O'er The Border

Part II. The Scottish Raid

4

O’er The Border

    Raffaella stood on a rocky promontory, and took a deep breath. “So this is Scotland!”

    It had in fact, been Scotland for quite some time, but Miss Bon-Dutton merely smiled and murmured: “Indeed. The west coast. Wild, is it not?”

    Raffaella turned from the view of steeply towering hills to look at the striking expanse of blue and turquoise sea, frothing pure white around wicked-looking rocks at the base of a cliff, with misty isles in the distance and a shadowy grey shape of a broken tooth upon a point not so very far away, and agreed fervently: “Wonderfully wild! Thank you so very much for bringing me, Cousin Eudora!”

    Eudora smiled a little, and did not say that had she suggested venturing forth to Scotland utterly alone except for her faithful maid, her own coachman, and two grooms who had served her since her curls were down her back, her kindly relatives would have vetoed the proposal utterly. Instead she did say, very mildly: “Well, I hope you will find the landscape with figures will appeal as much, though for myself, I cannot think it will. –That is the Keep of Munn,” she explained, “the principal seat of the Duke of Munn, who is Katie’s sister Gwendolyn’s papa-in-law.”

    “What? Were not marble halls mentioned in that connection?” said Raffaella deeply.

    “Floors, I think. They are in the house. The Keep itself is no longer inhabited. Though it is kept in reasonably good repair: one may go up it.”

    “That sounds the opposite of Romantick,” she said with a pout, although her eyes twinkled.

    “Mm. Oh, one is told that Glenrowan sometimes uses it,” she recalled.

    “The Marquis? The Duke’s eldest son? For what?” asked Raffaella eagerly.

    “I think he has a study up there. Not a cupboard full of headless previous wives,” noted Eudora drily, somewhat disappointed, though hardly surprised, to see that this mention of a title had immediately distracted her young companion from the wonderful views. Oh, well. They had, after all, come north on, as Raffaella had put it, a hunting expedition. Miss Nellie Dewesbury, to whom the thought had been expressed, had collapsed in giggles, choking that her relatives normally came up for the shooting, but she quite seized the Contessa’s point. And would look forward tremendously to seeing what prey she might eventually bag.

    “Shall we get on, Raffaella?” she added. “I confess, I am rather hungry.”

    As they had earlier eaten up what had been destined to be a picknick luncheon, being overcome by the pangs of hunger after climbing a very steep hill to view what Miss Bon-Dutton’s guide-book claimed to have been the remains of a Celtic site but which had yielded no more than one large stone, warm in the grass, and most luckily the right height for sitting on, Raffaella agreed it might wise to head for Lochailsh town; and the two ladies climbed back into the coach.

    At the Lochailsh Arms Mrs Macdonald was very interested to learn that the leddies were on a tour of their beautiful Highlands, and assured them that she could give them a list of sights that were not to be missed, including all the prospects most favoured by artistic leddies. And if they wanted to cross over to Inver or Ailsh, Bob Macdonald’s boat would be at their disposal, and he was guaranteed reliable, being a cousin of her own. And if the weather didna look promising, Bob could be relied upon not to venture out. All in a very charming Highland sing-song. She was horrified to learn that they had not had their “dinner” and having shown them to their rooms, of a sparkling cleanliness, if rather Spartan in appearance, bustled away to oversee their meal herself.

    “Tell me more about Munn’s eldest son,” said Raffaella over the meal.

    Eudora looked dry. “He is years older than Gwendolyn’s husband, Ferdy Lacey, has at least two sons, and has never looked at another female since his wife died. Never comes up to town; reputed to be an absolute recluse and scholar.”

    “You must know more than that!”

    “Not very much. Um, well, he is dark.”

    “Well, what do you think of this: innocent white muslin and a lace tucker; and I wander up to his tower with my feet bare and a few Highland blooms in my hair: simplicity walking. Adorable simplicity walking,” she corrected herself firmly.

    “What I think is, that you should not forget that Lady Lavinia Dewesbury is staying in the house adjacent to that tower. And Highland heather, which by the way is about the only thing that blooms in these parts, is probably quite prickly underfoot. Added to which, the weather may be gloriously fine, but I do not think it can approximate to those Italian summers of yours, can it?”

    “Pooh! I’ll steal a few of Mrs Macdonald’s roses. I shall present the most Romantick picture imaginable!”

    “If he is up in a tower won’t the effect of the muslin, etcetera, be lost, unless he is possessed of very good eyesight indeed? Which, if he has been a reclusive scholar for the last fifteen years, is not at all likely.”

    Raffaella broke down in giggles, but threatened: “Do not think I will not do it!”

    Eudora swallowed a sigh. She did not think that, no. But possibly if they merely paid a humdrum call at the Keep, and Lady Lavinia could be persuaded to let Katie spend some time with them, there would be sufficient distractions to keep her from her fell intent until it was too late, and she had met Glenrowan at an ordinary tea party or dinner and perceived him to be quite an ordinary fellow. The which, as far as Eudora’s poor memory went, he was. Title or not.

    Raffaella ate hungrily, but pursued: “How old is his oldest son?”

    Eudora sighed. “I wish you had thought to ask Katie Dewesbury all this before they left Derbyshire. I do not think I have been introduced to Mr Lacey. Well, I dare say he was at the Lacey-Dewesbury wedding, but I cannot remember which one he was.”

    “Broken reed,” said her cousin sternly.

    Eudora had to laugh; but inwardly, she sighed again. There was no hope at all of either Glenrowan’s or Munn’s ever permitting the heir to look twice at the Principessa Claudia’s daughter. Nor of the Duchess’s doing so, either. And Raffaella must, under the funning, know it.

    The sun shone out of a clear cerulean sky, a brisk little breeze blew, and it was the perfect day for a journey over to the isles! In especial since Lady Lavinia, on receipt of Miss Bon-Dutton’s little note, had graciously permitted Katie and Nellie to join her party for the day. But, alas, Miss Bon-Dutton took one look at Bob Macdonald’s boat, bobbing placidly on the most gentle of swells at the foot of the little stone quay, turned an interesting shade of green, and stepped backwards hurriedly.

    Mr Macdonald, in the thickest of Highland accents, tried to persuade her the sea was gentle as a lamb today, but to no avail. “I really cannot,” she said faintly.

    “But Cousin Eudora, you leap over great hedges on a—a rollicking big horse!” objected Raffaella.

    “Not rollicking,” said Miss Bon-Dutton, closing her eyes.

    Certain persons could not help thinking that that was her out, for Duchess of Lochailsh, then. But Raffaella said quickly: “Shall we go back to the inn? Mrs Macdonald will find someone to chaperone us, and we may come another day.”

    “Oh, but it is such a perfect day!” cried Nellie in disappointment.

    “Ok, weell you hold your whist!” responded Raffaella gaily in the worst facsimile of a Scottish accent any of them had ever heard.

    “I must say, that was not very Scotch, Raffaella,” admitted Katie, trying not to laugh. “We may come another day, Nellie.”

    Mr Macdonald, seeing a full day’s remuneration rapidly disappearing, offered eagerly to look after the young ladies like a father.

    “Yes, I am sure you would, Mr Macdonald,” said Eudora faintly, not looking at his boat. The sight of the sea itself did not affect her, so why—? “Er, well, what shall you show them?”

    Mr Macdonald would show them the unpronounceable and the unpronounceable and his cousin Mary Macdonald would give them a guid dinner of oatcakes and—

    “Yes. Lovely. Well, I think I might permit it, then. If you can assure me that—that it is a very peaceful place, Mr Macdonald, and you will not let the young ladies wander about by themselves?”

    Inver was peaceful as a lamb, it appeared.

    Not noticing the absence of any reference to Ailsh, Miss Bon-Dutton agreed, with a weak smile, and averting her eyes from the boat, that the young ladies might go.

    The young ladies piled eagerly into Mr Macdonald’s little boat, and the sturdy arms of Mr Macdonald rowed them out from the shore. He then insouciantly hoisted a little brown sail, sat back at the tiller, lit his pipe and noted: “Och, weell, there’ s a wee bit o’ a breeze, and I dare say you young leddies are no’ in any hurry. Noo, if it was tales of the isles you were wanting—”

    They had not asked for any such thing but they were delighted to let him tell them. Whether or no they took them with the substantial pinch of salt that Miss Nellie at one point declared crossly should be absorbed with them.

    The little settlement of Inver having been inspected, and an interesting unpronounceable which featured a lot of tumbled stones having been viewed from close to, and innumerable wild prospects having been admired, not to say some very placid sheep and ordinary grass, the young ladies returned to the tiny village and Mrs Mary Macdonald’s kitchen. With its milk, oatcakes and mutton stew. Which in the abstract might not have seemed desirable on a warm summer’s day but for which, after three hours spent partly at sea and then exploring the windy Isle of Inver on foot, the young ladies were more than ready.

    And the little boat set off for the craggy Isle of Ailsh. Mr Macdonald revealing, somewhat too late, that he dared say Ailsh was a wee bit wild, for it didna have a quay and there was a wee bitty of a step up, depending on the tides.

    … “It is truly an awesome sight, is it not?” said Raffaella, standing on the little stone bridge over the tiny, stony stream that might once have served as a moat, if a distant one, for the Keep of Ailsh. The great grey stone heap was still a good ten minutes’ walk away.

    “Wonderfully Romantick!” agreed Katie.

    “Yes. I wonder if any of the family be in residence?” said Nellie.

    “Why did she come?” wondered her sister on a cross note to the windy, scented Ailsh air. –Mr Macdonald had revealed that the scent that the ladies could smell would be the unpronounceable, aye.

    Regrettably, Raffaella at this collapsed in giggles. Recovering herself to say: “Well, you met the Duke at Bluff Yewby, Nellie, cara: did he look twice at you?”

    Nellie pouted, and dimpled, admitting: “I don't think he even saw me. And we barely got a glimpse of him: he was always out on the estates with Sir Frederick. But although he has no sons, himself, there is reputed to be a Dalziel heir, you know. One never knows whom one may glimpse, of one is allowed to see over the place!”

    Mr Macdonald, faint but pursuing, here noted that his cousin, Mrs Dalziel, would be happy to show them over the Keep.

    Nellie and Raffaella stared.

    “I think it will be a clan name, ” said Katie weakly. “Not—not a relative, you see.”

    Agreeing, Mr Macdonald led the way, explaining that Mrs Dalziel was the Laird’s housekeeper. But they must not ask to be taken up the Unpronounceable Tower.

    The Keep of Ailsh was huge. Huge. And very broken down, in fact most of it was undeniable Ruin. Inside one section of the giant series of walls, however, was a sort of—well, the large-minded might have said it was living quarters. It could not have been called a house, not even part of a house. It was built not precisely against the castle wall, but rather, into it. And clearly in the old days could not have been approached except by hacking one’s way through the great old gate—no longer in evidence—or through the very walls of the Keep itself. They did not need Mr Macdonald’s assurance that these would be twenty feet thick, aye.

    “It’s so rambling,” said Raffaella dazedly.

    “Were you expecting a palazzo, perchance? Or something with columns?” said Katie with a laugh.

    “I suppose. Goodness gracious, the Romans managed to build centuries earlier with—with style and—and some idea of architecture,” said Raffaella dazedly.

    “Aye, but the Scots are wild and woolly!” giggled Nellie.

    “They must be,” she said dazedly. “It is so… primitive!”

    Mr Macdonald had not perhaps seized precisely all of the conversation, but he had seized enough; he now said sternly: “Scotland was a civilised nation whiles the English were raging up and doon in their Wars of the Roses, young leddies.”

    “Why, of course, that is perfectly true!” approved the Contessa, beaming at him. “They had a flourishing literature, you know, and close relations with the French. Did you learn that at school, Mr Macdonald?”

    Och, no-oo—very long-drawn-out—it was the Laird himself as told him! The young ladies gulped, and smiled weakly. That was not their idea of a duke. Not that Raffaella had ever precisely been introduced to any Scotch or English ones. But she had—well, not met—seen, a couple of Italian ones, and they were very high in the instep indeed.

    “Do you not like it?” whispered Katie uneasily, as Mr Macdonald, adjuring them on no account to attempt to gae oop the Unpronounceable Tower, hurried off in quest of his cousin.

    “Oh, no: it’s wonderful…” said Raffaella, slowly craning her neck. “Wonderful… So different from the Roman ruins, that is all, Katie!” she explained with a smile. “And so huge!”

    “Aye, it had to be huge, to keep the Sassenachs oot!” said Nellie with a loud giggle. “Ooh, here comes a man in a kilt!” she hissed.

    The three young ladies watched avidly as the man approached. He was the most Romantick thing any of them had ever seen. With a great tartan rug flung over his shoulder, and a positive knife sticking out of his boot-top! He was hatless and unshaven: very wild and woolly indeed. He nodded politely at them and said, approximately: “Guid-day, young lassies.”

    “Good-day!” they gasped.

    They watched numbly as he swung off round a great block of fallen masonry.

    “He was like something out of Rob Roy,” said Katie dazedly.

     Raffaella sighed deeply. “Indeed, he was like Rob Roy himself!”

    “Help, I shall have to read it!” said Nellie with a giggle.

    “Soul-less,” the Contessa informed her.

    Nellie nodded, her eyes dancing, as another man appeared; this time emerging from a distant section of the castle itself. “Guid-day!” she cried brightly, with a wave.

    This man was also in a kilt with a great tartan rug over his shoulder. He had a gun slung over his other shoulder and a knife sticking out of his boot. Unlike the other man he was not hatless but wearing a strange sort of… bonnet? He did not reply or approach, but touched a finger to the bonnet, and disappeared.

    “Another one,” said Nellie, sighing deeply. “Even more Romantick than the last!  Oh, I am so glad I came!”

    “Ye-es… ” said Katie uncertainly. “Um—Nellie, did you not think that one looked rather like Lochailsh?”

    “Help, it wasn’t, was it?” gasped Raffaella.

    “No!” said Miss Nellie crossly.

    “He looked very like him, from what I could see, at this distance,” said Katie uneasily.

    “In a ragged old kilt and tattered blanket?” said Raffaella dubiously. “Er, well, at Sommerton Grange he flashed by into the card room so quickly, I could not be sure what he looked like, at all. But you must both know him, surely?”

    Miss Nellie replied indignantly: “I do not! I said, I scarcely set eyes on him at Bluff Yewby! And at dinner he was always at the other end of the table, and in the evenings the gentlemen always played cards or billiards, and Mamma made me and Katie play stupid spillikins.”

    Katie chewed on her up. “Yes. Um, well, I suppose if we were too far distant to recognise him, he would not have recognised us, either.”

    “It was not him!” said Nellie, very flushed.

    Katie looked unconvinced, but did not insist.

    The interior of the living quarters of the Keep of Ailsh, as revealed by Mrs Dalziel, was very beautiful: rather low, arched ceilings, heavy walls, low, arched doorways, small staircases with slits of windows. Large parts of it were simply whitewashed, but other rooms were elegantly panelled. Many fine paintings were glimpsed, not displayed in a gallery as the girls would have expected of a great house, but hung here and there, quite obviously in order to decorate the rooms and passageways.

    “Now this,” explained Mrs Dalziel, leading them into a fair-sized sitting-room with a most wonderful view over the sea, “is the Laird’s favourite sitting-room: it was his mother’s room, God bless her. –Och, there’s nae fear we’ll be disturbing him, young lassies: he's awa’ over the hills!”

    “So we may go right in?” said Raffaella.

    Mrs Dalziel beamed and nodded, and the three girls went in.

    “Who is this, Mrs Dalziel?” croaked Raffaella, clearing her throat, as she looked up at a portrait of a hawk-faced young man in an open-necked shirt, with careless brown curls to his shoulders, and a shabby tartan rug flung over his shoulder.

    That was the Laird himself as a boy, bless him! His mother’s favourite portrait of him. Aye, that was the clan tartan, young lassies.

    Since her companions now seemed bereft of speech, Raffaella croaked: “While we were in the courtyard, Mrs Dalziel, we—we saw a man—an older gentleman—who—who looked very like this portrait.”

    “Och, weell, if he had his gun over his shoulder, it will hae been the Laird himself!” she said happily.

    “Dio mio,” said Raffaella limply.

    “Help. I said Good-day: I thought he was just a man!” gasped Nellie, bright puce.

    “Och, weell, it’s no’ Himself that would hae been minding that,” replied the housekeeper comfortably.

    Given Lochailsh’s reputation for coldness, hardness, and height in the instep, Raffaella was not so sure of that. And from the look on her face, Katie felt the same. “I am sure he will not mention it, Mrs Dalziel, but if he should chance to, could you perhaps tell him that we meant no disrespect?” she croaked.

    Mrs Dalziel laughed, and said they were not to worry their pretty heads, and to come awa’ doonstairs, she was sure they were ready for a bite.

    The young ladies accompanied her thankfully, not even thinking to ask if they might, as a great favour, possibly go up the Unpronounceable Tower. The which, it must be admitted, had been their fell intent ere the words “Unpronounceable Tower” had scarce passed Mr Macdonald’s’ lips.

    The rest of the visit passed without further encounters with any characters from Rob Roy, and, the sea remaining lamb-like, the young ladies regained the mainland without incident.

    … “Thrilling but chastening?” summed up Eudora with a lift of her elegant brows at the conclusion of the narrative.

    “Something very like that!” owned Raffaella with a laugh. “But you should have come: Ailsh is so wild and untamed!”

    “I am glad you enjoyed it. But I spent a very lazy day, and thoroughly enjoyed doing nothing. And my knee had a good rest: it will be quite fit for anything except going in a boat,” she admitted with a twinkle.

    Although the Contessa did not possess a lace tucker and had received the disheartening news from Miss Dewesbury that the Duke of Munn’s oldest grandson and heir presumptive was a pleasant young man who seemed very young for his age, she had not lost heart in her scheme. After all, given Katie’s interest in a somewhat older gentleman, possibly anything under the age of twenty-five would strike her as too young! She chose a day on which Miss Bon-Dutton and Miss Dewesbury had determined to drive along the coast in the other direction, and announced she had the headache. The well-mannered Katie of course suggested deferring the expedition, but Raffaella would not hear of it, and waved them off firmly.

    The headache miraculously cleared up by mid-morning, and she thought she would be quite herself again, if, after a cup of Mrs Macdonald’s excellent tea, she took a little stroll for some air. Mrs Macdonald thought there could be no objection to the young leddy’s strolling out: Lochailsh was the most peaceful toon in all of Scotland. At the other end of the little town the Lochailsh Arms’ great rival, the Inver House, was only too glad to hire out their trap. Raffaella set out for the Keep of Munn at a spanking pace.

    The trip took a lot longer than she had imagined, and long before she got there she was conscious of a most unromantic wish that she had thought to buy something to eat at the Inver House. But eventually, the outreaches of the Keep having been reached, the inn’s horse was settled comfortably behind a screen of trees and bushes. Mundane traps were not included in the sort of picture the Contessa wished to present.

    The very ordinary straw bonnet and the humdrum shawl were left behind in the trap but as the ground was quite rough and stony—not in the least like a Duke’s grounds—Raffaella did not remove her shoes. She wandered up the rise towards the great stone tower that was all that remained of the original Keep of Munn, looking artless. And Romantick. Over beyond the huge old tower was the neat stone, many-chimney-ed house where the family actually lived, when in residence. She kept well away from that, just in case Lady Lavinia Dewesbury or Gwennie Lacey should suddenly appear.

    A certain time passed in artless posing, sighing over the views, and the like. Hands clasped to the bosom affectingly came into it a good deal. This was all very picturesque but unfortunately there did not seem to be anyone around to appreciate it. Finally she made up her mind to it and walked up to the great black door at the foot of the Keep, and knocked.

    After quite some time it dawned that the Keep was not manned. There was certainly no proper door-knocker, or bell to ring. Frowning, Raffaella pondered the advisability of going up to the house and asking if one might view the Keep. Unfortunately, she was almost sure that Miss Bon-Dutton’s guide-book said one should ask at the lodge.

    “Where is this lodge?” she said aloud, gazing round her in perplexity. There was the Keep, and a wonderful view from the promontory on which it stood of the sea and the sky and purple-grey ghosts of islands in the distance, probably Inver and Ailsh; and much further along the coast the solid bulk of Craigie Castle could just be discerned. Closer to hand there was the house, an expanse of landscaped garden and some flowerbeds; and what was undoubtedly a very tame shrubbery; but there was nothing that looked at all like a lodge. Er… Possibly discretion might be the better part of valour. Not that there was any danger of any of the guests answering the front door if she went and knocked, but…

    There was nothing to sit on at the foot of the Keep of Munn but grass. Sighing, and not without a wincing thought or two in the direction of Grass Stains upon her best muslin gown, the Contessa sat down and pondered on her next move. Not to say, on the idiocy of not having accepted Katie's kind suggestion that she should arrange for Raffaella and Miss Bon-Dutton to call one day, be shown round the more historic parts of the Keep, and then take tea with the Duchess, Lady Lavinia, and herself and her sisters. This was what came of letting one’s Romantick imagination run away with one, clearly!

    All was still: there was not even the sound of birds calling. The great Keep dozed under a clear blue sky; beyond the point on which it stood, the sunlight shimmered off the sea. Down at the house a chimney was smoking, but apart from that it appeared deserted: there were no voices, no sounds of servants calling to one another.

    For quite some time she was content just to sit. The grass did not seem damp, thank goodness. After a while, however, her disappointment overcame her, and she got up and walked restlessly round the Keep several times, ending up back at the great black door considerably hotter and crosser. There were only two windows in the huge tower, and these were scarce more than arrow-slits, very high up. And there certainly had not been any Marquis perched in them, looking down at the Romantick sight of Raffaella dalla Rovere under a charming frilled parasol which until very recently had been the property of the kind-hearted Susannah-Quarmby-Vine, her dark curls just charmingly tumbled, her gown just the merest drift of clinging white about her girlish but rounded— Yes, well.

    “Oh—bother!” said Raffaella, stamping her foot and forgetting to be artless or picturesque.

    “Did you want to go up it?” said a quiet voice from behind her.

    She gasped, and spun round.

    At first she thought it was a young man, and then perceived he was but a lad: a handsome enough lad, with a shock of curly dark hair. The lack of the local accent indicated he might be one of the sons of the house—or at least a nephew; but he was barefoot, dressed in grubby nankeens and a torn shirt, with no waistcoat or neckcloth. He was very much taller than Raffaella herself, but gentlemen did not roam the grounds of dukes’ houses barefoot: he might be seventeen, but could not be more. Younger than her brother, Bobby, in fact.

    “I'm frightfully sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. The Keep is locked.”

    “Do you mean one cannot go up at all? Is there a charge?”

    The boy had widely set eyes of an odd blue-green shade, fringed with very thick, curled lashes. Under other circumstances she might have been quite impressed by these eyes. At the moment, however, they were definitely mocking her. “Have you any money?”

    This enquiry struck an unfortunate note, for the Contessa had very little money and the hire of the Inver House’s trap had used very nearly her last penny. The horrid little miser, she decided grimly, was absolutely no more than sixteen: he had got his growth early, just like her brother. And clearly he was every bit as mean-minded and crassly commercial as either Bobby or Tonio! “No, you horrid little miser, and if I had I would not give it you!  And does your father know how you demand money from helpless visitors?” she said fiercely.

    The lad’s shoulders shook slightly. “I wouldn't say you were helpless.”

    “No, I'm not, and you’re not getting a penny out of me!” she said grimly.

    The blue-green eyes danced. “Is a penny all you think the Keep of Munn is worth?” He produced a large iron key, which he held up out of her reach, laughing a little. “I’ll take you up for… Let me see. Would you say the Keep is worth five shillings?”

    “Five shillings? You ROBBER!” shouted Raffaella.

    “I am very nearly sure that ladies pay five shillings.”

    “I am sure they do no such thing, you unspeakable little monster! I shall go right up to the house and report you for threatening visitors with extortion!”

    He looked down at her mockingly, still holding the key up, and drawled: “You would not have the bottle, Miss.”

    The enraged Raffaella stamped on his bare foot once very hard, and ran off towards the house like the wind.

    She had hammered furiously on the door before she recollected that this was not at all picturesque, not to say not at all the thing, and ladies certainly did not rush up hatless to the main door of a Duke’s seat and hammer on it.

    The door was opened by a footman, not a particularly young footman, and not a very impressionable-looking footman, oh, help! He eyed her coldly.

    “I am here to view the Keep,” said Raffaella, holding her chin up very high, “and an impertinent boy has just tried to charge me five shillings for the privilege.”

    A cunning gleam came into the footman’s eye. “Five shillun, is it, Mistress? Weell, noo, if ye’d like to give the five shillun to me—” He broke off.

    “What is it, William?” said a quiet voice from the hallway behind him—not unlike the boy’s voice, and Raffaella jumped, for a mad instant thinking he had crept round behind her somehow.

    “A leddy who—”

    “Who wishes to view the Keep and is very tired of being blackmailed over it!” said the Contessa very loudly, giving up on the picturesque thing entirely. “And if you are about to charge me even more for the privilege, I shall—I shall write a letter to the Parliament!  Because even if it does belong to a duke, I do not believe he can get away with that!”

    “Oh, my, don’t do that,” said the voice, and a young man appeared. He was dressed in very ordinary breeches and gaiters, and a rough brown coat, and was carrying a shot-gun. “May I ask you to explain?”

    “This man is trying to extortionate five shillings out of me, and so was a horrid boy, and if that is what it costs to see the horrid Keep then I shall content myself with the view from the outside!” said Raffaella angrily.

    “Good gracious. I don’t think William is supposed to extortionate five shillings from ladies who wish to view the Keep: that was not very well done of you, William,” he said to the now crimson-faced footman.

    “I only—”

    “Yes, well, if you wish for five shillings, ask me, in future. Off you go, I will look after the lady.”

    Gulping, and mumbling something incoherent, the footman disappeared precipitately.

    The young man smiled at Raffaella. “If a horrid boy tried to extortionate five shillings out of you, I apologise for him. I am afraid the place is overrun with horrid boys: it could have been any of a number, but the most likely candidate is my young brother, Douglas.”

    Raffaella had now perceived that he was a very young man indeed: not a harum-scarum boy like the other, certainly, but not so very many years older. Not nearly as good-looking, though: there had been something of the wildly Romantick about the boy, actually, with his sweetly-bowed red mouth and riotous curls. This young man had neat brown hair, cut quite short, and if his eyes were very similar, they did not give the same impression. The fine-boned delicacy that had characterised the boy’s looks was here replaced by a certain firmness and resolution; the mouth, indeed, was very firm. She gave the firm-mouthed young man a hard look. “A horrid boy of about sixteen or seventeen, in torn nankeens.”

    The firm mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “Undoubtedly Douglas. I promise you I shall speak to him most severely on the subject of extortionating money from young ladies.”

    “I know that is not the word,” she said fiercely, “and you are as horrid as he is!”

    ‘No, no, I assure you! I shall not charge you a groat!”

    “Do not dare to laugh at me. I have been travelling all morning,” said Raffaella, forgetting for the moment that it had not been entirely innocent travel, “and I am very tired and angry!”

    “In that case, I will conduct you to the Keep immediately.”

    “That is POINTLESS, for he has the KEY!” she shouted.

    “A key: he will undoubtedly have stolen it.” At this point a man’s voice murmured something from behind the young man: he turned his head and said reassuringly: “There is no bother at all, thank you, McIntosh: it is merely a young lady come to view the Keep. May I borrow your key? Thank you. And would you just check that the other keys are safe? I fear Master Douglas may have abstracted one. –Come along,” he said to Raffaella, smiling, “but I warn you, it is quite a climb.”

    “I am not a weakling,” she replied grimly, marching along at his side.

    “Have you come far?” he said politely.

    “From Lochailsh.”

    “Not on foot?” he said in horror.

    The Contessa was far too stirred up by it all seriously to consider the possibility that this might be a duke’s heir. Though she had now had time to reflect fleetingly that it was a pity that such did not normally concern themselves with what went on at their front doors. She retorted smartly: “I don’t see what concern it is of yours if I did, but as it happened, I have transport, thank you. My carriage is waiting in the shade, at the foot of the hill.”

    “You came along the track at the top of the cliff? I see,” he said, his mouth twitching.

    “What is so amusing in that, pray?”

    “Oh—only, had you taken the more usual route from the town, someone at the lodge would have offered to show you the place, and you would not have had to fight off rapacious Douglases and underpaid footmen.”

    “I see. I collect I am trespassing. In that case, there is no need to show me your Keep at all,” she said grimly.

    “No, no: of course you must see it! English visitors always like to see the Keep.”

    What with the disappointment, and the hunger, and the rude boy, and the near certainty that under his polite manner this young man was laughing at her, Raffaella did not express her true feelings about the Keep but said grimly: “It is only an old stone tower, I don’t see what is so wonderful about that.”

    “No?”

    “No. If stone castles be what your heart desires, the Castel Sant’Angelo, let me assure you, is much, much finer than a mere Scotch tower.”

    “I am sure,” he said with a smile. “It is said to be very fine. I have never seen it.”

    “No, of course.” Raffaella eyed his shot-gun and gaiters, and the leather pouch slung over his shoulder. Oh, dear. She had not meant to be rude about his Scotch tower. He must be—not a gamekeeper: he was too well-spoken, and his English was excellent, and almost unaccented. What were those other— Of course. “You must work in the agent’s office, I think?” she said kindly.

    “I do work in the agent’s office, yes,” he agreed.

    “And your father before you?” she said graciously, in tones that would not have disgraced Lady Lavinia Dewesbury herself.

    There was a little pause.

    “Certainly. In fact he is usually to be found in the agent’s office, even these days: I am not deemed old enough to step into his shoes.”

    “Why, no! You must still be learning the trade,” said Raffaella kindly.

    “Aye, that’s it.”

   They reached the Keep without incident: there was no sign of the bothersome boy; and the young agent unlocked the heavy door. And, as they climbed up and up and up, in a narrow little staircase which was built into the actual wall, told her a very little of the Keep’s history.

    Raffaella’s knowledge of Scottish history was almost entirely confined to her recent reading of Miss Bon-Dutton’s copy of Rob Roy. “I did not realise they were Roman Catholics,” she said breathlessly as they emerged at the top, blinking in the sunshine.

    “Er—the Stuarts?” The young man passed his hand over his hatless head. “James II of England was, certainly, it was that which— Well, never mind. But many of the Bonnie Prince’s supporters were, yes.”

    The top of the Keep of Munn had been floored over and neatly paved with slabs of stone. Raffaella went over to the crumbling wall, at a spot where it came to about elbow-height, and gazed at the view of the sea, finally turning to smile at the young man, who was leaning against the wall. “It is such a wild coast, is it not?”

    “Aye, it is that.”

    “Why, there is quite a hole just there, beside you! Be very careful, won’t you?”

    The young man looked at the “hole”, and looked at the girl in the drift of white muslin with the pretty parasol tilted charmingly over her tumbled dark curls. “Aye, I shall be very careful. But this is not precisely a hole: it is a slot for a defender.”

    “An archer slot! I see! How Romantick!”

    “Oh, aye,” he said, very Scots.

    “It is just like something out of Rob Roy,” she said earnestly.

    The young man bit his lip and made a strangled noise.

    “What is amusing about that, pray?” demanded Raffaella on a dangerous note.

    He cleared his throat. “Nothing, Miss. Well, that’s the Keep of Munn for you.”

    “Yes. Thank you for showing it me. I suppose I had best not keep you from your work,” she said kindly.

    “Aye, well, ma father expects me in the agent’s office, that’s true,” he conceded mildly.

    “Then we had best go down immediately.”

    Politely the young man insisted on going first on the steep staircase.

    At the bottom she thanked him very warmly and felt in her reticule.

    “There is no charge for seeing the Keep, Miss,” he said primly. “And ma father wouldna like me to accept money frae a Sassenach leddy.”

    “No, of course! My cousin has told me how proud you Scots all are,” said Raffaella hurriedly, ceasing to delve in her reticule. “But I must thank you once again.”

    Touching his forelock, the young man assured her it had been his pleasure. And carefully re-locked the great black door of the Keep of Munn.

    “What is this story of McIntosh’s about verra pretty young Sassenach ladies come to view the Keep?” asked the Marquis of Glenrowan on a dry note.

    Andrew Lacey laughed a little, and duly reported. Ending: “And she was very pretty, yes, Pa. And quite bright, but about as much knowledge of history as might be expected!”

    “I see. And did she find the Keep wonderfully Romantick?” he said with a twinkle in the blue-green Lacey eyes.

    “Of course. Just like something out of Rob Roy. Don’t they all?”

    The burly Marquis scratched his head. “Aye, well, that one last summer that took me for my own groom and tipped me a sixpence certainly did.”

    “Yes, well, I am one up on you, Pa, for mine took me for Grandpapa’s agent!”

    The Marquis of Glenrowan broke down in horrible sniggers.

    “Oh, by the way,” said Andrew, when they both at the nose-blowing stage, “I think you had better speak to Douglas. The horrid boy my pretty little visitor encountered was ‘extortionating’, to use her own phrase, five shillings a throw out of unwary Sassenachs for the privilege of visiting the Keep.”

    “Was he, by God!” He strode over to the fireplace and rang the bell.

    Douglas duly appeared, looking mildly surprised. This was strange: he should be looking horribly virtuous.

    The Marquis interrogated his second son narrowly and got nothing but indignant denials out of him.

    “Wait;” said Andrew. “The horrid boy had a key to the Keep.”

    “Never tell me McIntosh was mad enough to give his to Douglas!”

    “Er—no, for I borrowed it myself.”

    They looked dubiously at Douglas.”

    “It wasn’t me! Pa, I never did it! I wouldn’t, it wouldn’t be honourable to ask a lady five shillings!” he cried, bright red.

    “True,” acknowledged Andrew. “Where were you, then, this afternoon?”

    “I was out with McAndrew, and you may ask him yourself!”

    McAndrew was their head gamekeeper, not a man given to either sheltering or humouring the peccadilloes of young lads. Glenrowan and Andrew exchanged dubious glances.

    “It wasn't me! Honest, sir!”

    The Marquis counted on his fingers, muttering under his breath.

    “It wasn’t—”

    “No, all right, Douglas, I believe you, no-one in their senses would expect McAndrew to lie for them. Listen, Andrew, this is damned odd. Father keeps his key in his dressing-table drawer, ever since that frightful time that Ferdy and Mary Anne got themselves locked in and no-one could find a key. Then there’s mine, and McIntosh’s. Father wouldn’t have lent— Wait.”

    “See?” cried Douglas loudly, his cheeks as bright as his glowing red hair.

    “Get out,” said his brother mildly. “Alasdhair?” he said incredulously to his father.

    “Didn’t you say she said this horrid lad was about sixteen?”

    “Aye, and horrid,” he said drily. “Pretty young ladies don’t normally describe Alasdhair as that.”

    “Ask him, ask him,” said the Marquis with a groan. “I’ll not sleep a wink tonight unless the damned mystery is resolved!”

    Andrew rang the bell and had him sent for. -Douglas, meanwhile, looking vindicated, took up an unobtrusive position, near enough to the door for a rapid exit should it be remembered he was present.

    Alasdhair came in looking very mild, a billiard cue in his hand.

    The Marquis said to him without preamble: “Alasdhair, did you give a pretty little girl to believe that you were a sixteen-year-old urchin trying to bleed five shillings out of her to see the Keep this afternoon?”

    “Not precisely. She assumed the whole.”

    “He doesn’t look sixteen,” admitted Douglas, eyeing their cousin cautiously.

    “Get out. And go to bed,” said Andrew unkindly.

    “It wasn’t ME! I bet it was him, I bet he borrowed Grandpapa’s key! He always goes up the Keep when he comes to stay!”

    “Go to bed, Douglas,” said his father heavily.

    “It wasn’t—”

    “No, but it’ll be you that feels the weight of me boot,” he noted.

    Douglas shambled out, scowling.

    “Was it you?” demanded Andrew.

    The sea-green eyes danced. “Well, obviously: I thought you had concluded that?”

    “How the Hell could she have taken you for a lad of sixteen?”

    “Seventeen: stretch a point,” he said, pouting.

    “He looks a stripling,” said the Marquis dubiously. Alasdhair was in evening dress and did not appear any younger than Andrew, in fact.

    “I suppose it could have had something to do with my dress,” he said musingly.

    “Ho! Now we’re coming to it!” said Andrew.

    “I’d just been for a swim—”

    “Torn nankeens,” said Andrew, grinning.

    “Something like that. I did have a shirt on—of sorts. Bare feet. The temptation to let her believe I was a young scoundrel blackmailing five shillings out of her was irresistible.”

    There was a short silence. The Laceys looked at each other sheepishly. Eventually Andrew admitted: “So was the temptation to let her believe I was the agent—well, strictly speaking, the son of the agent, in training to take over me Pa’s position.” He made a face at his father.

    Alasdhair gave a delighted snigger.

    “But there was no excuse for Pa, with his lady visitor, last summer,” added Andrew.

    “Oh? Go on, Glenrowan!” said Alasdhair eagerly to his cousin.

    The Marquis cleared his throat. “Er—well, let her believe I was a groom.”

    “He was frightfully Scotch,” explained Andrew, grinning. “Mostly out of Burns, I think! He was grooming Dancer, and wearing that frightful old kilt that he lets the dogs sleep on!”

    Alasdhair gave another snigger.

    “Well, it was funny enough. But we could do without you giving unwary visitors the idea that the Laceys are all set to gyp five shillings out of them for a view of the Keep, old man,” said Glenrowan mildly.

    “I must say, Pa, that is beyond everything!” objected Andrew.

    “What?” said Alasdhair eagerly, seeing a very sheepish expression come over the Marquis’s features.

    “I told my one that ma father don’t allow me to accept tips from Sassenachs. But he let his one tip him a sixpence,” said Andrew in severe tones.

    Alasdhair gave a delighted yelp, and collapsed in strangled hysteria.

    The red-haired, sixteen-year-old Douglas Lacey, very evidently, had not been the horrid boy whom the Contessa dalla Rovere had encountered at the Keep of Munn. That horrid boy, on whose bare foot, it may be remembered, she had stamped, was in fact Alasdhair Iain Andrew McEuan Lacey McDiarmid, eighteenth Baron McDiarmid. He was not a duke, true. But he was, and this counted for very much more than any dukedom, even in the modern Scotland so lately visited by His Majesty King George IV, The McDiarmid. Twenty years old and the most eligible bachelor north of the Border.

Next chapter:

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