Sir Harry, and then Catriona. “You would all enjoy his books, I think. He writes about mountaineering and hillwalking.”
Catriona smiled, teacup lifted. “How interesting, Mr. Wilkie! What is this one about?”
“An account of the group’s walk through the Alps,” the young man replied modestly.
“What’s the title?” Evan asked. “I want to order it from my bookseller in the city.”
“Scrambling in the Alps,” Wilkie answered.
“He also wrote Scrambling in Skye,” Arthur said, “and Scrambling in the Grampians. Excellent travelogues.”
“Thank you,” Wilkie said. “Mr. Fitzgibbon also writes books.”
Catriona turned with another smile. “Wonderful! What are those titles, sir?”
“My first was The Geological Structure of the Alps, and then I published Glacial Theories in the North Highlands of Scotland. Most recently, I wrote Hebridean Ice Age Formations. No one reads my books, I’m afraid.” Arthur shrugged.
“Your students do,” Evan said. “I have, and so has Sir Aedan.”
Catriona listened with interest. Sir Aedan was not at breakfast, and Arthur had mentioned to the others that MacBride had gone out for an early walk to look at some local roads, being an engineer of highways and byways in Scotland.
“Well, you two would have to,” Arthur said. “Not that you agree with my theories.”
“True, I’m not convinced that a glacier can be described as a body of viscous fluid,” Evan answered.
“Though if it is composed of salt water, it can be argued so. Most traces of glacial formations in Scotland were once freshwater, I believe. But Arthur, I am quite keen on your practicums concerning the thermal conductivity of various stones.”
“This all sounds… fascinating,” Catriona said, blinking.
Jean smiled at her from across the table. “That is what we tell them.” She laughed.
“Fitz is Professor of Natural Philosophies at Edinburgh University,” Evan explained. “He was our professor when Aedan and I studied engineering. He’s also a respected fellow of the Royal Society of London.”
Catriona murmured admiration, though she had never heard of the society.
“Lord Kildonan was the youngest member ever admitted to the Royal Society of Edinburgh,” Arthur countered. “Not even nineteen, and he wrote a brilliant essay on extinct volcanoes in Scotland. He’s quite the geologist.”
“Are you a scientist too, as well as an engineer?” Catriona asked. She realized again that she did not know much about him in so many ways.
“I studied both. An engineer needs to understand geological formations,” he said.
“Kildonan is a very talented bridge designer,” Sir Harry said. “I’ve worked with him often. My family owns a steelworks business, my lady,” he explained to Catriona.
My lady. At first, she thought he addressed Lady Wetherstone. “Ah, so you work with my husband on steel-frame bridges?” My husband. It felt more natural each time she said it.
“Indeed,” Sir Harry said.
“A steel bridge is far more complicated to design and build than a simple stone bridge in a Highland glen.” She smiled at Evan.
“A bit,” he said with a small laugh. “But simple stone bridges need good designs too.”
“They do. And everyone in the glen will be pleased when it is repaired.” Then, remembering his mention of a disastrous and fatal bridge collapse, she frowned, sorry to remind him.
His quick little smile was reassuring. “Even Mrs. MacLeod?” He chuckled. “Truly, I am glad to be of help in the glen.”
“Mr. Fitzgibbon, I understand you intend to study the geological composition of the Torridon mountains while you are up here,” Wilkie said.
“I do, sir! The local mountains are primarily formed of Torridonian sandstone, the chocolate and red varieties, as well as Lewisian gneiss, a hard black stone identical to what occurs on the Isles of Lewis and Skye. Natural crystal formations occur throughout these Torridonian slopes as well. I am curious to collect and study those.”
“Crystals? They are fascinating, and so pretty!” Catriona leaned forward to speak to Arthur, hoping she sounded mildly interested, though her attention was rapt.
“Are you an admirer of geology and rock formations, Lady Kildonan?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, very much, especially of the hills and mountains around this glen,” she answered.
“But I know little about their, uh, geological composition or their, er, thermal properties.” She gestured toward a window with its morning view of misty blue mountains.
“That high peak there is Ben Alligin. Sometimes it seems to sparkle in the sunlight, as if made of glass. It’s an enchanting sight. ”
“Not magical, though,” Arthur said. “That sparkle effect is just sunlight shining off crystal beds that can form on mountaintops if the embedment is large enough.”
“Fitz, do not diminish the lady’s dream,” Evan said. “I rather like the idea of enchanted crystal mountains surrounding our glen.”
Catriona gave him a quick, grateful smile. “In Gaelic, Beinn àilleagan means ‘Jeweled Mountain.’ And the tallest peak of Ben Shee, the Fairy Mountain in Gaelic, sparkles in the sunlight too. There’s even a legend that claims it is a crystal mountain.”
“Fairy Mountain,” Evan said. “I remember sliding down it to land at the feet of a fairy lass.” He chuckled, and the others laughed.
“A crystal slope would be deuced slippery,” Sir Harry added to more laughter.
Catriona smiled to see how relaxed and content Evan seemed with his friends, and with her as well. If she knew it could always be that way between them, she would be tempted to agree to make the marriage permanent.
But she reminded herself that her brother’s fate and the fate of those Finlay was helping might hang in the balance. She could not agree to anything just yet.
“Mr. Fitzgibbon, do you really think the high hills contain crystal beds?” she asked.
“Quite possible,” he said. “Many of the northern Scottish mountains have enormous beds of quartz—white, rose, smoky quartz, and other varieties. They are commonly found mixed in black gneiss over beds of sandstone, on massive bases of metamorphic rock.”
“Ah,” she said, blinking at the scientific language. “In Scotland, we call the pale brown quartz ‘Cairngorm.’ And there is another type—sir, have you ever heard of a crystal that glows in moonlight?”
“Another legend, my dear?” Evan murmured. She nodded briskly.
“Certain minerals have phosphorescent properties,” Arthur explained. “They can glow slightly. It’s quite eerie to see them in dark caves and fissures. A curious phenomenon.”
She felt a lift of excitement. “Are they crystal formations?”
“Not exactly, but phosphorescent minerals can be found inside crystals. Phantom crystals, they’re called. Lovely things, quite rare. Very special.”
She nodded eagerly. “Have you ever heard of a fairy crystal?”
“I think so,” Evan said. “Correct me if I am wrong, Fitz. But certain types of crystalline formations with several terminations in a cluster are called fairy crystals because they resemble tiny castles. Pretty little things. I had one once, as a boy,” he mused.
“Had a collection of rocks and crystals. Don’t know what happened to the box.
Perhaps it is in storage somewhere in the castle.
I could look for it one day if you like. ”
“That would be lovely,” she said. But it might never be found, and she was in rather a rush for Mother Flora. “I just wondered if we could find a fairy crystal, perhaps one that glows, up on Ben Shee. I—I would love to find one in its natural state.”
“On Ben Shee? That might be nearly impossible,” Reverend Wilkie said. “Have you heard that Ben Shee has another name in Gaelic? I cannot remember the words, but it translates to ‘inaccessible pinnacle.’ They say it cannot be climbed to the top.”
“I have heard that,” Evan said. “Fitz and I would have attempted it, but the weather turned foul, and other distractions came up. Worthy distractions,” he added.
“That was an adventure Kildonan will never forget, nor Lady Kildonan either,” Arthur said with a grin. “We should try again. What say you, Kildonan?”
“I am always keen for a mountaineering challenge.”
“We shall suggest it to Miss Jemima and the rest. When should we go up?”
“This afternoon, the Misses Murray are organizing a picnic on some scenic hills where the climbing is not difficult,” Reverend Wilkie said. “If the weather holds, perhaps we could attempt Ben Shee tomorrow or the next day.”
“The day after tomorrow is Sunday,” said Lady Wetherstone, who had been quiet and intent on her breakfast. “Will you make such an outing on the Sabbath, sir?”
“I had nearly forgotten,” Wilkie said with a laugh. “But as a moderate minister of the Established Church, I am not a strict Sabbatarian—which is Sunday in our terms, though originally it meant Saturday.”
“On a Sunday in the glen,” Catriona said, “you may find that some of the locals will not be happy to see you out and about. And you may have some trouble finding a guide or a gillie to go with you. My father’s church is a Free Kirk, and there are still many Catholics in the Highlands, along with some moderate Established Church followers. ”
“My wife’s father is the minister of Glenachan in Glen Shee,” Evan said.
“Then you were raised to be strict Sabbatarian?” Wilkie asked her.
“Aye. We were not permitted to do anything on Sunday but attend church, pray, and read the Bible. We could not even cook or clean, so we prepared Sunday meals on Saturdays. My father forbade hillwalking and carriages, too, unless it was needed to get to his church. But my siblings and I often bent the rules.” She smiled.
“I thought to attend the local church myself on Sunday morning,” Wilkie said. “That would be your father’s?”
“Aye. He would be pleased to see you there,” she said. She did not offer to go, feeling conflicted about seeing her father and aunt just yet.
And she realized she had a choice. She had often been under the shadow of strict authority, longing for freedom that she found in small ways, never claiming it outright.
That was why she loved to walk endlessly in the hills on any excuse, and why she found particular fulfillment in going about for the knitting scheme and also to learn and collect the old songs.
In her earlier years, she had not been permitted to sing.
But her mother, with her own love of music and singing, had put her foot down, insisting that her father allow Catriona that freedom.
As for attending kirk this Sunday—she also hesitated because Kenneth Grant would be there, as always. She had seen him there for years, yet never suspected that he might harbor ill will toward her or her family. Now she knew too well what he wanted. Encountering him now was a true risk.
But Sunday, she would take another risk, and climb Ben Shee to find the fairy crystals that would unlock the fairy songs that she needed for her collection.
Evan would be with her, which took the fear and risk out of the trek. Once again, she realized how patient he was, how willing to support what she wanted. He would not press the issue between them. He would wait.
This was what it was like to be loved, she thought. Truly loved. It was a revelation, one shining thought upon another until a light bloomed in her mind and heart. She caught his eye, let her gaze linger in his.
He seemed to see only her. “Will you go up with us on Sunday, then?”
“I would love to,” she said.