Epilogue by Janice Preston
Epilogue
by Janice Preston
Lady Flora McNeill stood on the front step of Lochmore Castle, her thoughts anchored in the past. The weather was mild for the time of year, warm enough for her to wear a simple shawl over her black gown.
A soft breeze whispered across the inner bailey and she could hear the gentle shushing of the waves on the rocks below the castle, which was built on a high, rocky promontory.
She did not hear her husband of one year, Lachlan, come outside until two strong arms wrapped around her from behind. She leaned back into his hard body, glanced down and smiled as his hands caressed her swollen belly. Their first baby was due in January and they could not wait to be parents.
‘Well, Flora.’ Lachlan’s breath tickled her ear. ‘Today is the day you’ve been waiting for.’
Flora’s gaze flicked across the inner bailey to the old chapel, visible above the perimeter wall.
In there, Ailsa Lochmore, née McCrieff, lay waiting to be reunited with her beloved husband, Rory.
Dead for over five hundred years, they had been entombed together in the stone crypt under the old chapel until their double tomb had been desecrated during a raid on Lochmore Castle in the sixteenth century and Rory Lochmore’s remains had been spirited away.
But the secret of why that particular body had been taken, and by whom, had gradually been lost in the mists of time until almost nobody knew what had happened, let alone remembered details of whose body was missing and, more importantly, why.
Flora would never forget the day when—aged twelve and in a fit of pique at her father for constantly dismissing her ideas because she was a mere girl—she had gone exploring in the forbidden Great Tower at her childhood home, Castle McCrieff.
She could still feel the wave of grief, anger and aloneness that had battered her when she found the skeleton she now knew belonged to Rory Lochmore.
She’d had a similar experience, just last year, when she discovered the empty tomb next to Ailsa’s, down in that cold, lonely crypt.
The desolation. The isolation. The longing.
‘I still cannot believe that Benneit finally managed to persuade Father to allow Rory to come home.’ Flora turned within the circle of Lachlan’s arms and smiled up into his dark eyes. ‘Or that the McCrieff lairds kept that secret all these years.’
The story had been passed down through generations of McCrieff Chiefs—mortal enemies of the Lochmore clan through most of those centuries—to the present incumbent, Flora’s father, Lord Aberwyld.
It was only three months ago that Flora had finally summoned the courage to challenge her father about the identity of the skeleton hidden at the top of the Great Tower and the link between that and the empty tomb in the old chapel at Lochmore Castle, now her marital home.
Father had admitted the skeleton was that of Rory Lochmore and that it had been stolen by members of the McCrieff clan during a raid but, true to character, he had stubbornly insisted Rory—sired by a McCrieff and not a Lochmore—must remain at Castle McCrieff.
‘Well, none of us would be any the wiser had you not found Rory in the first place, and then refused to take “no” for an answer.’ Lachlan dropped a kiss on Flora’s nose. ‘So it’s all thanks to you. I am proud of you for challenging your father...and continuing to challenge him.’
‘I could not ignore it—I knew when I first found Rory that I must do something to put things right, but I had no idea what that might be. It was only once I knew their story that I understood—Rory and Ailsa need to be together.’
Flora trusted her instincts. They had never let her down and that same sixth sense had driven her to keep insisting to her father that the lovers—for she knew instinctively that theirs had been a great passion—must be reunited.
It had taken the current Chief of the Lochmores—Benneit, Duke of Lochmore—to finally bring Father to his senses.
‘If what you tell us of Rory Lochmore’s paternity is true, Aberwyld,’ he had said, ‘then there is no justification for keeping his remains at Castle McCrieff. Think about it—is there not as much McCrieff blood running through the Lochmores as through the McCrieffs? We are, like it or not, one clan. And do not forget that Ailsa, too, was a McCrieff. You must do right by them.’
Father had huffed and puffed but, in the end, he’d had to concede that there was no reason to keep Rory and Ailsa apart in this modern day and age, not now that the centuries-old feud was firmly behind the two clans.
The distinctive rumble of wheels along the track that led up through ancient woodland to the castle alerted Flora to the approach of a vehicle.
‘They’re coming!’
Their friends and neighbours, Benneit and Joane—former owners of Lochmore Castle—were joining them for the reunion of Rory and Ailsa.
‘Drummond.’ Lachlan turned to summon their butler. ‘Would you please ask our guests to join us? It’s time.’
Flora’s father and brother had arrived last night, escorting Rory’s newly enshrouded remains, and the former Lochmore Clan Chief now lay on a trestle table set up in the new chapel, awaiting Ailsa.
The ‘new’ chapel adjoined the castle itself.
It had been built in the sixteenth century by Ewan Lochmore, the Lochmore Chief at the time, who had decreed the old chapel in the outer bailey too vulnerable to attack after the raid on Rory’s tomb.
Ewan Lochmore and his lady, Marguerite, had been the first occupants of the new chapel and were buried in a double tomb in the chapel itself, whereas subsequent Lochmores had been buried in the crypt below.
It seemed fitting that Rory and Ailsa would now be re-interred in a double tomb constructed next to that of Ewan and Marguerite.
Flora fingered the disc-shaped silver brooch pinned to her shawl: Rory’s brooch.
Every curve and indent was achingly familiar—she had worn it and cared for it from the day she found Rory until the day she discovered the empty tomb in the old stone crypt and recognised the matching, smaller brooch on Ailsa’s tomb.
The Lochmores’ carriage drew to a halt and Benneit—tall, broad-shouldered and still straight-backed, despite being in his sixties—climbed from the carriage and turned to assist his Duchess, Joane—as petite and elegant as ever—to the ground.
Flora and Joane had forged a strong friendship, despite the gap in their ages, and Flora eagerly greeted the couple.
‘So,’ said Joane, once they had all exchanged greetings. ‘Is Rory home at last?’
‘Yes. He is in the new chapel. But Ailsa is still in the crypt. I—I know it is silly, but I felt it was important for you and Benneit to be here when they are reunited.’
‘We have come to trust those feelings of yours, Flora.’ Benneit’s voice held no hint of mockery, unlike Father, who made no secret of his scorn for Flora’s intuitive streak.
‘Besides...’ Benneit paused as Father and Donald joined them at the bottom of the steps.
The greetings over, he continued, ‘Besides, there are four men here and I think it fitting that we escort Ailsa to her final resting place. Not servants, but Lochmores and McCrieffs. It’s a shame Jamie is away, but Lachlan is an honorary member of both clans, is he not?
So he will be a more-than-fitting substitute. ’
Jamie was Benneit’s son and heir by his first marriage.
Lachlan smiled his appreciation of the Duke’s words and Flora knew they would mean the world to him.
All he had ever wanted was to belong. As the four men headed for the old chapel, Joane’s large grey eyes settled on the brooch Flora wore. A frown creased her forehead.
‘Is that Rory’s brooch? I thought you left it with Ailsa’s brooch on her tomb?’
Flora fingered its familiar surface again. ‘I did. But we opened the tomb yesterday to prepare Ailsa and I...well, I pinned her own brooch to her shroud but...but...’
Sympathy and understanding shimmered in Joane’s large grey eyes. ‘You wanted to take care of it for Rory?’
‘Yes. And, if I’m honest, I wanted to wear it one last time.
I will pin it to his shroud before the new tomb is closed.
But...last night...’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it.
I could have pinned it on him last night, but it feels almost as though that should be the final act. When they are back together.’
Joane smiled. ‘And that will be very soon.’
Lachlan, Benneit, Father and Donald, each holding one corner of a wooden board upon which Ailsa lay, now entered the inner bailey. Emotion constricted Flora’s throat as she and Joane walked side by side to wait by the chapel door, ready to follow Ailsa inside.
‘I am so pleased,’ Joane said in a whisper, ‘that we could all agree not to involve Pastor Collins in this. It feels right, somehow, to keep this informal and private.’
‘I agree. It does feel right.’
Flora had dreaded their officious local pastor taking charge of what, to her, felt intensely personal. As it was, both Father and Benneit would speak a few words before Rory and Ailsa were covered and left in peace, together for eternity.
The chapel interior was dim and cool, lit by flickering torches set into old-fashioned wall sconces.
A pair of trestles had been set ready for Ailsa and, for the first time, they could all see the couple side by side—Rory had been a big man, tall and broad, whereas Ailsa had been petite.
A little like both Lachlan and Flora and Benneit and Joane, Flora realised.
That observation made the couple feel even more real to her and she only half-listened as first Father, then Benneit, spoke of reuniting the couple and of laying them to rest.
Her memories were again in the past and she relived that swell of anguish and pain she had experienced when she first ventured into the crypt under the old chapel.
Always—the whisper had seemed to come from both within her and without, at the same time.
She blocked the men’s voices, holding her conscious thoughts at bay...listening, seeking...
She heard nothing. But she felt...contentment. Peace. Deep and satisfying.
And she relaxed.
It was time.
Father and Benneit lifted Rory and placed him in the waiting tomb.
Lachlan and Donald moved Ailsa. Flora stepped forward, fumbling to unpin Rory’s brooch from her shawl.
She stared down at the two shrouded bodies, lying side by side in the double tomb.
Flora pressed her lips to the brooch, blessing the comfort it—and Rory—had afforded her over the years, then she bent over to fasten it to Rory’s linen shroud.
As ever, the stiff catch made it tricky to fasten, but she managed and then straightened with a sigh, placing her hand to the small of her back.
Lachlan’s arm slipped round her waist, supporting her.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. It was merely the discomfort of stooping.’
The stone lid waited to be lifted in place. To cover Rory and Ailsa. The four men positioned themselves at each corner and bent to grasp it.
‘Wait!’
They paused. Flora smiled self-consciously.
‘Just one moment...one last thing...’ She reached out one hand and placed it on Ailsa’s brooch, pinned in the position of her heart.
A gentle pat of reassurance? A farewell?
And then she did the same for Rory, quickly, before stepping back and allowing the men to heave the stone lid into the air and settle it gently over the tomb.
Flora read the carved inscription through blurred vision.
Here lie Rory Lochmore,
Chief of the Lochmore Clan,
and his lady, Ailsa.
Rest in Peace.
Rory and Ailsa—together again. Always.
There were no effigies on this tomb lid, but merely carvings depicting the two brooches.
Flora blinked back her tears, for it made no sense to mourn two people who were long dead.
They were happy tears, she decided, as she fetched the bundle of greenery she had deposited in the chapel earlier that morning—rosemary, for remembrance, and heather, the scent of home—and placed it on the tomb.
And, come the spring, she would bring thrift, for as long as it bloomed along the Lochmore cliffs.
That evening, after their guests had departed, Flora and Lachlan strolled arm in arm around the castle grounds as was their custom whenever the weather permitted.
Tonight, Flora’s head was full of Rory and Ailsa, hoping they were content now they were together again.
She gazed up at the night sky above them, at the myriad stars that spangled the heavens, and she prayed that Rory and Ailsa were up there, somewhere, together.
She prayed that their love truly was—as she believed—eternal.
A breeze picked up and it teased a few tresses out of Flora’s coiffure. Lachlan caught them, sifting her hair through his fingers, before raising them to breathe in her scent.
‘Have I ever told you,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘that I adore your hair?’
Flora smiled. Yes, he had. Often...especially when it was unbound for the night, waving about her shoulders and down her back in fiery red waves. She leaned closer to her beloved husband and raised her face for his kiss, but then tensed, her hand to her belly, as the babe made its presence felt.
‘Are you all right?’ Anxiety laced Lachlan’s tone.
‘Yes, of course. He just rolled over. And kicked me, for good measure.’
‘Or she,’ said Lachlan pointedly, always quick to reassure Flora that he would be happy for his firstborn to be a girl. He knew her father’s disappointment that his firstborn was a girl had marred Flora’s childhood.
‘Or she.’ Flora stroked her swollen stomach lightly, her mind racing. ‘Lachlan...when we discussed names...’ They still had not decided on what they might call their baby. ‘What would you think of—?’
One finger pressed against her lips, silencing her. Startled, she gazed wordlessly into Lachlan’s smiling eyes.
‘Rory if it’s a boy; Ailsa if it’s a girl?’ His smile broadened. ‘I love the names—they are perfect.’
Flora kissed his fingertip. ‘They will never be forgotten again and we will make sure our children and our children’s children remember them.’
‘Always.’