Page 12 of Highland Fire

For Caitlin, the Sabbath followed a familiar pattern, for it was then that she took her place as a member of Glenshiel’s household, first publicly, at church services, and thereafter in the big house itself, as a member of the family.

The big house wasn’t really so very big by Deeside standards.

Almost every other house of note in neighboring estates was grander, more opulent or simply of more historic interest. To Caitlin, as a child growing up, no other house had counted.

If Holyrood Palace in all its magnificence had suddenly been transplanted to her own doorstep, it would not have made a jot of difference.

The big house could only be the house in which her grandfather resided.

There were sixteen rooms on two floors, not including the attics.

Over the years, the estate had changed hands many times, in common with other houses in the area, according to the vagaries of war.

Glenshiel had bought the place from one of the Bissets of Abergeldie, having married a younger daughter to seal the bargain.

Caitlin often wondered about her grandmother and felt a good deal of sympathy every time she thought of her.

Though it was true that Euphonia Bisset had died long before Caitlin was born, there was nothing in the house—no picture, no portrait, not a scrap of needlepoint—to show that it had ever been touched by a feminine hand.

In almost every room, a plethora of glassy-eyed stags’ heads gazed down from their perches on dark oak paneling.

It was a bachelor establishment and put Caitlin in mind of a gentlemen’s club.

She really knew nothing of gentlemen’s clubs, but she did not think any woman could be comfortable for long in those surroundings.

And this wasn’t a home. It was a mausoleum.

Glenshiel rarely mentioned his wife, but from the little her uncle had told her, Caitlin gathered that Euphonia Bisset had been something of a cipher and no match for the grim-faced, determined man who imposed his will on anyone of a weaker nature.

There was no question in Caitlin’s mind that her own mother had been a true daughter of Glenshiel.

As she had heard tell, father and daughter could never be in the same room without fireworks erupting.

Though Caitlin was aware that she was not made in her mother’s mold, she knew enough about her grandfather to put on a bold front when the occasion demanded it.

On this occasion, little was required of her beyond her rapt attention.

They were in the front parlor seated around a smoldering peat fire, and Charlotte Randal was dispensing tea and sweets.

Glenshiel waved away the tea. He was intent on venting his spleen, and as long as he held the floor, no one would think of interrupting him.

Caitlin sipped her tea in silence, remarking inwardly on the changes in her grandfather which had escaped her notice till the present moment.

Glenshiel was showing his years, she decided.

His shock of white hair was thinning out; his skin was flushed, but whether from rage or from some other source was impossible to determine.

The veins across his cheeks and on his nose stood out more redly.

From time to time, he banged his walking cane against the floor, then winced as though the old injury to his leg was giving him pain.

He was showing all of his eighty years, and that crept up on her so gradually, when it finally registered on her brain she was taken by surprise.

As she watched him now, something moved in her chest, an odd tightening, and she felt herself swallowing.

“Does he not know,” raged Glenshiel rhetorically, in a voice fit to waken the stags’ heads on the walls, “that if it were not for an accident of history, I, Alexander Randal, would be the chief of Clan Randal? And he durst command me, aye command, tae wait on him on the morrow as if I were his vassal!”

Caitlin rarely took her grandfather’s part. This was one occasion, however, when she found herself in complete sympathy with him and mildly annoyed when her great-uncle, whom she usually regarded as an ally, rushed in to the Randal’s defense.

“It’s no’ the lad’s fault that we were Jacobites in the forty-five,” reasoned Donald Randal, fidgeting with the spectacles on his nose as he tried to bring his elder brother’s face into focus.

“Or that his branch o’ the family supported the House o’ Hanover.

Ye maun remember, Sandy, that they were no’ papists.

It was a matter o’ principle. The Randals o’ Strathcairn would never support a papist claim to the throne. ”

Glenshiel’s murderous glare was wasted on his nearsighted brother. “Were we papists?” he demanded softly.

“No, but—”

“And was our father the chief o’ Clan Randal or was he not?”

“Aye. He was that, but—”

“Then the Randals o’ Strathcairn owed their allegiance to him. When our father came out in support o’ Bonnie Prince Charlie, every member o’ the clan should hae done the same.”

A stubborn set displaced Donald Randal’s usually mild expression.

“All I am saying is that the lad wasna even born. We, ourselves, were just bairns. It’s no’ his quarrel and it wasna ours.

He is the chief of our clan, and to set yerself against him is worse than folly.

It’s…it’s a stain on our family honor, that’s what it is. ”

When the two elderly gentlemen paused to glare at each other, Charlotte Randal made haste to get a word in edgewise.

The recital of ancient history left her unmoved.

Ever since she had set eyes on Rand that morning, her mind had been toying with all the possibilities that his arrival in Deeside presented for the advancement of her daughter.

Knowing that she had to tread carefully with her father-in-law, she remarked in a casual way, “You won’t be the only one beating a path to Lord Randal’s door. ”

“And just what do ye mean by that?” asked Glenshiel.

Charlotte took her time before selecting a butter-shortbread from the tray of delicacies on the table by her elbow.

Having taken a minuscule bite, she went on in the same careless way, “I heard it from Mrs. Noble. His lordship is fixed at Strathcairn for some time to come. He is young, eligible, and wealthy. It should not surprise you, Glenshiel, if all the leading families with daughters of marriageable age are falling over themselves to make his acquaintance.”

“ A Dhia! Is that all you women can think about—matrimony? I’d as lief make the acquaintance of an adder than humble myself for the likes o’ that…that usurper.”

Charlotte drew in a quick breath. “Would you so?” she said, and her voice was not quite steady.

“Well, there are some of us who cannot afford the luxury of your pride. I am a widow. My dearest wish is to see my daughter settled before I depart this life. Naturally, I look to you, as Fiona’s grandfather, to lend your support.

You know yourself, Glenshiel, that there are few eligible young gentlemen in Deeside to whom you would be happy to see your granddaughter go—unless you think to encourage the attentions of Douglas Gordon?

” This last threat was a brilliant stroke, as Charlotte well knew.

At the mention of Daroch’s name, Glenshiel banged his cane upon the floor. “ A Dhia na gras , give me patience. Are ye daft, woman? The Gordons o’ Daroch are our sworn enemies. Are ye forgetting the ancient blood feud?”

“Daroch is no’ o’ their clan,” remonstrated Donald Randal. “He was a stepson o’ the former laird. Sure all the Gordons o’ Daroch have died out. Their line has come to an end.”

“He is still a Gordon. All the Gordons are o’ the same ilk. They fought against us at Culloden.”

“There are worse things than Gordons.”

“Name me one.” Glenshiel was never stuck for an answer.

Coughing, then slyly winking at Caitlin, Donald Randal jibed, “A Randal o’ Strathcairn?”

Before Glenshiel could fire off another shot, Fiona flounced to her feet.

She was pouting, but even that childish affectation did not detract from her beauty.

Her eyes met Caitlin’s and a silent message passed between the girls.

Correctly interpreting that look, Fiona made an effort to compose herself before saying in a restrained way, “I don’t wish to marry anyone, and if I did, it would not be Lord Randal. He is…he is too old for me.”

“Nonsense!” Charlotte Randal pinned her daughter with a fierce glare, a portent of the retribution to follow when they were in private. “He cannot be much more than thirty or so, just the age when a man is ready for the responsibilities of marriage.”

“But I don’t wish—”

“Mother knows best, dear.”

Answering Fiona’s look of mute appeal, Caitlin said, “I understand that Lord Randal’s mother has a girl all picked out for him.

” It wasn’t exactly an untruth. David had once told her that the dowager threw eligible girls in her son’s way with irritating regularity.

The Randal had demonstrated not the slightest interest in them.

As she well knew, his preference ran to the other sort of women.

“Then that’s that,” declared Glenshiel with so much satisfaction that Caitlin could not help smiling.

Charlotte had got the bit between her teeth, and she was not ready to let go. “There are always baseless rumors about men in high places. And even if this one were true, there has been no announcement of a betrothal. Mark my words—some girl with a little gumption is going to carry the day.”

“Or some mother,” murmured Caitlin, and Fiona giggled.

The snap of Charlotte’s teeth could be heard clear across the room. “I might have known that you would incite Fiona to rebel against parental authority. You are not Fiona’s guardian. Kindly remember that she has a mother. Sometimes, Caitlin, I think it is envy that motivates you.”